Finally he got to the room where Eijeh was kept—triggering some sensor without meaning to, as Ryzek told him later. But at the time he hadn’t known. He had just stuck his fingers in the lock that held Eijeh’s door shut. Most doors these days were locked by the current, and his touch could unlock them. Wrist cuffs, too. That was how he had gotten free to kill Kalmev Radix in the feathergrass.
Eijeh had stood by a barred window, high over the manor’s back gate. There was feathergrass there, too, tufts swaying in the wind. Akos wondered what Eijeh saw there—their dad? He didn’t know how feathergrass worked for other people, since it didn’t do anything to him anymore.
Eijeh had turned to him, taking him in bit by bit. It had only been two seasons since they had seen each other, but they had both changed—Akos was taller, thicker, and Eijeh had gone ashen and thin, curly hair matted in places. He wobbled a little, and Akos caught him by the elbows.
“Akos,” Eijeh had whispered. “I don’t know what to do, I don’t—”
“It’s okay,” Akos said. “It’s okay, I’ll get us out of here, you don’t need to do anything.”
“You . . . you killed that man, that man who was in our house—”
“Yeah.” Akos knew the man’s name: Kalmev Radix, now just a scar on his arm.
“Why did this happen?” Eijeh’s voice broke. Akos’s heart broke. “Why didn’t Mom see it coming?”
Akos didn’t remind him that she probably had. No point to it, really.
“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.”