Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(21)

The crow turned back toward the boat. And Serapio saw her.

She was striking, hair the color of plums that trailed to her waist in thick coils. Skin brown and smooth and face wide and attractive, but her mouth was flattened to a thin line in what looked like rage, and something roiled from her body that pulsed with energy, wound and waiting. It was so real, so alive, he could almost hear it. A song like the echo caught in a seashell one of his tutors had brought him from his coastal travels, or the shimmer of a rainbow after a summer rain, tangled between the hills of the valley where he grew up.

He sent his host circling closer, curious to know more.

The woman turned, tilting her head up to look at his crow. Serapio caught a glimpse of her eyes. White sclera, but her irises were a swirl of colors, like various paints stirred in a pot. Teek, he thought, just like from the children’s stories, before she whistled sharply.

His crow pulled up at the sound, squawking a sharp retort. A flap of black feathers and a cry of surprise, and Serapio was expelled from his host. He rocked back in the chair, gasping. He pressed a hand to his ear. It was wet. He dabbed at it gingerly and touched the liquid to the tip of his tongue. Blood. Somehow she had not only thrown him from the crow but had followed his connection back and made him bleed.

He laughed, breathless with surprise. He had never felt anything like it.

He forced his breathing to slow, but his mind was still bright with possibility. How had she done that? Cast him out of his own creature? It was a useful thing to know, if only to make sure it never happened again.

He wiped his face clean with the edge of his black robe and adjusted the blindfold that covered the stitched flesh that sealed his eyes shut.

More shouting, but this time is was an all clear, and men were hauling ropes aboard while paddles dipped into the sea. They were moving. The star pollen was still in his veins, and he thought about seeking out another crow so he could watch the great ship leave Cuecola, so he could glimpse the path before him, but he decided against it. There would be plenty of time in the coming days to see the sea and get to know the crew. And the captain.





CHAPTER 8




THE OBREGI MOUNTAINS

YEAR 317 OF THE SUN

(8 YEARS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)

It is said that crows can remember the faces of men who hurt them and do not forgive. They will carry a grudge against their tormentor until their deaths and pass on their resentment to their children. It is how they survive.

—From Observations on Crows, by Saaya, age thirteen



The boy sat cross-legged on the wide stone terrace, his thin body nestled among the crows. There were at least a dozen of the large black birds around him, pecking and squawking and turning their heads this way and that. One perched on a bony knee, another on his jutting shoulder. Three fought for place on his outstretched arm, eating scraps from his cupped hand.

He murmured words to them, bare whispers of his own loneliness, apologies of how little food he had to share with them intermixed with confessions of his own gnawing hunger, soft inquiries about the larger world outside his room and what it was like. The crows answered, telling him of how the snow was growing deep on the nearby mountains and how the cold winds rattled through their nests and how the sun weakened and the nights lengthened.

He held his free hand out as a large, broad-chested crow with a notched beak and a sleek sheen of feathers dropped something that glinted in the morning sun into the boy’s palm. The boy ran a thumb across it, feeling for the shape and size of it. He hefted it a few times in his hand and smiled. Pleased with the gift, he added it to the small pile of treasures he had already collected that morning.

“Is it always this way?” a voice asked from behind him.

The boy stiffened. A stranger had spoken. He didn’t receive many visitors. In fact, besides his father’s weekly visits, he rarely had any company at all beyond the servants and the guard who stood outside his door.

“Yes,” said a second voice.

The boy tensed, nostrils flaring. That voice he recognized.

“He prefers to sit outside with the birds,” the second voice continued, something bitter in the tone. “I thought to forbid it after—”

“No, don’t. Do nothing,” the stranger said quickly. “I’ll talk to him now. Alone.”

“I cannot leave you alone with… the boy.”

The boy. Not my son. Serapio’s fist clenched, anger and shame warring inside him. His father left him alone all the time. Why would now make any difference?

“Lord Marcal,” said the stranger, voice patient, “I am here to help your son. Do you not trust that?”

“I’m not worried you will hurt him,” his father said, voice dropped to a whisper that he no doubt thought Serapio couldn’t hear. “I am concerned he will hurt you. He is… unnatural.”

“He is a child.”

“Fourteen. Not so young. And perhaps you don’t understand. Loss of sight is not his only affliction…”

“I understand enough. Now, let me work.”

His father hesitated and then said, “I will leave a guard by the door. Call for him should you need anything. I’ll be back after my duties to check on you.”

“It won’t be necessary.”

“I… well, if you are sure…”

“Quite.”