“What do the Shotet say about the feathergrass?” Isae said suddenly. “I mean, we say early Thuvhesit settlers planted it to keep the Shotet at bay, but obviously they have a different perspective, right?”
“The Shotet say they planted it,” Akos said. “To keep out Thuvhesit outsiders. But it’s native to Ogra.”
“I can still hear them from up here,” Cisi said. “The voices in the grasses.”
“Whose voices?” The sharpness left Isae’s voice when she spoke to Cisi.
“My father’s, mostly,” Cisi said.
“I hear my mother,” Isae said. “Wonder if we only hear the dead.”
“How long has it been since she died?”
“Couple seasons. Same time I got cut.” Isae had lapsed into some other, more casual diction. Even her posture had changed, spine bent.
They kept talking, and Akos stayed quiet, his thoughts drifting back to Cyra.
If she had died, he was sure he would have felt it now, like something stabbing him right through the sternum. It wasn’t possible to lose a friend like her without knowing, was it? Though the current didn’t flow through him, her life force surely did. She had kept him alive for too long. Maybe if he held on tight enough now, he could do the same for her, from far away.
In late afternoon, when the sun was swollen with what was left of the day, they started to run out of fuel. The floater shuddered. Under them the feathergrass was thinning, and between it there was low, gray-brown grass that moved like hair in the wind.
Cisi guided the ship to a place near some wildflowers. It got frosty here, closer to the equator, but warm swells of air came from the sea and filled the valley of Voa. Other kinds of plants could grow, not just iceflowers.
They climbed out, and started walking. Along the horizon was the purple swell of the currentstream, a little cluster of buildings, and the glint of Shotet ships. Jorek had told him how to get to his family’s house, but the last time Akos had been out here was right after he had killed Kalmev Radix, and Vas and the others had just beaten the snot out of him, so he didn’t remember it too well. The land was so flat there weren’t many places for a small village to hide—lucky.
He heard shifting in the grass ahead of them, and between stalks, he saw something dark and massive. He grabbed Isae’s hand, on his left, and Cisi’s, on his right, holding them both still.
Up ahead the creature was gliding. The clicking of its pincers came from all directions. It was big—as wide as he was tall, easily—and its body was covered with dark blue plates. It had more legs than he could count, and he could see its head only because of the teeth glistening in its wide, curved mouth. They were as long as his fingers.
An Armored One.
His face was izits from its hard-plated side. It exhaled—like sighing—and its eyes, beady and black, almost hidden under a plate, closed. Beside him, Cisi shuddered with fear.
“The current drives Armored Ones into mad rages,” he whispered right against the creature, which had gone to sleep, much as it defied logic. He took a slow step back. “That’s why they attack people, because we’re such good channels for the current.”
His hands squeaked against theirs, his palms were so sweaty.
“But,” Isae said, sounding strained, “you don’t channel the current, so.”
“So they hardly know I’m there,” he replied. “Come on.”
He led them away from the sleepy animal, checking over his shoulder to make sure it wasn’t following. It stayed put.
“I guess we know how you earned your armor,” Isae said.
“That’s where the armor comes from?” Cisi said. “I thought all that stuff about slaying beasts was just stupid Thuvhesit rumor.”
“It’s not rumor,” he said. “It’s not really some story of triumph, in my case. It fell asleep and I killed it. I felt so bad about it afterward I marked it on my arm.”
“Why did you do it?” Isae said. “If you didn’t want to, I mean.”
“I wanted armor,” he said. “Not every Shotet earns that kind of armor, so it’s a kind of . . . status symbol. I wanted them to see me as an equal, and shut up about me having thin Thuvhesit skin.”
Cisi snorted. “They clearly have never weathered a Hessa winter.”
He led them toward the distant buildings, through patches of wildflowers so fragile they came apart under his boots.
“So are you going to tell us where we’re going, or do you expect us to just march right into those buildings up ahead?” Isae said, once they were close enough to see what the houses were made of—blue-gray stone, with small glass windows stained in all different colors. It was just a few buildings, hardly enough to be called a village. With the setting sun glinting off the glass, and the wildflowers growing right up against the stone, the place was downright pretty.
He was taking a chance, coming here, but then, no matter what he did they were in trouble, so it was as good an option as any.
He was twitchy with nerves. These houses would be connected to the Shotet news feed. They would know what happened to Cyra here. He kept his left hand up by his right shoulder as he walked, so he could draw his knife if he needed to. He didn’t know what waited for them behind those bright windows. He drew his weapon when he saw a flash of movement, one of the doors opening. A small, sly-looking woman stepped out, her hands dripping water. She was holding a cloth. He knew her—Ara Kuzar. The late Suzao’s wife, and Jorek’s mother.