Black Sun

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  Again and again, Tova forced her to earn its regard, and she had done so every time. She comforted herself with the fact that she had not done it for glory, or for power, but for the worst reason of all.

  Faith. Faith in this place she called her home.

  But, she thought as she lay under the witch’s blanket plagued by memories of her childhood and her foolish fantasies, blood drying on her skin and salt burning her mouth, faith is not going to save me now.

  CHAPTER 4

  CITY OF TOVA

  YEAR 325 OF THE SUN

  (20 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)

  It is declared that all roads both on Earth and in Sky converge at the Celestial Tower in Tova. It is declared to be the sacred duty of the Watchers of the Tower to maintain the Balance between what is above us and what is below. It is they who shall study the patterns of Sun and Moon and prophesy accordingly; they who shall ensure that the Rain falls and the Maize grows; they who shall raise up Reason and Science and labor to cast down the bloodthirsty gods of old. If they fail in their Task, all know that War may come again, and the people will suffer. But the Watchers will suffer worst of all, for they will be the first to Die.

  —“On the Responsibility of the Watchers,” from the signing of the Treaty of Hokaia and the investiture of the Sun Priest, Year 1 of the Sun

  Naranpa had forced the priesthood to gather at the foot of the bridge to Odo at sunrise, and no one was happy about it. She could hear the grumbling and the foul-mouthed cursing, unseemly for such a gathering. Someone was complaining that there was no hot breakfast, and how were they supposed to walk the length of the city with no hot breakfast? She wanted to smack them. Or at least yell at them to toughen up. The Shuttering was supposed to begin tomorrow, twenty days of fasting and penance to prepare the way for the return of the sun upon the winter solstice. How did these dedicants think they would survive Shuttering if they were whining about not getting breakfast?

  “It will be a wonder the sun wants to return at all with all this complaining,” she said under her breath, loud enough for immediate company to hear, but no one else.

  To be fair, the morning had dawned bitter cold, a sure sign the winter solstice was only days away. Priests and dedicants alike had donned fur cloaks and wool leggings in addition to their priestly vestments. They had even traded sandals for cured-hide boots. Even so, Naranpa had no doubt that by the end of the day, they would all be frozen as solid as one of the icicles that dangled from the top of the celestial tower.

  Still not a reason to complain. There was nobility in suffering. It built character. Or at least she hoped it did. She supposed they would all find out soon enough.

  “This procession is a fine idea, Naranpa,” Haisan said good-naturedly as he joined Naranpa at the head of the gathered group. “Let us hope for a good showing from the Sky Made for the Day of Shuttering.”

  “Your mask, Haisan,” Naranpa reminded the old priest. At least he was trying. He was ta dissa—the head of the historical records society—which made him a scholar and respected, but he was sometimes forgetful about the practical things.

  “Oh!” Haisan patted the pockets of his robe, becoming increasingly distressed, until he finally reached under the folds of the great bearskin he wore and produced a black mask, tiny pinpricks of stars dotting the forehead and cheeks. With a small embarrassed smile, he pulled it over his face.

  She cast a quick glance at her other two priestly companions. Abah, who was seegi and head of the healing society, and Iktan who was tsiyo, a knife, and head of that society. Both were masked and waiting, Abah in her white mantle and matching dress and furs and Iktan in a mask of solid red and a long skirt, both the color of sunset and the brightness of new blood.

  Naranpa was hawaa, head of the oracle society. Her own mask was the sun, as vividly yellow as the belted dress she wore under her fur-lined dawn cloak. The mask was a mosaic made of long thin bars of gold, complemented by slim fingers of hammered metal radiating out like sunlight from shoulder to shoulder. She wore it with honor, always, but today with a sense of dread, too.

  “I still don’t see why we have to do this,” Abah said, leaning close to whisper to Iktan, but Naranpa heard her all the same. Abah was young, the youngest of all four of them. She had risen to the head of her society when her mentor had unexpectedly died last spring. Naranpa had risen a few months after her for the same reason, but she was at least fifteen years older than the girl. Which meant at least a dozen years more experience, even if Abah had been granted her status before her.

