Black Sun

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  “No,” she said flatly. “Teek do not have fathers.”

  He frowned, confused, but did not ask the obvious question, sure he would only get another quip about fish eggs.

  “We call the sky her lover,” she corrected. “Fickle, ever-changing, sometimes cold and sometimes very hot, indeed.” She ran her finger along the lines of his palm in a way that made him shiver. She laughed, low and suggestive, and for a moment he was caught off guard by the lust it roused in him, an emotion so rare as to feel foreign. His face felt hot, and he shifted on the bench.

  He felt her pause as if registering his response before she continued, her finger still pressed against his bare skin, her breath mingling with his. “We are a floating nation, not moored to land. That is why we cannot be found unless we want to be found. And since we travel the tides, we learn to read the night sky with our mother’s milk.” Her finger moved again, this time tracing a circle against his open hands. “The sky is a dome. The sun rises here”—she pressed a point near his right thumb—“and sets here.” He thought to tell her that being blind did not make him unaware of where the sun rose and set; he had watched it rise and fall for twelve years, and after that, he could feel its heat against his skin and knew from which direction it came, but she was still talking, still tracing her finger over his palm, so he let her continue. She drew another point, a straight light across to his left. “North is here, south here.” She made a small popping sound with her lips, as if releasing a secret that lingered on them. “Now you hold the sky in your hands.”

  He knew it was a metaphor, but it did feel like she had shaped something in his palms. He cupped it carefully, thinking of how precious it was.

  “But direction is not enough,” she continued. “You are correct that at night without the sun, the horizon becomes useless.”

  “So you navigate by the stars,” he said, remembering her earlier comment.

  “Yes, and no. The stars move, rising, traveling, and falling just as the sun does. But if you divide your map”—she rubbed her thumbs across his hands, starting in the center and then moving east-west and then north-south—“into four quadrants, and those four quadrants again until you have sixteen, you have a map that will allow you to track the stars. When a constellation rises in the house of the water beetle here”—she touched his hand just below the eastern horizon she had marked on his thumb—“it will set here.” She ran her finger diagonally across, ending just above the western horizon she had marked opposite. “So if I set my course with the water beetle constellation at my back and watch it all night, keeping the ship steady toward the same house opposite, I can guide us with no sun.”

  “Spatial awareness. You sail the same way a blind man moves.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” His attention caught on a detail. “This name for the house, you call it water beetle?”

  “We do.”

  “And the others?”

  “The other sky houses? Black bird, white bird, water snake.”

  “Like the four Sky Made clans of Tova. The names are almost the same.”

  She was dismissive when she said, “For the Teek, these are not real houses, not real clans. There are no giant creatures like the ones in Tova, just ways to remember the movement of the heavenly bodies through the sky.”

  “But there must be a connection,” he pressed. “In Tova, it is taught that the ancestors came from the stars and settled on the continent. What do the Teek teach?”

  He could tell by the way she leaned away from him, the heat of her body leaving his space and her breath no longer warm against his face, that she wasn’t interested in finding the similarities between Teek and Tovan.

  She answered, but her voice was reluctant, “That we crawled from the sea, the offspring of a great manatee.” She paused, and then added, “Like I said: siblings.”

  Another joke; at least he thought it was.

  “I think I prefer the sky,” he said bluntly.

  “As would a man like you, made of star shadow and dedicated to a crow.”

  He grinned. He wanted to tell her his story, share something about himself and Obregi, or perhaps his mother and Tova. Well, what he knew of Tova from her stories, anyway. He wanted Xiala to know something of him, the way he felt he now knew something of her. But his mother’s voice stopped him. You will have many enemies. Silence is your greatest ally. And there were the voices of his tutors, reminding him that no one was his friend. So he held himself back.

  “Thank you.” He could say that much and mean it.

  “You’re welcome.” She sounded surprised, but pleased. He had done well, he thought, to ask her to share. And now he would have another story, another place, to keep him company during his own vigil.

  “What will you do tonight?” he asked.

  “Stay up and watch the stars. Keep us steady until the next shift of paddlers starts near dawn and they have the sun to show their way.”

  “Will you sleep?”

  “Only then.”

  “I can keep you company. I slept much of the day and am not tired.” It felt daring to offer to stay, but he remembered the feel of her skin against his and wanted her to hold his hand again. And her voice was soothing after spending so many hours with only the banter of the crew through the wall to keep him company.

  He heard her slide to her right, the rub of her clothes across the wooden bench, and she tapped her hand on the newly empty space as invitation. He reached out to find his way and then moved his body across to sit next to hers. Their legs touched through the fabric, and her shoulder pressed against his. Around him he could feel the movement of the ship as her magic entreated the waves to press them forward, hear their soft rocking against the canoe. This close, she smelled of salt and sea and magic, yes, but also of clean sweat and the oil she used on her hair and skin. The air had cooled considerably, but her body was warm next to his.

  “Tell me more of the Teek.”

  “What is there to tell?”

  “Another story.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “I do not know any stories save the one about the princess. I do not want to hear a lie.”

