The Gift Page 8

  Teo and Sol relaxed in the afternoon warmth, drinking cups of pale lager until the sun was low in the sky. Both men found their tongues loosened by the convivial atmosphere and the dry, crisp drink. The conversation ranged, as it often does among men of learning, across the great ideas of politics, art, philosophy, literature, and religion. Teo found himself drawn to the wizened scholar with the shoulder-length hair. Sol explained that Ulmbartian religion was superficial at best. The people tipped their hats to a variety of gods and observed many ancient superstitions, but they lacked a true sense of connection to the divine. Religion was employed mainly to enhance social standing and prestige.

  As Teo listened to Sol talk, he decided to speak boldly on the matter of religion and see what would happen. When a lull arose in the conversation, he said, “I believe there is only one God, a single Creator.”

  Sol’s face remained unreadable. “Is that so? And what if that view is uncommon in Ulmbartia?”

  “I would hold to it nonetheless.”

  “Would you speak of it publicly?”

  “Yes, to those who wish to hear.”

  “I see you are a man of conviction.”

  “I guess you could say that.” Teo pressed ahead. “What about you, Sol? What are your beliefs?”

  Sol eyed Teo for a long moment, then took a deep breath before speaking. “I tread on paths of ancient wisdom, my young friend. Unfortunately, they are paths whose origins are unknown and whose end is uncertain.”

  “That’s a good way to get lost,” Teo pointed out.

  Sol uttered a cackling laugh. “Very true! But sometimes we have no other choice, so we decide that walking on the way to somewhere is better than wandering in the wilderness of nowhere. I have incomplete knowledge of the Creator, yet I find him superior to the thornbushes of the Ulmbartian cults.”

  “You believe in the Creator too?” Teo was excited to hear it.

  “I do. His name is Deus. He is the one true God, and he existed before all time.”

  Teo sat up straight. “Did you just call him Deus?”

  “Indeed I did,” Sol answered quietly.

  “How do you know about that God? I call him Deu. I’m one of his followers.”

  “You’d best keep that knowledge to yourself. It is opposed by the shamans.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Many things could be said about the shamans. Do you wish to know what the people believe, or the secret I know to be true of them?”

  “I suppose both, if you’re willing to tell me.”

  Sol lowered his voice even more. “The shamans are officially called the Exterminati. Everyone thinks they exist to remove defective people from our midst—those who have a disfigurement of some kind. The shamans have obtained treaties granting them this right. All Ulmbartians fear being labeled defective. But there is more to this story.”

  “Tell me,” Teo said, leaning toward Sol.

  “The real purpose of the Exterminati is religious. They exist to suppress all knowledge of the Creator. If you speak of him openly, you will be certain to attract their attention. They are masters of assassination and abduction.”

  “So it’s forbidden in Ulmbartia to believe in a single God?”

  “No. I did not say it is forbidden. To forbid it would be to reveal the true purposes of the shamans. The Exterminati prefer to shroud themselves in secrecy. Proclaiming belief in one God has not been outlawed in Ulmbartia. Yet in reality there are none who do, for everyone who speaks of such things quickly disappears.”

  “Where did you learn all this?”

  “Over the years I have met those who oppose the Exterminati and secretly follow Deus. They spoke of these things to me.”

  “And how did these people learn about Deus?” Teo sensed he was on the brink of an important discovery.

  “There is an ancient book that speaks of him.”

  “The Sacred Writing! I have a partial copy of my own!”

  It was Sol’s turn to be surprised. “You do? Is it written in the Old Words?”

  “Yes, they’re old words. I am one of the few in my land who can read them.” As Teo reached into his rucksack, Sol went to the window and glanced around, then walked to the door and shut it firmly before returning to his seat. Teo unwrapped a protective cloth and showed Sol the leather-bound copy of the Sacred Writing. The pages were brittle, and the final third of the book was destroyed, but much of it was still legible. Sol inspected it.

  “These aren’t the Old Words I just mentioned, though they are similar. The languages must be related. Can you read this book?”

