Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(106)

Your own clan was smart enough to stay away today, Odo Sedoh.

My own clan, he thought to himself. I have a clan, a family. His gaze turned toward the black cliffs of Odo just visible to the southeast. I do this for you. Please forgive me.

He waited, Benundah silent with him. He relaxed against her strong chest, under the shelter of her wing. He only regretted they had not been able to fly together at least once.

They were singing now, the priest and clans, words about banishing the darkness and welcoming back the sun. But it was too late for all of that.

The shadow grew as the daylight dimmed, just like it had when he was a child. The singing grew louder below him, more desperate to his ears, as the crow god swallowed the sun.

“It is time for me to go, Benundah,” he said.

I know. Travel well, crow son. And I will see you when this is over.

“Benundah…”

I understand. And with a great flapping, she launched herself into the sky. Serapio broke his connection with her, his last vision of himself looking up, his face infused with joy.

He was alone. His mother’s last words to him rang through his head.

You must go home to Tova… there you will open your eyes again and become a god.

He had two obsidian knives in his belt, and he took one now. He used his free hand to spread the skin of his eyelid tight and, one eye at a time, sliced along the narrow line of scar tissue that held his eye shut. His teeth cut through his lip as he struggled to hold in a scream, and blood filled his mouth. More blood poured from the wounds, and the pain doubled him over, but he didn’t stop until both his eyes were open.

He was still blind. The damage had been done to his sight long ago. But he did not need human vision to see by the light of the black sun.

He cupped steady hands and caught the blood, using his palms to wipe the sticky substance through his hair, slicking it back from his face. He hauled himself to his feet and stripped off his shirt, exposing his haahan. He took his staff in hand like a weapon and called shadow to his fingertips. It oozed from his skin and grew to encircle him lovingly, a cloak of darkness to ease his way.

There was only one thing left to do. To say.

For a moment, fear gripped him. He didn’t want to die. He had accepted his fate so easily before when Powageh had told him what must be. Even when Xiala had berated him aboard the barge, he had not wavered. But now, with the moment at hand, he wanted… different. He wanted to be Serapio. But he had not been Serapio since he was twelve. “A vessel,” he reminded himself. Not a person, not a man. A weapon. He forced himself to breath, letting the scent of his own blood fill his nose, his mouth. And the doubt passed through him, leaving him only resolve and purpose.

“I am the Odo Sedoh,” he whispered.

He felt himself fracture into a million pieces, felt the darkness suffuse him and break him apart and put him back together in his true form. He screamed, euphoric, and the world trembled at his coming.

The crowd below him had stopped singing, and he sensed more than saw their confusion. Confusion turned to terror as the Odo Sedoh moved among them and began his slaughter.

He swung his staff, and bone shattered bone. Movement to his right, and he ducked and turned, shifting the staff to one hand and sweeping it wide, taking men off their feet. He brought the staff up, and it connected with soft tissue. He pulled back, then jabbed forward, and the softness collapsed into a slick wetness. A woman screamed as she fell.

More came, and he took them down. The shadow around him expanded, and where it touched the dead, it fed, leaving only ash and bone in its wake.

He could smell their fear now, hear their too-quick panicked breaths and the quiver of terrified hands that held weapons that would not save them. He grinned, drinking in their terror, and a dark satisfaction filled his heart.

The clans scattered. He let them go, his focus only on the priesthood.

The Knives came for him. Once they were close enough, he dropped his staff and drew his own knives.

They fought, the tsiyo striking like a pack of wild dogs, trying to bring him down in pieces. But he knew their methods and their poison blades and anticipated each attack. He was too fast, too unpredictable. He became a whirlwind. Untouchable. Unknowable. Inevitable in his destruction.

He slew them all.

He slit the throat of the priest in white, and she collapsed, striking her head against the rocks.

He sliced the black-masked priest across the back of his knees when he tried to run, and then climbed his back to punch his blade into his skull in quick succession until he stopped moving.

The Priest of Knives fought the hardest, and for a moment, he was pushed back, but then he called the shadow to his hand as he had once long ago and threw it. The Knife stumbled, blinded. He kicked the priest in the chest, sending them tumbling. He ran, sliding on his knees to come in low enough that the Knife had barely recovered when he tore his blades through the priest’s belly, opening it hip to hip.

At last there was only the Sun Priest.

He imagined what the priest must see before him. The crow god come to avenge his children, his teeth red and cheeks and hair stained with blood. His body carved with remembrance and his eyes endless pools of shadow.

The priest ripped the mask from his face, his brown eyes wide with terror. He said words, but they were unimportant. He cried out, but there was no one alive on the Rock to hear.

“My old enemy,” the Odo Sedoh whispered in his voice of a thousand wings. “I have waited a long time for my revenge. Forgive me if I savor it.” He breathed deep, the pleasing smell of death filling his nose. The dark satisfaction that had bloomed before, now flowered in its fullness. He could not keep the wide smile from his face.