He felt shifty in his skin. He had thought maybe, if he ever got to see her again, she would make him feel like a kid. But it was just the opposite—he felt old. And huge. Holding his Shotet armor in front of him like it would protect him from her, then wishing, desperately, that he wasn’t holding it, so she wouldn’t know he’d earned it. He didn’t want to shock her, or disappoint her, or be anything other than what she expected, only he didn’t know what that was.
“Who are you?” Teka demanded. “How did you find us?”
His mom let go of Cisi. “I am Sifa Kereseth. I’m sorry to alarm you; I mean no harm.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I knew where to find you because I’m the oracle of Thuvhe,” his mom said, and all at once, like it was rehearsed, the renegades put down their currentblades. Even those Shotet who didn’t worship the current wouldn’t dare to threaten an oracle, their religious history was so strong. Awe of her, of what she could do and see, was practically in their bones, running right alongside the marrow.
“Akos,” his mom said, almost like it was a question. And in Thuvhesit, “Son?”
He had thought about seeing her again dozens of times. What he would say, what he would do, how he would feel. And mostly, now, all he felt was angry. She hadn’t come for him the day of the kidnapping. Hadn’t even warned them about the horror that would come to their doorstep, or said a too-meaningful good-bye that morning when they went to school. Nothing.
She reached for him, putting her rough hands on his shoulders. The worn shirt she wore, patched at the elbows, was one of their dad’s shirts. She smelled like sendes leaf and saltfruit, like home. The last time he’d stood in front of her, he’d only come up to her shoulder; now he was a head taller.
Her eyes sparkled.
“I wish I could explain,” she whispered.
So did he. Wished, more than that, that she could let go of the mad faith that she had in the fates, the convictions she held higher even than her own children. But it wasn’t that simple.
“Have I lost you, then?” Her voice cracked a little over the question, and it was that easy for his anger to break.
He bent, and pulled her into his arms, lifting her to her toes without really noticing.
She felt like bones to him. Had she always been this thin, or had he only thought of her as strong because he was a kid and she was his mom? He felt like it would be too easy to crush her.
She rocked from side to side, a little. She’d always done that, like the hug wasn’t over until she had tested it for stability.
“Hello,” he said, because it was all he could think of.
“You’re grown,” his mom said as she pulled away. “I’ve seen half a dozen versions of this moment and still had no idea you’d be so tall.”
“Never thought I’d see you surprised.”
She laughed a little.
All wasn’t forgiven, not by half. But if this was one of the last times he would get to see her, he wasn’t going to spend it angry. She smoothed a hand over his hair, and he let her, though he knew his hair didn’t need smoothing.
Isae’s voice broke the silence. “Hello, Sifa.”
The oracle bobbed her head at Isae. Akos didn’t need to warn her not to tell the renegades who Isae was; she already knew, as always.
“Hello,” she said to Isae. “I’m glad to see you, too. We’ve been worried about you, back at home. Your sister, too.”
Guarded words, full of subtext. Thuvhe was probably in chaos, searching for its lost chancellor. Akos wondered, then, if Isae had even told anybody where she was going, or that she was still alive. Maybe she didn’t care enough to. After all, she hadn’t grown up in Thuvhe, had she? How much loyalty to their icy country did she actually have?
“Well,” Jorek said, warm as ever, “we’re honored by your presence, Oracle. Please join us for a meal.”
“I will, but I must warn you, I came armed with visions,” Sifa said. “I think they will interest you all.”
Someone was muttering, translating the Thuvhesit words for the renegades who didn’t speak the language. Akos still struggled to hear the difference between the two languages unless he really paid attention. That was the thing about knowing something in your blood instead of your brain, he supposed. It was just there.
He spotted Cyra at the back of the crowd, halfway between the renegades and the stairwell they’d just come out of. She looked . . . well, she looked scared. Of meeting the oracle? No—of meeting his mother. Had to be.
Ask the girl to assassinate her own brother, or fight someone to the death, and she didn’t even blink. But she was afraid of meeting his mother. He smiled.
The others were moving back to the low stove where the renegades had set up a fire to keep them all warm. In the time Akos had been upstairs helping Cyra, they had dragged a few tables in from some of the apartments, and half a dozen different styles were represented: one square and metal, one narrow and wooden, another glass, another carved. There was some food on them, cooked saltfruit and dried strips of meat, a loaf of bread toasting on a spit, and burnt fenzu shells, a delicacy he’d never tried. Next to the food were little bowls of iceflowers, waiting to be blended and brewed. Probably by Akos, if he knew Jorek half as well as he thought. It wasn’t as elaborate as what they had eaten the night before, but it was enough.
He didn’t have to guide his mom toward Cyra. She saw her and walked straight at her. It didn’t make Cyra look any less scared.