Kushiel 03 - [Moirin 02] - Naamah's Curse

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Against the backdrop of war, of great and awesome change, I witnessed a profound mystery take place,” the Rebbe wrote. “Even now, I cannot claim to understand it. As I reflect upon those events, I am reminded that the will of Adonai is vaster and more wondrous than any mortal mind can encompass, and that the world is filled with marvels and terrible beauty. To those who will shape Vralia’s future, I say this. You are mortal, and you will err. It is inevitable, as inevitable as the rising of the sun. I beg of you, have compassion in all your doings and always err on the side of love, for that is the greatest gift of all.”

  Reading that, I did weep.

  Aleksei’s gift had accomplished its purpose.

  I tried, I truly did. After reading the Rebbe’s book, I thought that mayhap if Berlik could find his way back to grace through Yeshua, so could I. Mayhap the Maghuin Dhonn Herself was wroth with me. I had done some very foolish things, especially allowing the gifts She had given me to serve Raphael de Mereliot’s ambitions.

  For four days, I was good.

  Day after day, I did my slow, exacting penance, row by row, shuffling in my chains, kneeling on the hard pebbles, and dipping my scrub-brush into the bucket that I might scour each and every square.

  “Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” I murmured, speaking to the gentle Yeshua-that-was, and not the hot-eyed warrior on the wall, holding the world in his palm. “Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

  The Patriarch of Riva approved.

  “I have a mind to reward you, Moirin,” he said to me in a jovial tone, visiting me in my cell after I had completed my fourth day of flawless penance.

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “I will be conducting the morning service tomorrow. Would you care to attend?”

  “Of course, my lord,” I said politely. It was a lie. I wanted nothing to do with him. I still hated Pyotr Rostov. I would always hate him.

  “Very good.” He smiled at me. “Since you are unbaptized, you will have to observe from the narthex, but I think you will benefit from the experience. Luba will escort you.”

  Doubtless that would be a pleasure for both of us. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The Patriarch laid one hand on my head. “You’re welcome, Moirin.”

  Despite everything, I had to own that I was curious—and more than a bit apprehensive, too. Since the day I arrived, I hadn’t seen another living soul save Pyotr Rostov and his family. I would see them in the temple, all the fine folk of Riva who would take part in stoning me to death if I didn’t find a path out of this mess one way or another.

  Scowling Luba came for me at daybreak, the ferocity of her expression letting me know just exactly how little she welcomed this chore. At least her dislike was honest and genuine. I preferred her heartfelt scowls to her husband’s unctuous smiles. Since I was still trying to be good and open myself to the possibility that there was some purpose in my presence here, I met her glare with a calm, steady gaze.

  It didn’t impress her.

  She led me on a different course through the living quarters. It seemed we were to exit onto the street, and enter the temple through the main doors.

  I hadn’t been outdoors for days—weeks, by this time. If it hadn’t been for the magic of the bedamned chains stifling my senses, like as not I would have lost my mind by now, confined in a man-made structure for so long.

  Even so, the sight of the blue sky above me and the feel of open air around me was a powerful tonic. I drew a long, shaking breath, every fiber in my body urging me to run, to flee, to get away.

  But there were the shackles on my ankles, limiting me to mincing steps. There was Luba at my side, taking a fierce grip on my elbow. There were streams of Vralian worshippers heading for the temple, eyeing me with avid curiosity.

  I let out my breath and allowed Luba to steer me into the temple.

  Vralians stood to worship—men on the right, women on the left. Most of them passed beyond the outermost chamber of the narthex to enter the inner chamber of the nave. I winced to see dirty shoes and boots trampling the pebbled floor.

  A few lingered in the narthex, staring and whispering. I did not see kindness or pity in any of their faces. At best, curiosity; at worst, revulsion. I made myself meet their eyes, willing my expression to give nothing away. When I did, they averted their eyes. It was altogether too easy to picture the stones in their hands.

