Tithed by Megan Hart Page A

grey. An edge of morning sunlight caught the fine hairs on the back of his hand, making them shine faint gold against the brown of his skin. Calluses showed on the inside of his thumb and forefinger. It might not be a fighter's hand, but it was not a nobleman's hand either—it knew hard work.
           She was still looking at it, wondering what she was supposed to be seeing, when it disappeared.
           She blinked, instinctively shook her head, thinking her eyes must have blurred, but his hand—no,
    his whole arm—did not reappear. And now the rest of his body, his face, his tunic seemed to dissolve, like a mirage dissolves when you get close to it.
           Then all at once her perception shifted. He wasn't disappearing, he was c hanging. His skin and hair were taking on the colour and texture of the cliff face, matching each ridge and crack and tiny variation so exactly that if she hadn't known he was there she'd have sworn she was looking at nothing but rock. The change—and that was stranger than all the rest—even crept out into his clothes, so there was nothing to show that a man stood there, silently, secretly watching.
           Only his eyes. They alone did not change, so she had the skin-crawling sensation that something—a demon, something not just half-human but not human at all—peered out of the cliff at her.
           She opened her mouth. "That—that's your gift?"
           He nodded—she could see where the bit of the seeming-cliff that was really his head moved.
           "And is it just rock? Or can it be…" she made a vague gesture, unable to drag her gaze away,
    "…other things? A nything?"
           "Anything, more or less. Nothing moving—not water or sliding sand. I can't match it quick enough for it to work. But anything that stays still long enough…yes."
           He shut his eyes for a moment, and it was as if he'd vanished entirely. Almost doubting her own senses, she caught herself from reaching out to touch where he'd been. Then he swam back into visibility, his body seeming to coalesce from the air in front of her, changing to his normal self.
           His eyes opened. "It's not the only part of it. You maenads—you'd have found me if that were my only gift—"
           "Not your only gift? You have…more than one?" She'd never heard of anyone having more than one gift…and black envy caught at her throat. If I had more than one, I would not feel so bereft. And why him? Why does he deserve—
           She got hold of herself. His gifts were unholy, unsanctioned—not something to be envied, no matter how many of them he had.
           She looked back at his face. "You must have sinned appallingly." The envy, not quite suppressed, coloured her voice with a harsh tone that sounded like contempt.
           "What?"
           "To have two gifts. It was your sin that brought that on you—"
           "It was not."
           She stared at him, incredulous that he'd deny it. "You know it was. That's why we were sent after you—you've been using unholy gifts, trying to conceal them—"
           He cut across her. "I know very well what brought you after me. I know my gifts are what the priests call unholy. I'm saying it was not sin that gave them to me."
           At that, she laughed, scornful, a lifetime of teaching making her sure of her ground. "You're saying
    you never sinned?"
           "I'm saying I got my gift when I was two years old." His voice was like stone. "You tell me, what sin could I have committed by then?"
           For a moment she could think of nothing to say. It can't be. The unholy gifts—they're born from sin. It's why they come at adolescence, when people move away from the innocence of childhood. Only the holy gifts can come earlier, given by the god, blessings rather than curses…
           "You're lying." She moved away from him, standing