  “I can. The Ancients spoke it. In Chiveis we call it the Fluid Tongue because its sound is more melodious than our own speech.”

  “The book is not intact.”

  “I found it hidden in a lockbox after many centuries. Water had damaged it.”

  Sol went to the hearth and removed a book from behind a loose stone. The book was hand-copied, not printed. Although it looked very old, Teo didn’t think it dated as far back as the time of the Ancients. It was probably an Ulmbartian copy of an earlier text.

  “This is the book I spoke of,” Sol said. “It is written in Talyano, translated directly from the Old Words. Few in Ulmbartia can read that tongue.” He smiled at Teo. “Like you, I am one who preserves lost languages in my head.”

  Teo bent over the book. Scanning its table of contents, he could see from the headings that Sol’s book was a complete copy of what the Ancients had called the Old Testament. There was no mention of the New.

  “These are two versions of the same text,” he told Sol. “But did you know the Sacred Writing has a second Testament?”

  Sol glanced up. “Really? What does it say?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the part that was water-damaged, so it’s lost.”

  “The second Testament must be very important,” Sol observed. “Perhaps another copy can be found.”

  “Anastasia and I intend to seek it.”

  Teo looked more closely at Sol’s book in the Talyano speech. “You said this was translated from the Old Words. What do you know about that language?”

  “The Ancients called it Latin. My knowledge of it goes back to my childhood.”

  Teo reached into the pocket of his doublet and removed the rubbing he had made from the stone cross. “I recently discovered an inscription in a lost language of the Ancients. See if you can tell me what it says.” He handed it over.

  Sol squinted at the smudged page. “This is indeed Latin. It reads, ‘O Iesu Christe, have mercy on me.’”

  “That’s what I thought! Do you know who Iesu Christe is?”

  “The proper form is Iesus Christus when it’s not a direct address. As far as who he is, I cannot say.”

  “You must have some idea,” Teo insisted.

  Sol pursed his lips. “Long ago I heard this name used to describe a savior figure predicted in the Holy Book. Here, see for yourself.” He thumbed through his copy of the Old Testament until he located the Second Book of Samuhel, the seventh chapter, then read aloud, “I will raise up your descendant after you, one who will go forth from your own body, and I will establish his reign. He will build a house for my name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever.” Sol looked up from the page. “This figure is known as the Promised King,” he explained.

  “Is Iesus Christus the Promised King?”

  “Perhaps. But he might also be another man predicted by the Holy Book. Tradition says he helped the king.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He is known as the Suffering Servant.” Sol turned a few pages and showed Teo the fifty-third chapter of Isaias. It described the servant as a man who suffered many griefs and trials. He was truly “a man of sorrows” who ended his life in defeat.

  “So which is it?” Teo asked. “Is Iesus Christus the victorious Promised King or the defeated Suffering Servant?”

  Sol shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Out in the hall, a clay
vessel shattered. Teo jumped up and flung open the door. A servant stood there, his eyes wide.

  “I . . . I was bringing you water . . .”

  “We didn’t ask for water.”

  “I thought you might want some.”

  “Why didn’t you knock?”

  The man didn’t have a ready answer.

  “We don’t need anything,” Teo said, slamming the door in the man’s face.

  “The shamans have eyes in every head,” Sol muttered. “Apparently they have ears too.”

  Nikolo Borja stabbed the last dormouse with a meat fork and plunged the wriggling creature into a pot of boiling water, then yanked it out again. With the creature now dead and its fur loosened, Borja skinned and dressed it in a matter of seconds, then dropped it into a second pot of simmering meat stock. A chef could have done this for him, of course, but Borja enjoyed participating in the little drama of death.

  While the dormice cooked, Borja walked onto the balcony of his palace and let his eyes rove over the city of Roma. It was the capital of a vibrant city-state—a kingdom whose politics Borja dominated by his great wealth. Soon he spotted something that excited him: a bird flew in a direct line to the palace roof. News from afar, he realized.

