“Don’t call her that,” Akos said. He felt Isae’s eyes on him, and his cheeks went hot.
“Yeah, yeah.” Teka waved him off. “Well, she bested me, and she let me go. And then she found me, requested a meeting. She offered to give us whatever we wanted—information, help, whatever—if we did something for her in exchange: get you out of Shotet.” Teka looked at Jorek. “That’s why she didn’t tell him. Because she wanted to get him out, but he wouldn’t leave without his brother.”
Jorek clicked his tongue.
Those weeks after Ryzek had threatened him, after Cyra tortured Zosita and kept up appearances on Pitha, she had let him think she was just doing whatever Ryzek said. Let Akos believe the worst of her. And all that time she was out working with renegades, giving whatever she could to get him out. It was like she had become someone new and he hadn’t even noticed.
“She was helping us assassinate Ryzek when she got caught. She got us out, but it was too late for her,” Teka said. “But we followed through on our end. Snuck back in, and she was gone—we don’t know where they put her—but you were there, incapacitated, locked up in your room again. Half-starved, might I add. So we got you out. We thought you might be useful in keeping her on our side.”
“I also wanted to help you,” Jorek supplied.
“Yeah, you’re a hero. Noted,” Teka said.
“Why . . .” Akos shook his head. “Why would Cyra do this?”
“You know why,” Teka said. “What’s the only thing more important to her than her fear of her brother?” When he didn’t answer, she sighed. Exasperated, clearly. “You, of course, have that singular honor.”
Isae and Cisi were staring, one with suspicion and the other, confusion. He didn’t even know how to start explaining it. Cyra Noavek was a name every Thuvhesit knew, a monster story they told to scare each other. What did you say, when you found out the monster wasn’t worthy of the name?
Nothing. You said nothing.
“What did Ryzek do to her?” he said darkly.
“Show him,” Teka said to Jorek.
Jorek touched the screen on the far wall, flicking the news feed out of the way. A few swipes of his fingers and there was footage playing on the screen.
The sights moved in from far away, showing an amphitheater with a cage of white light across its gaping top. The seats in the amphitheater were full, the lower rows on stone benches and the higher rows on metal ones, but it was clear from the somber faces that this wasn’t a celebration day.
The sights narrowed around a platform, suspended over the seats in wood and metal. Ryzek stood on top of it, polished from his black shoes to the armor that covered his chest. His hair was freshly clipped, showing off the bones in his head, the sheen of his scalp. Cisi and Isae sat back at the sight of him, both at once. Akos was past fear of Ryzek, now. Had long since moved into pure revulsion.
Standing at Ryzek’s left was Vas, and at his right . . .
“Eijeh,” Cisi breathed. “Why?”
“He’s been . . . brainwashed. Sort of,” Akos said, careful, and Jorek snorted.
The sights panned left, to the edge of the platform, where soldiers surrounded a kneeling woman. Cyra. She wore the same clothes he’d seen her in days ago, but they were torn in places now, and dark with blood. Her thick hair covered her face, so for a tick he wasn’t sure if Ryzek had taken out one of her eyes. He did that when a person was disgraced, sometimes, so they couldn’t hide it.
Cyra lifted her head, showing off a few purple-blue bruises and a dull—two-eyed—stare.
Then Ryzek spoke: “Today I bring difficult news. Someone we thought to be one of our most faithful—my sister, Cyra Noavek—has revealed herself to be the worst kind of traitor. She has been collaborating with our enemies across the Divide, providing them with information about our strategy, military, and movements.”
“He doesn’t want to admit that there’s a real renegade group out there,” Jorek said, over the roar of disgust from the crowd. “Better to say she’s collaborating with Thuvhesits.”
“He chooses his lies well,” Isae said, and it didn’t quite sound like a compliment.
Ryzek continued, “I have also recently uncovered proof that this woman”—he pointed at his sister, conveniently showing off the line of kill marks that went from his wrist all the way up to his elbow—“is responsible for the death of my mother, Ylira Noavek.”
Akos covered his face. There was no worse blow Ryzek could have dealt Cyra than this. She’d always known that.