Fevered Star (Between Earth and Sky, #2)(97)

She rallied. “I am glad you came, Okoa. I did not know how my message would be received. Last time we met, I thought you might kill me.”

“You will have to forgive me.” He hesitated, as if caught in a remembrance. “It was a different time.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“Then I am grateful for your trust.”

“More hope than trust. I did not know, but I hoped, that the leadership of Carrion Crow might not have entirely fallen under the shadow of your dark god. I saw him, you know. On the roof of the celestial tower. He, too, wanted to kill me.” She shivered at the memory. “I could feel it. But he was already injured and could not follow when I ran. He sent his crows after me. His arm… shattered… and became those black-winged birds.” Her voice caught somewhere between horror and wonder. “They chased me through the tower until I found shelter in the kitchens. When I emerged, he was gone, and the flock was heading west.” She was convinced he had let her go, but she could not say why. Perhaps his injury or some other reason she could not fathom. Whatever it was, it left her trembling all over again.

“It matches what we know.” Okoa pulled a cloth bag into his lap. His hand slipped inside, but he did not pull forth the contents. His shoulders seem to settle in resignation, and he looked infinitely sad, as if whatever was in the bag had the power to break his heart. “I speak to you plainly now, as myself. I cannot speak for my matron or for the Odohaa, but I believe I act for their benefit. For the benefit of all of Carrion Crow, and for Tova as well.”

Peyana leaned forward. “What is it?”

His expression was solemn. “We bear no ill will to the clans. The Watchers”— his eyes flicked to Naranpa—“we did not love, and the Knives least of all. We will not mourn them, although…”

He hesitated, as if his diplomacy had run dry.

“I walked that killing field on Sun Rock. I saw the bodies turned to ash, others left in strange contortions. And I have seen other deaths at Serapio’s hands.” His voice was quiet, intense. “As much as we Crow mourn those lost on the Night of Knives, one slaughter cannot justify another.”

“Your Odohaa prayed for his coming.” Ieyoue’s reminder was a soft rebuke.

“They are but a small faction within the clan.”

“I have seen what gathers at your doorstep, Crow.” The matron of Winged Serpent was more blunt, her tone less forgiving. “They are not so small anymore.”

Okoa’s dark eyes brimmed with conflict, but determination set his jaw. “I think you have found the heart of the matter, Matron.” He pulled his treasure from the bag.

Naranpa gasped. Her hand trembled as she instinctively reached for it, hovering just short of touching.

The Sun Priest’s mask.

“I retrieved it from Sun Rock and have not known what to do with it. But I believe it can be used… as a weapon.”

“No!” The denial was instinctive, and Naranpa regretted her outburst immediately, as they all turned to stare—Okoa surprised, Peyana curious, Ieyoue sympathetic. Even Sedaysa fixed her with an enigmatic look.

“It is sacred.” Naranpa’s protest was weak, and she knew it.

“A sacred weapon is even better,” Peyana said.

“It can be forged, can it not?” His question was for Naranpa. “I believe the other Sun Priest broke off a piece here”—he pointed to a place where a ray of the sun had chipped off—“and used it to stab the Odo Sedoh. It is the wound he bears that still will not heal, the one you saw that pains him.”

Peyana took the mask from Okoa, examining it more closely. “My people can work this metal. It is an ancient craft we practice, as our ancestors did. It is known to us.”

Naranpa clenched her fists in her lap to keep from snatching it away from the Winged Serpent matron.

“What can be made from it?” Ieyoue asked, not without a compassionate glance toward Naranpa.

She, at least, understood the pain it caused her to see the mask out of her control, and for a brief moment, Naranpa wondered if they would give the mask to her if she commanded it. In her heart, she already knew the answer, so she did not ask. Only watched as they passed it around and speculated on the ways it could be transformed into something that might kill.

Peyana offered more than one. “A golden dagger, spear tips, even arrowheads.”

Naranpa stopped listening after that. She let her mind wander as they continued to plan. Sometimes she found herself drifting through the images of her childhood, memories of her and her family she had not let herself revisit in decades. But mostly, her thoughts took her back to the look on Denaochi’s face as he stepped in front of the blade to save her, and as he reached for her hand, and his low gasp, and her awful scream, as she realized she could not save him in return.

Finally, the gathered company came to the one element of the night they had not discussed: her powers. She roused herself from her waking nightmares to listen. But she could not answer their questions to anyone’s satisfaction, including her own, because she did not understand her powers. She had only used them before to light her way, and to heal. To kill… she had no clear memory of how she had done it. She remembered the man’s head between her hands, her moment of exultation as his flesh bubbled and popped. Only now it was revulsion, not triumph, that shivered her skin. The killing was like something she had witnessed from above, not something she had done. Yet she knew that if she allowed that river of rage within her to rise, if she gave herself permission to feel it again, the fire would come. So when they asked her about gods and sorcery and fire, she was vague and distant, until finally they stopped asking.