“Don’t know,” he had said. “But I’m getting you out if it kills me.”
Akos put his arm around his brother, holding him mostly upright as they walked out of the room together. His hand found the top of Eijeh’s head as they ducked into the passage, to keep him from hitting it. Eijeh had heavy footsteps, and Akos had been sure that someone would hear them through the walls.
“It’s s’posed to be me saving you,” Eijeh whispered at one point. Or the closest to a whisper as he could get; he’d always been terrible at sneaking.
“Who says? Some kind of manual on brotherly conduct?”
Eijeh had laughed. “You didn’t read yours? Typical.”
Also laughing, Akos had pushed open the door at the end of the passage. Waiting for them in the kitchens, cracking his knuckles, was Vas Kuzar.
A week after the sojourn ship launched and sailed for the currentstream, Akos went to the public training room to practice. He could have used the empty room above Cyra’s quarters, but lately she’d taken to watching footage up there. Mostly it was of people from other planets fighting, but a week ago he caught her imitating an Othyrian dancer, all pointed toes and fingers fluttering. She’d gotten so grouchy with him after that, he didn’t want to risk it again.
He didn’t even need to check the crumpled map Cyra had drawn for him on their second night. The training room was dim and near empty, just a few others lifting weights at the far end. Good, he thought. People knew him in Shotet as the kidnapped Thuvhesit, the one who Ryzek’s Scourge couldn’t hurt. Nobody gave him any grief—probably because they were afraid of Cyra—but he didn’t enjoy the staring.
It made his face red.
He was trying to touch his toes—emphasis on trying—when he figured out someone was watching him. He couldn’t say how, just that when he looked up, Jorek Kuzar was standing there.
Jorek Kuzar, son of Suzao Kuzar.
They had met only once, when Vas brought Jorek to Cyra’s part of Noavek manor. His skinny brown arms were bare. Akos had taken to checking for marks whenever he met somebody, and Jorek had none. When he caught Akos staring, he rubbed at the side of his neck, leaving red streaks from his fingernails behind.
“Need something?” Akos said, like there would be trouble if Jorek did.
“Someone to spar with?” Jorek held up two practice knives just like the ones Cyra had, hard and synthetic.
Akos looked him over. Did he really expect Akos to just . . . train with him? Him, the son of the man who had once pushed a boot sole into Akos’s face?
“I was just leaving,” Akos said.
Jorek cocked an eyebrow. “I know all of this”—he waved a hand over his slim torso—“is downright terrifying, but it’s just for practice, Kereseth.”
Akos didn’t buy that all Jorek really wanted was “someone to spar with,” but he might as well figure out what the truth was. Besides, a person didn’t choose their own blood.
“Fine,” Akos said.
They walked to one of the practice arenas. A circle of paint defined the space, reflective, peeling off in places. The air was warm, thanks to the hot water moving through the pipes above, so Akos was already sweating. He took the knife Jorek held out to him.
“I’ve never seen a person so wary of a fake fight,” Jorek said, but Akos wasn’t sparing any time for banter. He swiped, testing his opponent’s speed, and Jorek jumped back, startled.
Akos slipped under Jorek’s first jab, and elbowed him in the back. Jorek stumbled forward, catching himself with his fingertips, and turned to strike again. This time Akos caught him by the elbow and dragged him sideways, heaving him to the ground, though not for long.
Jorek bent low, catching Akos’s stomach with the tip of the practice knife.
“Not a good place to aim, Kuzar,” Akos said. “In a real fight, I’d be wearing armor.”
“I go by ‘Jorek,’ not ‘Kuzar.’ You’ve earned armor?”
“Yeah.” Akos used his distraction against him, smacking the front of Jorek’s throat with the flat of the weapon. Jorek choked, clapping his hands over his neck.
“All right, all right,” he gasped, showing a palm. “That answers that question.”
Akos backed up to the edge of the arena to put some space between them. “What question? About my armor?”
“No. Damn, that sucked.” He massaged his throat. “I came here wondering how good you’d gotten, training with Cyra. My father said you didn’t know hand from foot when he first met you.”
Akos’s anger was slow to come, like water turning to ice, but it had some heft to it, when it did. Like right then.
“Your father—” he started, but Jorek interrupted.
“Is the worst kind of man, yes. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”