The Gift

by Bryan M. Litfin

  As Teo pushed against his enemy’s face, he felt something give way to the press of his thumb. The Iron Shield abruptly ceased the attack and pulled back. Teo let him go, hanging suspended in the murky ocean. Everything was black except for a pale white glow, very far above.

  Teo kicked his legs and shot toward the light, swimming with the desperation of a dying man. Agony seared his lungs. He could hold his breath no longer. After all his striving to protect Ana, it had come down to this. Was this how it was going to end?

  Sadness and despair overtook him. His throat went into spasms. His mouth opened involuntarily. He choked . . . retched . . . gagged . . .

  And could breathe.

  Yes! He had reached the surface and could breathe again. Teo sucked in great lungfuls of air, making heaving sounds as his body sought to resupply its oxygen-starved cells. He bobbed in the sea with his head thrown back, gasping and gulping through an open mouth like a fish tossed on the grass. The white light of a full moon reflected off the water’s surface as Teo floated on his back, utterly spent.

  A stinging sensation on his chest snapped him back to reality. When he touched the injured place and held up his hand, his fingers glistened black in the moonlight. The sight of the blood and the burning pain of the cut triggered a memory. Long ago, while he was chained in a prison cell, the High Priestess of Chiveis had slashed his chest with the tip of his own sword. Now a twin scar from another evil hand would mark his body forever.

  Teo became aware that his left fist was clenched. He opened his hand and inspected the object in his palm, unable to comprehend what it was. Suddenly he recognized it: a human eyeball. Horrified, Teo threw away the grisly reminder of his life-or-death battle and furiously rinsed his hand. Cognizant of danger again, he glanced around, but the Iron Shield was nowhere to be seen. The assassin’s severe injury would probably force him to return home. By the time he recovers the sea will be closed to sailing, Teo thought with no small relief.

  The dark bulk of Dohj Cristof’s galleon loomed a short distance away. The anchor had been weighed, and the ship had set sail, but Teo could still see its main deck decorated with colored lanterns. Most of the yacht’s windows were illumined by a warm yellow glow. Lords and ladies gathered on the deck, blithe and carefree, oblivious to the struggle that had just unfolded in the sea below them.

  Teo sighed. He longed for a cold drink to wash the salt from his mouth. The yacht had caught a breeze and was moving quickly now. Teo could do nothing more at the moment, so he turned and began to swim toward shore. All was quiet except for the gentle splashes of his strokes and the sound of flirtatious laughter floating across the water.

  When Ana opened the door of her cabin, it reeked of alcohol, and everything was in disarray. An empty bottle of brandy lay on the rumpled bed. Evidently some of the servants had chosen her room to have a little party while their masters went onshore. Ana decided to speak to the cabin steward about it the next time she saw him.

  Entering the bathroom attached to her cabin, she was pleased to see that her porcelain bathtub had been filled with hot water. Though the water-spout contraptions used in the dohj’s palace couldn’t be installed on a ship, the servants had been busy heating water in cauldrons, then taking kettles around to the staterooms. Steam rose from Ana’s tub, and an extra kettle wrapped in a cozy sat nearby, ready to top off the bath when she decided to get in.

  As she was undressing, Ana caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was shocked at what she saw. Though she could already feel that her body was radiating heat and was sensitive to the touch, she couldn’t believe how red she had gotten from the sun’s rays. She had only been on the beach a few hours, but her fair skin was badly burned. Ana pressed her finger to the skin below her collarbone. A white dot was visible when she removed her finger, but it gradually returned to the same garish red as the rest of her body.

  Ana sighed. I’m a mess! I’ve never looked so bad!

  No sooner had that thought sprung to her mind than a competing voice said, But did you notice how attracted Dohj Cristof was to you? It gave Ana a strange sensation to recall the look on the dohj’s face when he had approached her chair on the beach as she sat next to Vanita. The handsome dohj had stayed for a long time, standing against the backdrop of the turquoise lagoon as he conversed with the two sunbathers. Ana had wondered if he would want to discuss religion, but Cristof had been more interested in making suggestive remarks about her looks. Although Ana didn’t return his comments with coquetry of her own, she had found the attention rather exciting.

