Fevered Star (Between Earth and Sky, #2)(65)

Naranpa could not hide her sharp inhale. This was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, and for a moment she forgot her words.

The woman’s smile spread, no doubt knowing the effect she had, and that was enough for Naranpa to rally. “And you must be Sedaysa,” she replied, remembering the name Zataya had given her.

“He said you were not coming.”

Naranpa lifted her chin. “He was mistaken.”

Something flashed across Sedaysa’s features that looked like relief. “He agreed to give blood sacrifice in payment for his failure. In fact, he gives it still.”

Which meant he still lived, but in what condition? “I know of blood sacrifice. I have given my own blood before.”

“As Sun Priest?” Sedaysa was doubtful.

“No.” She didn’t explain further, but she thought of Zataya’s stingray spine and her obsidian knives and braced herself for what she might find ahead.

“Now that you are here, he no longer needs to suffer.” Sedaysa stepped to the side. “Go free your brother.”

Naranpa stepped forward tentatively. At first, she only saw the people, small groups of men and women in fine clothes drinking from long, delicate cups, and she knew these must be the bosses of the Maw. She spied a tall woman in a wrap dress of deepest blue, heavy jade beads around her neck, leaning close to talk to a man in a billowing red cloak, a crown of speckled feathers on his head. There was a feast laid out on a low table, and another handful of people lingered there, eating with their hands and laughing. They stopped to watch as Naranpa passed, their eyes like pinpricks against her skin.

And then she saw him.

Denaochi knelt naked upon a dais strapped to a wooden rack. His head lolled on his neck, and his hair which had been so neatly coiffed hung loose and tangled around his face. His arms were splayed wide and tied at the wrists and shoulders with heavy rope, and familiar white stingray spines pierced his body. One through his tongue, more through each ear, and one through his genitals. Where there were not spines, there were knives. At his shoulders and elbows and hands, through his hips and thighs, inner and outer, but none through his torso. He was meant to bleed to death, very slowly.

Naranpa shuddered.

She was dimly aware that around her the sound had stilled, and she knew they watched—the woman in blue, the man in red, and all the rest. She felt someone beside her, but she could not tear her eyes away from her brother.

“It is the old way,” Sedaysa said beside her, her voice so calm Naranpa wanted nothing more than to scream.

“The Watchers ended this practice,” she said through gritted teeth. “It is forbidden.”

“Do not judge us, Sun Priest,” the woman said. “Denaochi consented, and it is his atonement.”

“Release him,” Naranpa growled, the sound of her voice so filled with anger that she did not recognize it.

“No,” the woman said simply. “That is your atonement.”

Naranpa wanted to shout that she owed these people nothing, but it was too late for argument. And the longer she delayed, the more he suffered.

She forced herself forward, the hem of her fine dress dragging through blood. Once she stood directly before him, she paused, hands raised, not knowing what to do first. Untie him? Remove the spines?

“The spines first.” It was Sedaysa again, behind her, voice gentle.

Naranpa pulled the one from his tongue first, and then the others, her hands steady for Denaochi’s sake. And then, one by one, she removed the knives, counting a dozen as they clattered to the floor. The ropes were last, and once released, he tumbled into her arms. She caught him and pulled him into her lap. Blood soaked through her dress, but she did not care.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, pushing his hair from his face. He had not opened his eyes, and she didn’t know if he heard her.

If he was still alive to hear her.

Grief bubbled up, dense and drowning. Her tears wetted his hair as she held him close.

“Which one of you did this?”

They had assembled before her. Sedaysa, the man in red, the woman in blue, and nine others who made up the company of the Maw known as the bosses.

“We all did.” It was the red-robed man who spoke. “I am Pasko of the Blackfire, and my blade is there.” He stepped forward to retrieve one of the discarded knives.

“I am Amalq of the Wildrose,” the woman in blue said, stepping forward, “and my blade is there.” She took another knife.

And so on they went, until Sedaysa took the last blade and they stood before her, waiting. For what she didn’t know. It all stank of ritual, not malice, but she had no use for any of it.

“And who pierced him through with those?” Her eyes touched on the stingray spines, the desire to catalog her enemies strong.

“Those he did to himself,” Pasko said. “He was not craven.”

She had not expected that, and it tore at her heart. She imagined him there, kneeling, knowing their knives would come next, as he drove the needles through his flesh.

What if I was too late? She pressed her hand to his chest. She felt a heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of his breath. He still lived, but barely. “He needs a healer.”

“No.” Sedaysa’s denial was flat and did not brook argument. “If the gods will it, he survives. If they do not…”