“Jorek,” Vas said. “How interesting, running into you here. What’s your business?”
“Akos and I have been sparring together,” Jorek said, without hesitating. He was a good liar—Akos figured he had to be, growing up in his family, with all these people around. “Just checking if he would go for another round.”
“Sparring.” Vas laughed a little. “With Kereseth? Really?”
“Everyone needs hobbies,” Akos said, like it didn’t matter. “Maybe tomorrow, Jorek. Brewing something.”
Jorek waved, and walked away. Fast. Akos waited until he turned the corner before turning back to Eijeh and Vas.
“Did Mother teach you to do that?” Eijeh said, nodding to the yellow fumes still wafting from the burner.
“Yes.” Akos was already flushed and shaking, though he had no reason to be scared of his own brother. “Mom taught me.” Eijeh had never called her “Mother” in his life. That was a word for snotty Shissa kids, or for the Shotet—not for children of Hessa.
“So kind of her to prepare you for what awaited you. It’s a shame she didn’t feel the need to do that with me.” Eijeh stepped into Akos’s room, running his fingers over the taut sheets, the even stack of books. Marking them in a way that wouldn’t erase. He drew the knife at his side, and spun it on his palm, catching it with his thumb. It would have struck Akos as menacing if he hadn’t seen Ryzek do it so many times.
“Maybe she didn’t think this future would come to be.” He didn’t believe it. But he didn’t know what else to say.
“She did. I know she did. I saw her speak of it in a vision.”
Eijeh had never talked about his visions with Akos, had never gotten the chance. Akos couldn’t imagine it. The future intruding on his present. So many possibilities it was dizzying. Seeing his family but not knowing if the images would come to be. Not being able to speak to them.
Not that it seemed to matter to Eijeh anymore.
“Well,” he said. “We should go home and ask her about it.”
“I’m doing just fine here,” Eijeh said. “I suspect you are, too, judging by these . . . accommodations.”
“You talk like him now,” Akos said. “You realize that, right? You talk like Ryzek Noavek, the man who killed Dad. Hate Mom if you want, but you can’t possibly hate Dad.”
Eijeh’s eyes went hazy. Not quite blank, but far, far away, instead. “I don’t— He was always at work. Never at home.”
“He was home all the time.” Akos spat out the words like they had rotted. “He made dinner. He checked our homework. He told stories. You don’t remember?”
But he knew the answer to his own question. It was in Eijeh’s blank eyes. Of course, of course Ryzek had taken Eijeh’s memories of their dad—he had to have been so horrified by his own father that he’d stolen theirs instead.
Suddenly Akos’s hands were in fists in Eijeh’s shirt, and he was shoving his brother against the wall, knocking over a row of vials. He looked so small between Akos’s hands; he was so light it was easy to lift him. It was that, more than his slack surprise, that made Akos let go as quick as he’d grabbed him.
When did I get so big? he thought, staring at his thick knuckles. Long fingers, like his dad’s, but thicker. Good for hurting people.
“She’s taught you her brutality.” Eijeh straightened his shirt. “If I don’t remember something, do you think you can shake it out of me?”
“If I could, I’d have tried it already.” Akos stepped back. “I would do anything to make you remember him.” He turned away, running his hand over the back of his neck like Jorek always did. He couldn’t look at Eijeh anymore, couldn’t look at either of the men standing in his quarters. “Why did you come here? Did you want something?”
“We came here with two purposes,” Eijeh said. “First, there is an iceflower blend that promotes clear thinking. I need it to crystallize some of my visions. I thought you might know how to make it.”
“So Ryzek doesn’t have your currentgift yet.”
“I think he’s satisfied with my work thus far.”
“You’re kidding yourself if you think he’ll settle for trusting you over just taking your power for himself,” Akos said, quiet. Bracing himself against the counter, because his legs felt so weak. “If it even works that way. And as for your iceflower blend . . . well. I’ll never give you something that will make Ryzek Noavek wage war against Thuvhe. I would sooner die.”
“Such venom,” Vas said. When Akos looked at him, Vas was tapping his fingertip against the point of a knife.
He’d almost forgotten Vas was there, listening. Akos’s heart hacked like a scythe in his chest at the sound of his voice. All he could see when he blinked was Vas wiping his dad’s blood off on his pants on the way out of their house in Thuvhe.
Vas moved closer to the burner to breathe in the—now fading—yellow fumes. He stayed bent for a tick, then whipped around with his knife drawn and pressed the point to Akos’s throat. Akos forced himself to stay still, heart still scythe-like. The point of the blade was cold.
“My cousin was drugged recently,” Vas said.
“I don’t keep track of your cousins,” Akos replied.
“I bet you keep track of this one,” Vas said. “Suzao Kuzar. He was there when your father breathed his last.”