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.
“I believe…” Okoa drifted off, seeming to battle with himself. Finally, he spoke again. “I don’t believe the sun has truly set or risen since the Convergence. I don’t know what that means.”
There was a hint of accusation in his voice that pleased Serapio. He knew what it meant.
“The crow god challenges the sun.” Serapio said it with conviction, and now the absence of his god made sense. It still unsettled him. He could not contemplate it without tendrils of panic tightening his chest, but at least there was a reason for it, one he could comprehend beyond his own inadequacy.
Okoa approached him, the warmed and medicated cloth in hand. He gestured to Serapio, asking permission to touch him, and Serapio allowed him his ministrations.
“Do you remember what happened on Sun Rock?” Okoa smoothed the cloth tight to his side.
“Yes.” But that was not entirely true. Serapio had been sifting through his memories, trying to distinguish dream from reality, but there were still parts of Sun Rock that felt like he had witnessed them from afar.
“I have never seen such horrors,” Okoa admitted.
“You are a warrior. Have you not killed before?”
“I have studied war.”
“Studied war.”
“I am Carrion Crow. We are stained by slaughter.” He gripped the collar of his quilted shirt, briefly baring the haahan at his neck. “You cannot shame me for being a man who now lives in peaceful times. They are well earned on the bodies of my ancestors. And I have seen killing before, but…” He shook his head. “Nothing like that.”
There was something in Okoa’s voice, something that made Serapio ask, “Do you fear me?”
“Fear?” He sat back on his heels, studying Serapio’s face. “No. But I am wary of a man who walks so comfortably with death.”
“But I am not only a man.” That hollow feeling, the cupped hand now empty, mocked him, called him a liar, but he did his best to ignore it.
“Some of the bodies were ash and others of the priests laid out in patterns. Why? Was it sorcery? God magic?”
“The shadow of the crow god consumes,” was all he said, because in truth, he did not know. He could not remember laying out the bodies. He flexed his hands, the feeling that he had been so fully possessed both exhilarating and terrifying.
Okoa returned to his side of the fire, but it was clear he wanted Serapio to say more.
Serapio sighed. “I know you wish for answers, Okoa Carrion Crow, but the ways of gods are unknowable.” Even to me.
“And you wonder why I worry.”
They sat by the fire, silent in their own concerns, until Serapio asked, “Do you know how I received this?” He touched the wound on his side.
“I think you were stabbed. But more than that I cannot guess. I don’t think it was a Knife. I’ve been on the sharp edge of their wrath before, and my wound festered and would have killed me within the hour. Yours did not. You had deep lacerations around your eyes, too, and those seem to have healed.”