The Reckoning of Gifts

A junior cook brushes against the soup cauldron, hot, searing hot. He curses.

The kitchen noise strangles to horrified silence. Profanity is always dangerous here on temple grounds, and the danger is multiplied a thousandfold by the proximity of holy objects.

The cauldron holds the high priest’s soup.

A potboy screams out the door for an exorcist, but he knows it’s too late: the words have ripped the amniotic sac that protects our world from the chaos outside. Demons must be streaming in by the dozen, invisible demons who sniff once at the kitchen staff, then scatter in search of the tastier souls of the clergy. The potboy can almost see the demons—fanged, clawed, with naked female breasts—racing down the corridor, wiping their hands on the tapestries as they go by (the dyes fade, the threads ravel), pouring out into the herb garden to wither the foxgloves, to suck the soothing power from chamomile and the flavor from basil, then on across the courtyard, kicking a few cobblestones loose to trip passersby, pinching the horses of a bishop’s carriage, flying unseen past the warders and into the temple proper, where they will crumple scrolls, tarnish chalices, and set the bells to wild jangling. Novices in catechism class will stumble over words as the demons tempt them to remember sweet berry pies, gravied beef, and a score of other foods the holy must forswear; priests hearing confession will find themselves dreaming of the feel of sins, the satisfying crunch of a fist plunged into the face of a self-righteous parishioner or the excitement of commanding an adulteress to disrobe; and the high priest himself, Vasudheva, voice of the gods on earth, will be swarmed by demons, engulfed by them, demons raking their claws across his heart until it shreds into tatters tossed on the winds of desire.

The junior cook faints. Others pale and scatter their clothing with salt. But the Kitchen Master simply tells everyone to get back to work. He cuffs the potboy who called for help, a good solid clout on the ear that sends the boy staggering back against a chopping block.

“The lad’s too excitable,” the Kitchen Master tells the exorcist who appears in the doorway. “Sorry to trouble you. Nothing’s wrong.”

Vasudheva, voice of the gods on earth, kneels before the Twelvefold Altar. He is indeed surrounded by a frenzy of demons. When he kisses the feet of Tivi’s statue, he doesn’t think of the god’s power or wisdom; he thinks of the sensation of kissing, the soft pressure against his lips, the lingering contact, the ghost of sensation that remains as he slowly draws away. He longs to kiss the stone again, to kiss it over and over until his lips ache with bruising. His hand rises toward his mouth. He stops the movement in time, but in his imagination it continues, his fingers reaching his lips, caressing, stroking, flesh against flesh.

Vasudheva cannot remember what he has prayed for this past half hour. Certainly not the exorcism of his demons.

A month ago, the Assembly of Bishops assigned Vasudheva a new deacon named Bhismu…a young man of undistinguished family, chosen because he has no affiliation with the Assembly’s power blocs and can therefore be trusted not to exert undue influence on the high priest. Vasudheva also soon realized the young deacon wasn’t appointed for any notable intellect, piety, or even willingness to work.

Ah, but Bhismu was beautiful! Is beautiful!

His hair is a garden of soft black ringlets, his beard an effusion of delicate curls. Vasudheva’s hands long to entwine themselves, oh so gently, in those ringlets and curls, to braid, to weave, to stroke. He imagines threading his fingers through Bhismu’s beard, cupping the young man’s chin, gazing into those clear dark eyes as he leans forward and their lips meet….

Vasudheva dreams too of Bhismu’s hands, strong but fascinatingly dexterous when he played the reed-pipe at the Feast of the Starving Moon. Vasudheva was hypnotized by the confident rippling fingers. He thought of nothing else far into the night, until in the bleakness of morning, he wondered if he had eaten a single bite at the feast. Scripture said the moon would starve to death, disappear from the sky forever if the high priest hadn’t consumed enough on its behalf; but the moon survived, as did Vasudheva’s desires.

He has never prayed for those desires to abate. He cherishes them. He relishes them.

Tonight begins the Long Night Revelries, a week of feasting and celebration in the city of Cardis. Events include the Fool’s Reign, the Virgins’ Dance, and the Renewal of Hearth Fires from Tivi’s sacred flame, but first comes the Reckoning of Gifts in the temple’s outer hall.

It’s never a pleasant ceremony for the priests who officiate. The hall teems with unbathed commoners, men and women together, all clutching packages to their chests with fierce protectiveness. They jostle each other in the rush to receive blessings; they insult the Gifts of others and boast about their own. Every year fights break out, and sometimes a full-scale riot. Even if demons are loose tonight, it’s hard to imagine how they could add any more chaos to the usual commotion.

Vasudheva waits for Bhismu to escort him down to the hall. Not long ago, the high priest refused all help in getting around—though his quarters occupy the top of the temple’s highest tower, he would climb the stairs unaided several times a day, glaring at anyone who tried to assist. Now Vasudheva goes nowhere without Bhismu’s strong supporting arm. He clings to the young man with both hands and walks as slowly as possible.

Several powerful bishops have begun overt machinations to win support in the assembly, believing there will soon be an election for a new high priest. They are men of limited imagination; they think Vasudheva has become frail.