  Now, though, as Ana gazed in the mirror, she felt disgusted. She consoled herself with the thought that she certainly had no intention of pursuing a romantic relationship with Cristof. He was, after all, the most powerful man in the kingdom of Likuria—a prince whose blood was bluer than the waters of his beloved ocean. Ana reminded herself that her true purpose in spending time with the dohj was to tell him about Deu.

  How’s that going? Ana shook the question from her mind, deciding there would be ample time for such matters in the days ahead. She would no doubt have an opportunity during the next several months to pursue spiritual conversations with Vanita and Cristof. And then, after the visit to the coast was over, she would return to Ulmbartia. Teo was still there, and maybe she could patch things up with him . . .

  Teo.

  I miss him so much.

  Tears sprang to Ana’s eyes. She let them fall as she stared with increasing horror at her reflection in the mirror. How had she gotten here, all sunburned and ruined on the lavish yacht of a rich playboy? Ana’s fair skin had never seen the light of day, and now she had exposed herself like . . . what?

  Like a common harlot!

  Ana whirled away from the mirror, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. In her anguish and shame she felt an overwhelming desire to talk with her mother, but that voice of wisdom was lost to her. All voices were lost. Chiveis was lost. Teo was lost. He would never want her back.

  Ana wiped away her tears. There was only one way to go forward. As it turned out, Vanita had been right all along. Ana decided she needed to make a home for herself in the real world, the actual world, the rough-and-tumble world in which she found herself—not the elusive world of vague hopes and empty dreams. If I don’t provide for my future, who will?

  Ana emptied the kettle into the porcelain bathtub. Stepping over the tub’s edge, she sank into the steaming water. Though the intense heat stung her skin, Ana clenched her fists and ignored her pain.

  CHAPTER

  7

  The dungeons at Nikolo Borja’s palace were buried deep beneath the earth. It was better that way, for then no one outside could hear the constant screaming of the damned.

  Borja faced his loyal servant, the Iron Shield, who stood across a pit in the dungeon floor. The warrior looked the same as always. Though his shoulders were broad, his body tapered to a narrow waist, for rigorous daily exercise prevented the accumulation of fat on his chiseled physique. The elegantly wrought links of his hauberk were the work of a master metalsmith. The Iron Shield’s boots were thick-soled and rugged. At his side hung his fearsome mace. His black hair glistened with oil. Only one thing was different about the Iron Shield since Borja had seen him last: the dark warrior now wore a patch over his right eye.

  The sound of wailing cats echoed off the arched roof of the underground chamber. It was an annoying sound, and Borja let himself feel hatred for the disgusting animals whose screeches emanated from the pit in the flagstone floor. He stepped to the edge of the pit and looked down. Though the room was lit only by torches, Borja thought he could see shadows moving around in the narrow well into which the cats had been dumped. Perhaps the ones on the bottom of the pile had already suffocated? He hoped they still lived—for a little while longer.

  Borja looked up from the pit and met his bodyguard’s eye. “Have you healed from your injury, shield of my life?”

  “It has been four weeks since I confronted Teof
il of Chiveis, my lord. Though the wound grew infected, I am strong, and I have regained my vigor already.”

  “And yet you were not strong enough to overcome your adversary.” Borja put a note of derision in his voice, testing his servant’s response.

  The Iron Shield remained silent. Borja noticed movement at the corners of his jaw—a twitch that wasn’t caused by the flickering torchlight. The warrior could barely contain his rage. Borja could feel his anger wafting across the pit like a tangible force. Yes . . . good . . . let it come! It will make you strong.

  Borja provoked his servant further. “You have nothing to say for yourself? Are you then defeated by this foreign interloper?”

  “No, my lord, I am not defeated. I await my revenge. And when I gain it, my enemy’s torment will be beyond that of any man who has ever lived.”

