Black Sun

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  CHAPTER 28

  CITY OF TOVA (COYOTE’S MAW)

  YEAR 325 OF THE SUN

  (8 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)

  It is imperative that the dedicant forsake the kinship and duties that bound them before they joined the priesthood. Their only loyalty must be to their fellows within the celestial tower, else they risk crossed purposes and their true path becomes occluded by sentiment.

  —The Manual of the Sun Priest

  Naranpa sat back, her mind racing. She had thought her situation complicated before, but she had only glimpsed the surface. Denaochi could see the entire cliffside.

  He was up, pacing the room. She noticed he had a slight limp, a drag to his left leg, and she pressed her lips together to keep from asking. Another memento of his life, along with the scar on his face and the missing fingers and burned hands, no doubt. And all at once, again, her heart ached for the boy he had been.

  She knew she couldn’t trust him. His indictment of her was too fresh, his disdain for the priesthood too bitter. But she had come this far, and despite it all, he was helping her. And he knew things, had a grasp of the city that she from her tower did not. So she made a decision.

  “There’s something else you should know. The real reason I had to come to you, which now seems all too obvious.”

  He turned to her, his face a mask of suspicion.

  “There are those in the tower who are advocating for the Knives to retaliate against Carrion Crow with the aid of Golden Eagle. Perhaps other clans, too, I don’t know. Although I don’t think Water Strider is part of their plans.”

  Denaochi nodded, as if her news didn’t surprise him. “How long do we have before they act?”

  “Surely until the solstice. They only decided yesterday after the riots. Right before they stripped me of my title and locked me in my room.”

  Her brother laughed, a low dry chuckle. “Well, well.”

  She swallowed back her embarrassment and focused on what was important. “We can’t let another Night of Knives happen. It will rip the city apart.”

  “You may not believe it, but the bosses of the Maw care about this city, too. I know I disparaged your concerns earlier, but civil unrest does none of us any good. It hurts business, scares away pilgrims and tourists with cacao, particularly before the solstice. Whether the violence starts with the Odohaa or the priests, another Night of Knives would be the end of us all. Tova would not recover. The Crescent cities already regard us like a ripe fruit, waiting to pick us apart. Cuecola chafes at our yoke, and Hokaia would follow if they broke from the treaty. The Sky Made need only to make one foolish move to put us all at risk, and this infighting would do it.”

  Naranpa hadn’t even thought about Cuecola and Hokaia. “Skies, Ochi. Have the Sky Made and the Watchers become so insular? So ignorant of what truly threatens us?”

  His eyes bored into her, evaluating. The same look she had given him moments ago, before she decided to confess the entirety of her situation. She braced herself.

  “You mentioned Golden Eagle before,” he said, “that they have involved themselves. Perhaps the Sky Made know something of what’s at stake and have plans of their own.”

  A wave of insight hit her. She felt like a fool. She accused the priesthood of being too focused inward, content to uphold the status quo, but she had been guilty of the same thing. Unable to look past Tova’s nose and see the continent gathering at their doorstep.

  “So what do you suggest we do?” she asked.

  He snapped his fingers, the ones on his good hand, and called a name.

  A sound from the shadowy corner where she had marked a presence and then forgotten it in the heat of their confrontation. A figure unwound itself from the darkness, pulling itself forward inch by inch until it resolved into a human shape, and then a woman.

  She was neither plain nor beautiful, a bit like Naranpa herself, but where Naranpa was short, this woman was tall, and where she was rounded, this woman possessed a long, lean hunger much like Denaochi’s own. Her hair was cut to the skin, and she wore a dress that covered her from neck to feet in a dark brown the color of river silt. She smiled, showing teeth.

  “Tell her what you have seen in your castings, Zataya.”

  Naranpa’s jaw dropped. “A witch?”

  “She is my counselor,” he said. “I trust her.”

  “Ochi…” Naranpa said, shaking her head. For a moment there she had admired her brother, been impressed with his knowledge and savvy. But this? “Magic is a foolish man’s crutch. It’s nothing but sleight of hand and superstition.”

