After the second hour, Rosalba took a break, and stood up to stretch and ring for some tea. “It's dull work,” she said again. “But the music has made this afternoon go much faster.”
“What would you rather be doing?” I asked.
“Oh—you know. Rooting out heresy at the source, perhaps, or bringing apostates back to the mercy of the Lady. Transcribing confessions is—well, it's boring. But someone has to, and I'm very good at it.” The servant arrived with two cups of tea, and Rosalba handed one to me. We sat back down; I blew across the tea and sipped carefully.
Through the wall to the next office, we could hear voices, muffled but loud enough to be clear. “—have enough now to try him and burn him for apostasy, if we want to. I think—”
“Are you mad?”
“We've tried blackmail. It hasn't worked.”
“He's no use to us dead.”
“He's no use to us alive, if he won't do as we ask.”
There was a muffled obscenity from behind the wall, and then one of the men laughed.
Rosalba set down her tea. “They'll be bringing the next one in a moment,” she said. “I'll let you go now— I understand most musicians must practice in the afternoons—but I'd greatly appreciate it if we could make this a regular assignment. I could afford—oh, perhaps three afternoons each week? When you don't have anything else scheduled?”
There has to be a way I can turn this to my advantage. And no violinist would be likely to turn down a solo engagement. “Certainly,” I said. “I play at your pleasure, Mother Rosalba.”
That night, after the evening meal, I retired alone to my room and barred the door, then drew the window shutters closed. I had never prayed much, back with the Lupi; I generally figured Lucia prayed enough for both of us. I had asked God to spare Lucia's life, but that was pretty much the extent of it. But here, surrounded by the Fedeli and the faithful, watching people around me making the offering to the Lady at meals because they feared the Fedeli if they didn't, I suddenly wished I could celebrate Mass. I wanted to taste the wine-sweetened water we shared; I wanted to see the light in Lucia's eyes when she spoke of her God. Most of all, I wanted to play the forbidden music, and even alone in my room I didn't dare. It was ironic because, as Teleso had said, all musicians learned the music, sooner or later. And played it, quietly and secretly. But not here.
Once I was certain that no one could spy on me, I pulled my dagger from its sheath. The cross-piece formed a strangely proportioned cross, but a cross all the same. I laid the dagger on my bed in front of me, knelt, crossed myself, and folded my hands. B'shaem Arkah, v'Bar Shelah, v'Nihor Kadosh. Except for my urgent requests before battles, I never knew what I was supposed to say to God. So I closed my eyes, and thought of Lucia. I hoped God would know what I meant.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Gèsu went into the house of his enemy,” Lucia recited. “Do you think he wanted to do that? Don't you think he was afraid?”
“But he had God's Light in his heart,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “But he was still one of us. So he was afraid. Just as we would be. Just as you will be. Just as you are. Just as I am.”
I realized suddenly that I stood in Rosalba's office, Rosalba writing furiously next to me.
“I am afraid,” Lucia said. “But I have my faith, and that sustains me. I have the Light, and that strengthens me. I have all that I need. Knock, and the door shall be opened. Ask, and you shall receive. I will never serve you again. I will never serve you again.”
Rosalba looked up. “Take her away,” she said. “Take her back to interrogation. We will lead her back to the mercy of the Lady if we have to break every bone in her body, if we have to burn away the last of her reluctant flesh. Take her away.”
∗ ∗ ∗
I woke up and for a moment I didn't remember where I was, and reached out in the darkness, not even certain who I was reaching toward. “Lucia?” I whispered, but it was Mira my half-sleeping self had hoped to find by my side.
I will never serve you again. I will never serve you again. My dream had been about Lucia, but the words were Mira's—spoken in the darkness of her own dream when she first came to the conservatory. “Fine words, my friend,” I whispered. “But you served them well enough when you rained fire onto the Lupi.”
