He sent his host circling closer, curious to know more.
The woman turned, tilting her head up to look at his crow. Serapio caught a glimpse of her eyes. White sclera, but her irises were a swirl of colors, like various paints stirred in a pot. Teek, he thought, just like from the children’s stories, before she whistled sharply.
His crow pulled up at the sound, squawking a sharp retort. A flap of black feathers and a cry of surprise, and Serapio was expelled from his host. He rocked back in the chair, gasping. He pressed a hand to his ear. It was wet. He dabbed at it gingerly and touched the liquid to the tip of his tongue. Blood. Somehow she had not only thrown him from the crow but had followed his connection back and made him bleed.
He laughed, breathless with surprise. He had never felt anything like it.
He forced his breathing to slow, but his mind was still bright with possibility. How had she done that? Cast him out of his own creature? It was a useful thing to know, if only to make sure it never happened again.
He wiped his face clean with the edge of his black robe and adjusted the blindfold that covered the stitched flesh that sealed his eyes shut.
More shouting, but this time is was an all clear, and men were hauling ropes aboard while paddles dipped into the sea. They were moving. The star pollen was still in his veins, and he thought about seeking out another crow so he could watch the great ship leave Cuecola, so he could glimpse the path before him, but he decided against it. There would be plenty of time in the coming days to see the sea and get to know the crew. And the captain.
CHAPTER 8
THE OBREGI MOUNTAINS
YEAR 317 OF THE SUN
(8 YEARS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)
It is said that crows can remember the faces of men who hurt them and do not forgive. They will carry a grudge against their tormentor until their deaths and pass on their resentment to their children. It is how they survive.
—From Observations on Crows, by Saaya, age thirteen
The boy sat cross-legged on the wide stone terrace, his thin body nestled among the crows. There were at least a dozen of the large black birds around him, pecking and squawking and turning their heads this way and that. One perched on a bony knee, another on his jutting shoulder. Three fought for place on his outstretched arm, eating scraps from his cupped hand.
He murmured words to them, bare whispers of his own loneliness, apologies of how little food he had to share with them intermixed with confessions of his own gnawing hunger, soft inquiries about the larger world outside his room and what it was like. The crows answered, telling him of how the snow was growing deep on the nearby mountains and how the cold winds rattled through their nests and how the sun weakened and the nights lengthened.
He held his free hand out as a large, broad-chested crow with a notched beak and a sleek sheen of feathers dropped something that glinted in the morning sun into the boy’s palm. The boy ran a thumb across it, feeling for the shape and size of it. He hefted it a few times in his hand and smiled. Pleased with the gift, he added it to the small pile of treasures he had already collected that morning.
“Is it always this way?” a voice asked from behind him.
The boy stiffened. A stranger had spoken. He didn’t receive many visitors. In fact, besides his father’s weekly visits, he rarely had any company at all beyond the servants and the guard who stood outside his door.
“Yes,” said a second voice.
The boy tensed, nostrils flaring. That voice he recognized.
“He prefers to sit outside with the birds,” the second voice continued, something bitter in the tone. “I thought to forbid it after—”
“No, don’t. Do nothing,” the stranger said quickly. “I’ll talk to him now. Alone.”
“I cannot leave you alone with… the boy.”
The boy. Not my son. Serapio’s fist clenched, anger and shame warring inside him. His father left him alone all the time. Why would now make any difference?
“Lord Marcal,” said the stranger, voice patient, “I am here to help your son. Do you not trust that?”
“I’m not worried you will hurt him,” his father said, voice dropped to a whisper that he no doubt thought Serapio couldn’t hear. “I am concerned he will hurt you. He is… unnatural.”
“He is a child.”
“Fourteen. Not so young. And perhaps you don’t understand. Loss of sight is not his only affliction…”
“I understand enough. Now, let me work.”
His father hesitated and then said, “I will leave a guard by the door. Call for him should you need anything. I’ll be back after my duties to check on you.”
“It won’t be necessary.”
“I… well, if you are sure…”
“Quite.”
And then there were steps, hurried, like his father couldn’t wait to be gone. Which left the stranger here alone with him.
“Hello, Serapio.”
A crow pecked at his hand. He dug into his pocket and pulled out another handful of crumbs. The bird squawked happily. It was joined immediately by its compatriots, and the food quickly disappeared.
“Who are you?” the boy asked.
“I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t think you can help me.”
The man chuckled. It was not a kind sound. He imagined the man standing in the doorway that led out to the terrace, leaning against the frame, studying him. The man set Serapio on edge, which made his birds fuss and flap.
“Are you another healer?” Serapio asked. “Someone come to poke and prod at my eyes?”
“Oh, I’m not here to help you see again,” the man said. “I suspect that would be a waste of time. You’re going to have to let that hope go, boy.”
Serapio cocked his head, curious. No one had said that to him before. Spoken so plainly about his fate. It was always platitudes and false comforts which inevitably led to whispered incredulity that his own mother had “ruined” him and what a monster she must have been.
“I don’t have false hope,” he countered quietly.
“Of course you do,” the man said, patiently. “Life is a series of false hopes. We all have misplaced hopes until we learn better. I did.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m here to prepare you for your destiny.”
“I already know my destiny.” He pulled more food from his pocket, and the notched-beak crow landed on his palm. He knew it was him by the weight of him, the particular sound of his hungry caw.
A pause from the stranger, and Serapio knew he must be considering his words. “Tell me.”
“I’m meant to be reborn a crow.”
“And then?”
No one had ever asked “and then?” They all just assumed him mentally ill, head full of fanciful delusions of flying or escaping his maiming.
“They speak to me, you know,” the boy said.
“Not surprising. They know one of their own. And what do they tell you?”
“Mostly crow things. Of pleasant hunting grounds and the joy of flight. Of family and lost things, too.”
“You must know something about that last bit.” It was the first note of sympathy that Serapio had heard from the man.