  The witch straightened, a flash of annoyance rippling across her shoulders. “You are not the only one who has learned to read the future,” she said. “You may look to the stars, but we of the Dry Earth look to other signs. Fire and stone speak, too.”

  “Witchcraft,” Naranpa accused. “It’s not the science of the priesthood.”

  “Nara, please,” her brother said, clearly exasperated. “You came to me for help. Keep an open mind.”

  “An open mind is one thing. But you are asking me to believe in folly.” She started to stand. “I can no more bel—”

  “You can!” he shouted, and she froze, startled to silence. “You can,” he said, quieter, calmer. “If you want to save yourself and this city, you will listen, Sister. And you will remember that while you have convinced yourself that you are Sky Made, you were born Dry Earth. This”—he gestured to the witch—“is who you are, not that tower. Now…” He gestured to her seat.

  Stunned, Naranpa dropped back onto the bench.

  Her brother ran a hand over his necklaces, as if the stones soothed him. He nodded. “Continue, Zataya.”

  “I have read the fire,” she said, “and looked into the shadow.” She pulled a palm-sized mirror pendant from her clothes and grasped it in her left hand. Naranpa shifted uneasily. She recognized the mirror as a scrying mirror, something used by the southern sorcerers.

  “That’s not Dry Earth magic,” she murmured.

  “Wait,” Denaochi said.

  Zataya closed her eyes and whispered an incantation. Naranpa strained to hear the words, but the witch’s voice was too low for Naranpa to decipher.

  Again, she repeated the chant, a soft buzzing hiss that filled the room.

  They waited.

  Again, the incantation. And again. Sweat touched the witch’s hairline, her neck. She swayed on her feet.

  Naranpa looked to her brother again, but he motioned her to patience.

  Finally, Zataya spoke, her voice dark and sepulchral. “A storm is coming across the water, and it does not rest!” she cried. “Dark forces from the south are gathering. As the sun grows weaker, he grows stronger.”

  Naranpa frowned. It sounded like theatrical nonsense. “I don’t understand.” She looked to Denaochi. “Who is he? And where in the south? Are we still talking about Cuecola? Can she see anything about Carrion Crow? What about Golden Eagle?”

  “One question at a time,” Denaochi murmured.

  “All right. Who is he?”

  Denaochi nodded. “Zataya?” her brother asked.

  The witch seemed to focus harder, and now the tremors that rolled through her body were clearly visible. Naranpa’s eyes widened as blood dripped from Zataya’s hand. She must have cut herself on the mirror glass.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but Denaochi shook his head. The lights above them wavered, sending shadows cavorting across the room. Naranpa rubbed her hands against her suddenly cold arms.

  “What is happening?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

  Zataya moaned, a low painful sound. Blood continued to leak from the hand that gripped the mirror. Her moan turned into a wail. The cords in her neck stretched.

  “Stop her, Ochi,” Naranpa said, nervous.

  “She must finish.”

  “Finish what? She’s hurting herself!”

  “Leave it, Nara.”

  “No! This is reckless.” She stood,
ready to go to the woman and shake her free of whatever trance had possessed her. But before Naranpa could reach her, Zataya collapsed, falling to the floor in a heap. Naranpa reached to help her up, but the witch held out a bloody hand to stop her.

  “Skies, Ochi! At least get her a bandage,” she said.

  “She’s fine,” he growled.

  Another shudder rocked Zataya’s shoulders. This was madness. They were both mad. Finally, Zataya opened her eyes. All Naranpa saw there was frustration.

  “Well?” Denaochi asked, leaning forward.

  The witch shook her head. “I cannot see the tool, only the result,” she said, panting. “He’s coming, and he brings the storm, but he travels in shadow. I can’t see through the shadow.” She looked at Naranpa. “But I did see something else.”

  Naranpa shifted uneasily. She didn’t believe, but she didn’t quite disbelieve, either.

  “What?” Denaochi asked, eager.