  “We do this to show the city that the priesthood is still here,” Naranpa said, her face still forward. She didn’t turn to see, and couldn’t have said for certain because of her mask, but she was sure Abah was shooting murderous looks at her back.

  “They know we’re here, Nara,” the younger woman replied, a note of irritation in her voice. “They pay tithes, don’t they? Make offerings on holy days? Send their young from across the Meridian continent to train for the priesthood?”

  “And they resent it.” Now she did turn to face the other priest. “I want to show them we are not some shriveled-up old penitents in a tower, but a living breathing part of this city. That we are accessible. That we care.”

  “Oh,” Haisan said, alarmed. “Is that wise? I mean, it’s very radical, Naranpa. The priesthood has never paraded itself for the city like this. They come to us, not vice versa. Frankly, things seem to be working fine the way they are.”

  “You just said this was a good idea, Haisan,” Naranpa reminded him gently.

  “Oh, yes. Well, a morning walk. The rest, I’m not so sure.”

  “I’m sure,” Abah said through chattering teeth. “And I say, why change what is not broken?”

  But it is broken! Naranpa wanted to protest. Else, why fewer and fewer dedicants at their door each year despite the treaty requirements? Why fewer and fewer calls to draw star charts for births and deaths and weddings? Why the rumors of unsanctioned magic in the lower quarters of the city? The growth of cultists to the old gods that they could never quite eradicate? Why did it only seem like the elites of the Sky Made bothered with the priesthood anymore at all, and even their respect seemed sporadic and self-serving?

  “We voted on this, Abah,” she said, “and you agreed.”

  The younger woman huffed. “That was weeks ago. I had no idea it would be this cold.” She tilted her head toward Naranpa, a sly motion even with her face hidden behind her mask. “If I’m honest, I agreed on a whim, Nara. An indulgence, even, for your sake. I’ve always thought this procession a terrible idea.”

  “Of course you did,” Naranpa said smoothly, not taking the seegi’s bait. “But it’s too late to withdraw now. Look, here’s the drum and smoke.”

  Abah muttered something unkind that Naranpa couldn’t quite hear. She let it go. She had won despite what Abah might say now, and she allowed herself to savor the victory. It had not been an easy thing to rally the priesthood’s societies to process through the city. She was determined to enjoy it while she could.

  The drummer, a woman dressed in the pale blue of first light, stepped forward to set the rhythm. The man beside her, also wearing the same blue, lit the cedar and coaxed it to smoking. Naranpa breathed a sigh of relief as they led them away.

  The four priests walked in a horizontal line behind the drum and smoke with their dedicants, counting forty-eight for each, trailing in single-file lines behind them like the tails of falling stars.

  As they crossed the bridge into Odo, Naranpa marveled at the view of her beloved city. Tova at dawn was always a sight to behold. Its sheer cliffs were wreathed in mist and its famed woven bridges blanketed in frost, the dawn light making everything glow, ethereal and otherworldly. Behind her she knew the celestial tower stood, ever vigilant, its six stories rising from a small freestanding mesa separated from the rest of the city by bridges. In it lived the priests, dedicants, and a small contingent of live-in servants. It also included a library of
maps and paper scrolls, a terrace where they all ate meals together, and, on the rooftop, a large circular observatory open to the night sky.

  Home, she thought. A home she loved, even if she wasn’t always sure she belonged. But that was the Maw talking, making her feel unworthy. The voice in her head that reminded her that she was the only Sun Priest in recorded memory who was not from a Sky Made clan. Because while any child of the Treaty lands was welcome at the tower, the heads of the societies traditionally came from the Sky Made clans of Tova. Her mentor, Kiutue, had raised her up as his successor with no small controversy. But there was no rule against her beyond tradition, so it was allowed, but it was not liked.