The bishops would like to influence which Gift is chosen from the dozens presented in the hall tonight. Power and prestige ride on the choice, not to mention a good deal of gold. The laws of Cardis stifle innovation—change threatens order, and order must be maintained. No one may create a new device, a new art, a new process…except in preparation for the Reckoning of Gifts. In the month before the Reckoning, creators may build their inventions. On the longest night of the year, they bring those Gifts to the temple; from the dozens offered, one Gift is chosen and accepted into orthodoxy, while the others become fuel for Tivi’s flame. The successful creator is feted in all quarters of the city, honored as a benefactor of the people and a servant of heaven. Unsuccessful ones have nothing to show but ashes.

Needless to say, competition is intense. Every guild sponsors some Gift to better their lot—a new type of horse hitch offered by the cart drivers, a new way to waterproof barrels offered by the coopers—and scores of individuals also bring their offerings, some of them coming back year after year. One family of fisherfolk has sent their eldest child to the Reckoning each year for more than a century; they claim to be able to teach needles how to point north and for some reason they think the gods will be pleased with such tricks. Not so. The gods have consistently shown themselves to be pleased with the Gift accompanied by the largest under-the-table offering to the high priest. The only variation from one year to the next is whether the secret offering is made in gold, in political influence, or in the adroitness of beautiful women.

This year, Vasudheva is sure the gods smile on a type of clasp offered by the silversmiths, a clasp more secure and easier to fasten than orthodox clasps. The silversmiths have provided the high priest with several samples of work that show the virtues of the clasp: a silver necklace whose pendant is the letter V studded with sapphires; a silver bracelet encrusted with alternating emeralds and amethysts; and a silver dagger and sheath, the dagger hilt glittering with fire-eye rubies and the sheath embroidered to show Tivi’s flame.

Schemers among the bishops try to sway the gods’ decision, and several believe they have succeeded…but the gods are in a mood to demonstrate they speak only through Vasudheva, while upstart bishops should devote themselves to prayer instead of powermongering.

A soft knock comes at the door and Bhismu is there. Vasudheva catches his breath, as he always does when Bhismu enters the room. Sometimes the high priest thinks he has two hearts in his chest: the withered heart of an old man and the bounding, pounding heart of a youth who feels the fever of love but not the complications. If he only has one heart, it must be attuned to the hearts around him—when he’s surrounded by crabbed and ambitious bishops, his heart shrivels; when Bhismu is near, his heart expands and expands until it’s as large as the sky.

Bhismu asks, “Are you ready to attend the ceremony, Your Holiness?”

“If they’re ready for me. Are things under control?”

“Father Amaran says we have encountered no more trouble than usual, but everyone feels a strong disquiet. There have been rumors of demons.”

“Rumors of demons are like mushrooms,” Vasudheva says. “They spring up overnight, and the peasants feed on them.”

He hopes Bhismu will laugh, but the young man only nods. He’s slow to recognize jokes. It’s a failing that can be overlooked.

They begin the long journey down the tower’s corkscrew stairs. A month ago, Vasudheva found it awkward to descend holding onto an arm instead of the balustrade. Now he’s completely comfortable with it. He doesn’t need to concentrate on his feet anymore; he can devote his full attention to the strength of Bhismu’s hands, the faint smell of his sweat, the beard so close it would take no effort at all to kiss.

“Have you ever been in love?” Vasudheva asks.

The young man’s thoughts seem to have been elsewhere. It takes him a moment to collect himself. “Love? I don’t know. A few times I wondered if I was in love, but it wasn’t like the minstrels say. It wasn’t intense. I’d spend time with a girl—this was before I was ordained, of course—I’d spend time and I’d feel very fond and I’d wonder, am I in love? But my father was determined I would enter the priesthood, and if he saw me becoming attached to someone, he ordered me to give her up. And I did. I always did. So I guess it wasn’t love. If it really had been love, I wouldn’t have…I don’t know. It’s wrong to disobey your father, but if I’d really been in love…I don’t know.”

“So you’ve never had strong feelings for a woman?” Vasudheva asks. He is very close to Bhismu; his breath stirs wisps of the young man’s hair.

“Not as strong as love. Not as strong as love should be.”

“Have you ever had strong feelings for anyone?”

“I don’t understand. You mean my family? Of course I love my family. You’re supposed to love your family.”

Vasudheva doesn’t press the matter. It took him forty years to rise from an acolyte in the most crime-ridden quarter of Cardis to the supreme office of high priest. He has learned how to bide his time.

But Bhismu’s beard curls invitingly. Vasudheva’s demons will not wait forever.

Bishops lounge on divans in the vestry that’s adjacent to the outer hall. Each wants a whispered word with the high priest; each wants to overhear the other whispers. Vasudheva forestalls their jockeying for position by sweeping past them and throwing open the thick outer door.

Screams. Shouts. Feet stamping and glass breaking.

On a night so rife with demons, the riot is no surprise to anyone.

