Qequan tips his head, and my legs nearly give beneath me. “For the leckers. But my words are a promise.”
I drop to my knees and prostrate myself before them. “Thank you for your mercy. I will obey. It will not happen again.”
With my nose pressed to the fur rug, I don’t see what Qequan or any of the council members do. But Agga says, “Take your leave,” and I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding, my head dizzy, and hurry to the doors. Trollis guards open them. When they shut behind me, I bend over, taking in air like I’ve been underwater the entire time.
Azmar and Unach appear at my side.
“Lark?” Azmar asks.
Unach says, “What happened?”
Once I catch my breath, I answer, “They’re letting me stay.”
Unach lets out a long breath. “And? What did you tell him? About the tournament?”
Tension warps my spine. “The same thing I told you.”
Unach blanches. “You gave those excuses to the council?”
I whirl on her, fear igniting to anger beneath my skin. “The truth doesn’t change when a different person asks.” But it’s a lie. It’s all a lie. I know exactly what I did, and so do they.
And I can never, ever do it again. I have nowhere else to go.
Azmar steps between us, one hand on his sister’s arm, the other on my shoulder. “Leave her be. We must accept that she doesn’t know.”
“How can she not know?” Unach protests, even as Azmar guides her toward the exit. “Why would she run into a battle like that without knowing she would win?”
Azmar’s eyes narrow. “Do you know you’ll win, every time you plunge into the canyon to face the creatures below?”
Unach works her jaw. Looks away and kicks open the door, storming out ahead of us.
A stale breath passes my lips. “Thank you, Azmar.”
He nods, though I sense his own discontent with my answer. But that answer is all I can give. If I’m to stay in Cagmar, I must forget my fear, slough it off like snakeskin and become a new Lark. The thought is both liberating and terrifying.
I suddenly want Perg’s knife, but I should get rid of it. I must do nothing to tarnish my name further. I must become a perfect human.
Azmar lets me walk down the stairs first. The council chamber sits higher than the market, so we have a good view of it as we start down the hill. A small group of trollis loiters near the food handlers, jeering and calling names, occasionally kicking or slapping someone amidst them. It reminds me too much of Perg, but Perg is in the infirmary. Thinking of Ritha and the others, I quicken my step.
One of the trollis shifts, and I see it’s not a human they torment, but Grodd. He wears the common clothes of a Pleb, and his disheveled hair speaks of ill treatment. He scowls at one of his assailants and raises a hand as though to strike back.
A trollis behind him batters a fist into Grodd’s skull. “Raise your hand to your betters, Pleb? I’ll have you thrown in the dungeon for that.”
The others laugh. Unach watches, too, her face grim. “How easily the iron bar bends,” she murmurs. I wonder if that’s a trollis idiom.
Before I can wrench my gaze free to follow Azmar, Grodd looks up and meets it. In his vivid green eyes, I see hatred deeper than any I’ve ever encountered. Hatred sharp enough to steal my breath away.
He knows, more than anyone, that I’m hiding something.
And in that embittered glare, I see the promise of revenge.
Chapter 11
I don’t know if the excitement of my brief encounter with Grodd has died down or if the council sent out some missive I don’t know about or even if Unach’s rage can quell the entire city, but a few days after the caste tournament, the glares and whispers reduce to a simmer, and I’m able to visit Perg. Trollis still examine me when they pass by, but I don’t fear being mobbed by them, and very few speak to me outside of small comments, like an awed “a human, of all things” or “would-be Montra.” Some even salute to me. I seem to have earned some respect among the more open-minded. While it pleases and astounds me, I wish even the compliments would end. The sooner Cagmar forgets about me, the easier my transition to a defenseless, boring human. The sooner I will be safe.
Perg looks better. Bruised, but better. Blue cuts and abrasions speckle his skin. Heavy bandages encompass his forearm and torso. A thick blanket hides the rest of him.
“But it’s worth it,” he says as we discuss what happened on the bridge. He doesn’t remember my being there, except hovering over him as he lost consciousness. “To see that teat-sucking mole in squalor. Or it will be, when I do see him.”