Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(84)

“One question at a time,” Denaochi murmured.

“All right. Who is he?”

Denaochi nodded. “Zataya?” her brother asked.

The witch seemed to focus harder, and now the tremors that rolled through her body were clearly visible. Naranpa’s eyes widened as blood dripped from Zataya’s hand. She must have cut herself on the mirror glass.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Denaochi shook his head. The lights above them wavered, sending shadows cavorting across the room. Naranpa rubbed her hands against her suddenly cold arms.

“What is happening?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

Zataya moaned, a low painful sound. Blood continued to leak from the hand that gripped the mirror. Her moan turned into a wail. The cords in her neck stretched.

“Stop her, Ochi,” Naranpa said, nervous.

“She must finish.”

“Finish what? She’s hurting herself!”

“Leave it, Nara.”

“No! This is reckless.” She stood, ready to go to the woman and shake her free of whatever trance had possessed her. But before Naranpa could reach her, Zataya collapsed, falling to the floor in a heap. Naranpa reached to help her up, but the witch held out a bloody hand to stop her.

“Skies, Ochi! At least get her a bandage,” she said.

“She’s fine,” he growled.

Another shudder rocked Zataya’s shoulders. This was madness. They were both mad. Finally, Zataya opened her eyes. All Naranpa saw there was frustration.

“Well?” Denaochi asked, leaning forward.

The witch shook her head. “I cannot see the tool, only the result,” she said, panting. “He’s coming, and he brings the storm, but he travels in shadow. I can’t see through the shadow.” She looked at Naranpa. “But I did see something else.”

Naranpa shifted uneasily. She didn’t believe, but she didn’t quite disbelieve, either.

“What?” Denaochi asked, eager.

“I have foreseen the death of the Sun Priest.”

Brother and sister exchanged a look.

“And a way to stop it?” Denaochi asked.

The witch pressed herself to standing. She wobbled, unsteady, and Naranpa thought to help her, but again, she was rebuffed. Zataya made her way to the desk, where she pulled a handful of objects from a bag at her waist and dumped them on the desk. She rummaged through them with bloody fingers until she found what she wanted. First was a string necklace with a small figurine hanging on a pendant. Naranpa recognized it as her game piece from the patol table, the small obsidian bison.

“How did you get that?” Naranpa asked.

Zataya ignored her. Next, she held up a thorn. No, it was a stingray spine, twice as long as her hand and bone-white. A tool of the southern sorcerers and their bloodletting rituals.

“I’m not giving you my blood,” she said flatly.

“You will if you want to live,” Zataya shot back, her voice returned to normal and her strength apparently restored as well.

Naranpa glared at her brother. He spread his hands, blameless.

“No,” she said.

“Nara, it’s not so hard. Zataya knows what’s she’s doing, and right now she’s trying to save your life.”

“Your tongue, Priest.”

Naranpa felt nauseated. At the prospect of sticking that spine through her tongue, yes, but also at the very idea of witchcraft. She had been taught it was not only false but anathema to the priesthood and their way of life. But then again, she had come this far, what was a little further?

She stuck her tongue out. The witch ran the spine through, quick and practiced. Naranpa’s eyes watered, but the pain was brief and not as terrible as she had expected. Zataya caught Naranpa’s blood in a small clay bowl and took it back to the desk. She placed the small bison figurine in the bowl, letting the carving soak in her blood. Once it was coated, she removed it and strung it onto the necklace. She held the necklace out to Naranpa, who slid it over her neck.

“What does it do?” she asked.

“As long as you wear it, I will hear you say my name and be able to find you no matter where you are.”

“I thought you said this would keep me alive.”

“This is all I can offer.”

“But it’s nothing!” she protested.

“Death comes for you, Priest, and soon. When it is inescapable, call for me, and I will find you.”

Naranpa cupped the bison in her palm, doubtful.

“You can stay here, Nara,” Denaochi said. “You can be done with that tower and those people. There is a place for you at my side, if you wish it. We can weather the coming storm together.”

She looked up. He was watching her, face a mask. Part of her ached to stay, to run from the tower and never look back. But wasn’t that what she had done as a child? She would not do it again. “I have to go back. But can you do one thing for me?”

His mask did not shift, but she could see she had disappointed him. Nevertheless, he said, “Name it.”

“You mentioned you had someone close to Carrion Crow. Can you deliver a message for me? Written,” she added. “You have that, do you not?”

Denaochi gave her a small mocking bow. He produced paper, ink, and a writing instrument from his desk. She thought he might be the kind of man who did not trust others to keep his records.