The door opens onto the front of the room; the stampede is surging toward the public entrance at the rear. That’s why Vasudheva isn’t crushed instantly. The only people nearby are two men grappling with each other, one dressed in velvet finery, the other in bloodstained buckskins, each trying to dig fingers into his opponent’s eyes. Here and there within the crowd other fistfights thump and bellow, but most people are simply trying to get out, to escape the trampling mob.

Things crunch under their feet. They could be Gifts dropped in the panic; they could be bones. No one looks down to see.

Vasudheva stands frozen in the doorway. A priest staggers up to him from the hall, squeezes roughly past into the refuge of the vestry, and cries, “Close the door, close the door!” He bleeds from a gash on his forehead.

Behind the priest comes a woman, doing her best to walk steadily though her clothes hang in shreds and blood oozes from wounds all over her body. Where her arms should be, she has wings. Wings. Vasudheva steps aside for her to pass, his mind struck numb as a sleepwalker’s. Bhismu drags both the woman and the high priest back into the vestry, and slams the door shut.

The noise of the riot vanishes. There is only the whimpering of the injured priest, and the heavy breathing of several bishops whose fear makes them pant like runners.

“Sit down, sit down,” Bhismu says. Vasudheva turns, but Bhismu is holding out a chair to the woman. Who shouldn’t even be here—women are forbidden to enter the temple beyond the outer hall.

She’s a Northerner, her hair black and braided, her skin the color of tanned deerhide…young, in her twenties. Bhismu’s age. Vasudheva can’t believe anyone would find her attractive—she’s too tall and bony, and her nose is crooked, as if it was broken, then set haphazardly.

Vasudheva keeps his eyes off the wings. There’s no doubt they’re beautiful, exquisite—slim as a swift’s, abundant with feathers. For a moment, Vasudheva has a vision of the bird kingdom parading past this woman, each presenting feathers for these wings: eagles clawing out sharp brown pinions, hummingbirds poking their beaks into their chests to pluck soft down the color of blood; and crows, doves, finches, jays, each offering their gifts until the woman faces a heap of feathers taller than her head, and still the birds come, geese, falcons, owls, wrens, adding to the motley pile, all colors, all sizes, herons, plovers, swallows, larks, all bowing down like supplicants before an angel.

Vasudheva shakes his head angrily. A high priest can’t afford to indulge his imagination. This is no angel. This is just some woman from a tribe of savages. She killed a lot of birds, sewed their feathers into wings, then brought those wings to the Reckoning. No doubt she started the riot in the first place. Pretending to be an angel is blasphemy; the people must have attacked in outrage as she came forward for blessing.

Bhismu kneels beside her and dabs the hem of his sleeve at a wound on her cheek. He smiles warmly at her and murmurs soft encouragements: “This one doesn’t look bad, this one’s deeper, but it’s clean….”

Vasudheva finds the expression on Bhismu’s face unbecoming. Must he simper so? “You can help her more by getting a proper Healer,” the high priest tells him. “The sooner the better. Now.”

Reluctantly, Bhismu rises. For some moments, he stands like a man bewitched, gazing at the specks of blood that mar the whiteness of his sleeve. “Now,” Vasudheva repeats. Suddenly the bewitchment lifts and Bhismu sprints out of the vestry, off down the corridor.

“We must make the woman go back to the hall,” says a voice at Vasudheva’s ear. “She shouldn’t be in this part of the temple.”

The words echo the high priest’s thoughts. When he turns, however, he sees the speaker is Bishop Niravati, a man who loves to wield his piety like a bludgeon. Niravati has always been too quick to proclaim right and wrong; he conducts himself as if he were the voice of the gods on earth.

“She may stay as long as necessary,” Vasudheva says. Bishops must never forget who makes the decisions in this temple. “Sending her back to the hall now would be close to murder. And she’s injured. Tivi commands us to minister to the sick, Niravati; did you skip catechism class the day that was discussed?”

Several other bishops chuckle. Good. Niravati will note who they are and later take revenge. Vasudheva foments feuds among the bishops whenever possible: dividing one’s opponents is useful. And entertaining.

The woman has watched this interchange with no expression on her face. Perhaps she’s in shock…but she gives the impression of understanding it all and simply not caring. For a baseborn woman, she’s remarkably unmoved being surrounded by the highest patriarchs of the faith. “What’s your name?” Vasudheva asks her.

“Hakkoia.”

“From a Northerner tribe?”

“From the Bleached Mountains.”

Vasudheva doesn’t know if this denotes a specific tribe or merely a place—his knowledge of the world outside Cardis begins and ends with the names of the bishoprics. “What happened in the hall?” he asks.

“There were fights. People threw things at me.” She wipes blood from her chin.

“Why did they throw things?”

“It was demons!” the injured priest bursts out. Father Amaran. He’s been huddling on a divan, hugging himself as if cold, but now he leaps to his feet and begins to babble. “Down in the kitchens…I can’t get a straight story out of anyone but at confession…demons, they’ve released demons. In the soup.”

