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 stra
ngling 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 probabl
y 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?
Gravity Wells (Short Stories Collection) Page 23