He mostly kept to himself, sitting atop the walls of the ball court, staring into the distance. But the few times Sasha had arranged to bump into him, she’d felt health in his ch’ul song, and the beginnings of acceptance.
That was all she could feel these days—her healing powers seemed to have burned out with the effort of bringing Lucius back from the brink. Similarly, Rabbit’s mental powers had become seriously blunted. He could perform traditional mind-bends, but he couldn’t read as deeply as he could before. Otherwise, the younger mage seemed to be doing okay; he and Myrinne were in the middle of a nauseating honeymoon period the rest were tolerating solely because it’d been generally agreed that they’d rather have Rabbit acting besotted than sulking and burning stuff down.
The magi seemed to have similarly leveled off after the chaos of the past couple of months. Brandt and Patience acted fine in public, though there was no telling what was going on behind the scenes.
Nate and Alexis were solid, and Sven was . . . Sven. Jade was keeping to herself, as was Anna, who hadn’t returned to Austin immediately after the solstice, which, according to Jox, was very unusual indeed. Not that the winikin was gossiping, he’d assured Sasha as they’d put the calendar cakes into the ovens. He was simply remarking. But she’d gotten the impression he was hoping she would talk to Anna about it. Maybe she would, too. It might take them time to decide what sort of relationship they would have—sisters? friends? something else?—but Sasha wasn’t leaving Skywatch anytime soon.
They had time. Some, anyway.
“Here they come,” Michael said, breaking into her thoughts.
Then there was a stir of movement at the edge of the pool patio, and Strike and Leah appeared, walking together in their bloodred ceremonial robes, hands linked.
Strike was wearing his king face, but beneath that capable shell, Sasha saw love. Simply love, the beginning and ending of their magic, their lives. And the sight of it, the knowledge of it, smoothed the edges of her soul and had her leaning into Michael, the man she loved.
He brushed a kiss across her temple as the king and queen passed and took their places facing each other, while Jox presented them with the first sacrificial offering of the wayeb days: a bowl of maize seeds, several from each of the ears that had been passed through the blood-smoke of the magi during Sasha’s bloodline ceremony. When Strike accepted the bowl, Sasha felt a small pinch beneath her heart, knowing that the seeds would be burned, symbolically returning the blood and flesh of the magi to the gods.
Instead, Strike turned and beckoned to her. “Sasha? Come here, please.”
Frowning, she moved up and joined them, her heavy black robes swirling around her ankles. “Yes?”
He handed her the bowl. “Bless them, please. And then let them grow.”
The pinch smoothed out and she smiled. Touching the hopeful little seeds, she felt the magic in them, the life. She sent them a song and felt them respond. Then, acting on instinct, or ch’ul, or maybe just a mad impulse, she swung her arm and sent the seeds flying in a glittering arc, out past the torches to the ash-shadowed court-yard. There was a ripple of laughter from the magi, a shimmer of magic from beyond the torchlight. And she knew that in the morning, there would be life in a spot that for so long had represented only death.
“Nice,” Michael said when she returned to his side. “That was very nice.”
Then it was time for round two of the day’s ceremonies, the more somber of the two. Ambrose’s funeral.
“You ready for this?” Michael asked as Jox started herding everyone toward the ball court, where they’d set up the funeral pyre so it would be downwind of the wayeb feast. After the fire burned itself out, the ashes would be allowed to fly on the canyon winds, as Ambrose had requested, back in another lifetime.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” And, as she reached the traditional wooden structure upon which they’d placed Ambrose’s wrapped body, head and all, she realized she was ready. She’d come to terms with Ambrose and the ways he’d failed her, the ways they’d failed each other. He had given up his own life to save hers, on his queen’s orders, on her mother’s orders.
The sun kissed the horizon, turning the sky to a bloody smear that warned of impending storms. The light cast strange shadows as she picked up the pulque-laced torch she’d prepared earlier in the day, sealing it with both chocolate and her own blood. She held it out to Rabbit, who stood with the others in a loose circle around the pyre and its wrapped bone bundle. “Will you do the honors?”
He nodded, held his hands cupped together, and whispered, “Kaak.” Fire. A flame kindled in his palms, soft and kind, not the fireball of war. He held the spark to her torch, spoke another word, and sent the flames dancing across the alcohol-soaked brand. Then he stood beside her as she touched the torch to the pyre, and urged the flames to make it quick and do it right. She knew he’d done the same for his own father. Knew Ambrose would approve.
The others moved up around her, standing in silent support as she fulfilled a promise that had started out causing trouble and ended up showing her the way to her family, to the man she loved, whether by chance or destiny or, most likely, a combination of the two.
In losing her father she had found her family. And now Ambrose had come home. Finally. “Gods speed you to your rest,” she said softly, thinking for a moment that she could see his face in the flames. “And thank you. For everything.”
The bone bundle caught and flared, and the heat intensified, driving them away from a pyre that had become a bonfire. She thought Ambrose would’ve enjoyed that too.
“Hey.” Michael touched her arm. “You good?”
“Yeah.” She turned to him, smiled up at him, and felt a weight lift off her soul. “Yeah, I am.” But she faltered a little when she saw the look in his eyes, the hint of reservation, of worry. “Michael, what’s going on?”
He took a deep breath, tried for a smile and missed. “I know this probably isn’t the right time or place to do this,” he began.
Her heart took a nosedive, and all the old insecurities rose up, threatened to swamp her. “If you’re dumping me, you might want to rethink. Third-degree burns on your ass won’t be much fun.” She tried to make it sound like a joke. Failed.
“I’m not dumping you.” He sounded exasperated rather than annoyed. Then he hitched up a pant leg and dropped to one knee in front of her.
She looked down at him, at the firelight illuminating one side of his face, the darkness touching the other, and her heart stopped, simply stopped in her chest. “Michael?”
The others had gone very quiet around them; the only sound was that of Ambrose’s funeral pyre.
Then Michael reached into a pocket and came up with a small velvet box. Held it out to her. “I can’t give you the jun tan, but I want—I need—you to wear something of mine; I want to know that you’re mine, from this point forward. So we’ll do it the newfangled way.” He paused. Took a breath. “Sasha Ledbetter, will you marry me?”