Even Niravati drops his eyes in embarrassment. It’s one thing for a priest to rail about demons to the laity, quite another to bring up the subject among peers. Vasudheva envisions Amaran dying years from now as a workaday priest in some remote parish, and being able to put his finger on the exact moment when he destroyed his career.

“I saw no demons,” Hakkoia says in the silence that follows Amaran’s gaffe. “I saw a man who was jealous of my wings. A man in the crowd—I don’t know who he was. He wore fine clothes but his gift was petty and small. He stirred the others to attack me.”

“Demons are deceitful,” Vasudheva says lightly. “The man may have been a demon in disguise. Or someone possessed by demons.” The high priest has no intention of asking Hakkoia to identify the man who attacked her. If he wore fine clothes, he was probably a noble or the representative of a guild. Arresting such a man would have repercussions. Besides, everyone could feel the tension in the air tonight. The riot was inevitable, and assigning blame is beside the point. “Niravati,” he says, “help this woman take off those wings. She’ll be more comfortable without them.”

Hakkoia looks miserable as the wings are removed. But she says nothing.

Soon Bhismu arrives with old Lharksha, teacher of Healing to three generations of acolytes. Lharksha’s silver hair is wildly tangled, and his bleary eyes blink as if he’s just been roused from a deep sleep. Vasudheva can’t remember Lharksha ever looking otherwise; day or night, the man always seems freshly rumpled.

“Lharksha…” Father Amaran begins, stepping forward and lifting his hand to the cut in his forehead. But Bhismu pulls the Healer onward to the woman and begins to inventory her wounds. Amaran looks as if he is going to demand attention; but then he subsides and slumps back onto the nearest divan.

The Healer says little as he examines Hakkoia: “Does this hurt? Lift your arm, please. Can you lift it higher? Does it hurt?” Hakkoia answers his questions in monosyllables. When Lharksha asks if something hurts, she always says no.

The others in the room say nothing. They watch avidly as Lharksha prods Hakkoia’s body and smears salve on her skin. The shredded remains of her clothes are discarded; sometimes they have to be cut away with scissors when the blood has crusted them in place. The men watch. Bit by bit, her body is stripped, cleaned, clothed again with crisp white bandages. The men make no sound, except for occasionally clearing their throats.

Vasudheva watches himself watching her. He’s no stranger to the bodies of women—women are frequently offered to him as bribes. Hakkoia doesn’t compare to the professional beauties he’s seen, and he can view her with dispassionate appraisal. The bishops, on the other hand…Vasudheva looks around at the hunger on their faces and chuckles inwardly. Niravati is unconsciously licking his lips. Bishops aren’t bribed as often as the high priest.

Vasudheva turns toward Bhismu and sees the young man has averted his eyes.

In that moment, Vasudheva realizes Bhismu is lost. The realization is a prickly heat that crinkles up through Vasudheva’s shoulders and leaves his ears burning. He felt this way fifty years ago when he was caught stealing a coin from the poor box. It’s a feeling of guilt and pure animal desperation, the piercing desire to reverse time and erase the past few minutes.

Bhismu is in love with Hakkoia. Why else wouldn’t he look? A healthy young man should relish the opportunity to see a woman naked. Even if he’s zealously trying to live up to a deacon’s vows, he should peek from time to time or at least show signs of temptation. But not Bhismu. His face shows neither lust nor the struggle against lust.

Bhismu in love…Vasudheva averts his eyes.

“The woman may stay the night in this room,” Vasudheva says, breaking the silence. Heads turn sharply toward him. “When the trouble dies down next door, collect any Gifts that are intact and arrange them at the front of the hall. Clear out the broken ones and throw them on Tivi’s flame. If there have been deaths, save the bodies; I’ll give them public blessing before we return them to their next of kin. In the morning. I’ll judge the Gifts in the morning too. Everything in the morning.” He holds out his arm. “Bhismu, take me back to my chambers.”

Bhismu is reluctant to leave. As he leads the high priest away, the young man keeps glancing at Hakkoia back over his shoulder. Vasudheva thinks, Now he looks. Couldn’t he have looked before?

Bhismu’s body is still warm, his bearded cheek still inviting, but the high priest takes no pleasure in holding the young man’s arm. Vasudheva needs no human escort; he is escorted by his demons who bear him up, quicken his stride, carry him along.

Vasudheva can’t sleep. He paces around his desk, arguing with himself. Is Bhismu really in love? Could it just be some kind of chivalrous arousal, a reaction to the sight of a young woman in trouble? And why should a high priest be so concerned about a nobody like Bhismu? Bhismu has no brain, no political power; he’s just a beard that begs to be kissed. A pretty trinket, nothing more. A high priest can’t let himself get distracted by trifles.

But Vasudheva pictures Hakkoia dying. Not dying with a knife in the throat, or choking from poison, or strangling by garrote, just…dying.

Vasudheva imagines the wings burning in Tivi’s flame. They will sputter and crackle at first, then catch fire with a roar. The smell will be hideous.

Destroying the wings will be nearly as good as killing the woman herself, but entirely free of blame. He can imagine the look on her face as she sees the wings burn.