  “All stories are lies.” She exhaled dramatically. “You have a lot to learn for some crow grandpa.”

  He wanted to tell her she was wrong. All stories were true, in their own way. But instead he said, “I have not experienced much of the world. All I know are its stories. Will you tell me more of yours?”

  And to his surprise, she did. Perhaps not the most important ones, or the most secret, but she did tell him Teek stories. Of the manatee that gave birth to her people. Of how the great reefs came to be, and how the fish got their stripes, and why one never tried to catch a crab on a full moon.

  He relished each one, careful not to interrupt but eager with questions when she was done. And he became more adept at following her jokes. He found Teek humor centered around body functions and nudity and being caught in an awkward situation by one’s female relatives. There were also jokes at mainlanders’ expense, usually a sailor who had had too much to drink or sometimes not enough to drink, and people who could not swim died in prodigious numbers. He did not tell her he could not swim.

  As the night went on, she took occasional breaks to walk the length of the ship, presumably to check for problems that might arise in the dark. He would count her steps and wait for her to settle back next to him, and soon enough, she would be telling him another tale. When Xiala told him that the moon was setting and he should retire for the day, he was surprised by how quickly the night had passed.

  “Will you sleep now?” he asked.

  “Once the sun rises and I’ve set our direction for the day,” she confirmed.

  “Would you like to share my room?” He meant it only as an invitation to escape the sun, but he realized that it sounded like he was offering her much more as soon as he’d said it.

  Before she could answer, he heard footsteps approaching, and a no
w-familiar voice.

  “Captain?”

  “Callo.” She stood quickly, knocking her knee against his. She stepped forward to meet her first mate.

  And then the two sailors were conferring about wind and weather and other things that were not in his purview. He pushed himself to his feet, pressing past the two with a soft apology, and made his way back to his room without incident.

  Once inside he took off his blindfold and stretched out on the reed mat that was his bed. The ship rocked gently below him. Voices, sleepy and low, filtered through his walls as Callo roused the crew for first shift.

  Serapio smiled, content. He traced his finger over one half of the sky that Xiala had drawn on his opposite hand, again and again, until he fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 18

  CITY OF TOVA

  YEAR 325 OF THE SUN

  (13 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)

  There will always be those who urge you to war. Interrogate their objective. If you find that it is peace, then consider war as a means to an end; if their end is only more war, send them away.

  —On the Philosophy of War, taught at the Hokaia War College

  Okoa haunted the halls of the Great House in Odo, his mood as black as the banners that decorated its ash-gray walls. His mother’s funeral was to begin at noon on Sun Rock, which meant he had an entire morning free with nothing to do but brood and pace. He had already argued with his sister about his attire. She wanted him in a long tunic of funeral white, which was proper, but he preferred the panther hide of his uniform, which was also proper after a fashion.

  “Why must you always have your way?” she had yelled at him. An accusation that seemed ridiculous as Esa had three servants weaving bits of mica through her artfully distressed hair. Their reunion had been cordial at best. They had immediately fallen into the same familiar behaviors of their childhood, her resenting her brother’s freedom and he, annoyed by her demands.

  “Mother would not have cared what I wore,” he countered.

  “Mother is dead,” she said flatly.

  “Died in her bed, was it, Sister?”

  “That again? Of course people will find out she was in the river eventually, but honestly, Okoa, I wasn’t ready to answer the questions that would follow. The curious, the morbid. I only lied to buy us some time.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes, because like it or not, you are part of this family.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, incredulous. “This family is everything to me.”

  “Well, you weren’t here, were you? You graduated the war college last year and yet you stayed, doing what exactly? You never said. I had to deal with Mother’s death alone.”

  His jaw clenched, his guilt heavy. He didn’t mention the many aunts and cousins who were here in the Great House and undoubtedly had helped Esa handle the shock of their mother’s death, because that’s not what his sister had meant, anyway. “That’s unfair, Esa. Mother wanted me at Hokaia.”

  “She wanted you to train and return home.”

  “To what? I could not ascend to Shield while Chaiya was still captain.”

  “You could have done something else.”

  “Become one of the scions who spend their time in the Maw at the gambling tables? Or in the pleasure houses? There was nothing for me here. I stayed away for the good of our family.”

  “Did you? I’m not sure, Brother.”

  And the arch way she spoke, the way she could always find exactly the right thing to say to dig under his skin, make him feel shame for finding joy in the thing he loved when he should only feel obligation. He slammed a fist against the wall, hard enough for the pain to throb through his bones and make him grind his teeth. But it felt good. Solid. A physical pain to match the emotional.

  “Are you done?” she asked, disdainful but with a small quake of fear in her voice, as if his violence had been aimed at her. It was too much. He fled her room and her judgments.

  What are you doing? he thought to himself as he stalked down the hall. She’s not just your sister anymore, she’s the matron of Carrion Crow. And you’re the captain of her Shield. Best start acting the part.

