As was expected.
But there was one condition his creators had not foreseen. Something his mother had not anticipated, an occurrence for which his tutors had not planned. Serapio had made the small crows his friends. He had loved them and protected them. And in the moment of his death, those friends came to him with mutual love and monumental will and sacrificed themselves so that he might live. The southern sorcerers should have known the power of a sacrifice given with love, as such a sacrifice from his mother had been what tied the boy to her god so long ago. But perhaps they could not fathom that such small beings as crows were capable of so much love, and that a man whose deeds were as dark as his would deserve it.
CHAPTER 3
CITY OF TOVA (THE CROW ROOKERY)
YEAR 1 OF THE CROW
Put not your faith in the gods of old. Their will is unknowable, their power fickle. They will abandon you when you least expect it.
—Exhortations for a Happy Life
“Drink this.”
Someone lifted Serapio’s head, and liquid touched his lips.
Memories tumbled rootless and disordered, and he was twelve again, a clay cup sweet and cold in his hands, his mother smiling as she fed him poison. Her face morphed before him and became a skull, empty and leering. Her voice, the slap of running feet bound for flight.
Panic welled in his chest, choking, suffocating. A primal urge to get away rolled through his body, the need to stop what he knew came next.
He threw his arms wide, a shout on his tongue.
A man cried out, startled, as Serapio knocked him away. He dimly registered that whoever had cried out was not his mother, but instinct gripped him now, and all he knew was that he must survive. He hurled himself forward, colliding with the man, but the stranger was quick. Powerful arms encircled him and rolled him to the ground.
Only years of training kept Serapio from being pinned as he fought to stay off his back. His opponent was bigger than him, heavier, but that left gaps in his guard, space for Serapio to maneuver. He turned his shoulder and thrust his forearm into the man’s throat. Distance opened between them, but before Serapio could move, a punch ripped across his jaw.
“Stop!” The shout was raw, hoarse.
Serapio’s neck twisted with the impact, and he followed the momentum, rolling to his hands and knees. His face throbbed, and he felt unsteady, but he scrambled to a crouch. He tucked his chin, lifted his fists in defense, and listened for his opponent’s next move.
None came. Instead, the man shouted, “I do not want to fight you! I am not your enemy!”
“Everyone is my enemy!” Serapio roared.
“Not! Me!” The stranger’s breath came in gasps. “Not me.”
“Even you.”
Just as he had not hesitated to attack, he did not hesitate now. He had no weapons, no crowsight, and in this unfamiliar place, blindness put him at too great a disadvantage. He could not let the man get the upper hand again. Serapio reached for shadow, willed it to his fingertips. Destroy! he thought. Devour!
But the shadow did not come. Instead, pain, sharp enough to make him hiss, tore through his side. He collapsed into himself, body hunching instinctively around the agony.
“What is it?” The voice was concerned. “Is it your injury? What—” Feet shuffled closer.
“Stay away!” Serapio thrust out a hand to hold the man back. Confused, in pain, he demanded that the darkness answer his call.
Nothing.
Terror edged at his senses now. A helplessness he had not felt in a decade.
He dug deeper, desperately seeking the place where his god lived within him, that reassuring pool of shadow that had been with him since he was a child.
And found… nothing.
He was empty, a cupped hand that retained the shape of something precious it had once cradled but was now hollow.
He was a child, again. Alone, afraid. Waiting for the world to make sense, to become the god his mother had promised. He could not go back to that place. Small and weak. At the mercy of those who professed to love him but whose actions betrayed their selfish intentions. He grasped for something to fill his lack, something to anchor him, something he knew was true.
“Xiala,” he whispered. Yes, he remembered her. She was solid and real in his mind. The ocean scent of her long coiling hair, the brash sound of her unapologetic laughter, the feel of her body moving beneath his touch. He clung to those memories and let her moor him to reality, a steady beacon to guide him to safer shores.
And crows. He remembered his crows.
He grabbed for the bag he always wore at his neck, but his star pollen was gone. A shivering fear clutched at his heart, but he could not believe his crows would abandon him as his god had. They were his oldest friends, his true companions. He flung his mind out, willing the crows to answer, and his world exploded.
Crows. There were crows everywhere. Small crows by the hundreds, of all different shapes and sizes and hues. They had not left him.
And even more, he sensed the giant crows, the great corvids of clan Carrion Crow.
“Benundah?”
I am here, Suneater. He recognized that voice in his head and almost wept to hear it.
“Benundah, what happened? Where am I?” He wanted to ask her why he could not feel his god, but he dared not, afraid of the answer.
You are safe. You are alive. Okoa has brought you to the rookery. It is our sacred home. Our nesting grounds far from humans.
“But I fought a man.” Even now, he could sense the stranger before him. Waiting, watching, his breath coming rough and labored.
That is Okoa. He is a warrior of Carrion Crow, a crow son like yourself. You can trust him.
Serapio turned his face, listening for the telltale shifting of feet, the rustle of clothes. “Okoa?”
“How do you know me?”
He focused on the place from where the voice had come. “Why am I alive? Do you know?”
“Who were you talking to?”
Serapio shook his head. It was all wrong. This place, this person. Serapio himself. “Why am I alive?” he shouted. If things could only make sense.
Benundah answered: The little ones have their own magic, and they used it to save you. It cost them dearly.
The little ones? Grief shattered his heart. “I cannot accept this. Take it back. Tell them to take it back!”
It is too late for that, Suneater. They gave their lives freely. Do not dishonor them now with your refusal.
Shame burned him. He bowed his head. “I would not dishonor them, but I cannot accept their gift. I am… unworthy.”
Whether you perceive yourself worthy or not is inconsequential. They loved you, and that is all that matters.
“Who are you talking to?” It was the man again, the one Benundah named Okoa.
Serapio’s frustration flared. “Why am I here?”
“We came from Sun Rock. I thought you dead at first, but… Benundah knew. She is the one who chose the rookery. You said her name. Is that who you were talking to? Can you…” He could hear doubt in Okoa’s voice. “Were you speaking to Benundah?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I… only to help. Only to do the right thing.”
“Benundah says I should trust you.”
“I am not your enemy.”
“Then why did you attack me?”
“I did not.” He sounded confused, offended. “I only offered you water.”
Serapio tried to remember who had struck first, but it had happened so quickly, and he was not sure what had been real and what was a dream. He remembered dreaming of his mother and the panicked feeling of needing to fight, to not be helpless. The rest was unclear.
Perhaps Okoa had not attacked him after all. But that did not mean he could be trusted.