  It was better when the service began. Since it was conducted in Vralian, I understood none of it. Pyotr Rostov had been careful to ensure that precious little was spoken in my presence so I had no chance to learn to communicate with anyone else, keeping me as isolated as possible. But there were long prayers chanted in deep, sonorous tones, and at least the sound of it was pleasing. The Patriarch stood before the altar wearing a fine embroidered stole over his robes and swinging a censer from which sweet-smelling smoke trickled.

  I let the sounds wash over me, lifting my gaze to contemplate the image of Yeshua on the wall above the altar.

  I tried to envision him as Yeshua-that-was, willing his stern visage to soften into the gentler one Rebbe Avraham described.

  “What is it you will of me?” I whispered under my breath, asking the question in earnest for the first time.

  A vision unfolded behind my eyes: Yeshua ben Yosef as savior and intercessor, coming to my aid as he had come to the aid of the adulterous woman in one of the tales Aleksei had read to me.

  And truly, his face was oh so very kind.

  And as in the tale, Yeshua stooped and traced an unknown word on the ground. Then he stood and touched my chains one by one, and one by one my chains fell away. He reached out his hand to me, beckoning for me to take it.

  I gazed into his eyes.

  They were dark, dark and wise and fathomless. There was an entire world behind them, a night sky filled with stars, vast mountains blotting out sections.

  No.

  The mountain moved forward and dwindled, taking on a familiar shape, taking on mortal dimensions. I gazed through the eyes of Yeshua into the eyes of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, and they were filled with infinite sorrow.

  With infinite regret, She turned away from me. I felt the divine spark of my diadh-anam go out like a blown candle and gasped, my soul suddenly empty and hollow.

  There would be no more twilight, no more gifts, no more magic. Never again would I sense the slow thoughts of trees growing, the flickering awareness of animals in the field. Never, ever, would I pass through the stone doorway. That was the price of accepting Yeshua’s salvation.

  “No!”

  The world, the real world came crashing back as though I had released the twilight. I hadn’t known I’d shouted aloud until I heard the echoes of my own voice in the sudden, shocked silence. My chains were shivering, the sigils on them glowing.

  My diadh-anam blazed within me. It had only been a vision—a true vision, mayhap, but a vision nonetheless.

  I had not taken Yeshua’s hand.

  I gasped again with relief, and then a third time as Luba fetched me a great, ringing slap across the face, knocking me sideways, staggering in my shackles. Without giving me a chance to recover, she grabbed the chains that ran from my collar to my wrists, hauling me out of the temple unceremoniously.

  I stumbled in her wake, scarce able to keep my feet, my wits addled and my face stinging. The anger that Aleksei’s compassion and the Rebbe’s book had softened returned full force. Halfway to the door to the living quarters, I got my feet beneath me, planted my heels, and yanked the chains out of her grasp.

  Luba reached for me. I grabbed her arm first, pivoting on my heel to swing her against the outer wall of the temple.

  Her grey eyes went wide and shocked.

  I leaned my right forearm across her throat. “I am not a dog, and you will not treat me like one!”

  And then there was the sound of running feet and shouting, and there were hands dragging me off her, many hands. I didn’t f
ight. Three Vralian men held me uncertainly, waiting for the Patriarch, who came striding down the street, his fine vestments swinging, his face filled with anger.

  “You disappoint me, Moirin,” he rumbled. “You disappoint me sorely!”

  Behind him, I could see Aleksei shaking his head in frantic warning, urging me not to further anger his uncle.

  I gazed at the sky and breathed the Breath of Ocean’s Rolling Waves, willing myself to find the still, calm place within me that Master Lo had taught me to seek. It had been too long since I had practiced the discipline of the Way.

  It helped.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” I said to the Patriarch. “A kind of fit came over me.”

  It was an answer he could understand, and the worst of his anger abated. “It is Naamah’s curse within you struggling against the forces that would contain it,” he said in a judicious tone. “In my eagerness, I fear I misjudged your progress, as well as the tenacious nature of the curse. I should have allowed you to finish a full cycle of penance before exposing you to God’s holy liturgy.”

