Naranpa shuddered.
She was dimly aware that around her the sound had stilled, and she knew they watched—the woman in blue, the man in red, and all the rest. She felt someone beside her, but she could not tear her eyes away from her brother.
“It is the old way,” Sedaysa said beside her, her voice so calm Naranpa wanted nothing more than to scream.
“The Watchers ended this practice,” she said through gritted teeth. “It is forbidden.”
“Do not judge us, Sun Priest,” the woman said. “Denaochi consented, and it is his atonement.”
“Release him,” Naranpa growled, the sound of her voice so filled with anger that she did not recognize it.
“No,” the woman said simply. “That is your atonement.”
Naranpa wanted to shout that she owed these people nothing, but it was too late for argument. And the longer she delayed, the more he suffered.
She forced herself forward, the hem of her fine dress dragging through blood. Once she stood directly before him, she paused, hands raised, not knowing what to do first. Untie him? Remove the spines?
“The spines first.” It was Sedaysa again, behind her, voice gentle.
Naranpa pulled the one from his tongue first, and then the others, her hands steady for Denaochi’s sake. And then, one by one, she removed the knives, counting a dozen as they clattered to the floor. The ropes were last, and once released, he tumbled into her arms. She caught him and pulled him into her lap. Blood soaked through her dress, but she did not care.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, pushing his hair from his face. He had not opened his eyes, and she didn’t know if he heard her.
If he was still alive to hear her.
Grief bubbled up, dense and drowning. Her tears wetted his hair as she held him close.
“Which one of you did this?”
They had assembled before her. Sedaysa, the man in red, the woman in blue, and nine others who made up the company of the Maw known as the bosses.
“We all did.” It was the red-robed man who spoke. “I am Pasko of the Blackfire, and my blade is there.” He stepped forward to retrieve one of the discarded knives.
“I am Amalq of the Wildrose,” the woman in blue said, stepping forward, “and my blade is there.” She took another knife.
And so on they went, until Sedaysa took the last blade and they stood before her, waiting. For what she didn’t know. It all stank of ritual, not malice, but she had no use for any of it.
“And who pierced him through with those?” Her eyes touched on the stingray spines, the desire to catalog her enemies strong.
“Those he did to himself,” Pasko said. “He was not craven.”
She had not expected that, and it tore at her heart. She imagined him there, kneeling, knowing their knives would come next, as he drove the needles through his flesh.
What if I was too late? She pressed her hand to his chest. She felt a heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of his breath. He still lived, but barely. “He needs a healer.”
“No.” Sedaysa’s denial was flat and did not brook argument. “If the gods will it, he survives. If they do not…”
I must save him. But how? She thought of Zataya’s manual and its decree that the power of the sun was life itself. But what use was that here when death loomed so near?
“Life,” she whispered. “I have the power of life. I am a survivor.” She pressed her lips to her brother’s head. “And so are you.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated. She thought of the shock of hitting the icy river from a great height, the terror of waking up in her own tomb, the exhilaration of escaping the Crow God Reborn’s attack. She drew from those moments, those memories, and let them build within her. She fed them to the place in her heart, the place where the sun god dwelled within, and she willed it to spark. She knew when her hand began to glow from the low gasps of the watching crowd, and she pressed her palm to Denaochi’s chest, willing his breath to strengthen, his heart to answer the beat of her own.
And it did.
Slowly, he came back to her.
She felt a mirroring strength leave her body for his. She let it happen, let her vitality flow to him. Her head began to pound, and the room around her swayed, the heady perfume of flowers making her dizzy. Only when Denaochi coughed and began to stir did she cut the connection between them.
They gasped at the same time, and then they were both laughing, and the bosses were murmuring in shock and approval, but in this moment, she cared nothing for what they thought, only that Denaochi was alive. She turned his arms, then his hands. The wounds were pale and raised, halfway to healed.