I closed my eyes, but I could see Mira's gray gaze; against my will, I found myself thinking of the cold softness of her hand when I'd held it the evening after she arrived, in the darkness of the practice hall. I clenched my hands into fists, trying to will myself to think of Lucia instead, but I knew that I had trusted Lucia so quickly and so willingly in part because the light in her eyes had reminded me of Mira.
I turned over and pulled the blankets over my head, trying to dispel my thoughts. I didn't want to think about Mira. Mira had saved me only to leave me; she had saved me again only to destroy the Lupi. I never wanted to see her again, I told myself. I prayed to God that I not see her—it would be terribly dangerous, as she could recognize me. I had changed a great deal, but I didn't think that I had changed so much that Mira would not recognize me if she saw my face. Miriamne, I thought. Her name is Miriamne here. And she is not the woman I knew.
I dozed fitfully for a while, but it was a relief when a soft rap roused me. I scrambled out of bed, pulling on my robe and tying it securely, checking in my mirror to be sure that nothing about my appearance would betray me. It was just dawn. “Who is it?” I called.
“It's Ulisse,” he said. “Let me in, I need to talk with you.”
I checked the mirror one more time, then lifted the bar on the door and let him in. I was afraid he was going to start asking for details about the Lupi or, God forbid, Eliana, but he had more prosaic things on his mind. “Valentino told me about the—you know. Heretical icon in his room,” he said. “Quirino is afraid that Valentino hasn't broken things off with Sura.”
I shrugged sleepily. “I wouldn't know.”
“His room's right near yours,” Ulisse said, and his voice took on a wheedling tone. “Daniele, do you think you could follow Valentino? Watch to see if he slips out? We really need to know if he's trying to still see Sura secretly.”
“Look,” I said. “Isn't this Valentino's business? If you're so worried, why are you trying to get me to follow him?”
“He'd notice if I followed him,” Ulisse said. “But he's my best friend, Daniele. If he came to grief because of his friendship with me, I could never forgive myself.”
“So what is it you want me to do?” I decided to go along with it; if nothing else, it would give me a chance to practice my eavesdropping skills on an escapade that didn't seem likely to get me into that much trouble.
“Watch for him, tonight,” Ulisse said. “After dark. If you see him leaving, follow to see where he goes. And tell me if he goes to meet Sura.”
“Fine,” I said. “But only once.” I could always let Ulisse talk me into doing more spying if I decided it was to my advantage.
It was one of my days to play for Rosalba; when I was done with breakfast, I made my way to her office and slipped in unobtrusively. Rosalba glanced up to give me a quick smile as I took my spot, then turned back to an old man who sat rigid in the chair in front of her. “What do you have to confess?” she asked him.
“I, Lecto, do confess to the crime of blasphemy,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I took the Lady's name in vain. I would not afflict your ears with my blasphemy, but I repent and regret my words, and will never speak them again. I renounce my sin. I make my confession.” He looked up at Rosalba anxiously. “Is that all right? Did I say the right thing?”
Rosalba finished writing and looked up. “Is this certified as sincere?” The guard nodded. “You did fine,” she reassured the old man. “So long as you repent your sin; that's the important part. Come here and make your sign.”
The old man could write his name, and did, at the bottom of the parchment, then hobbled off, escorted by the guards.
Rosal
ba sat back and cracked her knuckles. “I don't know how we get involved in that sort of thing,” she muttered.
I finished the piece I was playing and lowered my violin for a moment. “Mother Rosalba? I have a suspicion that I know which phrase he used, and—uh—I've heard it used a lot over the years. And I'm just wondering, is that the sort of crime you hunt down? I mean, not that I ever take the Lady's name in vain—”
Rosalba turned to give me an amused look. “You can go ahead and confess your sin to me, Daniele. I promise, saying ‘Lady's tits’ is not exactly a capital offense.”
“I'm just wondering how careful I should be should I, say, trip over a rock in the garden or something …”
“Don't stay awake at night worrying,” Rosalba said. She shook her head. “I suppose, as the Lady's Servants, we must guard the way to wrong on her behalf, and one sin leads to another. But really, I don't know how the Fedeli get involved in that sort of thing. It's the major sins that are really our domain.”