  Smiling at this, Borja said, “Delight me with the details.”

  The Iron Shield balled his fists and approached the edge of the pit, staring into Borja’s face. “I will crush him with my own hands. I will open him wide. I will burn him . . . break him . . . rip him . . . devour him! The death of my enemy will be prolonged over many days. He will beg for the pain to stop, but I will only make it worse, until at last he is no longer human, but an animal driven insane by agony. And then, when every bone is broken, and his body is smeared with gore, and redness oozes from him like butchered meat—then, at the end of it all, the last thing he will see is my smiling face as I snuff out his life.”

  The Iron Shield’s vivid description gave Borja deep satisfaction. His fleshly lips curled into a smile he could not suppress. Swallowing the great quantity of saliva that had gathered in his mouth, he spoke to his favorite lieutenant. “You are worthy to receive the spirits of cruel sacrifice,” he said in an ominous voice.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Has the loss of your eye affected your skill in combat? A man with one eye cannot gauge distance.”

  “What has been lost can be overcome with effort and training.”

  “Yes, it can, though it will take time. Since the sea is now closed to sailing I want you to use the winter to regain your former skills. I will provide as many slaves as you need to practice upon.”

  The Iron Shield hesitated, then spoke his mind. “My lord, I am not afraid of the turbulent seas. I wish to return immediately.”

  “No! Absolutely not!” Borja knew his servant was driven by lust for revenge—a worthy motivation, but one that needed to be tempered by common sense. The Iron Shield was an unparalleled warrior, an asset far too valuable to risk losing to some unexpected winter storm. “I will put watchers on the targets,” Borja said. “In the meantime you must learn to compensate for the loss of your eye.”

  The Iron Shield persisted, though his tone remained respectful. “We must deal with the heretics quickly, Your Abundance.”

  “Enough! I have spoken. Our spies can watch the heretics until we are prepared to deal with them. I am far more concerned that your fighting capacity is now diminished. I need you at full strength, shield of my life. Regain your former power, and when spring comes and the seas grow calm, you may set sail for Likuria to exact your revenge. I only hope you will make it as painful as you have promised.”

  “Do not fear, my lord. You can be certain Teofil of Chiveis will die the excruciating death he deserves.”

  “If he was able to survive your attack and even do injury to you, he must be a worthy opponent. Strength will be needed for your task. It is time for you to receive the spirits.”

  Borja snapped his fingers. A slave materialized from the shadows, pushing a large cauldron on wheels. As the cauldron was tipped, its contents emptied into the pit. The cats confined below began to screech even louder as gooey oil poured over them.

  Borja walked to the wall and removed a torch, handing it to the Iron Shield. “Begin when you are ready. The walls and ceiling are made of thick stone lined with silver. The spirits cannot get out. There is only one place for them to go. What say you, my servant?”

  “Crudelitas vis est,” replied the Iron Shield.

  “Indeed it is.”

  Borja exited, making sure the slave closed the door behind him. A moment later an unearthly caterwauling erupted from the room. Even through the thick door, the commotion was raucous and intense. Borja could only imagine the horror of the sounds that were reverberating off the walls inside the dark chamber.

  Finally the plaintive cries of the sixty-six cats died out. There was a knock on the door. When Borja opened it, a stinking cloud billowed from the room. The Iron Shield stood in the doorway, ripe with the stench of singed fur and burnt flesh.

  Borja placed his hand on his servant’s forehead. “May these familiar spirits invigorate you with their life force,” he intoned.

  “I can feel their presence, my lord.”

  “Yessss . . . I feel it too. It is very good.”

  Reaching to a pouch at his waist, Borja removed an object and held it in his fist. “I have a gift for you, shield of my life.”

  The Iron Shield knelt and bowed his head. “The grace of Your Abundance is beyond measure.”

  Borja removed the Iron Shield’s eye patch. The dark warrior looked up at Borja from his kneeling stance, waiting silently. The gaping socket of his right eye was like the entrance to a cave—repulsive and forbidding.

