Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(96)

“A cultist.”

“The uncle told me of the Odohaa,” Serapio said, voice thoughtful. “He said they pray for the return of the crow god. That there is a prophecy they follow that says their god will return and free them from the rule of the Watchers and restore Carrion Crow to glory.”

She snorted. “I never much cared for prophecies and destinies myself. I prefer a clean slate in life, a woman’s fate up to herself, not the sayings of old men and dusty scrolls. Besides, prophecies always have a way of going wrong, don’t they? They promise you a savior, but that savior ends up eating babies or kicking puppies or something, and the poor gull who’s the prophesied one always ends up dead. Besides…” She thought of her old crew and the dozens of crews she’d had through the years. “Prophecies are a breeding ground for opportunists. An excuse for bad behavior. Can’t trust them.” She rubbed her pinkie joint against the finger next to it. “They’ll steal your very bones for a chance at destiny.”

He had been working steadily as she spoke, but now he paused. “I don’t think you understand, Xiala.”

“Understand what?”

He was quiet for a while, but then he resumed working, deft hands on the wood, creating form from nothing. “I am the fulfillment of their prophecy.”

Her first reaction was to laugh. Prophecies didn’t like bedtime stories or let you borrow their extra undergarments. Prophecies didn’t speak terrible Cuecolan and not know how to eat a damn fish. And they certainly didn’t cuddle with you when you’d had too much to drink and were feeling sorry for yourself. But they did talk to birds and reek of magic and, stars and sky, make the sun fear them.

“Mother waters,” she murmured. “You’re serious.”

He nodded.

“But… how? Are you… you’re just a man! I thought prophecies required children of gods born to mortal women or something.”

“Gods can be made in other ways,” he said quietly. He worked the wood, hands never stopping. “Raw materials can be found and shaped, molded into a form that can contain a god.”

“What does it mean, Serapio? That you’re a god? What is a god? I don’t understand.”

“It is said that thousands of years ago our world was once populated with gods. They are our ancestors. But there was a great war, the God War, and many were killed. Those who were not killed in the war began to die anyway. Some say they were overcome with regret and withered, others say they lived, but they grew lonely and went into the far north, never to be seen again. And still others say they returned to the sky, which was their home before they came to earth. Wherever their blood was spilled or their bodies lay, great wonders happened. Mountain ranges burst from flat lands, rivers gushed water like divine blood, stars were born in cataclysm. And in everything, they left bits of their power—the sun and stars, the creatures of earth and air, the very rocks and rivers and seas. Once humans discovered that the objects, places, and creatures around them held power, they began to manipulate them for their own desires. Many societies call that witchcraft, pulling power from one source and putting it into another, usually an object for your own use like an amulet or a potion. The sorcery of the Cuecolans and the southern coasts is similar, only they also complement the power transfer through blood and sacrifice to achieve ends that witchcraft could not fathom. The priests reject it all, saying that their study of the sun and stars is reason and not magic, but my old tutor believed it was not always so for them and the priests have only forgotten their magic.”

It was all over Xiala’s head, unfamiliar and, frankly, unwanted knowledge. But there was one thing she had to know. “And which are you?” she asked, voice a soft whisper.

“I am something else, although sorcery was used in my making. I am an avatar of a god. I am the object, the vessel, that contains the power, but unlike the sun or a stone or the sea, I am, as you say, a man. But not just a man, Xiala. Don’t make that mistake.” His head came up, his shuttered eyes meeting hers with unnerving accuracy. “I am also a god.”

She shivered. Heard the beating of wings in his voice, remembered the feel of his magic, his power.

“I believe you,” she said simply.

“Then you know why this bargeman and the Odohaa are interested in me. And why I must go to Tova and confront the Sun Priest.”

Confront the Sun Priest. But that’s not what he had said earlier, what the Odohaa wanted. “You mean kill the Sun Priest,” she ventured. “You said you had a meeting with the Watchers, but what you meant was you are going there to kill them.”

He nodded.

“Mother waters, Serapio, the whole priesthood?”

“They are a blight upon this world. They would destroy all the gods if they could.”

“But there must be a hundred, maybe more. You can’t kill a hundred people!”

“You have not seen my power manifest,” he said. “Not truly. What I did to save you on the ship was but the smallest glimpse of what I contain. I am not afraid.”

She had meant that it would be wrong to slaughter a hundred people, not that it was beyond his ability. She had wondered if he was hero or villain on the ship after the crows had come, and she wondered it again, now. And then something else occurred to her.

“So you’re the one prophesied?”