Pasko cleared his throat. “Denaochi told us you had a way to defeat Carrion Crow.”
Naranpa refocused, knowing that Handmaiden or no, she needed to convince these people to align their interests with hers. She chose her words carefully. “I hope to offer an alternative to Carrion Crow. Tova cannot go on in darkness under this weakened sun. Already, we move toward spring, but with no planting season and no flowering plants, save these.” She thought to take a nearby blossom in her hand, but after Sedaysa’s warning, she thought better of it. “I want to offer the city life. Healing. I want to be the Sun Priest it should have always had.”
The three were quiet.
Amalq spoke first. “We have also heard word of plans from our neighbor cities to the east and south. That they eye our wealth and wonder why it is not theirs.”
“Denaochi has told me the same,” Naranpa said. “That Cuecola and Hokaia see Tova as a prize worth taking and that there are those in the city who would barter us away for their own benefit.”
“Golden Eagle,” Pasko growled.
“We do not know that,” Sedaysa cautioned.
“It is clear enough to me.”
“Not to us all. Now, let her speak.”
“I suspect Golden Eagle of treason, too,” Naranpa said. “We will find the truth tomorrow, when the Sky Made matrons come. But I must ask you first. What is it you want from this? If you give of your coffers and your people in support of me. What is it you want in return?”
“A seat at the table,” Sedaysa said promptly. “The Maw should have representation on the Speakers Council, just like the Sky Made clans do.”
“It is not right that they make decisions and laws without us.”
“They have written back?” Amalq asked.
Naranpa looked to Sedaysa, who shook her head.
“Not yet,” Naranpa conceded. “But I know them, and I know they will come, if only out of curiosity.”
She had signed their letters with her sigil, the Tovan sun, and named herself Sun Priest. And her script was familiar—they would know it was her. And if they thought her an impostor, they would want to know who had the audacity to claim the title as their own. No, they would come. She was sure of it.
“And what will you say to them?” Pasko leaned in, intrigued.
She did not answer at first. Instead, she lifted her hand, letting it glow. She heard their murmurs and knew her eyes shone golden, too.
“I will show them what I have shown you,” she said. “Power.”
CHAPTER 23
CITY OF TOVA (THE CROW AVIARY)
YEAR 1 OF THE CROW
Duty is a fine thing for those whose shoulders are stooped to the yoke, but it smothers those born to the wing.
—Exhortations for a Happy Life
Okoa awoke to the sound of beating wings. He roused himself from the corner of the aviary as Benundah returned. He looked to her back, hoping to see the Odo Sedoh, but she was riderless. He slumped, disappointed. Had she not found him?
He yawned, stretching his arms over his head, and shook the sleep from his body. It was the first time he had slept well in longer than he could remember, but he still longed for more.
He had stepped from the corner when the first small crow arrived. Then there were ten, then twenty, and then fifty. They flocked before him, a great whirling wind of black feathers, and he pressed his back against the wall, arm over his face. Slowly, the whirlwind began to take form, birds morphing into man, and then the Odo Sedoh stood before him.
He was as he remembered him, in Carrion Crow black and wild hair. And to Okoa’s surprise, he still wore the feathered mantle he had gifted him that first day.
It felt like a good omen, and he smiled despite himself. “I thought you might not come.”
He turned his head toward Okoa’s voice. His movements had always been reminiscent of a bird’s, but now they seemed more pronounced. “I almost did not.” He flexed his hand, and Okoa thought he saw talons, long and black, instead of fingers.
“I have news that will interest you.” He touched the letter in his pocket but did not remove it. “But first I would ask you what happened.”
“What happened,” Serapio repeated. He felt his way toward the water barrel, dipped his hands in, and brought water to his mouth to drink.
“In the yard, when you attacked the crowd.”
Serapio paused, hands in the barrel. “Attacked.” He splashed water on his face and through his hair. “I only did what was necessary.”
“They were innocent people. No one was armed. You could have found another way.”
He pressed his wet hair back from his face. He blinked black eyes, droplets clinging to his lashes. “My way is death. There is no other way.”
“Crows are not only creatures of vengeance and the grave. They are loving, caring, nurturing. Is there not that in your making, too?”
“Once, perhaps.” He cupped his hand, running a finger over his palm as if tracing invisible lines. “But now?” He clenched his hand into a fist. “What do you want of me, beyond trying to make me something that I am not?”
Okoa hesitated. He had asked him to be a weapon for Carrion Crow, and now he was. He need only point him toward their enemies, and his dreams were in reach. Not only his dreams. His father’s dreams.
“I know where you can find the Sun Priest and all the matrons of the Sky Made. They are meeting—”
Benundah squawked loudly, and they both turned. Serapio tilted his head up, eyes on the open sky. “She says they’re coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
Before he could answer, Okoa felt the wind of giant wings and looked up to find Kutssah barreling toward them. He shouted and threw himself to the ground, sure that the giant meant to skewer them. But at the last moment, she pulled up, and something came hurtling off her back.
It was Chaiya, and he leaped from his mount to tackle Serapio.
They went down in a heap.
Chaiya had something in his hands, netting of some kind, and he threw it over the Odo Sedoh.
Serapio shouted, and the air around him vibrated. His form shifted, man to black bird and back to man, as he realized his crow form offered no escape.
His hand morphed into a talon, and he ripped through the netting. Chaiya reared back, narrowly avoiding the sharp claw, and then there was a black blade in his hand. He stabbed toward Serapio’s face.
Okoa cried a warning, to whom he wasn’t sure.
Serapio turned his head, avoiding the blow, but the blade sliced a line across his jaw. Blood welled, and Serapio did not hesitate. He called on the shadow, and it came. Black smoke laced the veins beneath his skin, crawling the pathways of his body like dark rivers, until shadow burst from his fingertips. He grasped Chaiya’s wrist, the hand that held the knife, and shouted words in a language Okoa did not know.
The shadow enveloped his cousin’s hand and slithered up his arm. The bigger man scrambled back, eyes wide in horror. His obsidian blade clattered to the ground, the hand that had been holding it half eaten away, the flesh melting into a pool of black rot halfway up his forearm.
“Seven hells,” Okoa breathed, horror shivering up his spine. He had to stop this, but how?
Chaiya weighed twice as much as Serapio, and vision, experience, and the element of surprise had given him the quick advantage. But Serapio had been honed for one purpose only, and he had shadow magic at his command, his very blood a weapon. Okoa feared his cousin would quickly become outmatched.
But not yet.
Serapio stumbled, the netting wrapping around his legs and catching his feet. Chaiya, even with half his arm withered, attacked. He dug a fisted hand into Serapio’s wound, the one on his side that had never healed, and Serapio’s whole body shuddered in agony. Chaiya staggered to his feet and slammed his boot into Serapio’s skull.
Serapio collapsed, insensible.
The crows in the aviary screamed, Kutssah the loudest.
Chaiya froze, foot raised for another blow.
“Kutssah?” Confusion twisted his features.