Sometime after midnight, Vasudheva opens the secret drawer of his desk and takes out the presents from the silversmiths. All three are exquisite, but he may have to part with one. In order for the guild’s clasp to be accepted by the gods, there must be a sample downstairs in the hall. If the riot destroyed the original sample, Vasudheva must supply a new one.

Wistfully, Vasudheva toys with the necklace, the bracelet, the dagger. It will irk him to part with any of the three, but if necessary it should be the dagger—fewer gems. He’ll take it downstairs and slip it in with the other Gifts. No doubt the silversmiths will recognize the generosity of this sacrifice and offer appropriate compensation.

He finds that descending the staircase alone is more difficult than he remembers. The realization scares him; he doesn’t want to depend on Bhismu or anyone else. But no, he’s not weak, just tired. He needs sleep, that’s all.

As he nears the vestry, he realizes Hakkoia will be there. Why didn’t he remember her before? His thoughts wander too much these days. But Hakkoia can’t stop him from going to the hall. She may not even notice him; she’s probably asleep.

And he has the dagger.

Vasudheva draws the blade slowly from the sheath. It glints in the light of the torches that flicker on the wall. He can’t remember ever testing its blade before. He slides it along the edge of a tapestry that shows Tivi setting the temple’s cornerstone at the very center of the world. The dagger effortlessly slices off a strip of cloth ornamented with dancing angels. The blade is functional as well as ornate.

Vasudheva wonders how soundly Hakkoia sleeps.

But as he steals down the corridor that leads to the vestry, he finds Hakkoia is not sleeping at all. Low voices come from the room, one male, one female. Vasudheva closes his eyes and prays that the man is not Bhismu; it may be the most fervently Vasudheva has prayed in years.

But, of course, it is Bhismu.

They aren’t in each other’s arms. Both are fully dressed. Hakkoia sits on one of the divans, her spine as straight and strong as a javelin. Bhismu sits on the floor at her feet, his head leaning against her thigh. The wings lie across Hakkoia’s lap like a chastity belt.

No one has heard Vasudheva’s quiet approach. Standing just outside the room, he can listen to their conversation. Bhismu is describing how his father beat him for every thought or action that might have kept him out of the priesthood. Vasudheva has never heard the man speak of such things; despite a month of cultivating Bhismu’s trust, Vasudheva has never reaped such secrets. And Hakkoia isn’t doing anything. She barely speaks. Her attitude suggests she is merely tolerating his attentions; her mind is elsewhere.

“I could leave the priesthood,” Bhismu says. “Vasudheva is fond of me. He’ll release me from my vows if I ask. He tells me all the time I’m his favorite. He gives me presents, and…”

Vasudheva steps angrily into the room. “Enough!” he says. “Enough!”

Bhismu blushes guiltily. He jerks away from the woman and slides quickly along the floor until he’s more than an arm’s length from her. Hakkoia barely reacts at all; she only lifts her chin to look the high priest in the eye. Her gaze assesses him thoughtfully. Vasudheva wonders what sort of things Bhismu said about him before he arrived, but there is no time for speculation. “I am not the one who can release a deacon from his vows,” Vasudheva says, glaring at Bhismu. “Only Tivi may do that. And I don’t think Tivi will be inclined to grant such a dispensation to a stripling who fancies himself in love because he’s seen a woman’s naked flesh. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Aren’t you?”

Bhismu seems to waver on the edge of surrender. His eyes are lowered, his hands tremble. But then the hands clench and he shakes his head like a fighter throwing off the effects of a punch. “I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.” His voice is almost a whisper, but there is no submission in it. “I haven’t done anything.”

“What would your father think of this?” Vasudheva demands. “Alone with a woman in the middle of the night. And on holy ground!”

Bhismu cringes. But Hakkoia slaps her hand down on the divan with a loud smack. “I’m not some corrupting evil,” she says. “I’m not one of these demons you talk about, the kind you can blame but can’t see. This ground is just as holy as when I arrived. If it was holy then. Why do you carry a knife?”

Vasudheva’s anger surges. It’s been years since anyone dared to talk to him so accusingly. People like Bhismu hold him in awe; people like Niravati are too conniving to be blunt. He’s on the verge of calling the warders, of consigning Hakkoia to the dungeons as punishment for her disrespect…but he realizes he can’t do so in front of Bhismu. No violence, no cruelty, ever, in front of Bhismu.

Besides, violence is never more than a last resort. A prudent man finds other ways to eliminate problems.

“Bhismu,” Vasudheva says in a calmer voice, “I think you should go to the chapel and pray.”

The young man seems to have recovered some backbone, thanks to Hakkoia’s words. “I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of,” he says again.

“Good for you,” Vasudheva replies. “But I heard you talk about renouncing your vows, and that’s grave business. No, no”—the high priest holds up his hand to forestall a protest—“I’m not accusing you of sin. But this is something you should think about very seriously. You should be sure it’s what you want and what’s best for you. For you, for your family, for everyone. That’s only right, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Bhismu says. He sounds like a little boy, still defiant inside but momentarily cowed. Vasudheva thinks of ruffling Bhismu’s hair the way he has seen parents do with their children, but he restrains his hands.

