And found… nothing.
He was empty, a cupped hand that retained the shape of something precious it had once cradled but was now hollow.
He was a child, again. Alone, afraid. Waiting for the world to make sense, to become the god his mother had promised. He could not go back to that place. Small and weak. At the mercy of those who professed to love him but whose actions betrayed their selfish intentions. He grasped for something to fill his lack, something to anchor him, something he knew was true.
“Xiala,” he whispered. Yes, he remembered her. She was solid and real in his mind. The ocean scent of her long coiling hair, the brash sound of her unapologetic laughter, the feel of her body moving beneath his touch. He clung to those memories and let her moor him to reality, a steady beacon to guide him to safer shores.
And crows. He remembered his crows.
He grabbed for the bag he always wore at his neck, but his star pollen was gone. A shivering fear clutched at his heart, but he could not believe his crows would abandon him as his god had. They were his oldest friends, his true companions. He flung his mind out, willing the crows to answer, and his world exploded.
Crows. There were crows everywhere. Small crows by the hundreds, of all different shapes and sizes and hues. They had not left him.
And even more, he sensed the giant crows, the great corvids of clan Carrion Crow.
“Benundah?”
I am here, Suneater. He recognized that voice in his head and almost wept to hear it.
“Benundah, what happened? Where am I?” He wanted to ask her why he could not feel his god, but he dared not, afraid of the answer.
You are safe. You are alive. Okoa has brought you to the rookery. It is our sacred home. Our nesting grounds far from humans.
“But I fought a man.” Even now, he could sense the stranger before him. Waiting, watching, his breath coming rough and labored.
That is Okoa. He is a warrior of Carrion Crow, a crow son like yourself. You can trust him.
Serapio turned his face, listening for the telltale shifting of feet, the rustle of clothes. “Okoa?”
“How do you know me?”
He focused on the place from where the voice had come. “Why am I alive? Do you know?”
“Who were you talking to?”
Serapio shook his head. It was all wrong. This place, this person. Serapio himself. “Why am I alive?” he shouted. If things could only make sense.
Benundah answered: The little ones have their own magic, and they used it to save you. It cost them dearly.
The little ones? Grief shattered his heart. “I cannot accept this. Take it back. Tell them to take it back!”
It is too late for that, Suneater. They gave their lives freely. Do not dishonor them now with your refusal.
Shame burned him. He bowed his head. “I would not dishonor them, but I cannot accept their gift. I am… unworthy.”
Whether you perceive yourself worthy or not is inconsequential. They loved you, and that is all that matters.
“Who are you talking to?” It was the man again, the one Benundah named Okoa.
Serapio’s frustration flared. “Why am I here?”
“We came from Sun Rock. I thought you dead at first, but… Benundah knew. She is the one who chose the rookery. You said her name. Is that who you were talking to? Can you…” He could hear doubt in Okoa’s voice. “Were you speaking to Benundah?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I… only to help. Only to do the right thing.”
“Benundah says I should trust you.”
“I am not your enemy.”
“Then why did you attack me?”
“I did not.” He sounded confused, offended. “I only offered you water.”
Serapio tried to remember who had struck first, but it had happened so quickly, and he was not sure what had been real and what was a dream. He remembered dreaming of his mother and the panicked feeling of needing to fight, to not be helpless. The rest was unclear.
Perhaps Okoa had not attacked him after all. But that did not mean he could be trusted.
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.