  Under such circumstances, the smart thing to do would have been to keep her head down, follow convention to a fault, and live out her appointment in comfort. But she did not believe the priesthood had the luxury of her inattention. Kiutue had been content for the position to become more ceremonial than managerial, and the power the seat had once held had drained to the other societies. Unfortunately, none of the other societies was much concerned with the world outside the tower. The dedicant Naranpa had watched as the priesthood became more disconnected from the city with each passing year. It was a sorry fate for an institution that had once been the great unifying force on the continent. She would not be idle while her beloved priesthood eroded further under her watch.

  As she turned back to the road, she caught sight of a dedicant who had the bridge railing in a death grip. Rather than sway with the motion of the bridge, the dedicant was fighting it on locked knees.

  That one is going to make themselves ill, Naranpa thought.

  “Lead on,” she whispered to Haisan as she slowed her pace to let the other priests pass.

  “Where are you going?” Haisan asked, alarmed.

  “I’ll only be a moment. Just…” She motioned him forward, and he did as he was told. Good old Haisan. At least she could always rely on his ability to follow orders. Abah watched her, no doubt curious, and Iktan didn’t acknowledge her, but she knew xir eyes were on her anyway. She fell into step beside the dedicant, who looked up in surprise at their new companion.

  “S-s-sun Priest?” the dedicant stuttered out through chattering teeth and a face gone pale with fear. A thin line of sweat blossomed at their temples despite the cold.

  “The bridges are sturdy,” Naranpa said reassuringly. “We won’t fall.”

  “Oh, yes. I-I know. Tovan engineers are the best in the world. B-but… so many people crossing at the same time.” The dedicant glanced back. “Is it smart to walk all at once? I mean, even great things fail.”

  “These bridges have never failed,” Naranpa assured them. She didn’t know if that was true, but now did not seem like the time to quibble. She studied the dedicant. The curl in their hair and the wide set of their eyes suggested they were from the southern part of the continent, but people moved around. Married as they wished. It was best not to presume, even when the dedicant had the audacity to question the permanence of Tovan structures.

  “Where do you come from?” Naranpa asked.

  “My apologies, Sun Priest. I’m from a small village, nothing you’ve heard of. It is south of here, along a branch of the river Tovasheh we call the Little Seduu, ‘the little old man,’ for the way its back bends.” The dedicant flushed, as if embarrassed by their provincialism. “I’m meant to study healing and bring it back to my village.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Kwaya.”

  “Commendable, Kwaya. Not all are meant to stay in the tower forever. Did you know ‘seduu’ is similar to the Tovan ‘sedoh’?”

  “Yes, Sun Priest. We are not so different, although…” They hesitated, and then continued in a rush. “I’ll never understand how you Tovans live like this. My home is in the flatlands, and it seems much more practical to build there. There’s a perfectly good river below us,” they said, without looking beneath their feet. “Why not build the city there?”

  “It once was, at least to hear the historians tell it. Some of the original dwellings are still in use in the district of Titidi.” And the Maw, but she didn’t mention that. “But our ancestors built among the cliffs to keep us safe from yours, I believe,” Naranpa said with a patient smile. “We were farmers, and the southerners in the flatlands were raiders of farmers. Besides, we wanted to be closer to the heavens.” She waved a hand around them.

  The dedicant made a small horrified sound. “I’m so sorry. About the raids, I mean.”

  “I assure you all is forgiven.” Although even as she said it, she remembered her father cursing flatlanders as thieves and uncivilized. Ancient prejudices died hard, even in a city united.

  The dedicant looked dubious.

  “Do not forget that in the celestial tower, we turn our eyes to the sky. Our duty is to study the patterns of the heavens so that they can be replicated on earth.”

  “But that is hawaa society,” the dedicant protested. “I’m only a seegi.”

  “Do not healers look to the skies as well to understand the ailments of their patients?”

  “Yes, of course,” Kwaya agreed hastily. “I only meant—”

  The sway of the bridge ceased as their feet touched Odo. Kwaya exhaled a long fraught breath. Naranpa patted their arm in sympathy, and they gave her a relieved nod. Only five more bridges to go today. She hoped the dedicant would survive.

  “Everything well?” Haisan asked worriedly as she rejoined the priests in the front of the procession. Naranpa knew how much he hated any deviation in the order of things.