As Bhismu turns to go, Hakkoia tells him, “I’m staying with the family of Wakkatomet, the leatherworker. Elbow Street, near the Tin Market. They’re Northerners; they’re very glad when people come to call.”

Bhismu’s face blooms into a grin. He thanks Hakkoia profusely and leaves with a capering step. He is so beautiful, so radiantly beautiful, Vasudheva thinks. It breaks my heart.

“Why did you tell him where you live?” Vasudheva asks when Bhismu is gone. “You aren’t interested in him.”

“He said he was worried about my injuries,” Hakkoia answers. “He’s concerned about my health. I thought he might rest more easily if he checked on me from time to time. To see that I was well.”

Vasudheva conceals a smile. He knows she’s lying; she told Bhismu where to find her because she wanted to see if he would actually do it. To see if she had power over him. This is a woman a high priest can understand. “Lharksha is the best Healer in the city,” he says. “Your health isn’t in danger, believe me.”

Hakkoia’s eyes flick to the dagger the high priest still holds in his hand. She raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“A Gift,” he tells her, “that’s all. The sheath has a new type of clasp created by the silversmiths’ guild. I was returning it to the hall to put with the other Gifts.”

“There are no other Gifts,” she says. “The priest, Amaran—he told me nothing survived the rampage.”

“Nothing except this dagger,” Vasudheva corrects her.

“And my wings.”

The wings still lie across her lap. Her hands rest on the feathers, caressing them, stroking them.

“Are the wings hard to make?” Vasudheva asks.

“My people believe humans are born with only half a soul,” Hakkoia replies. “When a child has learned how to dance, she must go in search of an animal who is willing to provide the other half. I am now of eagle blood, and flight fills my heart. I have studied the wings of every bird; I have gathered their feathers; I have learned their calls. The wings were not hard for me to make.”

“So you intend to make yourself rich selling wings? You and your leatherworker friends?” Vasudheva shrugs. “You’ll probably do well. The nobles of Cardis are always eager for novelties, and flying will certainly appeal to them. Though most of them are lazy. Is flying hard work?”

“I don’t know.”

Vasudheva looks at her in amazement. “You’ve never tried the wings?”

“I have,” she answers, and the boldness in her gaze disappears for the first time. “They don’t work.”

Suddenly, fiercely, she stands; the wings fall off her lap and thud heavily to the floor. She picks them up, thrusts them out toward the high priest. “If they could fly, would I bring them to this stinking hateful city? Cardis law means nothing in the mountains—I would fly the peaks and valleys, and to hell with the priests who say no. But your gods…your holy Tivi who’s terrified of new things, he’s the one who’s keeping me on the ground. The Queen of Eagles told me this in a dream. So I’ve come for Tivi’s blessing, and when I have it, I’ll soar away from Cardis forever.”

She’s mad, Vasudheva thinks. No Northerner is completely sane, but this woman goes far beyond the fanatic adoration of animals for which Northerners are famed. There is no Queen of Eagles! There could be a king—certain marginal writings imply there are kings of many mammal species, and that might extend to birds. But if she expects official recognition is all that’s required to make flightless wings soar…

Her eyes glitter wildly. When she speaks of flying, you notice it: the glint of obsession. Vasudheva has seen it often through the years—priests who appear entirely balanced until you broach some subject that rouses their lunacy. Perhaps he himself is that way about Bhismu. How often has he muttered under his breath that he’s acting obsessed, irrational?

Thoughtfully, Vasudheva strokes his beard. “If these wings are accepted as Tivi’s Gift, you’ll leave the city?” he asks.

“Like a dove fleeing from crows.”

He nods. “Bring the wings to my chambers at sunrise. In the tower. The warders will show you the way—I’ll tell them to let you pass. The crowd will be waiting in the courtyard for my announcement. I’ll proclaim your wings to be Tivi’s choice and let you have your first flight from my balcony.”

She hugs the wings to her chest and smiles. It is a dangerous smile, a mad smile. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll leave, I promise. Bhismu will soon forget me.”

Only years of experience let him hide his alarm at her words. She knows too much. Bhismu, innocent Bhismu, must have told her enough that she could deduce the truth. The dagger is still in his hand…but sunrise will be soon enough. If the wings work, she leaves; but the wings will not work. Vasudheva knows how little real magic there is in Tivi’s blessing.

The silversmiths will be annoyed when their Gift is not chosen; but they can be mollified. A big order of new chalices, bells, censers. Silver soup bowls for the acolytes, silver plates for the priests. He nods to himself, then sheaths the dagger and tucks it inside his robe.

“Tivi’s grace on you,” Vasudheva says to Hakkoia.

“Thank you,” she says again.

After telling the warders to escort Hakkoia to his tower before sunrise, Vasudheva stops by the chapel. All the candles have burned out; the only light is Tivi’s flame, flickering in the enormous hearth at the front of the sanctuary. The rest of the room is in blackness.

