herself in the mirror. “Almost,” she agreed. But she left the pencil in place, so I knew she liked it.
I tried not to think about Akos, or dream about him, or imagine conversations we might have had about what I was experiencing. I was already barely containing my rage at Thuvhe; I didn’t need something to stoke the flames further.
On the flight to Pokgo, however, I allowed myself just a moment of weakness before reprimanding myself.
As the ship glided between tall buildings—built higher than any of the ones in Voa, so tall they might have scraped the bottom of the Shissa ones that fell—I pictured the look of wonder his face would have worn if he had seen it.
And I would have said something like, Ograns allowed a certain percentage of trees to be preserved when they built Pokgo, which is why it still looks like a forest below us.
He would have smiled, amused as always by the knowledge I kept filed away.
But not amused enough by me to give me a damn explanation before—
Stop, I told myself, blinking tears from my eyes. There was pain in my knees, hips, elbows, and shoulders, pain in all the spaces between my bones. I couldn’t indulge this.
There was work to be done.
The ship docked at a building near the center of Pokgo, where all the buildings were so close together I could peer into strangers’ offices and living spaces and see how they decorated them. Ograns favored excess, so most of them were packed with objects of personal significance or fine craftsmanship. Everyone seemed to have the same decorative boxes, made of polished wood with little patterns carved into them.
When the hatch opened, I shuddered a little, because the wind that blew in was strong and it was clear we were higher up than I had realized, given the drop in temperature. Someone on the docking station guided a motorized walkway to the hatch. It had neither handrails nor some kind of visible fail-safe to keep a person on top of it. Our Ogran captain, a thick man with a substantial gut, walked right across it with the grace of a dancer. Yssa followed, and I was close behind her, forcing my eyes up and focused on the open doorway that was my destination.
If Akos had been here, I would have held his hand, my arm stretched out behind me like a banner.
But Akos was not here, so I made it across alone.
Ograns were ruled by a pair of people, one a woman and the other sema, the word in Shotet for neither woman nor man. There were two major political factions on Ogra, I knew, one amenable to change and the other not. Each one presented a viable candidate every ten seasons, and they ruled together, by compromise or by bargaining. It seemed impossible to me that such a thing could work, but apparently it wasn’t, because the system had lasted two hundred seasons so far.
The sema leader introduced themselves as “Rokha,” and had close-cut hair the color of Urek sand, a dusting of freckles on their skin, and delicate, pursed lips. The woman—“Lusha,” she had called herself, as she gripped my arm in greeting—was taller, thicker, and several shades darker-skinned than I was. The pencil smeared above her lashes had a faint shimmer to it, lighting her eyes from above, and it suited her.
“You are Cyra Noavek,” Rokha said to me, as we all stood in a group before the meeting was called to order. Lusha was talking to Yssa and Aza behind me—I could tell because her hearty laugh kept filling my head with a mirth I couldn’t feel.
“Allegedly,” I said, because I couldn’t help myself.
Rokha laughed.
“You’re taller than I thought,” they said. “I suppose anyone looks short beside Ryzek Noavek.”
“Looked,” I corrected them. To me it was just a grammatical error, a courtesy to someone who didn’t speak Shotet as a native. But their face tightened in recognition of the insensitivity.
“My apologies,” they said. “You lost him so recently.”
“I wouldn’t say I lost anything,” I said.
Rokha raised an eyebrow. The freckles on their eyelids made me think of Akos, and a web of currentshadows spread over my eye socket, making me wince.
“I can’t tell if you are joking or not,” Rokha said.
“That should please you. Ograns love mystery, don’t they?” I replied sourly, and Rokha squinted at me, as if puzzled, as Lusha called the meeting to order.
“Let us speak plainly,” Lusha said, and Rokha snorted.
Lusha wrinkled her