  “See what I had made for you,” Borja said, opening his fist. A rounded lump of glass lay in his palm, fashioned by an expert lens grinder. It was a sickly yellow color, pierced by a single black slit.

  “The eye of a cat,” said the Iron Shield.

  “A legion of spirits now indwells you, mighty warrior. From this day forward you shall be even more fearsome than you were before.”

  Borja held the glass orb in his fingers. It glinted in the torchlight. With grave solemnity he pressed it into the waiting eye socket of the most dangerous man on earth.

  Teo’s boots were caked with manure. Pitchfork in hand, he mucked out one of the stalls in the stable assigned to Count Federco Borromo on the outskirts of Nuo Genov. A beautiful autumn sun shone down on the gleaming city. Teo rolled a wheelbarrow to the compost pile in the yard and dumped it out. Shirtless and covered in grime, he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. At least the sweat no longer stung the slash across his chest. The cut had healed up nicely in the four weeks since his battle with the Iron Shield.

  In the distance a few boats bobbed on the ocean. Soon they would be brought into winter storage, for it was the middle of the tenth month, and the season of unpredictable storms was at hand. Today, however, the sky was clear and the sun still had some warmth. Teo chuckled and shook his head. Though it would be nice to be out on the water with a breeze on his face, he realized it was not his destiny to enjoy a leisurely day at sea. Eight more stalls remained to be cleaned.

  Teo returned to the stable and was about to start forking soiled hay into the wheelbarrow when something caught his eye: a partial footprint pressed into the mud. Years of training as a wilderness scout had accustomed him to observe details that would escape most people’s notice. Teo knew the footprint wasn’t his, yet it was fresh, which meant someone had slipped into the stable while he was outside. Since the horses had been turned out to pasture and no one was likely to be in the stable right now, the footprint was more than a little suspicious.

  Glancing at the stalls he had already cleaned, Teo noticed the door to one of them was ajar. He eased toward it, pitchfork in hand, then swung it open with the toe of his boot. An elderly man with long, white hair crouched in the shadows. Seeing he was discovered, he stood erect and stepped into the light.

  “Sol!” Teo exclaimed. The Ulmbartian schoolteacher was the last person Teo had expected. “What are you doing here? I’m so glad to see you!”

  “And I’m glad to see you, Teofil! Much has happened to me, and we need to talk.” Sol looked around. “In private.”

  “This place is as private as any, I suppose. Si
t down. I’ll be right back.” Teo went to the trough outside and cleaned up, then put on his shirt and returned with his lunch pail. It contained sandwiches of a Likurian flatbread called fokatcha, layered with slices of white cheese and a spread made from pine nuts and basil.

  Sol was ravenous when Teo brought him the food. Looking at him more closely, Teo realized how gaunt his friend’s face had become. Sol’s clothes were ragged from hard use, and his hair was unkempt. Teo let him eat his fill before trying to start a conversation.

  Finally Sol’s appetite appeared to be sated. He reclined against the wall of the horse stall and reached for a flask of wine. After guzzling a long draft he looked at Teo and said, “The shamans came after me.”

  “What? Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Sol wiped his mouth on his sleeve and recounted the entire story. A barnyard cat at the Labella estate had saved his life. Sol had been awakened one night when the cat yowled from the stairs outside. Realizing someone was ascending toward his apartment above the schoolhouse, Sol listened until he heard his lock being picked, then dashed to his bedroom wall and opened a panel leading to a hollow place in the eaves. The panel blended into the wood, and Sol had just pulled it shut behind him when he heard his door open. He watched through a knothole as a tall shaman with an armband crept to the bed. Sol had fallen asleep in a chair that night, so his bed was still made. Whispering a curse, the shaman turned and left the apartment, relocking the door and leaving the place just as he had found it.

  “My only choice was to leave,” Sol explained, “because I sure wouldn’t get a second chance. I knew I couldn’t keep hiding and dodging those killers. One day or the next they’d get me. So that very night I stuffed a blanket and a bunch of food in my pack and left before dawn.”