Bhismu lies before the flame, sound asleep. There’s a smile on his face; no doubt he dreams of Hakkoia, but Vasudheva can forgive him for that. The more Bhismu loves her, the more her death will shake him and the more comforting he’ll need.

He looks so vulnerable.

Without warning, a wave of passion sweeps over Vasudheva’s heart, and he is bending to the ground, Bhismu will never feel it, a kiss on the cheek, the beard, one kiss stolen in the night, flesh, lips, and yes! Bhismu’s curls are soft, and warmed by Tivi’s own flame. The kiss is like a sacrament, holy, blessed. Another kiss, this time on the lips…but no more, no more, he’ll wake up, one more, it doesn’t matter, he’s sleeping so soundly…

Something rustles in the back of the chapel, and Vasudheva is immediately on his feet, peering into the shadows. Is there someone on the bench in the farthest corner? Vasudheva strides down the aisle, his entire body trembling with rage. Reluctant to wake up Bhismu, he whispers, “Who are you?” with piercing harshness.

“Duroga, sir, Your Holiness,” a voice whispers back. “Junior cook down in the….”

“What are you doing here?”

“Praying, Your Holiness.” The whisper is full of fear.

“In the middle of the night? More likely, you came to steal. What did you want? The sacramental silver?”

“No, Your Holiness, no! I’m praying. For forgiveness. I burned myself on the soup cauldron and I said…I spoke profanely. The words released demons, I know they did. The riot was all my fault. And everyone acting so oddly, it’s the demons making everyone…”

Vasudheva slaps the cook’s face, once, very hard. His palm stings after the blow and the stinging feels good.

“Listen to me, junior cook,” Vasudheva says. “You did not release any demons. If demons exist at all, they have more important things to do than flock about when some peasant burns his thumb. Understand?” He grabs the front of the cook’s robe and shakes the man. Duroga’s teeth clack together with the violence of the jostling. “You want to hear something? You want to hear?”

Vasudheva begins to curse. Every profanity learned as a child, every foul oath overheard in the vicious quarters of Cardis, every blasphemy that sinners atoned for in the confessional, words tumbling out of the high priest’s mouth with the ease of a litany, all tightly whispered into Duroga’s face until the cook’s cheeks are wet with spittle and his eyes weeping with fear. The words spill out, here before Tivi’s own hearth, the most sacred place in the universe and so the most vulnerable…but no demons come, not one, because hell is as empty as heaven and the void hears neither curses nor prayers. Vasudheva knows; he’s been the voice of the gods on earth for twenty-three years and not once has he spoken a word that didn’t come from his own brain, his own guts, his own endless scheming. Wasn’t there a time when he prayed some god would seize his tongue and speak through him? But the first thing ever to seize his tongue is this cursing, on and on until he can no longer draw enough breath to continue and he releases the cook, throws him onto the floor, and gasps, “Now let me hear no more talk of demons!”

Without waiting for a reaction, Vasudheva staggers out to the corridor. His heart pounds and his head spins, but he feels cleansed. Duroga must meet with an accident in the near future, but it can wait, it can wait. Vasudheva has kissed Bhismu, has dealt with Hakkoia…has faced his demons.

Climbing the tower steps, he feels his soul flies upward, dragging his feeble body behind. His soul has huge wings, and as he reels into his chambers, he has a vision of the bird kingdom parading past him, each presenting feathers for those wings: eagles, hummingbirds, crows….

A loud knocking comes at the door. Vasudheva wakes, aching in every bone. He has spent the night on the floor; he never reached the bed. Now the room is quickening with predawn light, gray and aloof. Vasudheva shivers, though the day is already warm.

The knocking comes again. Vasudheva pulls himself to the bed. Off with the robe he still wears, a quick rumpling of sheets, and then he calls out, “Come in.”

Bhismu enters. Vasudheva’s smile of greeting for the man dies as Bishop Niravati and the cook Duroga enter too.

“Good morning, Your Holiness,” Niravati says. The bishop’s voice has none of its usual tone of feigned deference. “Did you sleep well?”

“Who is this?” Vasudheva asks, pointing at Duroga, though he remembers the cook quite clearly.

“His name is Duroga,” Niravati says. “Last night he came to me with a disturbing tale about demons. Demons that he thinks have possessed high-ranking officials of our temple.”

“He claims to be able to sniff out demons?”

“No, Your Holiness, he’s merely a witness to their deeds. He saw a great deal of their handiwork in the chapel last night.” Niravati glances toward Bhismu. “A great deal.”

“I was there,” Bhismu says. “I saw nothing.”

“You were asleep.” Niravati smiles, a smile gloating with triumph. “You slept through quite a lot.”

“Well, if you really think there are demons loose,” Vasudheva says, “call out the exorcists.” He tries to sound mocking, but doesn’t succeed. The trapped feeling burns in his ears again, guilt and desperation.

“I’ve already called the exorcists,” Niravati says. “But I thought I should come directly to you on another important matter. You asked the warders to escort that woman Hakkoia to your chambers this morning….”

Bhismu looks startled. “You did?”

“Her wings are Tivi’s chosen Gift this year,” Vasudheva replies. “No other Gift survived. I thought it would please the people to see her fly from my balcony.”

