Fevered Star (Between Earth and Sky, #2)(64)
She read over the scroll while Baaya worked, trying to absorb as much as she could about the eight magics outlined in the document. Each had an opposing magic along the wheel: spirit in contrast to blood, fire to water, stone to sky, and the one that most interested her, sun to shadow. The map linked the sun’s power to the firebird and to life. In opposition, the shadow was represented by the crow and death. But it didn’t tell her how to invoke the power or what it could be used for. Or how she might call on it to aid Denaochi. But if Zataya was right and even now her brother was facing the wrath of the other bosses, she didn’t have time to decipher the mysteries of the manual. She hoped that the power would come with her need, as it had before. And if it didn’t, she would have to find another way.
Zataya met her at the door of the Lupine. “I can take you as far as the entrance of the Agave.”
Naranpa remembered the letter Denaochi had showed her marked with three agave leaves. “Is that where he is? What is it?”
“A pleasure house run by a woman name Sedaysa. She is an ally, an old friend of Denaochi’s from days past, and she does not wish him ill. But she will be unable to delay those who do for long.”
Zataya hurried them out onto the streets. Naranpa found herself scanning the rooftops, looking for crows, but saw none. She could only hope the Crow God Reborn had given up on finding her, but to even think it felt like a lie. This was only a reprieve, and she knew it.
“What must I do when I arrive?” They walked quickly down the near-empty street, cowls up and heads together.
“Show them your power. Assure them you will fight for the Maw, that you can bring the Sky Made clans to bend to your authority as Sun Priest, and that the Crow God Reborn can be defeated by your sorcery.”
“I cannot promise all that.”
“Then Denaochi is dead.”
She pulled Naranpa down a side street, and then another, until they came to a building that resembled the Lupine, its half-circle facade facing out. But where the Lupine was whitewashed except for the painting of the flower that was its namesake, this building was a pale blue, and its door was set at street level. Next to the door, itself the deep purple of a bruise, was the painting of an agave plant. The succulent sprouted three fat blue-green leaves that curled sensually upward, their tips crowned with dark maroon thorns.
“I can go no farther.” Zataya smoothed shaking hands over her lap. “I will pray for you to the small gods, and to the Coyote, too.” She hesitated. “And to the sun.”
Naranpa had never wanted anyone’s prayers, much less to gods whose worship the Watchers forbade, but all she said was, “Thank you.”
Zataya squeezed her arm, the most affection she had ever shown Naranpa, and then she was hurrying back down the street.
Naranpa squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
She had expected the Agave to be much like the Lupine, a gambling den redolent with tobacco smoke and fermented drink, but she found herself in a courtyard filled with uncommon greenery and unnatural heat.
“A hothouse,” she murmured, as she noticed the braziers burning every few paces and the clay diffusers that warmed the space. A white stone path wound through the courtyard, and she followed it, already sweating under her fur cloak. Around her, vines sagged with orange and pink blossoms, and small ponds burst with teal and yellow flowers. She passed a young boy sitting cross-legged on a rug, sweet notes rising from his flute. The air was heavy with spice and citrus, and lanterns in painted paper boxes flickered gently under a ceiling adorned with the stars of the night sky. Just outside was winter, as cold and mean as Tova had ever seen, but inside its walls, the Agave offered a summer night in the southern lands of the Meridian.
She did not linger, as much as it tempted, but pushed through another set of doors, these deep red, into the inner chamber.
If the garden hothouse had been a paradise, this room was something out of a story. A very particular kind of story. There were plants here, too, growing in glorious and colorful profusion, and the air was perfumed with the same decadent scents, but among the vines and pots full of blossoms were thin woven screens that hung from ceiling to floor, and behind those screens were beds. And on those beds were people in various stages of undress, their low moans intermingling with the flute and drum.
A pleasure house, she reminded herself. What did you expect to find here, Nara?
She had thought to find Denaochi in pain, being tortured in some cold, awful place by equally cold and awful men, not this sensual idyll. She averted her eyes, keeping her gaze on the tiled path that led through the room, but she couldn’t block out the sounds around her, and her face flushed in embarrassment. She was not particularly worldly when it came to matters of the flesh. While the priesthood did not frown on sex among its order, it did not encourage it, either, and marriage was forbidden. Iktan had been her only lover, and it had never bothered her, but she was suddenly and acutely aware of her lack of experience.
Head down, eyes averted, and mind distracted, she did not see the woman standing in her path until it was almost too late. She came to a halt, startled.
“You must be the sister.”
The woman’s eyes appraised her. Her skin was a deep brown and oiled to a shine. Her hair was pure silver. She wore a skirt the shade of moonlight, and a shawl of silver netting covered her otherwise nude chest. A collar of iridescent feathers floated around her delicate neck. She smiled, parting generous red lips.