  “I have foreseen the death of the Sun Priest.”

  Brother and sister exchanged a look.

  “And a way to stop it?” Denaochi asked.

  The witch pressed herself to standing. She wobbled, unsteady, and Naranpa thought to help her, but again, she was rebuffed. Zataya made her way to the desk, where she pulled a handful of objects from a bag at her waist and dumped them on the desk. She rummaged through them with bloody fingers until she found what she wanted. First was a string necklace with a small figurine hanging on a pendant. Naranpa recognized it as her game piece from the patol table, the small obsidian bison.

  “How did you get that?” Naranpa asked.

  Zataya ignored her. Next, she held up a thorn. No, it was a stingray spine, twice as long as her hand and bone-white. A tool of the southern sorcerers and their bloodletting rituals.

  “I’m not giving you my blood,” she said flatly.

  “You will if you want to live,” Zataya shot back, her voice returned to normal and her strength apparently restored as well.

  Naranpa glared at her brother. He spread his hands, blameless.

  “No,” she said.

  “Nara, it’s not so hard. Zataya knows what’s she’s doing, and right now she’s trying to save your life.”

  “Your tongue, Priest.”

  Naranpa felt nauseated. At the prospect of sticking that spine through her tongue, yes, but also at the very idea of witchcraft. She had been taught it was not only false but anathema to the priesthood and their way of life. But then again, she had come this far, what was a little further?

  She stuck her tongue out. The witch ran the spine through, quick and practiced. Naranpa’s eyes watered, but the pain was brief and not as terrible as she had expected. Zataya caught Naranpa’s blood in a small clay bowl and took it back to the desk. She placed the small bison figurine in the bowl, letting the carving soak in her blood. Once it was coated, she removed it and strung it onto the necklace. She held the necklace out to Naranpa, who slid it over her neck.

  “What does it do?” she asked.

  “As long as you wear it, I will hear you say my name and be able to find you no matter where you are.”

  “I thought you said this would keep me alive.”

  “This is all I can offer.”

  “But it’s nothing!” she protested.

  “Death comes for you, Priest, and soon. When it is inescapable, call for me, and I will find you.”

  Naranpa cupped the bison in her palm, doubtful.

  “You can stay here, Nara,” Denaochi said. “You can be done with that tower and those people. There is a place for you at my side, if you wish it. We can weather the coming storm together.”

  She looked up. He was watching her, face a mask. Part of her ached to stay, to run from the tower and never look back. But wasn’t that what she had done as a child? She would not do it again. “I have to go back. But can you do one thing for me?”

  His mask did not shift, but she could see she had disappointed him. Nevertheless, he said, “Name it.”

  “You mentioned you had someone close to Carrion Crow. Can you deliver a message for me? Written,” she added. “You have that, do you not?”

  Denaochi gave her a small mocking bow. He produced paper, ink, and a writing instrument from his desk. She thought he might be the kind of man who did not trust others to keep his records.

  She sat, thinking of what she wanted to say.

  She was taking a chance, assuming he could read. But he had been at the war college, so perhaps it was not such a risk to think he could understand written language. She wrote her message out in simple glyphs, folded the paper, and sealed it. She handed it to her brother.

  “As soon as possible,” she said. “To the son.”

  “I’ll see it in his hands today,” he agreed. “What will you do in the meantime?”

  “I’ll do what I’ve always done.” She glanced briefly at Zataya. “Survive.”

  CHAPTER 29

  THE TOVASHEH RIVER

  YEAR 325 OF THE SUN

  (4 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)

  Tovasheh is a terrible place. The rain is unceasing, and the food consists of things one draws up from its swampy environs. I do not recommend it.

  —A Commissioned Report of My Travels to the Seven Merchant Lords of Cuecola, by Jutik, a Traveler from Barach

  The port city of Tovasheh stretched before them, a series of low wood and stone buildings in a sparsely populated mile of marshy delta. Winter had settled in along the more northern coast of the Crescent Sea, and the tropical climes of Cuecola had been replaced with reed-heavy wetlands that gave way to rocky yellow hills in the fog-shrouded distance. Ubiquitous clouds delivered a light but steady misting of chilling rain that didn’t so much soak the landscape as continuously moisten it.

