YEAR 1 OF THE CROW
There is no question that the stars cannot answer save the one that goes unasked.
—The Manual of the Sun Priest
Naranpa sat cross-legged in Sedaysa’s hothouse garden, her tea gone cold before her. Someone had brought her food earlier, left it, and then come back later to take it away, untouched. They had tried to feed her again in the evening, with the same dismal results. Finally, they had given up and simply left her a pot of hot tea, but even that failed to capture Naranpa’s attention in time to be palatable.
They had not tried again.
Around her, flowers bloomed in glorious profusion. She had found them beautiful once, enchanting even. But now they seemed profane, gaudy in their unseasonal dress. They leered at her, mocking her grief with their forceful gaiety. They possessed a rich fragrance that had once made her swoon. Now they smelled like a dying thing, sweet with rot. They were false, all of them. Little liars. They were a promise of life that ended only in death. How dare they shine. What gave them the right?
“Naranpa.”
Sedaysa’s voice penetrated her haze. She had the feeling the woman had been calling her name for a while. There was the rustle of a skirt and the hushed tinkle of bells as the boss of the Agave sank to the cushion across from her.
Naranpa raised dull eyes and forced herself to focus. Sedaysa was still beautiful, but now Naranpa noticed the lines at her mouth, the brittleness of her silver hair, a dull patch of skin on her neck. The woman was dying already. Like the flowers.
Like Ochi.
Sedaysa folded her hands in her lap, concern pursing her lips. “It has been twenty-four hours since the others left, and you are the matron of Coyote’s Maw. What would you have me do?”
Naranpa blinked slowly, waiting for the world to become something other than what it was. And when it did not change, the voice she had not used in hours rasped out, “No message from Okoa has come?”
Sedaysa shook her head.
After Denaochi’s murder at the Lupine, the matrons and Okoa had removed to the Agave. Naranpa, Sedaysa, and Zataya had stayed behind to prepare her brother’s body. It had been terrible work, the washing and the wrapping of the corpse. Naranpa remembered her mother performing the ritual once when she was a child and her uncle had died. Her mother had told her that people did it because it brought them comfort to care for the dead, but Naranpa found no peace in the practice, only a river of rage. By the time they had prepared his spirit meal and arranged for him to be entombed in the catacombs, Naranpa had been a singular seething current of fury. But fury was a privilege she could not indulge. The matrons and Okoa were waiting for her, so she had pushed her anger down, deep into the dark and cavernous places inside her, and in its place bubbled up an edgeless grief. She tried to hide that, too, but it refused to be contained, and it made itself known in ways big and small. The drag in her step, the waver in her voice, the way her mind would not fix on any given point. But she did her best, knowing people needed her, knowing Denaochi would disapprove of any weakness.
She and Sedaysa had arrived at the Agave to find Ieyoue, Peyana, and Okoa on cushions seated at a round table in Sedaysa’s private quarters. Okoa nursed a wound Naranpa had not noticed before, and Peyana’s right hand was thick with bandages. Someone was missing, and it took her a moment to realize the Shields of Water Strider and Winged Serpent were absent. Naranpa asked after them, thinking she may have overlooked their deaths while lost in the throes of her own sorrow.
“I sent Ahuat back to Kun, to put riders in the air.” Peyana flexed her wounded hand. “I fear Nuuma will try to flee.”
“And I the same with Water Strider,” Ieyoue said. “If she leaves by river, we will find her first.”
It was sound reasoning, but Naranpa was unconvinced. “Nuuma is clever and had likely already planned her escape before she came to the Lupine. If there is a way to elude your patrols, she will know it. We have likely lost our chance to hold her.”
“Then we will find another way to make her pay for her crimes against the clans and the city.” Peyana’s look was dark, and Naranpa knew she meant it. But intent would not be enough, not against a woman like Nuuma.
Okoa cleared his throat. “Now that you are here, Sun Priest, there is news I must share.”
The young warrior looked uncomfortable here on these opulent cushions in this house of decadence. He kept folding and unfolding his hands, and his broad shoulders hunched under his cloak. He was a boy, she realized. A man grown, yes, but young. Younger than he had seemed at his mother’s funeral, where loss and pain had made their mark on him.
All is loss, she thought miserably. Nothing stays. Even this man in the prime of youth will die, and sooner than he deserves. Can he feel it? Death, already tightening its fingers around his neck?
Okoa glanced at her as if aware of her dark thoughts, and she did her best to shake them off. He gave her a hesitant smile, as if unsure of his welcome, even after the events of the evening.
She rallied. “I am glad you came, Okoa. I did not know how my message would be received. Last time we met, I thought you might kill me.”
“You will have to forgive me.” He hesitated, as if caught in a remembrance. “It was a different time.”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
“Then I am grateful for your trust.”
“More hope than trust. I did not know, but I hoped, that the leadership of Carrion Crow might not have entirely fallen under the shadow of your dark god. I saw him, you know. On the roof of the celestial tower. He, too, wanted to kill me.” She shivered at the memory. “I could feel it. But he was already injured and could not follow when I ran. He sent his crows after me. His arm… shattered… and became those black-winged birds.” Her voice caught somewhere between horror and wonder. “They chased me through the tower until I found shelter in the kitchens. When I emerged, he was gone, and the flock was heading west.” She was convinced he had let her go, but she could not say why. Perhaps his injury or some other reason she could not fathom. Whatever it was, it left her trembling all over again.
“It matches what we know.” Okoa pulled a cloth bag into his lap. His hand slipped inside, but he did not pull forth the contents. His shoulders seem to settle in resignation, and he looked infinitely sad, as if whatever was in the bag had the power to break his heart. “I speak to you plainly now, as myself. I cannot speak for my matron or for the Odohaa, but I believe I act for their benefit. For the benefit of all of Carrion Crow, and for Tova as well.”
Peyana leaned forward. “What is it?”
His expression was solemn. “We bear no ill will to the clans. The Watchers”— his eyes flicked to Naranpa—“we did not love, and the Knives least of all. We will not mourn them, although…”
He hesitated, as if his diplomacy had run dry.
“I walked that killing field on Sun Rock. I saw the bodies turned to ash, others left in strange contortions. And I have seen other deaths at Serapio’s hands.” His voice was quiet, intense. “As much as we Crow mourn those lost on the Night of Knives, one slaughter cannot justify another.”
“Your Odohaa prayed for his coming.” Ieyoue’s reminder was a soft rebuke.
“They are but a small faction within the clan.”
“I have seen what gathers at your doorstep, Crow.” The matron of Winged Serpent was more blunt, her tone less forgiving. “They are not so small anymore.”
Okoa’s dark eyes brimmed with conflict, but determination set his jaw. “I think you have found the heart of the matter, Matron.” He pulled his treasure from the bag.
Naranpa gasped. Her hand trembled as she instinctively reached for it, hovering just short of touching.
The Sun Priest’s mask.