“Blue is our favorite color,” I said. “The color of the currentstream when we scavenge.”
“When I was a child,” he replied wonderingly, “it was my favorite color, too, though all of Thuvhe hates it.”
I took the palmful of blue water I had collected, and smeared it into his cheek, staining it darker. Akos spluttered, spitting some of it on the ground. I raised my eyebrows, waiting for his reaction. He stuck out his hand, catching a stream of water rolling off a building’s roof, and lunged at me.
I sprinted down the alley, not fast enough to avoid the cold water rolling down my back, with a childlike shriek. I caught his arm by the elbow, and we ran together, through the singing crowd, past swaying elders, men and women dancing too close, irritable off-planet visitors trying to cover up their wares in the market. We splashed through bright blue puddles, soaking our clothes. And we were both, for once, laughing.
CHAPTER 12: CYRA
THAT NIGHT I SCRUBBED the blue stain from my skin and hair, then joined Akos at the apothecary counter to make the painkiller so I could sleep. I didn’t ask him what he thought of the Storyteller’s account of Shotet history, which blamed Thuvhe, not Shotet, for the hostility between our people. He didn’t offer his reaction. When the painkiller was done, I carried it back to my room and sat on the edge of my bed to drink it. And that was the last thing I remembered.
When I woke, I was slumped sideways on the bed, on top of the blankets. Beside me, the half-empty mug of painkiller had turned on its side, and the sheets were stained purple where it had spilled. Sunrise was just beginning, judging by the pale light coming through the curtains.
My body aching, I pushed myself up. “Akos?”
The tea had knocked me unconscious. I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. But I had helped him make it; had I made it too strong? I stumbled down the hallway and knocked on his door. No, I couldn’t have made it too strong; I had only prepared the sendes stalks for it. He had done the rest.
He had drugged me.
There was no answer at his door. I pushed it open. Akos’s room was empty, drawers open, clothes missing, dagger gone.
I had been suspicious of his kindness as he coaxed me into leaving the house. And I had been right to be.
I yanked my hair back and tied it away from my face. I went back to my room, shoving my feet into my boots. I didn’t bother with the laces.
He had drugged me.
I wheeled around and searched the far wall for the panel we had pushed through yesterday to slip out of the house. There was a small gap between it and the rest of the wall. I gritted my teeth against pain. He had wanted me to leave the house with him so I would show him how to get out. And I had armed him with that Zoldan knife, I had trusted him with my potion, and now . . . now I would suffer for it.
I think you’re lying to yourself about what I am, he had said.
Honor has no place in survival, I had taught him.
I charged into the hallway. There was already a guard walking toward me. I braced myself against the door. What was he coming to say? I didn’t know what to hope for, Akos’s escape or his capture.
The guard stopped just shy of my door, and bent his head to me. He was one of the shorter, younger ones—baby-faced and carrying a blade. One of the ones who still stared wide-eyed at my arms when the dark lines spread over them.
“What?” I demanded, gritting my teeth. The pain was back, almost as bad as it had been after I tortured Uzul Zetsyvis. “What is it?”
“The sovereign’s steward, Vas Kuzar, sends word that your servant was discovered trying to flee the grounds with his brother last night,” the guard said. “He is currently confined, awaiting the sovereign’s assigned punishment. Vas requests your presence at the private hearing, in two hours, in the Weapons Hall.”
With his brother. That meant Akos had found a way to get Eijeh out, too. I remembered Eijeh’s screams after he first arrived here, and shuddered.
I went to the “private hearing” fully armed, dressed as a soldier. Ryzek had left the curtains down in the Weapons Hall, so it was as dark as night, lit by the wavering light of the fenzu above. He stood on the platform, hands behind his back, staring at the wall of weapons above him. No one else was in the room. Yet.
“This was our mother’s favorite,” he said as the door closed behind me. He touched the currentstick, suspended on a diagonal from the wall. It was a long, narrow pole with blades at either end. Each of the blades contained a channeling rod, so if the weapon touched skin, dark shadows of current wrapped around the whole thing, from end to end. It was nearly as long as I was tall.
“An elegant choice,” he said, still without turning around. “More for show than anything; did you know our mother was not particularly proficient in combat? Father told me. But she was clever, strategic. She found ways to avoid physical altercations, acknowledging her weakness.”