His mouth opens, closes. His shoulders sag. “Oh, Lark . . . if you’d asked me two weeks ago . . . I think I would have.”
I release him. “But?”
He offers me a half smile. “I’m a Deccor now.”
“What? How?” The next caste tournament is nearly two months away.
“The war.” He plants his heavy hands on my shoulders. “You should have been there, Lark. It was intense. Madness. Carnage.”
My gut squeezes. The memory of Azmar’s blood spilling onto the dust pushes to the front of my brain. I shove it down. Blink rapidly. That was the last time he loved me.
“I killed one of their generals,” Perg explains. “The council promoted me.”
I stiffen. “You . . . what?”
“Guess that fortune-telling thing you did for me was right.” He misreads my shock. “I . . . I’m sorry, Lark. I know they’re human but . . . it’s war.”
I shake my head. “N-No, it’s just that . . .” My thoughts knot around each other. “Wh-What did he look like?” Was it Lythanis or . . . ?
Perg drops his hands. “Look like? Uh . . .” He shrugs. “He looked human. Um.” He taps his foot. “He . . . oh, actually . . . he had pale hair, kind of like yours.”
My heartbeat skips.
Lythanis had dark hair.
Perg killed my father.
It’s so much to process. Stepping around Perg, I lean against the wall. Ottius Thellele is dead. The man who has haunted me all my life, who pursued me across half of Mavaea, who gave me the nearly healed bruises on my skin. My tormentor, my abuser, my cage.
He’s gone. He is . . . gone.
“Lark?” Concern paints Perg’s face. “Did you . . . know him?”
I meet his eyes. They look so human.
Perg has already loved me more than my father ever did.
“No,” I lie. “No, I didn’t.”
Relief relaxes his features. “Good. But . . . already things are turning around for me.” He grins, a touch of mischievousness in the expression. “I mean, now two castes can’t mock me without a beating. And in a year, I’ll be ready to compete for Intra.” His grin fades. “So I can’t—”
I pat his arm. “I’m happy for you. Truly. You’ve earned it twice over, Perg.” My eyes moisten for so many reasons, and I don’t want to examine any of them. I embrace him again, propping my chin on his shoulder. “I’m going to miss you, Perg.”
He throws an arm around my shoulders and pulls tight. “I’ll miss you, too, Lark.”
I release him regretfully. I manage to wait until I’m around a bend in the corridor to wipe my tears. It really is goodbye, because we won’t be able to write; no messenger service exists between the humans and Cagmar. And I don’t even know where I’ll end up. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Perg—my brother—again.
I’m so focused on keeping my face calm and dry that I run into another trollis when I enter the market. Backstepping, I offer an apology.
Turning, Grodd looks down on me and sneers. Fear pumps into my heart so quickly it stings. I retreat another step, then another.
“That’s what I hate about rats,” he growls, following me. “They never leave their nests, even to preserve their worthless lives.”
A hand cups around my shoulder from behind. Perg. He must have followed me out.
“Is there a problem, Pleb?” he asks, his voice lower and bolder than I’ve ever heard it.
Grodd tenses. His tight fists make the veins in his arms pop out. His teeth will chip any second for how hard he grinds them. “No,” he pushes between his lips. “None.” He turns around like every movement pains him, and stalks back into the market as though on rusted joints.
I squeeze Perg’s hand. If I allow myself to speak, I’ll break into a blubbery mess.
He squeezes back. Nothing is certain but hope . . . and I hope dearly that somehow, someday, I will see him again.
Early evening hues filter through my tiny apartment window, colors of resolution, sorrow, and uncertainty. Standing in their glow, I feel like a stranger. Like I never was a part of Cagmar.
My gaze wanders to the natural crack in the stone behind my cot, where I had stowed Azmar’s bloodstone. I wonder how long Unach searched for it, or if the glint of its copper wires gave it away. I yearn to hold it in my hands, but it’s better that I don’t. It would be cruel to Azmar to take it with me. It would be cruel to myself. Every time I looked at it would be like picking off the scab of a deep wound.