—“On the Responsibility of the Watchers,” from the signing of the Treaty of Hokaia and the investiture of the Sun Priest, Year 1 of the Sun
Naranpa had forced the priesthood to gather at the foot of the bridge to Odo at sunrise, and no one was happy about it. She could hear the grumbling and the foul-mouthed cursing, unseemly for such a gathering. Someone was complaining that there was no hot breakfast, and how were they supposed to walk the length of the city with no hot breakfast? She wanted to smack them. Or at least yell at them to toughen up. The Shuttering was supposed to begin tomorrow, twenty days of fasting and penance to prepare the way for the return of the sun upon the winter solstice. How did these dedicants think they would survive Shuttering if they were whining about not getting breakfast?
“It will be a wonder the sun wants to return at all with all this complaining,” she said under her breath, loud enough for immediate company to hear, but no one else.
To be fair, the morning had dawned bitter cold, a sure sign the winter solstice was only days away. Priests and dedicants alike had donned fur cloaks and wool leggings in addition to their priestly vestments. They had even traded sandals for cured-hide boots. Even so, Naranpa had no doubt that by the end of the day, they would all be frozen as solid as one of the icicles that dangled from the top of the celestial tower.
Still not a reason to complain. There was nobility in suffering. It built character. Or at least she hoped it did. She supposed they would all find out soon enough.
“This procession is a fine idea, Naranpa,” Haisan said good-naturedly as he joined Naranpa at the head of the gathered group. “Let us hope for a good showing from the Sky Made for the Day of Shuttering.”
“Your mask, Haisan,” Naranpa reminded the old priest. At least he was trying. He was ta dissa—the head of the historical records society—which made him a scholar and respected, but he was sometimes forgetful about the practical things.
“Oh!” Haisan patted the pockets of his robe, becoming increasingly distressed, until he finally reached under the folds of the great bearskin he wore and produced a black mask, tiny pinpricks of stars dotting the forehead and cheeks. With a small embarrassed smile, he pulled it over his face.
She cast a quick glance at her other two priestly companions. Abah, who was seegi and head of the healing society, and Iktan who was tsiyo, a knife, and head of that society. Both were masked and waiting, Abah in her white mantle and matching dress and furs and Iktan in a mask of solid red and a long skirt, both the color of sunset and the brightness of new blood.
Naranpa was hawaa, head of the oracle society. Her own mask was the sun, as vividly yellow as the belted dress she wore under her fur-lined dawn cloak. The mask was a mosaic made of long thin bars of gold, complemented by slim fingers of hammered metal radiating out like sunlight from shoulder to shoulder. She wore it with honor, always, but today with a sense of dread, too.
“I still don’t see why we have to do this,” Abah said, leaning close to whisper to Iktan, but Naranpa heard her all the same. Abah was young, the youngest of all four of them. She had risen to the head of her society when her mentor had unexpectedly died last spring. Naranpa had risen a few months after her for the same reason, but she was at least fifteen years older than the girl. Which meant at least a dozen years more experience, even if Abah had been granted her status before her.
“We do this to show the city that the priesthood is still here,” Naranpa said, her face still forward. She didn’t turn to see, and couldn’t have said for certain because of her mask, but she was sure Abah was shooting murderous looks at her back.
“They know we’re here, Nara,” the younger woman replied, a note of irritation in her voice. “They pay tithes, don’t they? Make offerings on holy days? Send their young from across the Meridian continent to train for the priesthood?”
“And they resent it.” Now she did turn to face the other priest. “I want to show them we are not some shriveled-up old penitents in a tower, but a living breathing part of this city. That we are accessible. That we care.”
“Oh,” Haisan said, alarmed. “Is that wise? I mean, it’s very radical, Naranpa. The priesthood has never paraded itself for the city like this. They come to us, not vice versa. Frankly, things seem to be working fine the way they are.”
“You just said this was a good idea, Haisan,” Naranpa reminded him gently.
“Oh, yes. Well, a morning walk. The rest, I’m not so sure.”
“I’m sure,” Abah said through chattering teeth. “And I say, why change what is not broken?”
But it is broken! Naranpa wanted to protest. Else, why fewer and fewer dedicants at their door each year despite the treaty requirements? Why fewer and fewer calls to draw star charts for births and deaths and weddings? Why the rumors of unsanctioned magic in the lower quarters of the city? The growth of cultists to the old gods that they could never quite eradicate? Why did it only seem like the elites of the Sky Made bothered with the priesthood anymore at all, and even their respect seemed sporadic and self-serving?
“We voted on this, Abah,” she said, “and you agreed.”
The younger woman huffed. “That was weeks ago. I had no idea it would be this cold.” She tilted her head toward Naranpa, a sly motion even with her face hidden behind her mask. “If I’m honest, I agreed on a whim, Nara. An indulgence, even, for your sake. I’ve always thought this procession a terrible idea.”
“Of course you did,” Naranpa said smoothly, not taking the seegi’s bait. “But it’s too late to withdraw now. Look, here’s the drum and smoke.”
Abah muttered something unkind that Naranpa couldn’t quite hear. She let it go. She had won despite what Abah might say now, and she allowed herself to savor the victory. It had not been an easy thing to rally the priesthood’s societies to process through the city. She was determined to enjoy it while she could.
The drummer, a woman dressed in the pale blue of first light, stepped forward to set the rhythm. The man beside her, also wearing the same blue, lit the cedar and coaxed it to smoking. Naranpa breathed a sigh of relief as they led them away.
The four priests walked in a horizontal line behind the drum and smoke with their dedicants, counting forty-eight for each, trailing in single-file lines behind them like the tails of falling stars.
As they crossed the bridge into Odo, Naranpa marveled at the view of her beloved city. Tova at dawn was always a sight to behold. Its sheer cliffs were wreathed in mist and its famed woven bridges blanketed in frost, the dawn light making everything glow, ethereal and otherworldly. Behind her she knew the celestial tower stood, ever vigilant, its six stories rising from a small freestanding mesa separated from the rest of the city by bridges. In it lived the priests, dedicants, and a small contingent of live-in servants. It also included a library of maps and paper scrolls, a terrace where they all ate meals together, and, on the rooftop, a large circular observatory open to the night sky.
Home, she thought. A home she loved, even if she wasn’t always sure she belonged. But that was the Maw talking, making her feel unworthy. The voice in her head that reminded her that she was the only Sun Priest in recorded memory who was not from a Sky Made clan. Because while any child of the Treaty lands was welcome at the tower, the heads of the societies traditionally came from the Sky Made clans of Tova. Her mentor, Kiutue, had raised her up as his successor with no small controversy. But there was no rule against her beyond tradition, so it was allowed, but it was not liked.