Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(95)

“That’s not necessary. As long as we’re in Tova before the solstice.”

Aishe tapped Xiala on the arm. “There’s not much to do on the barge but talk to each other and drink, but we do have some games. Do you gamble?”

“There’s fishing,” Zash added. “And there’s nothing so calming as sitting and watching the world go by.”

“In the rain?” Tyode complained.

“Sit under the eaves, you dolt.”

“I wouldn’t mind a game or two,” Xiala said. “Win back our travel costs.”

“Ho!” Zash said, laughing. “You think you’re good?”

“At dice?”

“Game’s patol,” he said. “We invented it, you know. The official game of Tova.”

“Well, allow me to beat you at your official game,” she said with a smile.

That made them all laugh. Tyode rushed off to get the board and dice.

Serapio made to leave, and Xiala rested a hand on his arm. “You all right?” she asked. “It’s okay if I stay and play?”

“Of course. I’m only going to rest. I’ll be next door.”

She pressed her lips together, wanting to say more but not in front of strangers. She settled on “I’ll be over later.”

And then Tyode was back with the game, and they were setting the board and shouting about rules and antes, and Xiala was swept up in the laughter and joy. By the time she had chosen her game piece, the uncle and Serapio were gone.



* * *



Xiala stumbled into their shared room near sunset to find Serapio sitting on the bed they had slept in the night before, a knife in his hand. She dumped a handful of cacao on the table in the middle of the room and dropped down on the nearby bench, smiling triumphantly.

Serapio raised his head.

“You won?”

“My share and then some,” she declared. “Also got some clothes that weren’t made for an adolescent boy.” She thumbed the crimson fringe that edged her new white shirt. “Never play a sailor in a game of luck. We’re favored by the odds.”

“Callo wouldn’t think so,” he said.

She deflated, her good mood marred at the thought. An hour into their play, Zash had opened a barrel of balché, and she’d drunk with them. It had been the best time she’d had in months, and for a while she’d forgotten about their trials on the Crescent Sea.

She sighed, tugging a hand through her long hair. She leaned back against the table. “What have you got there?”

Serapio held up his hands to show her. “A carving.”

She raised skeptical eyebrows. “You carve wood?”

He nodded.

“Another talent. First fighting, now woodcarving. Who are you?” She meant it lightly, as a tease, but it came out darker than that.

“It’s a skill I learned as a teenager,” he said. “I was a difficult child. Lost in my own world and admittedly unfocused. I had a tutor who taught me discipline through woodcarving.” He pressed his lips together, as if momentarily lost in thought. “He was not a kind man. He beat me to teach me a tolerance for pain. But he also taught me to make beautiful things, to work with my hands.” He held out his right hand to show her the piece he had been working on.

She took it. It was her. Well, not exactly her, but a creature of the sea with the upper body of a woman and the curving tail of a fish. He had rendered the individual scales in detail and was using his chisel now to draw long waves of hair so fine that they seemed to move.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, meaning it.

“It’s for you,” he said. “Once I’m done.”

“Why didn’t you carve on the ship?” she asked, curious. “All those days at sea and nothing.”

“No wood,” he said simply. An easy enough answer. “And what do you think of our hosts?”

She held the piece out, tapping it against his knee, and he took it back to finish. “Good people,” she said. “Likable. Familial. Not so great at their treasured game.” She laughed and ran a hand through her winnings.

“Do you trust them?”

“Enough,” she said. “The uncle less. He looks at you strangely, Serapio. He wants something from you.”

“I know.”

She glanced over, surprised. “Do you know what it is?”

“He’s Water Strider on his mother’s side, which determines his clan, but he told me his paternal grandfather was killed in the Night of Knives. He’s Carrion Crow.”

“So he’s family?”

“After a fashion.”

“What does he want?”

He took up the chisel again, his hands turning and carving as they spoke. The soft scrape of the wood being formed whispered through the room.

“Aishe told you of the cultists, as she called them. The Odohaa.”

“She didn’t tell me much. Just that they’re some kind of religious group that hates the Watchers. That’s the priests, right? The same ones you’re going there to meet.”

He nodded, hands still moving as he formed the wooden figurine.

“She said she thought you were one of them.”

“A priest?”