  His ankles began to hurt, so he went back inside and reclined on a plush divan. Sitting down was the only way to alleviate the strain his immense weight put on his joints. Borja believed it was his spiritual duty to enjoy all the succulent delicacies the gods had lavished upon him. His obesity was proof of their heavenly beneficence to him.

  A short time later, the messenger arrived from the rooftop pigeon roost. He held a pillow with a small gold box upon it.

  “Read it to me,” Borja said.

  The messenger swallowed, then set the pillow on a table and removed a tiny slip of paper from the box. In a shaky voice he began to read:

  The Chief Shaman of the Society of the Exterminati in Ulmbartia; to His Most Blessed and Abundant Corpulence, Nikolo Borja, at Roma; fair greetings and honor be thine.

  An egregious and most unfortunate circumstance has brought evil tidings to this realm. From over the northern mountains, a stranger has come with his woman. The lords of men receive them with favor. The stranger speaks of the Creator and the Criminal, accursed be their names forever! The spirits are disturbed, and the underworld is all in unrest. As always, your bidding is a divine command. Life to you evermore.

  When the messenger stopped reading, Borja stared into space, his jaw clenched against the rage seething within him. Roma, Likuria, Ulmbartia—these three kingdoms had been purged of the foul god of the Christiani. Or if not completely purged, the heresy was at least sufficiently contained. To hear that some foreigner had arrived in distant Ulmbartia, running free with news of the Creator and his executed son, made Borja feel like a man who discovers an unexpected stain on his white garment. Ulmbartia must be cleansed of these interlopers!

  Though the situation had to be dealt with immediately, Borja knew a deft political hand would be required. A double assassination would be far too suspicious, attracting unwanted investigation from foreign authorities. If the Ulmbartian aristocracy had embraced the dangerous strangers, any move against them would have to be untraceable to the Exterminati. It was always better to pin the blame for one’s actions on others. Fortunately, the Chief Shaman of Ulmbartia was clever. He could be relied on to devise a plan that would make the strangers’ deaths appear to be the work of outside forces.

  Struggling up from the divan, Borja lumbered across the room to the charcoal braziers with their cookpots, then signaled for the messenger to approach.

  “Fill my plate,” Borja commanded, his hands clasped behind his back.

  The messenger looked at the pot of boiling stock and the empty plate. “Where is the meat fork, Your Corpulence?”

  Borja slapped the messenger with the back of his hand. “Fill my plate,” he repeated.

  The messenger was distraught. He rolled up his sleeve and took a deep breath, then plunged his hand into the pot, his face twisting into a grimace. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead as he dropped a handful of cooked dormice onto the plate. His hand and wrist were the color of a ripe tomato. The sight was relaxing to Borja. The pain of others always soothed him.

  “I would have more,” he said.

  Again the messenger searched the bottom of the pot for a handful of rodents. He uttered a thin groan but did not speak. Three more dripping carcasses plopped onto the steaming plate. Blisters had appeared on the messenger’s hand, and the skin sagged. He breathed rapidly through clenched teeth as he stood at attention.

  Borja removed the meat fork from behind his back and speared one of the dormice. He soaked it in a bowl of vinegar for a moment, then rolled it in honey and spun the dripping tidbit toward his mouth. Its tiny bones made a delectable crunch as he bit into the meat. Finishing the dormouse in a second bite, he smacked his lips and spat a piece of bone to the floor.

  “Go fetch a scribe,” he said with his cheeks full. “I wish to send a message to Ulmbartia.”

  The fragrant roses blooming on the palatial lakeside terrace normally brought joy to Count Federco Borromo, but on this day they were the last thing on his mind. He was trying to save his newborn son. The count pursed his lips, then turned to face his visitors.

  “Our sources tell us a birthmarked child has been born to you,” said the gravelly voice of the Chief Shaman of Ulmbartia.

  The count regarded the shrouded figure standing a few paces away on the terrace. Two other shamans in dark, hooded robes stood behind their master. “Who told you this?” Federco asked.