  I sagged a bit in my captors’ grip. “Thank you, my lord. I’m very sorry.”

  Pyotr Rostov said somewhat in Vralian to the men holding my arms. They let me go with alacrity. Luba coughed and massaged her throat in an ostentatious manner, malice in her gaze. Rostov turned back to me, his face grave. “You understand, of course, that you will have to be punished. It is for your own good. I fear the demons that possess you will only respond to strong discipline.”

  “Of course, my lord.” I met his gaze. “For my own good.”

  He smiled with gentle regret. “I’m glad you understand.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  My punishment was a whipping, and the Patriarch administered it himself.

  Of course.

  It took place in a small inner courtyard I hadn’t even known existed. There, I was made to kneel on the slate, my chained wrists draped over a hook on a large post. With great delight, Luba took her shears to the back of my dress, cutting downward from the neckline and parting the flaps of fabric to lay my back bare.

  Pyotr Rostov beat me with a knotted rope, administering twenty firm lashes, counting out each one in a solemn voice.

  It hurt.

  I’d only ever been struck thrice before in my life. Once, when I told Jehanne I was leaving. She had slapped me with surprising strength, and fallen weeping at my feet. That was one blow I didn’t begrudge her. The second time was in the Great Khan’s ger. To be fair, he hadn’t hit me hard. It had only been a warning.

  The third time was Luba, and that, I did begrudge her.

  This was much worse.

  The rope was heavy, and the knots struck with bruising force. I managed not to cry out loud, but I flinched in anticipation of each blow. My breath grew ragged and helpless tears filled my eyes. There are those who find pleasure in pain, and in Terre d’Ange it is one of Naamah’s arts, but it was not one I had ever relished.

  After ten blows, my back was a welter of pain. By fifteen, I was biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut, willing it to end.

  “… eighteen.”

  Thud.

  “… nineteen.”

  Thud.

  The Patriarch was beginning to breathe hard, too. Through the haze of pain, I sensed that there was more than exertion in it. Although he might deny it to himself, he took pleasure in administering this punishment to me, as surely as he did in forcing my unwilling confessions. The exercise of power aroused him.

  “… twenty.”

  Thud.

  It was finished. He unhooked my chains from the post and helped me to my feet. I stood unsteadily, my back throbbing in agony. My violated dress hung low on my shoulders, baring the upper swell of my breasts. He looked away, but not before his gaze had skated oh so briefly over my exposed flesh. A dark flush suffused his face, further betraying him.

  Valentina hurried to my side, a needle and thread in her hand, yanking my dress in place and beginning to stitch.

  “Very good,” Rostov said brusquely. “Sister, see Moirin to her chamber. She is to fast for two days. Luba, Aleksei, come.”

  Oh yes, the entire household had been required to bear witness to my punishment. I glanced at Aleksei, who was staring fixedly at his feet. He went with his aunt and uncle without a word, without ever looking in my direction.

  “Why do you persist in defying him?” Valentina whispered behind me, stitching furiously.

  I turned my head in her direction. “I didn’t mean to, not this time. I had a vision in the temple. It caught me unaware.”

  Her voice was low. “And assaulting Luba?”

  I rolled my shoulders, testing the depth of my pain. It was considerable. The Patriarch was a fairly strong fellow, and he had not held back. “Ah, no. That I meant to do. And it was almost worth it.”

  A shocked sound escaped Valentina. It took me a moment to recognize it as a stifled laugh. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. “I have entertained similar thoughts on occasion. But, Moirin, you will get yourself killed if you continue this way.”

  “I know.”

  She lowered her hand from her lips and touched me lightly, ever so softly, her fingertips grazing the sore skin between my shoulder blades where my dress yet gaped. It made me shiver. There was something of a mother’s tenderness in it, and something else, too. It seemed a very, very long time since anyone had touched me with kindness. Despite everything, I yearned for it. “I would rather you didn’t die,” she murmured. “Still, I owe everything to my brother, and I have nowhere else to go. You know I dare not intervene?”

