Fevered Star (Between Earth and Sky, #2)(5)

“We came from Sun Rock. I thought you dead at first, but… Benundah knew. She is the one who chose the rookery. You said her name. Is that who you were talking to? Can you…” He could hear doubt in Okoa’s voice. “Were you speaking to Benundah?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I… only to help. Only to do the right thing.”

“Benundah says I should trust you.”

“I am not your enemy.”

“Then why did you attack me?”

“I did not.” He sounded confused, offended. “I only offered you water.”

Serapio tried to remember who had struck first, but it had happened so quickly, and he was not sure what had been real and what was a dream. He remembered dreaming of his mother and the panicked feeling of needing to fight, to not be helpless. The rest was unclear.

Perhaps Okoa had not attacked him after all. But that did not mean he could be trusted.

Serapio stood and whistled sharply. He felt the crows stir at his request, and they came to him on beating wings.

“I only need one,” he whispered, and a single crow flew to his shoulder. He had only ever been able to use his crow vision when he was under the influence of star pollen, so he was not sure it would work now without it. But the gift of the small crows gave him a peculiar confidence, and he knew his friends were with him, and that this, of all his powers, would still be his.

He closed his eyes, the crow’s eyes opened, and he could see.

They were in a round room, more ruin than dwelling, a gap in the wall so large he spied the snowcapped mountains beyond. The stone that was left bled shades of red and brown, rock worn dull and crumbling by the weather. Bands of orange and white curved through the darker rock, and the ground below his feet was loose pebbles and a fine sandy dirt. There was at least one more floor above them, but the wooden stairs that led upward had fallen to disrepair. A watery winter’s light offered scant illumination, and the space felt both exposed and claustrophobic at the same time.

“Where is this place?” he asked.

“We are in the mountains west of Tova. I do not believe any human has set foot here in more than a hundred years.” Okoa walked to the nearest wall and ran a black-gloved hand over the stone. His whole form was sheathed in black, his shirt thick quilted armor. “Someone once lived here. Someone once dedicated their life to caring for the crows.”

“It is a monastery.” The truth of it came to him all at once. “The mountains of Obregi are dotted with solitary buildings such as these that house devotees of the Obregi faith. This one must have been dedicated to the crow god at one time.”

“Did Benundah tell you that?” Again, that doubt.

“She did not have to. I am familiar with such places.”

He pushed thoughts of Obregi from his mind. If he let them linger, they became dark memories, and he worried that he would fall back into that lonely place that had taunted him earlier. Obregi was only neglect and loneliness. And his mother’s death. And his father’s disregard.

He had come far from there, he reminded himself. Always before, he had quieted such thoughts by summoning his purpose, his destiny. But now, when he tried, he faltered. Had he not fulfilled his destiny? Found his purpose on the blood-soaked ground of Sun Rock? If so, who was he now? And again, that question: Why am I alive?

“How is your wound?” Okoa gestured to Serapio’s side.

He had almost forgotten it, he was so used to tolerating pain. He pressed a hand to it now and drew it away, surprised to find it sticky and wet. “It bleeds.” Now that he had been made aware of the wound again, it was a fresh agony. He gritted his teeth, and the small bird on his shoulder cried out in sympathy.

“Let me help you.”

Serapio stepped back.

Okoa raised his hands. “I will not hurt you. I swear it. If I wanted you dead, I’ve had my opportunity. Let me help you. Please, Odo Sedoh.”

Odo Sedoh. Was he still the Odo Sedoh? It felt like a lie.

“My name is Serapio.”

Okoa didn’t acknowledge him, but he approached, palms showing, and Serapio let him come. He was not quite as tall as Serapio, but he was wider, and he gingerly slung Serapio’s arm around his neck to help him over to a dugout fire waiting to be lit.

“I was about to make a fire before you woke up,” Okoa explained, as he lowered him to sitting. “Heat some water to clean your wound.” Serapio could see now there were strips of black cloth laid out, remnants of Okoa’s undershirt, if he had to guess. The man busied himself with starting the fire. Once it was lit, he fed the flames until they blazed.

“I made a poultice earlier,” he continued. “Wild lettuce, sage. I was lucky to find that much at this time of year. We learn basic field medicine at the war college, but I am a poor healer. It is not improving.” He glanced at Serapio. “How is your face?”

Serapio touched a hand to his cheek, puzzled.

“It is not my way to hit a man already injured, but I thought you might kill me. You’re deceptively strong.” He said that last with a smile.

His face was still warm from Okoa’s earlier punch, but it was nothing. “It is forgotten,” he assured him. “How long did I sleep?”

“A day, perhaps two? But not well. Your dreams were troubled.” Okoa’s voice was low under the crackling of the fire, his face pinched in concentration as he worked.