James Gardner: The Reckoning of Gifts

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.”