  “We have eyes in every head,” the Chief Shaman replied. “Now bring us the boy.”

  Count Federco nodded toward the door, and a palace servant stepped onto the terrace with a portable bassinet. He laid it at the count’s feet before scuttling back inside. The count glanced down at the sleeping baby, then abruptly spun away with his hands folded behind his back. He gazed at the placid lake for a long time.

  At last he turned back to his visitors. “Take him if you must,” he spat.

  The Chief Shaman stalked over in his billowing robes and knelt beside the bassinet. He spat a glob of saliva on his two extended fingers, then rubbed the spittle on the infant’s cheek. A pitiful cry arose from the bassinet. The count watched, horrified.

  The shaman stood up. “Bring us the real child, Count Federco.” The command was expressed in measured tones, but the threat was obvious.

  “What are you talking about? That is the real child.”

  The Chief Shaman held up two moistened fingers, now stained pink. “Don’t try to play me for a fool! The child’s face is dyed!” The shaman’s pointy chin and yellow teeth were the only part of his face visible beneath his hood. A pale, bony hand gestured at the lavish surroundings. “Do you think we cannot strip all this away from you? Do you wish to be despised as one who has spawned a Defective? Do you intend to live out your days in penury? Think hard on your actions now, Count. Our reprisals for noncompliance are severe.”

  The count swallowed. Though he made no audible reply, his head dropped. He beckoned toward the double doors of the palace. The servant reappeared on the terrace, carrying another bassinet. He laid it on the ground between Count Federco and the Chief Shaman. The baby’s face was blemished by a port-wine stain.

  “Now you are being reasonable,” the Chief Shaman said. He picked up the bassinet by the handle.

  Count Federco stifled a cry of frustration and grief. The baby was his last link to Countess Benita, who had died in childbirth.

  The shaman paused. “What? Do you have some affection for this Defective?” The count did not answer, but the shaman stepped close to him. The hooded man’s breath was foul. “Perhaps we could make an arrangement.”

  A surge of hope arose in Count Federco’s soul. “What arrangement?”

  “It’s simple enough. You may raise this boy as a slave in your house, never to be seen by the
eyes of society at large. In return you need only do one thing—a thing at which you already excel.”

  “What do you seek?” the count asked, hardly daring to breathe.

  “You must throw a party.”

  “A party? What kind of party? Speak plainly! What do you intend?”

  “You will offer a party for your aristocratic friends. We will supply the guest list. I believe you have a remote chateau on the northern lakeshore, yes? Was it not the custom when you were young to host parties for the rich and beautiful on the island with the ruined castle?”

  “That is true,” the count acknowledged. “But it is too dangerous now. The Rovers have infiltrated those wild lands and have been known to stage raids. Though my chateau is fortified, it could not withstand an attack. As for the island, it’s undefended and vulnerable.”

  “The thrill of danger is appealing to the young,” the Chief Shaman said, his eyes narrowing. “And so, Count Federco, you will revive the practice of throwing parties on the castle isle.” The shaman’s hand flashed into the bassinet. He yanked the infant by his ankle and held him up, wailing and thrashing. “Or you will never see this accursed monstrosity again!”

  In the week since arriving at Vanita’s house, Ana had come to learn one thing about Ulmbartian female social life: hair was very important. The aristocratic girls talked about their hair constantly, and when they weren’t talking about it, they were jealously eyeing the hairstyles of others. Ana had been told more than once, “Your hair is so beautiful!” only to sense envy rather than admiration from the girl giving the compliment.

  Vanita Labella, however, was different. She was the acknowledged ringleader of her social bunch, and that gave her the freedom not to be so catty. It also helped that Vanita was gorgeous, so she had no need to be jealous of anyone. With her lustrous hair, flawless skin, long sensual legs, and curves in all the right places, Vanita knew how to stop a man in his tracks. Yet she was no empty-headed socialite. She was smart and witty and had a sweet disposition. If she was a little callous at times, it was because she didn’t know better, not because she was mean. Ana had taken a liking to Vanita.