Vek tapped his fingers against the glass in his other hand.
“Yes, perhaps we can discuss your proposition further,” Vek said reluctantly. “There may be room for cooperation between our planet and your . . . nation.”
“Nation,” Ryzek said with a smile. “Yes, that is all we ask to be called. An independent nation, capable of determining its own future.”
“Excuse me,” I said, touching Ryzek’s arm lightly. I hoped it stung. “I’m going to find another drink.”
“Of course,” Ryzek said to me. As I turned away, I heard him say to Vek, “Her currentgift gives her constant pain, you know—we are always looking for solutions to improve her functioning. Some days are better than others—”
Gritting my teeth, I kept marching until I was too far away to hear him. I felt like I might be sick. We had come to Pithar because of their advanced weaponry, because Ryzek wanted an alliance. I had just, in some way, helped him make one. And I knew what Ryzek wanted weapons for—to use against Thuvhe, not to “become an independent nation,” as he would have Vek believe. How could I face Akos now, knowing I had helped my brother move toward war against his home? I didn’t look for him.
I heard a deep rumble, like thunder. First I thought we were—impossibly—hearing the sounds of the storm through the stretch of water that separated us from the surface. Then I saw, through gaps in the crowd, a line of musicians at the front of the room. The overhead lights dimmed everywhere but above their heads. Each of them sat behind a low table, and on each table was one of the intricate instruments I had pointed out to Akos at the Shotet market. But these were much larger and more complex than the one we had seen. They glinted in the low light, waist-high, their iridescent panes half as wide as my palm.
A harsh crack followed the rumble of thunder, a lightning strike. With that, the other musicians began to play, bringing in the tinkling sounds of light rain, the deeper thrum of thicker droplets. The others played the crashing waves, the lapping of water against a nonexistent shore. All around us were the sounds of water, dripping from faucets, gushing from waterfalls. A Pithar woman with black hair standing to my right closed her eyes, swaying on the spot.
Without meaning to, I found Akos in the crowd, still holding two glasses, both now empty. He smiled a little.
I have to get you out of here, I thought, as if he could hear me. And I will.
CHAPTER 21: AKOS
IN A COLD, BLANK room in Pitha’s capital, Akos gave up on sleep. He and Cyra had never slept without a door between them before, so Akos hadn’t known that she ground her teeth, or that she dreamt all the time, moaning and muttering. He’d spent most of the night with eyes open, waiting for her to settle, only it never happened. He was still too sore to get comfortable anyway.
He had never been in a room so bare. Gray floors gave way to pale walls. The beds had white sheets and no frames. At least there was a window. In the early morning hours, as light came back to the world, he could just barely make out a maze of scaffolding underwater, green slime and supple yellow vines wrapped around it. Holding up the city.
Well, that was something the Pithar and the Thuvhesit had in common, he thought—they lived in places that ought not to exist.
In those early hours, Akos was swallowed up in the question that wouldn’t leave him be: Why hadn’t he pulled away when Cyra kissed him? It wasn’t like she had surprised him—she had leaned in, slow, her hand warm on his chest and pressing, almost like she was pushing him away. But he hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d gone over it in his mind again and again.
Maybe, he thought, as he stuck his head under the bathroom faucet to wet his hair, I even liked it.
But he was scared to even entertain the notion. It meant the fate that worried at him, the fate that tugged at the strings connecting his heart to Thuvhe and home, was suddenly izits away from his face.
“You’re quiet,” Cyra said as they made their way to the landing bay side by side. “Did that engine grease you drank last night get to you?”
“No,” he said. Somehow it felt wrong to tease her about talking in her sleep, when he knew the kinds of things that likely haunted her. No trifles there. “Just . . . new place, that’s all.”
“Right, well, I keep burping up sour, so.” She pulled a face. “I am not enamored with Pitha, I have to say.”
“Except—” he started, about to add something about the concert the night before.
She interrupted him with, “The music. Yes.”
His knuckles brushed hers. He jerked away. He was too aware of every touch, now, even though Cyra had promised she wouldn’t make another move, and hadn’t talked about it since.
They reached the breezeway—not the word Akos would have picked, but there was a sign over the doorway saying what it was—where some of the others were putting on waterproof jumpsuits and boots. Ryzek, Yma, Vas, Suzao, and Eijeh weren’t there, but Vakrez and Malan were, Malan sorting through boots to find the right size. He was a small, thin man, with a beard that was just a shadow under his jaw, and bright eyes. An unequal match for Vakrez, the cold military commander who had seen to Akos’s Shotet education.
“Cyra,” Malan said, nodding as Vakrez eyed Akos. Akos stood up straighter, lifting his chin. He could still hear Vakrez’s relentless voice scolding him for slouching, for dragging his feet, for uttering so much as a curse in Thuvhesit.
“Kereseth,” Vakrez said. “You look bigger.”