  Xiala pulled a makeshift blanket around her, wet and miserable. She had salvaged it from the tarp that covered what was left of their cargo. It was stiff and none too warm, but it kept the rain out, and it was safer than using any clothing the crew had left behind. So far it seemed that her and Serapio’s imprisonment had saved them from exposure to whatever illness had taken Patu, but she didn’t want to take chances. Still, the blanket smelled musty and too well used for her liking. She still wore Serapio’s extra clothes, but they were dirty, bloodstained, and getting musty, too.

  “This town better have baths,” she muttered to herself as she guided them in.

  Annoyingly, the weather seemed to have put Serapio in a good mood. He stood at the bow of the ship with his cowl down, facing into the rain. The rain dewed his face and clung to his curling black hair in droplets. Some of his crows had returned, and they circled around him, taking turns landing on his outstretched hand to be petted. He stroked their long smooth feathers and murmured happy sweet nothings to them. They cawed back their pleasure loudly.

  The docks resolved out of the mist, long log platforms stretching out from sediment mounds. Most were empty, and at first Xiala worried that some ill had befallen the city, but then she remembered that it was winter, and no ships were fool enough to travel the Crescent Sea this time of year. In fact, most were in dry dock somewhere, busied with repairs and waiting for spring.

  “Like sane people,” she commented, again, to herself.

  She brought the canoe parallel to a platform, and Serapio jumped lightly from the deck, rope in hand, to secure the ship. He had assured her he could do the work, particularly with his crows helping him see, and she had taken his word for it.

  She did the same, tying off the stern at the back thwart.

  “I’ll have to find the harbormaster,” she said as she approached Serapio. “Maybe hire a few dockers to unload the cargo we have left. And a place to sell it, of course.” She glanced at the sky. They had arrived late in the day. It would be dark in a few hours. Whatever she was going to do would take time, and she was running out of it. They could always sleep on the canoe again, but she was determined to find a bath and a bed.

  “Do not forget we must be in Tova
in four days.” Serapio finished tying off the center thwart. She watched his hands work the rope, long fingers deft and competent. “That must be our priority.”

  “I thought Obregi didn’t have ships,” she said, surprised at his efficiency. “That’s a solid knot.” She reached out and tested it.

  “We don’t,” he said, stepping back, “but I worked wood for a long time. Rope is not so difficult.”

  She grunted, impressed. “Secret talents.”

  He paused, face turning toward hers. “Yes,” he said, in that way he had, as if she had accidentally stumbled upon a profound truth, but he didn’t elaborate.

  “And no, I’ve not forgotten. No haggling, just… sell.” She winced when she said it.

  He made a dry sound that could have passed for a laugh.

  She straightened and looked around. Nothing but fog. “Where is that harbormaster?”

  “I’m going to find us transportation upriver while you find the harbormaster.”

  She tilted her head, squinting. She had become accustomed to him in their days together, but he was still a sight. Black robe, red teeth, the cloth around his eyes. Even with all his haahan mostly covered, he was very, very strange. But then again, perhaps they were close enough to Tova that he’d blend in better than she did. Who knew? Maybe everyone in the Holy City looked like Serapio.

  Mother waters, she hoped not. Not because he was strange, but because she was having enough trouble not wanting to constantly touch him, feel his smooth skin again, the rough scarring of his haahan, the salt in his lips, the feel of his hands.

  “All right,” she said briskly, already regretting letting her mind wander, “you go. I’ll do the rest. Where should we meet?”

  “I’ll send a crow to find you.” He shouldered an oversized travel bag and picked up a bone staff. She’d noticed the staff in his room on the ship, but she had never seen him use it. Perhaps the ship was small enough that he didn’t need it. It looked part walking stick and part weapon, and he handled it well.