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.”
He turned. He wore a smug smile.
“You should be more like her, sister,” he said. “You are an excellent fighter. But up here . . .” He tapped the side of his head. “Well, it’s not your strength.”
The shadows traveled faster beneath my skin, spurred on by my anger. But I kept my mouth closed.
“You gave Kereseth a weapon? You took him through the tunnels?” Ryzek shook his head. “You slept through his escape?”
“He drugged me,” I said tersely.
“Oh? And how did he do that?” Ryzek said lightly, still smirking. “Pinned you down and poured the potion into your mouth? I don’t think so. I think you drank it, trustingly. Drank a powerful drug prepared by your enemy.”
“Ryzek—” I started.
“You almost cost us our oracle,” Ryzek snapped. “And why? Because you’re foolish enough to let your heart flutter for the first painkiller who comes around?”
I didn’t argue. He had spent a long time searching the galaxy for an oracle, with my father and without. In one night, that oracle had almost escaped. My doing. And maybe he was right. Maybe whatever small trust I had felt for Akos, whatever appeal he had held, had come because he offered me relief. Because I was so grateful for the reprieve from pain—and from isolation—that my heart had softened. I had been stupid.
“You can’t blame him for wanting to rescue his brother, or for wanting to get out of here,” I said, my voice quaking with fear.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Ryzek said, laughing a little. “People will always want things that will destroy us, Cyra. That doesn’t mean we just let them act on what they want.”
Ryzek pointed to the side of the room.
“Stand over there and don’t say a word,” he said. “I brought you here to watch what happens when you don’t keep your servants under control.”
I was shivering, burning, and I looked like I was standing under a canopy of vines, marked by their shadows. I stumbled to the side of the room, my arms clutched tightly around me. I heard Ryzek’s order to enter.
The huge doors at the other end of the room opened. Vas walked in first, armored, his shoulders back. Behind him, flanked by soldiers, was the sagging, stumbling form of Akos Kereseth. Half his face was covered in blood, coming from a gash in his eyebrow. His face was swollen, his lip split. Beaten already, but then, he had gotten good at taking a beating.
Behind him walked Eijeh—also bleeding and beaten, but more than that . . . vacant. His face was rough with a patchy beard, and he was gaunt, a shred of the young man I had seen from my hidden vantage point two seasons ago.
I could hear Akos breathing from where I stood, sputtering. But he straightened at the sight of my brother.
“My, my, aren’t you a sight,” Ryzek said, descending the steps slowly. “How far did he get, Vas? Past the fence?”
“Not even,” Vas said. “Got him in the kitchens, coming out of the tunnels.”
“Well, let me clarify your miscalculation, for future reference, Kereseth,” Ryzek said. “Just because my late mother enjoyed the old-fashioned appearance of this house doesn’t mean that I didn’t outfit my home with the most advanced security measures possible after her passing. Including motion sensors around secure rooms, such as your brother’s.”