“I do not object to the Coyote clan having a representative here.” Ieyoue spoke before the others could respond. “Would that be you?”
Naranpa nodded. She heard the bosses come to stand behind her. Denaochi’s hand came down on her shoulder. “And my brother will stand as my Shield.”
They all understood what Naranpa was saying, what rights she was claiming. The title of matron, a seat on the Speakers Council, a voice in the political and economic future of the city as a representative of those who lived in the Maw.
“You will never be Sky Made,” Nuuma hissed.
“We don’t need to be,” Denaochi said. “We are proud to be Dry Earth, children of the Coyote. But you will see us as your equal.”
“And if we refuse?”
Naranpa’s voice was casually lethal. “We’ll end your diplomatic mission to Hokaia cold in its tracks.” It was a bluff but one she and Denaochi had decided on. Maw spies had seen Golden Eagle’s forces leave the city via the river and had followed at a distance until they could discern their purpose. They had not stopped them, only gathered information, and hoped it would be enough now to force Golden Eagle to show their hand. “We know your daughter leads a contingent north and east to the Puumun River in a bid to reach Hokaia by stealth before the spring thaw. We know you planned to take control of the Watchers. The only thing we do not know is what price you asked to sell out your city and from whom.”
Nuuma’s face was a mask, giving nothing away, but Naranpa was sure they had struck true.
“What’s this?” Peyana rose in alarm.
Ieyoue’s face had fallen in consternation. “Tell us it is otherwise, Nuuma.”
“Baseless lies.” The matron of Golden Eagle raised her chin, eyes steady on Naranpa. “The kind of lies one might expect from the self-appointed matron of a false clan.”
Denaochi leaned forward with his crooked smile. “Shall we bring your daughter here to tell us herself?”
That had not been part of their plan, and as far as she knew, there was no daughter to bring forward. They had left the Golden Eagle contingent unmolested. But Nuuma didn’t know that, and panic widened her eyes before she could control it.
Denaochi lifted a gloved hand and snapped his fingers. The door to the Lupine opened, and Naranpa half expected Nuuma’s daughter to walk down the stairs, even though she knew who was waiting outside.
Nuuma must have expected her daughter, too, because she had stood and was moving toward the door before she recognized the young man dressed in black, a single red feather emblazoned over his heart.
“Okoa Carrion Crow,” she breathed. Her eyes ricocheted between Naranpa and Okoa, wild. “Is this a trap?”
“No trap. Okoa is Sky Made. Surely you cannot object to his presence.”
“He is not the matron.”
“I speak for the matron,” Okoa said.
Naranpa had forgotten the rich tones of his voice, and how they carried, and what a striking figure he cut. Nuuma’s voice equaled his in volume, if not control. “And where is your monster?”
“I came alone.”
“That beast that killed my niece is a monster, and you are harboring him in your house. Your sister knows our demands. There is nothing you can say here that will change my mind. So speak all you want, Crow. It means nothing. I will not be satisfied until I have your Odo Sedoh’s head rolling at my feet.”
Okoa’s expression had been mild, his tone civil, but now his face darkened, and Naranpa caught a glimpse of the fire that had animated him when last they had met.
“Then you will have to learn to live with disappointment.”
Nuuma’s thin lips flattened. “And you will not live long at all.” Her command was a dark growl. “Kill them.”
The Golden Eagle Shield moved toward Okoa. Naranpa rose, shouting a warning, but it was unneeded. The Carrion Crow scion leaped from the stairs, taking the captain down to the floor. She tried to run to them, but Denaochi was there, holding her back.
“Leave it,” he warned. “You’ll only distract him. He looks capable enough.”
She watched them struggle, and her brother had the right of it. Okoa had the man pinned. But Naranpa caught the flash of obsidian across the man’s knuckles, some kind of sharp weapon, and he struck Okoa in the chest. The Crow fell back.
“Naranpa!” She heard the mistress of the Agave, Sedaysa, scream her name. She turned just in time to see Pasko in the midst of a throw, something small and black flying from his hand.
Her mind had barely registered it as a knife before Denaochi was there, hurling himself between her and the blade. She sensed more than saw the knife find flesh, and Denaochi collapsed to the floor.
She screamed and fell to her knees, hands reaching for her brother. It didn’t make sense. Pasko was on their side.
Blood pumped from Denaochi’s chest, already coating his shirt, a blade sunk deep into his heart.
He smiled.
“I am your Shield,” he whispered through blood-flecked lips.
“No!” She called her healing powers, and warmth came to her palms, but she didn’t have time to touch her brother before Pasko came barreling toward her.
Her rage flared, and she scrambled to meet Pasko’s charge. She threw her arms open as if she would catch him in an embrace. They collided, and time seemed to slow, eternity stretching before her.
She wasn’t sure when it happened. The healing power she had called to aid Denaochi morphed into something else. And in the cauldron of her anger, that something became heat, became fire, and flames roared from her palms.
Her back slammed into the ground but she did not let go. She clamped her hands to the sides of Pasko’s face, willing the fire to consume him. At first, his skin only smoldered, tendrils of smoke intertwined with his curling black hair. Then heat built as if from inside, and his skin began to bubble like water on the boil. His cheeks collapsed, then his forehead, and his eyes popped and sank.
She watched, mouth open in a wordless scream, as the proprietor of the Blackfire burned.
Eventually, she became aware of Ieyoue Water Strider kneeling in front of her. Just over her shoulder was Okoa Carrion Crow, his handsome face bloodied and drawn at what he saw before him. He and Ieyoue’s Shield rolled Pasko off her, and Okoa gently peeled her hands from the dead man’s face. She stared at her palms. Perfectly normal-looking palms, except for the flakes of burned flesh that stuck to them in patches.
Behind her, someone was weeping.
It was Zataya, and her anguished howls brought Naranpa back to the present.
“Ochi?” she asked, her voice small.
Ieyoue shook her head.
Naranpa stumbled toward her brother.
“Heal him!” Zataya knelt beside Denaochi’s body, her face a molted mess of tears and rage. “Use your power to heal him!”
Denaochi’s face was empty and his eyes staring. Pasko’s blade still protruded from his chest. She absently noticed the hilt on this blade was the same as the one he had driven into Denaochi’s flesh at the Agave, but there, a spark of life had lingered, and she had been able to feed it with her own lifeforce and coax her brother back. Here, it did not seem possible.
She met Zataya’s gaze, already haunted, and she knew the witch understood.
“Please,” Zataya whispered anyway. “Try, anyway.”
“Maybe it is not too late. Do you have your god magics? The salt and smoke.”
“I only had enough to help you.”
Then Naranpa was his sole hope.
She found the healing place within her, the power rising to her palms. She pressed her hands against Denaochi’s chest. Warm blood seeped between her fingers.
Silence welled around her, and she sensed the others in the room watching. It was as if the world held its breath and waited.
But the wait was for naught.
Tears fell and her body shook as the glow faded from her hands. Zataya wailed beside her. She beat her fists against the floor until someone, Naranpa didn’t notice who, pulled her away.
She looked around. The room had been demolished, tables overturned, benches broken, and the unmistakable stench of blood and cooked flesh permeated everything.