Suns of the Division by Alexandria Burnham

Suns of the Division

Tales From Netherün is a free online fantasy magazine where every story is set in a shared world. If you enjoy this story and want to read more visit www.quillandread.com

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Moji was fit to burst with happiness. To be still was to deny the shake and shiver of joy. The only time he was quiet was during prayer.

The Arvore thrummed with life this morning. Moji wished he'd met his home when she was still a sapling, but he was fourteen, and the tree was older than the lumbering giants of the deserts, or the sea-dwelling behemoths. Hers was a millennia-long persistent reach for the sun as her deepening embrace thickened in Netherün's soil. From simple tree to mountain's envy, the Arvore was taller than many cities were wide, her branches the colossal bark-paved roads that supported entire town districts. No, he did not regret missing her time as a sapling: only delight that his life now overlapped with hers.

Kneeling, forehead pressed to her bark, Moji was momentarily lost in the warmth seeded beneath his skin: a tingling sensation he'd always associated with happiness. It filled him until he couldn't keep the smile from his lips. He greeted the tree and it greeted him back.

A chime tolled, signalling the end of prayer. Moji sat, ending his conversation with his city, his home. He rocked back on his heels with an excitement that could not be contained. Rubbing furiously at his eyes, he brushed back his golden curls.

'Rise, diviners,' the journeyman called to his congregation. 'It's time we measure.'

Moji sprang up and his bright yellow robe belled around him. The other diviners rose. They were acolytes of the Division, all around his age, dressed in the same cone-shaped cloaks. Buttoned tight above the shoulders, the distinctive cloaks fanned out, forming a wide circle around their bare feet. With hoods up, they made a parade of triangle silhouettes who bobbed merrily through any crowd. To the city, they were known as diviners. Among themselves, they preferred to be called "suns of the Division". It was one of Moji's favourite puns, which said a lot, because he knew a lot of puns.

The suns followed their orange-clad journeyman up the winding steps to the sanctuary. He'd assign their daily tasks, just as his red-cloaked master had commanded him, and above them, the rarely seen white archmasters who were at the centre of the Division. Moji shivered to imagine himself one-day promoted to wear a different colour. It was an honour to serve the Arvore, for the Division's sole existence was dedicated to keeping their tree happy.

Reaching a natural crevasse, the journeyman waved his congregation into the dim, earthly inlays. Moji was short for his age (he was sure he would grow when the Arvore chose him) but even he had to duck to scramble through the opening. Some moved to collect hand-held lanterns. Moji instead joined a tight circle of chatter.

'That's so cool! When did you notice?' a girl asked in an excited whisper.

'Just last night,' a taller boy replied. He showed his arm to the huddle, his cloak pushed back to expose skin. Or what should've been skin. At first, Moji thought he was looking at snake scales climbing up the boy's forearm. But as more lanterns were lit he realised it was bark. The Arvore had bestowed this boy with the honour of sharing her form.

Moji rubbed his forearms beneath his sleeves and felt only the soft, bland skin he'd been born with. Before envy could arise, he squashed it with glee. In this city, and especially within the sanctuary, Moji would project only positive emotions for the Arvore to absorb.

'That's amazing,' Moji said, teetering on his tiptoes for a better look.

The tall boy turned a careful eye on him, then a grin shone from beneath his hood.