Northern Stars

by Glenn Grant

  “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 that I’m his favorite. He gives me presents, and.…”

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

  Bhismu looks up and 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 fistfighter 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 submissiveness 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 am not some sickness,” she says. “I’m not one of these demons you talk about, the kind that 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 someone 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 like a child, 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 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. This is a woman he can talk to. “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 silversmith’s 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 that 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. Although 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—but that doesn’t necessarily extend to birds. And if she expects that official recognition will make flightless wings soar …

  Her eyes glitter too 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’s that way himself about Bhismu. How often has he told himself he is obsessed, irrational?

  Thoughtfully, Vasudheva strokes his beard. “You’ll leave the city?” he asks at last.

  “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 how Vasudheva feels. 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 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 a 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 a very bad word. The word released demons, I know it 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. “You 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?”

  And 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 that 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 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 pre-dawn light, grey 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 which 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 work. He saw a great deal 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 you’ll hear a joke about lascivious priests before your glass is empty. 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 come back dirty from the temple laundry; conversations that fall silent as the high priest enters the room.

  He couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t stand a world that did not 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,” 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 storeys 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 that 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 will 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 is 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.