Northern Stars

by Glenn Grant

  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 that 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 is 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 while holding on to 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. Intense. It wasn’t intense. I’d spend some time with a girl—this was before I was ordained, of course—I’d spend some time and I’d feel very fond and I’d wonder, am I in love? But my father was determined for me to 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 was 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 ripe 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 and 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, but he turns and sees they come from 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 here as long as necessary,” Vasudhe
va 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 of the 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 in the presence of 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 them up 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 the 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 has 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 that 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 poorbox. 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 strangled by a garotte, 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 Bhismu 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.