His eyes narrowed. “And did you find it?”
“And more.” Her smile was small and fraught. “I saw the Crow God Reborn.”
“And yet you live,” he murmured, intrigued.
“As I said, it was a close thing. If he had not been injured already, I do not think I would be standing here.”
“You hurt him? You were able to fight him?”
How could she explain what she had seen? How the birds seemed a part of him, his arm pulsing human one moment and corvid the next?
“A weakness,” Denaochi said eagerly. “The first weakness we have seen.”
She shook her head. “Not one we can count on should our paths cross again.” All her looking for some hidden power felt suddenly futile. Even if she did possess some remnant of the sun god within her, what she had seen was something beyond her. She could not fight the Crow God Reborn and win. She understood her folly acutely.
“I cannot,” she confessed.
“Cannot what?” His question held an edge of his earlier anger.
“He is a god, Ochi. I am not. I cannot win against him.”
“You must!” He thumped his cane emphatically. “I have already promised his defeat to the bosses.”
“Tell them we know better now.” She slumped, the adrenaline that had sustained her flight from the tower ebbed, leaving her exhausted. “Tell them it might be best to cede Tova to Carrion Crow.”
His hands on her shoulders surprised her, and he shook her hard enough that her teeth rattled. “You are not giving up! We are not giving up! Even now, the bosses await us, and we must answer to them, Nara. They are not your Sky Made matrons you can reason with. They follow the old ways, the ways of blood, and once a promise is made, there is no recision.”
“Then perhaps you should not have bound me to action without my consultation!” Her own anger was roused now, and she pushed his hands aside.
Thin cracks formed around his eyes. “You crawled back to life! You said you were with me! Why, if you are only a coward in the end?”
“I…”
She lowered her head. Was she simply craven, afraid of death at the hands of what she had seen on top of the tower? She had faced death before and jumped into its embrace. And Denaochi was right that she had refused to accept that tomb as her final place of rest. But this was different.
“We should run while we can,” she said finally. “Tova is a lost cause.”
He stepped back, his dark eyes raking over her, and his judgment flayed her like no other could.
“I have an appointment to keep,” he said stiffly. “Gather yourself and join me at the Agave as soon as you can.” He hesitated, and Naranpa saw the unspoken please in the shape of his lips, but it remained there, unsaid. And then he was up the stairs and out the door.
Naranpa bent over, head in her hands, and let the tears come.
“He goes to his death,” Zataya said.
She looked up to find the witch standing before her. She held a weathered scroll in her hand and tapped it lightly against her thigh, her eyes on Naranpa.
“You do not understand the bosses,” Zataya said, “but I do. And once a boss gives his word, it must be done. He risked everything on you.”
“A foolish gamble,” Naranpa countered, wiping her eyes. “One he made without even consulting me.”
“What consultation was needed when his way is faith?” She shoved the scroll toward Naranpa, and she reflexively grasped it in her hands. “He had faith in you. I told him he should not, that you were fickle and spoiled by that tower, but he insisted you were still his sister.”
Naranpa gaped. Denaochi had faith in her? “What are you talking about? He barely tolerates me. He is always testing me to see if I am worthy.”
“Is that what you think? Is that the wisdom of a Watcher? Foolish woman. He is not testing you to see if you are worthy, he’s testing you to see if he is worthy of you staying.”
Skies, was that why he pushed her so hard? To see what it would take to finally drive her away? And had she not proven him right again and again? Shame curdled her insides.
“I will go,” Naranpa said, subdued, “but if the bosses are as ruthless as you say, why would they listen to me?”
Zataya tapped her chest. Naranpa understood but found herself wanting to protest anyway. Her power was nothing compared to what dwelled within the Crow God Reborn.
Zataya gestured toward the scroll. “Your answers are there. You are more powerful than you think.”
Naranpa unspooled it. The paper was old and frail, weathered at the ends as if it had not been well cared for. It was a painting of a spoked wheel, its outer ring divided into eight sections, and each section detailed a different magic. Shadow, she knew, and blood. But these others—spirit, sun, fire, sky, water, and stone—were unfamiliar. And under each magic were origin, instructions, and invocations.