“No doubt it would be exciting,” Niravati says. “But with so much concern about demons, surely it’s rash to let a woman visit your room. The laity is not in a mood to accept…deviations from common practice.”

Vasudheva knows he must rebuke Niravati now, immediately. To hesitate for another second will prove he’s afraid. (Does Niravati know about the kisses? He must. Bhismu lay in the light of Tivi’s fire; Duroga could see everything.)

But Vasudheva is afraid. The people are used to the clergy sporting with women—order an ale in any tavern of Cardis, and before your glass is empty, you’ll hear someone in the room telling a joke about lascivious priests. Such joking is good-natured, almost fond. However, to be caught kissing a man…of course, there would be no trial, no public punishment, for a high priest could not be convicted on the word of a junior cook. But there would be insolence from the novices; too much salt in every meal; clothes that came back dirty from the temple laundry; conversations that went silent as the high priest entered the room.

He couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t stand a world that didn’t respect or fear him.

Vasudheva sighs heavily. “You have a point, Niravati. Hakkoia will have to fly from some other height. Perhaps the bell tower of the City Council?”

Niravati shakes his head. “The people are gathering in the courtyard below us. They expect you to announce the Gift from your balcony here. That’s the tradition.”

“I could wear the wings,” Bhismu says suddenly.

“No!” Vasudheva’s voice cracks.

“But I could!” the young man insists. “I want to. For Hakkoia’s sake.”

“An excellent idea,” Niravati says, clapping Bhismu on the shoulder. “I should have thought of it myself.”

“She talked to me about flying,” Bhismu says excitedly. “She says she has eagle blood. The way she spoke of eagles…as if she were in love with them…please, Your Holiness, let me fly in her place.”

“Yes, let him, Your Holiness,” Niravati says. “It would show your…good faith.”

Vasudheva looks at Bhismu’s eager face and remembers warm curls, soft lips. “All right,” the high priest says. “Go get the wings.”

He turns away quickly. Another second, and Bhismu’s grateful expression will wring tears from the high priest’s eyes.

“People of Cardis!”

The rim of the sun is emerging over the rooftops. Only those in the tower can see it; five stories lower, the city is still in shadow. But men and women crowd the courtyard, their heads craned up to watch the high priest’s balcony. Every onlooker wears some small finery—a new ribbon in the hair, a patch of bright cloth sewn on the shirt directly over the heart.

Hakkoia must be in the crowd somewhere, but Vasudheva doesn’t see her. His eyes water; he can’t focus on any of the faces below.

“People of Cardis!” he repeats. “As you may have heard, many of the intended Gifts were destroyed last night in a terrible commotion. A commotion we believe was caused by demons.”

At Vasudheva’s back, Niravati murmurs, “That’s right.”

“But through Tivi’s heavenly grace,” Vasudheva continues, “one Gift was spared. That Gift is the one the gods have chosen to accept this year. A Gift that is nothing less than the gift of flight!”

Bhismu steps onto the balcony, arms high and outspread to show the wings he wears. The crowd stirs with wonder as the feathers catch the dawning sunlight, catch the soft breeze blowing down from the hills. Bhismu glistens like dew, so pure, so clean.

Vasudheva can see Bhismu’s arms tremble as they try to support the weight of the wings. The wings are far too heavy; they’ll never fly.

Bhismu grins, eager to leap out over the crowd. He waggles a wing to someone; it must be Hakkoia, though Vasudheva still can’t pick her out. Bhismu no doubt intends to fly a few circles around the tower, then land at the woman’s feet.

He’s so beautiful.

Vasudheva lifts his hand to touch the young man’s hair. As simple as that, a totally natural gesture. Bhismu turns and smiles; he must think it’s a sign of encouragement.

Niravati clears his throat disapprovingly. “Your Holiness…” he murmurs.

And suddenly Vasudheva is angry, righteously angry, at Niravati, at himself, at all those who try to lever people away from love. All the scheming conniving bishops, and others like Bhismu’s father who trample over affection on their way to meaningless goals. Love demands enough sacrifices in itself; no one should impose additional burdens. One should pay the price of love and no more.

And no less.

Vasudheva touches Bhismu’s arm. “Take the wings off,” he says. “Give them to me.”

A stricken look of betrayal crosses Bhismu’s face. “No!”

“You can have the second flight. Warders!”

They grab him before he can jump. One warder looks at Niravati for confirmation of Vasudheva’s command; already the bishop has followers. Let him. Let him have the whole damned temple. “Give me the wings!” Vasudheva roars.

They slide onto his arms like musty-smelling vestments, each as heavy as a rug. Vasudheva can barely lift his arms. A warder helps him up to the balcony’s parapet.

Vasudheva would like to turn back, just for a moment, and say something to Bhismu, something wise and loving and honest. But that would only burden his beloved with confusion and guilt. Best to leave it all unsaid.

“With wings like these,” the high priest calls out to the crowd, “a man could fly to heaven.”

He laughs. He’s still laughing as he leaps toward the rising sun.