“From the Graveyard?” She rubbed her hand over the back of her head, where it suddenly tingled. “And you think using these… god parts has given me some lasting…?” Lasting what, exactly? Powers sounded fanciful. But what else would one call what she did?
“There is one way to find out.” Zataya reached across the table and pulled forth a mirror that had been half buried under a bouquet of dried wild onion. Naranpa recognized the scrying mirror, the one Zataya had used to see the Crow God Reborn’s return and predict the Sun Priest’s death.
“The mirror can tell you if I’m god-touched?”
“It is a gateway into the shadow world, and within the shadows, you can see many things. Past, present, future. It is said that the greatest sorcerers may even travel small distances through the shadow world.”
She had never heard that. “How does it work?” But she already knew. She had seen Zataya use it before.
Blood and desire. Well, she had a body full of blood, and her desire was strong. Faith was her struggle, and more than that, a reluctance to cross the line into the taboo. Everything she had learned over the last twenty years had schooled her against the practice of magic, but what choice did she have if she wanted to understand what was happening to her?
Zataya produced a small obsidian knife.
“No stingray spine this time?” Naranpa asked dryly, her tongue throbbing in remembered sympathy.
Zataya grasped Naranpa’s arm and pressed the blade into the flesh just below her inner elbow. Naranpa hissed at the pain, but it passed quickly, and Zataya pinched at the wound to draw blood to the surface. When there was enough, she turned Naranpa’s arm over and let the warm liquid drip onto the mirror’s milky surface.
Skies! Naranpa thought. Am I really doing this? Apparently, she believed in it enough to give her blood to the endeavor. If it was folly, what had she to lose but self-respect? And if it was real, the gain might be unimaginable. If Iktan could see me now. How have you come to this, Sun Priest?
Former Sun Priest—and that came to her in Iktan’s droll voice, accurate enough to make her swallow back a flood of conflicting emotions.
“Go ahead,” Zataya said, after she had spread Naranpa’s blood across the opaque surface and given her a rag to staunch the bleeding. “Ask it what you want to see.”
Naranpa looked into the mirror, her silhouette now more smears of red than shadow. She thought to ask a dozen different things. How had she survived? Who was the Crow God Reborn, and did he hunt her even now, or was his thirst for vengeance slaked? Could she trust her brother? Was magic even real? But what came from her mouth was a surprise, even to her: “Who am I?”
The effect was immediate. It felt as if something or someone had grasped her head with two hands and was dragging her down. She shouted out, alarmed, but the grip only tightened, and down into the shadow world she tumbled.
* * *
The screams of leviathans reverberate through the air, the vibrations shaking Naranpa’s bones. Talons reach for her eyes, and she pivots, snaking her long tail around to strike the great black bird that threatens her. It falls back, injured, but another creature comes for her, this one a feline with slavering jaws and razored teeth. It leaps skyward, trying to catch her. Its claws rip golden scales from her throat, and…
… she wakes from an unplanned sleep, head snapping up. She stifles a panicked cry. She has dozed off. Oh, great gods, what has she done? She is supposed to stand watch. Her eyes shoot to the bags. There they sit, still fat with gold, and here are Ano’s arms around her still. They huddled together for warmth in this forbidden place, the last two left. Her breath puffs before her, white mist. But Ano’s does not. Dread fills her belly. She turns. Ano is tucked against her, skin frosted white, lifeless eyes staring. She screams into…
… the heat of a smelting forge, flames licking tufa molds as her steady hands pour liquid gold into long, thin strips. Hammers ring around her as others work the four masks of the Watchers. What they do here is good and will ensure peace among the cities of the Meridian for centuries, if not millennia. Someone calls her name, and she turns. Not enough time to scream as a knife slits her throat. She falls, her blood mixing with the gold…
Through a dozen faces, a hundred scenarios. She is the dedicant made Sun Priest again and again. Enemies threaten her, and the Knives take them down. Some succeed, and she is imprisoned, deposed, executed. She catches a glimpse of herself hurling from the sky bridge into the open air, the waters impossibly far below.
A man stands, his back to her. Lightning flashes around him, and wind tears at his hair, his cloak. He stands high atop a mountain. No, not a mountain. A tower, smooth stone under his feet. He holds something in his hands. She knows this thing like she knows her own face, the curve of the cheeks and lips, the gloss of gold. He raises the Sun Priest’s mask to his face. She cries out, knowing she has to stop him. Knowing that if he succeeds, all is lost. Her heart thumps in her ears. The storm casts her words of warning away. She reaches for him, but he is too far, his figure a blur in the sheeting rain. She tries to run, but her legs, her body, will not move. She cannot see his face, does not recognize the set of his shoulders or his long black hair. He cocks his head, as if he hears her, and begins to turn. Another moment, and she will see his face, another second.
A mouth twists into a smile, speaks her name, and—
Naranpa screamed herself awake.
Into a room gone dark and cold, the fire in the hearth burned to nothing, the air still perfumed with rosemary and mint. She was on the floor, splayed out on her back, and she grasped the stool she had been perched on and pulled herself to sitting again. Her shoulder ached where she must have fallen and struck stone, and her head spun, her heart still pounding in her chest, her body still flooded with adrenaline.
The visions still tumbled in her mind, more emotion than memory. What had she seen, where had she been? Past or future, she wasn’t sure. Symbol or reality? The feelings were real enough: of attack, of betrayal and loss. She stifled a sob.
“Zataya?” she whispered, her voice trembling. But the witch was not there.
“Ochi?” she called instead, knowing there would be no answer. The scrying mirror was now clean of the blood she had poured on it. No, the blood she had fed it. Her blood. She shuddered and heaved it across the room as if it were a live snake. She listened for the shatter as it hit the floor, but none came.
While the mirror might have been clean, her arm was thick with blood. She stared, confused, until she realized the makeshift bandage had fallen off and her wound had bled freely for however long she had been… wherever she had been. Wincing and fighting nausea, she retied the bandage around her arm. I need a healer, she thought, darkly amused. But the only one I know appears to have abandoned me.
Her next thought was to find Denaochi, but she was having trouble thinking at all, still half caught in the wild visions she had seen and suffering from a loss of blood.
A minute to rest. That was all she needed. Just a moment to close her eyes and rid herself of the lingering images—the face of the man she could not quite remember, the driving rain, the terror of seeing the Sun Priest’s mask in his hands. She laid her head down on the floor, curled up her shivering body, and fell into a deep unconsciousness.
* * *
“Nara!” Rough hands shook her. Denaochi’s voice rang urgent in her ear. “Wake up! Nara!”
Her head lolled on her shoulders, and she blinked rainwater from her eyes. That face, the cruel smile, the mask.
“No!” she cried out, shoving her brother away. He fell back, tripping over the stool. His quick hands caught the edge of the table and halted his fall. Zataya stood, mouth opened in surprise, in front of the rekindled hearth.
“Where did you go?” Naranpa asked her accusingly.
“I could not wake you, so I went for help.”