“I will go,” Naranpa said, subdued, “but if the bosses are as ruthless as you say, why would they listen to me?”
Zataya tapped her chest. Naranpa understood but found herself wanting to protest anyway. Her power was nothing compared to what dwelled within the Crow God Reborn.
Zataya gestured toward the scroll. “Your answers are there. You are more powerful than you think.”
Naranpa unspooled it. The paper was old and frail, weathered at the ends as if it had not been well cared for. It was a painting of a spoked wheel, its outer ring divided into eight sections, and each section detailed a different magic. Shadow, she knew, and blood. But these others—spirit, sun, fire, sky, water, and stone—were unfamiliar. And under each magic were origin, instructions, and invocations.
“A manual of magics. Where did you get this?”
“From the same one who gave me the god bones and god sweat. It came at a cost, and I did not do it for you.”
She saw the tears edging Zataya’s eyes and understood. “For him.”
The witch gave a sharp nod. “He had faith in me, too, once, and it saved my life. I would not see him come to such an end. And if he cares about you, then I must care about you also.”
“Then why encourage me to hide my powers from him?” It was the question that had plagued her for days.
“I thought I could change his fate. If he did not know what you were, what you had become, he would not risk himself so.” Zataya slumped, defeated. “But the mirror does not lie, and his death is beyond my control.”
“What do you mean?”
She met Naranpa’s eyes. “Your powers and his death are connected. I do not know how, only that they are, and that it cannot be denied. It was foolish of me to think I could change that.”
And now Zataya’s attitude toward her since she had arrived made sense. The dark circles under her eyes. The bend in her back. She was afraid.
“How do I stop it?”
“You cannot—”
“I was once an oracle. I do not fear fate. Tell me how.”
“Read the manual, master your powers, and hope that is answer enough.”
CHAPTER 18
THE MERIDIAN GRASSLANDS
YEAR 1 OF THE CROW
True friendship is given in grace.
—The Obregi Book of Flowers
Xiala woke to the noise and bustle of breaking camp. Her head ached, and her memories of the night before were fuzzy at best. She clearly remembered Iktan’s history lesson and her decision to drink, but the rest refused to come back to her in any detail. She had a recollection of Ziha returning to interrogate her about the Odo Sedoh and then leaving in disgust when Xiala couldn’t focus enough to tell her what she wanted to know. Well, perhaps that was for the best. She had not wanted to tell the woman about Serapio anyway. Oh, she knew one day she would have to, but a day delayed was a day delayed, and she took the small victories where she could.
She also recalled waking in the night to hear someone retching into the water basin. A figure in white, black hair shorn short. Iktan. She had groaned and gone back to sleep.
And then it was morning, and Ziha had stuck her head in through the flap and called their names. “We leave in twenty minutes, but this tent is coming down in ten. Do what you need to do, and get out.” She sounded disgusted, but Xiala found herself slow to sympathy. Iktan’s cynicism seemed to be rubbing off on her, at least when it came to the Golden Eagle commander. Of course, Ziha had done nothing to counter Xiala’s unfavorable opinion. She was not an approachable woman.
“Skies, my head,” Iktan muttered from the other side of the tent. “Tell me, why do people drink?”
Xiala sat up, yawning. “Because the pain you feel now isn’t as bad as the pain you felt when you decided to drink.”
Xe glared at her. “I don’t think I like this philosopher side of you. No wonder xtabentún is forbidden among the priests.”
“Well, it’s certainly not forbidden among sailors. In fact, I’d say it’s encouraged.” She tentatively made her way to the basin, wary of what she might find there, and was relieved to see someone had emptied it of sick and left a pitcher of fresh water on the adjoining table. She drank, letting the water revive her, and then filled the basin to wash. Once she was finished with her toilet, she dug through the cushions for her blue cloak. She threw it around her shoulders, appreciative of the fur lining all over again. She didn’t see the clothes she had arrived in, but the ones she wore now were sufficient, and she thought perhaps someone had taken the others to be laundered. Or burned, she thought, for not being up to Ziha’s sartorial standards.
“Why do sailors drink?” Iktan asked as xe went through xir own morning ablutions. “I’ve heard as much, but I’ve always wanted to know. It would seem you need your wits about you even more when facing the terrors of the sea.”
“The terrors of the sea are why we drink,” she said, laughing. “Living at the whim of the waters? No sane woman would do it.”
“But you do it.”
“Aye,” she agreed sagely.
“It would seem to me,” Iktan said as xe pulled xir cloak back on and raised the cowl, “that a Teek would not fear the waters.”
“There is a saying they teach us in the cradle. ‘The sea has no mercy, even for a Teek.’ You learn it then, and you remember it the first time a drag tide catches you and throws you up miles out to sea. A healthy fear is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“A healthy fear.” Xir smile was the cat’s smile. “I’m going to look for breakfast before Ziha comes back to scold us, again.”
Iktan left, but she idled behind, xir words nagging at her. Why did she drink? Was it as simple as what she had blithely quipped, some philosophy about drowning sorrows and fears, or was it because that was what sailors did, and it had become a habit? Or was it something else? She felt that pressure again, the feeling that told her she was digging too deep at her own insides and was not ready to face what she would excavate there. Her mother’s house, a pool of blood not hers, a body at her feet. She slammed shut the door to that memory, threw the lock, and barred the chain. If she let herself face what lurked there, she was sure it would eat her alive. She was not ready for it, perhaps never would be.
The camp was a shadow of what it had been when she had arrived the day before. Most of the tents save a couple here and there had been struck and packed away, and now the company was making final preparations before the march began. Someone was breaking down the cookfire, and she could hear Iktan’s voice over the din, complaining about the lack of breakfast. Others shoveled over a latrine. And yet others were down at the river filling their drinking skins. She saw Ziha moving through it all, keeping things orderly and progressing. She watched her for a while, admiring her way with her people. It was like running a ship, Xiala figured, and, like any good captain, she was efficient and seemed well liked by her people. She decided Iktan’s assessment of her was too harsh.
“Here.” Iktan was there, handing her a warm cup. It was filled with an unfamiliar gruel.
“What is this?”
“Your breakfast. Drink it, and be glad I got that much out of the cook. Oh…” Xe pulled a small package from xir pocket and sprinkled a bit of salt on her meal.
She drank the creamlike mixture from the cup. It was grain and ash, not unlike the street breakfasts popular in Cuecola. “It’s good,” she remarked.
Iktan made a sound as if her opinion was offensive. She wondered if all ex-priests were such snobs.
“She’s good, too,” she said, gesturing toward Ziha with her cup.
Iktan watched the Golden Eagle commander at work. “Yes, Ziha makes a lovely despot.”
She laughed, unimpressed by Iktan’s negativity.