“Justice.” Feyou spoke first. “Our ancestors’ honor paid back in blood.”
“Freedom,” Maaka intoned, voice like the clarion affirmation of a bell. “Never again will Carrion Crow bow to anyone.”
“If you have started a war, as some in the clans say you have,” the Odohaa who had brough the staff said, voice eager, “then know that we are ready to fight.”
Feyou pressed her face to Serapio’s feet, and when she raised her head, Okoa saw tears streaking her cheeks. He shifted, uneasy at the display.
“We are ready to die for you, Odo Sedoh,” Maaka said. “You need only ask, and we will answer with our blood.”
Okoa watched helplessly, unable to stop the feeling of free-fall.
CHAPTER 11
CITY OF CUECOLA
YEAR 1 OF THE CROW
Some have called me a fool for seeking to master the wild magics. But they have called me a fool only once, and the plaints of the dead matter not.
—From The Manual of the Dreamwalkers, by Seuq, a spearmaiden
“We have a problem,” Balam said as Powageh entered the office he kept on the lower floor of his estate. He would have preferred to receive his cousin in his private rooms, if only to spare himself the labor of dragging his body downstairs. He was a man in his prime, physically fit and without injury, but his muscles ached from sitting still too long, and his head felt like it had been stuffed with the honey of dreams, sticky and thick. The Manual warned that dreamwalking taxed the body, but he hadn’t quite understood how. It was, after all, a practice that only required one to sit. But Balam felt like he had been beaten by a very large man with rocks for fists, and he stifled a groan as his lower back spasmed.
Despite the tolls on both body and mind, he would gladly still be traveling the dreamworld if his servant had not interrupted him with an urgent missive from his man in Tova. At first, he had railed, as he had left explicit orders not to be disturbed. But once he had read the letter, he was glad his servant had the sense to disobey his commands when the occasion demanded it. It was news that could not wait.
“Hello, Cousin,” Powageh greeted him. “You look like something the dog shit out today.”
Balam’s look was baleful. He ran a hand self-consciously through his hair, now loose instead of properly tied up. The movement pulled at his shoulder, and he winced. “Is this your small talk?”
“No. Small talk is full of pleasantries. This is my anger. I have been trying to see you for days, but your damnable servants won’t so much as let me past the door. I’ve even left written messages.”
“Have you.” Balam tried not to let his eyes drift to the small pile of unread missives on the corner of his desk.
Powageh noticed, of course, and grimaced. “And then you summon me here in the middle of the night, as if I have nothing better to do than come at your call.”
Balam studied his cousin. The freshly laundered clothes, the thick gray hair neatly coiffed. “Did you? Have something better to do?” If Balam had to guess, Powageh had been waiting, breath bated, for his summons.
“Of course not,” his cousin said, “but that’s not the point. The point is—”
Balam waved Powageh’s protests away. “I have news from Tova, come from my man in Golden Eagle. Do you want it or not?”
Powageh’s eyes flickered, annoyed, but xe could not hide xir eagerness. “You know I do. Did our boy succeed? Have the Watchers fallen?”
It was not the first time Powageh had referred to Saaya’s son as “our boy.” Balam certainly did not think of Serapio with such affection, but he had not spent years with him as Powageh had. And thank the jaguar god for that. Because what he must ask of his cousin would be difficult.
“He did. The Watchers are dead but for a handful of the young or feeble, and they have scattered back from whence they came.”
Powageh nodded, but xe did not look entirely happy. “Ah, he was a fine young man in the end. I hate that this is the fate we laid for him.”
The same lament as before.
“Well, I have some spectacular news for you,” Balam said. “He’s not dead.”
Powageh’s face clouded. “Your humor leaves much to be desired.”
“Then it is good that I am serious.”
Powageh sat forward, rubbing at xir throat as if trying to dislodge whatever emotion was stuck there. “Tell me.”
“While he succeeded in killing the Sun Priest, unbeknownst to myself, Golden Eagle had already staged a coup of the Watchers and installed their own Sun Priest.” He glanced at his cousin, letting his contempt show. “A priest who was not invested.”