I was too stunned to protest—and too aware of what the consequences would be: Ryzek’s wrath. Looking like a coward in front of all these people. Losing my reputation as someone to fear, which was my only leverage. And then, of course, the truth about my mother, which always loomed over Ryzek and me.
I remembered the way people chanted my mother’s name as we walked the streets of Voa during my first Procession. Her people had loved her, the way she held strength and mercy in tension. If they knew that I was responsible for her passing, they would destroy me.
Veins of dark stained my skin as I stared down at Lety. She gritted her teeth, and stared back. I could tell she would take my life with pleasure.
As Vas jerked Lety to her feet, people in the crowd shouted at her: “Traitor!” “Liar!” I felt nothing, not even fear. Not even Akos’s hand, catching my arm to soothe me.
“You okay?” Akos asked me.
I shook my head.
We stood in the anteroom just outside the arena. It was dim but for the glow of our city through the porthole, reflecting sunlight for a few hours yet. The room was adorned with portraits of the Noavek family over the door: my grandmother, Lasma Noavek, who had murdered all her brothers and sisters to ensure that her own bloodline was fate-favored; my father, Lazmet Noavek, who had tormented the goodness from my brother because of his weak fate; and Ryzek Noavek, pale and young, the product of two vicious generations. My darker skin and sturdier build meant I took after my mother’s family, a branch of the Radix line, distant relation to the first man Akos had killed. All the portraits wore the same mild smiles, bound by their dark wooden frames and fine clothing.
Ryzek and every Shotet soldier who could fit in the hall waited outside. I could hear their chatter through the walls. Challenges weren’t permitted during the sojourn, but there was an arena in the ship anyway, for practice matches and the occasional performance. My brother had declared that the challenge would take place just after his welcome speech, but before the feast. Nothing like a good fight to the death to make Shotet soldiers hungry, after all.
“Was it true, what that woman said?” Akos said. “Did you do that to her father?”
“Yes,” I said, because I thought it was better not to lie. But it wasn’t better; it didn’t feel better that way.
“What is Ryzek holding over you?” Akos said. “To make you do things you can barely stand to admit to?”
The door opened, and I shuddered, thinking the time had come. But Ryzek closed the door behind him, standing beneath his own portrait. It didn’t look quite like him anymore, the face in it too round and spotted.
“What do you want?” I said to him. “Aside from the execution you commanded without even consulting me, that is.”
“What would I have gained by consulting you?” Ryzek said. “I would have had to hear your irritating protestations first, and then, when I reminded you of how foolish you were to trust this one”—here he nodded toward Akos—“how that foolishness nearly lost me my oracle, when I offered this arena challenge to you as a way to make it up to me, you would agree to do it.”
I closed my eyes, briefly.
“I came to tell you that you are to leave your knife behind,” Ryzek said.
“No knife?” Akos demanded. “She could get stabbed before she ever has a chance to lay a hand on that woman! Do you want her to die?”
No, I answered in my own head. He wanted me to kill. Just not with a knife.
“She knows what I want,” Ryzek said. “And she knows what will happen if I don’t get it. Best of luck, little sister.”
He swept out of the room. He was right: I knew, I always knew. He wanted everyone to see that the shadows that traveled under my skin were good for more than just pain, they also made me lethal. Not just Ryzek’s Scourge. Time for my promotion to Ryzek’s Executioner.
“Help me take my armor off,” I mumbled.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t question me,” I snapped. “Help me take my armor off.”
“You don’t want your armor?” Akos said. “Are you just going to let her kill you?”
I started on the first strap. My fingers were callused, but the straps were pulled so tight they still stung my fingertips. I forced them back and forth in small increments, my movements jerky and frantic. Akos covered my hand with his own.
“No,” I said. “I don’t need armor. I don’t need a knife.”
Twisting around my knuckles were the shadows, dense and dark as paint.