Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(13)
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 matron 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.
But the ugly truth was that the brutality had had the desired effect. It had humbled Carrion Crow, setting the clan back generations and driving the worship of their old god underground. Until recently, at least, when rumors of the cult’s resurgence had been heard.
“Ah, here now! We approach the Great House,” Haisan said as they reached a wide avenue that branched to the south. “Let us see if the clan matron greets us or not.”
The first test, Naranpa thought. If Carrion Crow doesn’t come to acknowledge our procession, it will be a humiliation and a sure sign that we are in fact enemies. But to Naranpa’s great relief, the matron of Carrion Crow waited before them.
Yatliza was tall and painfully thin. She wore a long black sheath dress of panther skin. A lustrous cape of crow feathers fell elegantly from her shoulders to the ground, and around her neck, a collar of rare red macaw feathers framed a regal face. Her hair was loose down her back and adorned with bits of mica that caught the morning light. For a moment Naranpa felt that old intimidation of the Sky Made stir in her once again. How could you look upon a woman like this and not think her better than you, something that came from another world, perhaps the stars themselves?
But you were chosen, Naranpa reminded herself. The Sky Made clans may be composed of queens, but Kiutue believed you were the future of the Watchers. Without you, there is no peace and their queendoms crumble. Do not forget!
But it was hard to remember, painful even. She could almost feel the other priests judging her. Haisan’s concern that she was disturbing the order of things, Abah’s thinly veiled disdain, Iktan… well, Iktan was her friend and would not judge her, but she sometimes wondered if xe thought she was in over her head but would not say it.
A few rote words of welcome and honor were exchanged, Naranpa managed it well enough, she thought, and then the procession was on its way again, headed to the next district.
Eagerly, they crossed the short bridge into Kun and left the black buildings and black looks of Odo behind.
By then the sun had risen in earnest and the morning frost had all but disappeared, making for a crisp but not miserable morning. As if sensing their western neighbors had not given the priestly procession an enthusiastic welcome, the district of Kun and clan Winged Serpent came out in earnest. The moment their feet left the bridge, a great cheer rose from the gathered crowd. Haisan made an approving sound, and Abah laughed, delighted. Naranpa felt a surge of gratitude and returned the appreciative nods of her fellow priests. Perhaps now they would think her idea not so foolish after all.
She turned to Iktan, but xe was silent behind xir mask. All around them, citizens shouted their support of the priesthood, waving green ribbons or dancing in rhythm to their processional drum, tiny bells jingling at their knees. It was a festival after Odo’s funeral march.