  He flexed his fists as he walked, fingers still numb from punching the wall. Frustration and grief warred within him. He had not forgotten the message his mother had left him. The single glyph inked on bark paper, the warning of a life cut short. It had to mean she was murdered, and this farce of a funeral was meaningless. The Sky Made clans would gather to mourn her death in a matter of hours, while one or more among them were responsible for putting her in that river.

  He had not confessed his suspicions to Esa, not even to Chaiya, who Okoa would have sworn was the most trustworthy of them all before Hokaia. Instead he had kept his secret near his heart and nurtured it with distrust and rage for the past three days. And then he had taken it out on his sister like a spoiled child.

  Servants and relatives alike scattered before him as he made his way up the wide stone steps to the aviary. It was an open-air stable at the highest point in Odo, accessible only through the Great House and separated from the land surrounding Tova by a narrow crevasse that promised a drop too deep to measure into the darkness below. He had always loved the aviary, and since he had returned from Hokaia, it had become his refuge.

  Unlike some of the other Sky Made clans, Carrion Crow did not cage their beasts. Confinement went against some unassailable principle that was never articulated but well understood by the clan, and more important, the crows wouldn’t have tolerated it. Theirs was a partnership between human and corvid, a willing agreement to serve each other. Okoa liked it that way. He would no more try to control Benundah than his own heart.

  As if sensing his thought, his mount let out a bright staccato greeting at his arrival. Immediately his mind eased, and he felt a deep abiding calm take the place of his anger. He grinned, his first smile of the day, and he returned her salutation with a gentle ruffle of her glossy head. He reached into a bag he kept at his waist and pulled out a handful of grubs.

  Benundah pecked the wriggling creatures from his hand to swallow them whole.

  “You’re the only sane one here, Benundah,” he murmured, threading gloved fingers through her wings. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through this day.” He considered saddling the great bird, climbing on her back, and flying far away. Forget the funeral and his obligations. He would go back to Hokaia, or to the far north where there were no cities, or perhaps even to one of the great port cities of the Crescent Sea. What a sight he would be on Benundah’s back. The thought made him happy, if only temporarily.

  In truth, he would go nowhere. Tova was his home and Carrion Crow his responsibility. He had a duty to his people, and he would not run from it, no matter how tempting the idea was on a day like today. They had suffered so much, lost so many. The Night of Knives still haunted the families of the Crow, including his own. His mother had lost her grandmother and most of the family of that generation to it, and she wasn’t unique. Whole generations gone in one night’s massacre.

  He shivered at the memories and thought of the haahan carved into his arms and back, hidden under a layer of clothing.

  “We will have our justice,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure how or when, but the Sky Made would answer for the complicity, and the celestial tower would be made to bend. Maybe not by him, but surely his children or their children. He had no doubt that it would happen. It was justice, and justice always prevailed.

  “Lord?”

  Okoa turned. One of the stablemen, a stocky older man in a loose shirt and pants and carrying a rake, approached him.

  “Ashk,” he greeted the man. Ashk he knew well. He had been a stable hand since he was a child, tended to two generations of great crows born to the clan.

  Ashk dipped his head. “I thought that was you, Lord Okoa.”

  Okoa embraced the man. “It is me. I wish I was returning in happier times…”

  “Yes, yes.” The older man si
ghed. “It is a terrible thing.”

  Okoa pressed a hand to Ashk’s upper arm and squeezed. “How are you managing? And the other stable hands?”

  “Oh, we are fine, my lord. Sad, of course. Heartbroken. Your mother was always kind. Bringing us into the household, treating us like family.”

  Okoa knew many of the Sky Made hired servants from the Dry Earth districts but did not allow them to live in their districts, even when it made sense. The birds in the aviary needed constant care, particularly since they came and went at their leisure. It was practical for the stable hands to live within the Great House, close to the birds. Tovan society was strictly hierarchical, but an allowance had been made for the crows.

  “How has Benundah fared in my absence?” he asked.

  “Oh, she missed you,” Ashk assured him, “but she’s an independent sort. Will you ride her today to the funeral?”

  “No. It is expected to snow, and the wind currents through the canyon are unpredictable when storms roll in. I wouldn’t want to endanger her.”

  “So everyone is grounded?”

  “That’s right.”

  Benundah nudged Okoa with her black beak, and he laughed. “I have her favorite treat, but I hope you brought her a meal.”

  “Aye,” Ashk said, lifting the handled pot he held with both hands. He walked to the trough that ran the length of the open stall and emptied its contents. Okoa caught sight of insects, chopped-up fruits that must have been taken from the dry storage this time of year, and a rainbow of corn kernels.

  “A feast,” he remarked.

  “She deserves it. But…” The old man hesitated. “I came for another reason, Lord.” He dipped his head again.

  Okoa tensed, his senses on alert again.

  “Go on,” he said warily. Did Ashk know something about his mother’s death? Something he could only approach Okoa about now?

  “You’ve heard of the Odohaa?”

  Okoa grimaced. “The cultists?” he asked, deflated. He was a fool to have gotten his hopes up, if only for a moment.