  “Aye,” I said wearily. “And I do not blame you. I am learning. This is a harsh place for a woman, especially one judged and found wanting. But your son is proving stubbornly incorruptible, my lady.”

  Valentina bent her head to the task at hand, finishing sewing my dress. “Oh? And yet he stole my book for you.”

  “You knew?” I asked.

  She tied a knot in the thread and broke it. “Yes, of course. Offer Aleksei what he craves.”

  “Love?” I guessed. “Pleasure?”

  Valentina shook her head. “Truth.”

  So I did.

  Two days passed before Aleksei came to me again. In accordance with the Patriarch’s orders, I was given no food, only water. I was not even allowed to continue my penance, which I did not mind a bit. It gave my aching body a chance to heal. My lower back hurt from kneeling and bending; bruised to the bone, my upper back hurt from the lash. The pain in my knees was chronic.

  I spent the time returning to the discipline that Master Lo had taught me. I sat cross-legged and half-starved on my narrow berth until Aleksei came back, cycling through the Five Styles of Breathing.

  I prayed, too. Not to God and Yeshua, but to the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, and to Blessed Elua and his Companions, and most especially among them to Naamah. In this, too, I had been neglectful.

  When Aleksei returned with his book of scriptures, I could see the trepidation in every line of his body. His broad shoulders were hunched and tight, and I suspected he was wearing that vile goat’s-hair vest beneath his shirt again. His uneasy gaze skidded toward me.

  I sat cross-legged on my bed, my mood and my face calm. “Hello, Aleksei.”

  “Moirin.” His hunched shoulders relaxed by an inch or two. He met my eyes, frowning a little. “I thought to find you angry.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I have gone beyond anger, at least for the moment. I do not promise it will not return.” I nodded at the chair. “Will you sit? I’d like to speak to you.”

  Aleksei pulled the stool over instead, hunkering on it with that combination of awkwardness and grace unique to young men. He turned the book over in his hands, his glorious blue eyes wide and uncertain. “I’m supposed to read to you.”

  “I know, and in a little while, you may,” I said. “Are you willing to listen to me first?”

  Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Yes, Moirin. I do lik
e listening to you, and I am trying to understand, too.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled back at him, and took a deep breath. “Aleksei, I had a vision in the temple. That is why I cried out.”

  I told him what I had seen, my vision of Yeshua and the Maghuin Dhonn beyond him, and the spark of my diadh-anam extinguished.

  Although he didn’t understand it, not wholly, he listened attentively and he understood as well as any Vralian could.

  “It has made one thing clear to me,” I said gently when I had finished. “No matter what else, I cannot accept Yeshua’s salvation without betraying the Maghuin Dhonn Herself and losing my soul in the bargain. I can’t do it, Aleksei. I do not want to die, not at all, but I would rather die than lose my diadh-anam and live without it.”

  There were tears in his blue, blue eyes. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “More sure than I’ve ever been of anything in my life. And if you do not help me, sooner or later, your uncle will kill me.”

  “You want me to help you escape,” he murmured. “To betray my uncle and everything he holds dear.”

  “He seeks my redemption as a means to an end,” I said. “A sign from God that it is time to launch a crusade to convert the D’Angelines, to bring the apostate Elua and his Companions back to the fold.” I shook my head. “It will not happen, not here and now. Not beginning with me.”

  “What did he write?”

  I blinked at him. “Who?”

  Aleksei rubbed his hands on his knees. “Yeshua. In your vision. You said he wrote a word on the floor. What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “What was the word he wrote in his encounter with the adulterous woman? Mayhap it was the same.”

  “No one knows.” He looked somber. “Sometimes I think the entire mystery of Yeshua must be contained in that word.”

  What he was thinking, I couldn’t begin to guess. I put out my hands, palms upward. “If I were free, I would invoke Naamah’s blessing for you, Aleksei. You think you understand what that means. You don’t. There would be healing in it for you.”

  He glanced at me, unable to hide the hunger and the yearning in him. “You seek to tempt me.”