James Gardner: The Reckoning of Gifts

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.