Fevered Star (Between Earth and Sky, #2)(21)

Their eyes met, and she quickly turned, as if to hide her thoughts. But he had already seen something that made him uneasy.

“Esa, what are you—”

“Brother.” Her voice was brisk with authority, her eyes bright. “As captain of the Shield, I command you to go and talk to Maaka and the Odohaa. You know each other, after all, and he will listen to you. Appease him. Tell him…” Her gaze lingered on the Odo Sedoh, even as she spoke to Okoa. “Tell Maaka and the others the Odo Sedoh and I will meet with them tomorrow. Tell them that tonight he is tired from his trials and his defeat of the Watchers and wishes to rest.”

“But what of the other clans?” Juuna fretted behind her. “What of their demands?”

“What of them?” Esa asked sharply. “Let them wait. This is Crow business now.”

She stepped forward and slipped her arm around the Odo Sedoh’s. Okoa saw the tremor in her hand when she did it but that she did it anyway. “Let us go out the back way,” she said, her voice a compelling purr, “away from the crowds. I’ll show you the Great House, find a private place we might speak.”

Okoa thought to say something, to warn the Odo Sedoh to be careful, that there were dangers in the world more subtle than priests and Knives. But he was a god, was he not? Surely, his warning should be for his sister.

He watched helplessly as Esa led him away.

Chaiya came to stand next to him. “She is not the girl you grew up with anymore.”

“I don’t know who she is,” he confessed.

“She is your matron.” Chaiya’s voice was flint. “That is enough.”

Okoa’s face burned. Chaiya was right. What would his mother think to see him doubt his sister?

Chaiya’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Duty, Okoa. That is all you need know. The rest will only confuse you. Do what duty requires, and you will always be in the right.”

“Of course.” He gave Chaiya a sharp nod.

Duty, yes, but to whom? Esa? Carrion Crow? The Odo Sedoh? That last thought came unbidden and unwanted, but he found that he meant it.

“Duty,” he murmured to himself, as he marched to the great doors and swung them open. But he was not convinced.





CHAPTER 7


CITY OF TOVA (DISTRICT OF ODO) YEAR 1 OF THE CROW

And they say to me

You are not one of us.

Your blood is impure, your birth an abomination.

You are vile and unwanted, always a stranger.

—From Collected Lamentations from the Night of Knives



Serapio felt obligated to let the Carrion Crow matron lead him through the turning hallways of the Great House, but as they walked, he quickly realized they were not following the same route as the one Okoa had taken from the aviary. He tried his best to mark the differences so he could find his way back: the sound of the matron’s hem as it dragged along stone floors, not reverberating the way her brother’s quick steps had on the spiraling stairs; the warm air that grew warmer, suggesting they were farther from the outside; the dry smell of stone and human, a sign they must be deep in the interior of the Great House. He did not like it, being so far from the crows and in such an unfamiliar place.

“I’d like to return to the aviary,” he said, interrupting the matron as she explained some detail in the architecture.

“What?” she asked, surprised. “Now?”

“Yes.”

He felt he owed some sort of respect to the woman who ruled Carrion Crow, but etiquette had never been his strength. He had learned basic manners under his father’s roof while his mother still lived, and his tutors, particularly Paadeh, had demanded deference. He knew how to hold his tongue and nod along to useless words, but it rubbed at him like a pebble underfoot, and he did not enjoy it.

“I thought you would be interested in learning more about your ancestral home.”

“I am not.”

Before Sun Rock, he would have been. He would have reveled in the idea of learning the history of this place and his people. But something had changed in him, something profound, and all he wanted to do was retire somewhere quiet where he could be alone to unravel what that was.

“I find architecture fascinating,” she continued. “The kind of stone from which a building is made, particularly. Old stone, local stone, it is by far the best. Foreign stone cannot be trusted.”

“Is there much foreign stone in the Great House?”

“None.”

“I would think it would not matter where the stone originated from as long as it was strong and fit to the purpose.”

“Oh, no. Foreign stone may look the same as local, but the differences begin to show immediately.” She led him on. “I remember a story of a man who thought to build his home from foreign stone, eschewing the provincial because he found the foreign new and attractive, a novelty, really. But no sooner had he laid the foundation than he discovered it was much too porous, and it began to crack.”

He understood her meaning now, and countered, “Perhaps the man mishandled the stone. Does not the fault then lie with the builder? It is easy to blame the material, but it is only performing the way it was meant to perform.”

“The stone was bad from the beginning. No amount of work could have saved it.”

“A strange thing to think.”