Spring 40, 508 AV
The sky above Lhavit was streaked with all manner of pink and yellow as the bulk of the sun had slid beneath the Unforgiving’s higher peaks. A city forged of skyglass broke through the gloaming like a diamond glinting beneath light’s touch. Seven and his sister O’Ren walked side by side, each with a small sackcloth bag slung over their shoulders. It was to be a clear night; the clouds were receding, burning off with the last of the sun’s light. It had yet to get too warm. The stars favored the cool air.
“So, did you petch him?”
“Gods!” Seven spat a mouthful of half-chewed peach at his feet and stopped to stare, brows knitted, at his younger sibling. A silk sleeve was stretched over an ashy hand, and he wiped the corners of his mouth, sputtering what he managed to inhale in shock, “Where’d you learn to speak like that?”
“I’m thirteen, Seven, I know what petching is.” O’Ren’s lips crafted a smooth, delighted smile. “You did, didn’t you? I mean, I’ve never seen you with girls that weren’t us. Do you like them, or do you like boys? I like boys. Tall boys, with hair on their chins and between their ...”
“Gods!”
“I haven’t done anything.” The girl assured her halfblooded brother with a flippant roll of her eyes. She turned to face him; she was already a nose taller than him, and growing. “Tell me if you did. Please, I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
Seven was quiet for a few long heartbeats. His chin dipped, and he squashed pink-orange pulp beneath a sandal. It ground into dust, turned all colors of wasted brown, and stuck to its attacker. He had to scrape it away on level soil.
“So?”
“It was nothing. We ... we kissed.”
Seven’s confession was interrupted by a squeal of delight. The girl lived for gossip, and her brother had sated a hunger that had turned to famine over a boring winter. “You freak. You’re so weird! What did it taste like? Did you like it? Did you do anything else?”
“Freak? I’m not the one getting off on her brother’s ...” he paused, unsure of what to call it. Pink was creeping up his pale neck. “Listen. It’s confusing. It tasted like … well, like a mouth, I guess. He didn’t try to envenom me. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have done it. I lead him home.”
“Which was stupid.”
“Which was stupid,” he allowed, “and we slept. There was nothing else. No,” his hands shot up, half-eaten peach and all, to make a lewd gesture, “None of that.”
“Coward.”
Seven’s mouth opened and closed, but no words would fall from his tongue. He scowled, pushed the wilting fruit into his sister’s dry hands (to which she yelped) and continued on toward their destination. “Come on. Stars are rising. We need to get to Iraltu’s.”
“So, did you petch him?”
“Gods!” Seven spat a mouthful of half-chewed peach at his feet and stopped to stare, brows knitted, at his younger sibling. A silk sleeve was stretched over an ashy hand, and he wiped the corners of his mouth, sputtering what he managed to inhale in shock, “Where’d you learn to speak like that?”
“I’m thirteen, Seven, I know what petching is.” O’Ren’s lips crafted a smooth, delighted smile. “You did, didn’t you? I mean, I’ve never seen you with girls that weren’t us. Do you like them, or do you like boys? I like boys. Tall boys, with hair on their chins and between their ...”
“Gods!”
“I haven’t done anything.” The girl assured her halfblooded brother with a flippant roll of her eyes. She turned to face him; she was already a nose taller than him, and growing. “Tell me if you did. Please, I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
Seven was quiet for a few long heartbeats. His chin dipped, and he squashed pink-orange pulp beneath a sandal. It ground into dust, turned all colors of wasted brown, and stuck to its attacker. He had to scrape it away on level soil.
“So?”
“It was nothing. We ... we kissed.”
Seven’s confession was interrupted by a squeal of delight. The girl lived for gossip, and her brother had sated a hunger that had turned to famine over a boring winter. “You freak. You’re so weird! What did it taste like? Did you like it? Did you do anything else?”
“Freak? I’m not the one getting off on her brother’s ...” he paused, unsure of what to call it. Pink was creeping up his pale neck. “Listen. It’s confusing. It tasted like … well, like a mouth, I guess. He didn’t try to envenom me. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have done it. I lead him home.”
“Which was stupid.”
“Which was stupid,” he allowed, “and we slept. There was nothing else. No,” his hands shot up, half-eaten peach and all, to make a lewd gesture, “None of that.”
“Coward.”
Seven’s mouth opened and closed, but no words would fall from his tongue. He scowled, pushed the wilting fruit into his sister’s dry hands (to which she yelped) and continued on toward their destination. “Come on. Stars are rising. We need to get to Iraltu’s.”