  “Fine,” she assured him. “Only a dedicant who needed a distraction.”

  Haisan frowned and glared back from where she had come. “That one is one of Abah’s dedicants. You should have let Abah comfort them.”

  “It’s fine, Haisan. The societies assign us our responsibilities, not our hearts. I saw a dedicant in need. That’s all.”

  “But—”

  “Enough. I’ll comfort whom I wish. Now, pay attention. We are coming into Odo proper.”

  Odo was a sad and eerie place. It was the oldest of the Sky Made districts of the city of Tova, and it was the home of clan Carrion Crow. Carrion Crow were one of the original clans to live in the city in the clouds, but their ascendancy had long passed. Now the other clans held the majority of the power in the city, and Odo was tolerated, often pitied. They were a lesson in what happened when one defied the Watchers, and all took heed. In many ways Odo seemed of the city yet not part of it. Tolerated but not loved, which Naranpa understood more than she would have liked.

  The bridge deposited them two stories down from the main throughway, and they had to walk up a flight of narrow and well-worn stone stairs to reach the district proper. Once they reached the top, the home of Carrion Crow stood before them. The district was known for the soft volcanic rock from which its earliest homes had been built. When Carrion Crow first claimed the high cliffs, the buildings had been carved into the original walls, and here and there as they walked down the main road, Naranpa still caught sight of these ancient structures hiding down the side alleys or slipped between more recent buildings. Most homes now were made from irregular bricks quarried and fashioned from the same type of volcanic rock but brought in from outside of Tova. And homes now were finished with wood, either charred to match the black bricks or, on more expensive homes and shop fronts, painted a bright crimson red. And everywhere the crow motif, the distinctive crow skull, was woven on the banners hung from walls and carved into the lintels over doorways.

  People stood outside their black buildings, lining the streets to watch them pass. Most wore a variation of the common dress of Tova. Woven skirts for all genders or long loincloths that hung to calf length for men, with leggings in the winter, without in warmer weather. Many, the wealthier of the clans especially, wore belts that signified their rank in the clan. String belts were the most common, and then hides and fur that were often beaded elaborately, and then, for the matr
on and those of the Great House, aprons and cloaks fashioned from black feathers or black jaguar skin, tanned and shined to beauty. The weather was biting, so most wore capes of fur or hide as well. Others had braved the cold to show bodies carved with the haahan that the Crow clan bore on their skin.

  “Black buildings and black looks,” Haisan murmured beside her, too low for all but the four priests to hear. “It does not bode well to start our day.”

  “Of course it does,” Naranpa corrected him in the same low whisper. “Do not our ancestors teach that all exist in dualities, scholar? Earth and sky, summer and winter? And among the clans, the brightness of Golden Eagle must be balanced by the shadow of Carrion Crow? The fire of Winged Serpent against Water Strider?”

  “True,” he admitted with a resigned sigh. “And yet I find Odo disquieting.”

  “They do not like us here,” Abah said.

  She was right, of course. They both were.

  “Does that surprise you?” Naranpa asked. “They blame us for the Night of Knives. Another wound that we must repair.”

  “I need not repair anything,” Abah protested. “I was not alive back then so have no responsibility for the Night of Knives. I don’t know why they hate me.”

  “None of us was alive,” Naranpa said, “save Haisan, and him likely a child. But alive or not, we bear the burden.” And we all reap the benefit, she thought, but thought it best not to utter something so controversial aloud.

  The priesthood had thought the Night of Knives a necessity at the time, a brutal rout of the heresy growing in Odo. Calling for the Night of Knives had been Kiutue’s predecessor’s doing and, Naranpa guessed, one of the reasons Kiutue himself strove to diminish the power of his own position. He had never admitted it to Naranpa, but it was easy enough to see. Living through it as a young man haunted him. Hundreds had died at the hands of the tsiyo. They had been citizens of Tova, Sky Made scions of what was one of the sacred clans. And yet they had been treated as enemies of the priesthood and slaughtered without mercy. The Night of Knives was a wound that festered in the city, a blight on its heart, and it had altered Tova in ways that still reverberated.