“Like heresy,” I said.
“Or apostasy,” she said. “That man … Lecto? … probably swore at his priest; that's how he wound up here. Now—” she dropped her voice. “The Redentori, they're actually dangerous.”
I tried to decide whether I ought to be familiar with the term, and ended up giving her a blank look. “Who?”
“You know. The Old Way apostates. A few years ago, no one had ever even heard of them. Then—” She dropped her voice again. “Would you believe there was an Old Way apostate at my seminary?”
I could believe it, actually. Rosalba's home city was Varena, and suddenly I had a strong suspicion that I knew exactly who she meant.
“There was this girl,” Rosalba said, confirming my suspicions, “Lucia. She was a friend of mine, actually, when I could stand to be around her. She was one of those really morose people. You know, sad all the time and if you spent any time talking to her you'd be just as depressed. I tried, though, I really tried. I think—” she sighed. “I hate to judge this sort of thing, but I think the biggest problem was that she didn't really have a vocation. Maybe her parents pressured her into the seminary, for whatever reason; it happens. And seminary is a lot of work. You wouldn't necessarily know that, but it's a lot of work, and some of it's hard and dirty and unpleasant. If you don't know that you're serving the Lady, I can see where someone might hate it.” She paused and glanced toward the door, but there was no sign yet of guards or a new prisoner, so she shrugged and went on with her story.
“Eventually the priestesses in charge of the seminary must have reached the same conclusion, because they sent Lucia to do a solitary vigil. That was their first mistake. Lucia came out convinced she'd heard the Old Way deity speaking to her. Their second mistake was that they decided all she really needed was a nap—” Her voice dripped baffled scorn, “—and left her alone, if you can believe it. She escaped, but not before trying to convince a half dozen of us that worship of the Lady was a stupid idea and we all needed to go learn the Old Way.”
“Was she mad?” I asked.
“I actually think she was possessed,” Rosalba said. “Their first step should have been to restrain her, and bring someone from the Fedeli skilled in casting out the Maledori when they have taken over someone's heart and mind.” We could hear footsteps outside, and she hastily got out another sheet of paper. “In any case,” she added, “that was when I realized that the Lady wanted me to join the Fedeli. Because when Lucia told me that I was worshipping a false god, I could sense the darkness within her. And I knew—” Rosalba's eyes showed deep regret, “I knew that if only I had the right words, the right ritual, the right prayer, I could cast out the Maledori and return her to the Lady. But I didn't; I wasn't one of the Fedeli yet.” She sighed. “And now, of course, I record confessions. Thanks be to the Lady.”
The door opened and a guard came in. Then two more guards, because this prisoner had to be carried. I realized with horror that this was because there was very little left of his feet. The guards set him in the chair.
The prisoner wore a shapeless gray shift, and filled the room with the stench of blood and excrement. His cheeks were hollow and much of his hair was missing. His eyes were mostly closed. One of the guards nudged the prisoner and he began to speak. “I, Octavio, do confess to the crime of apostasy,” he said. He spoke almost inaudibly.
Rosalba glanced over at me, and I quickly set my violin on my shoulder and started to play. At the sound of the violin, the prisoner looked up. His eyes were glazed and dull. After a moment he continued.
“I confess to the crime of apostasy. I have secretly been a Redentore, worshipping false gods and subscribing to superstition.” His voice faded again.
“Your companions in apostasy,” Rosalba prompted when he paused.
“Also practicing this crime with me,” he said, and paused again, closing his eyes.
“Go on,” Rosalba said.
Octavio was silent for a long moment. I realized that he was listening to my playing, and a slight smile came to his face. He opened his eyes again and looked straight at me. Where before his eyes had been dull, they were now lit with a dark fire. “No,” he said.
“Go on,” Rosalba said. “You have agreed to make a full confession. Do you want to be taken back to the torture?”
“I will not speak more,” he said. “You have my confession. You may content yourselves with it. I have no one to accuse. I practiced alone; I worshipped alone. I know of no other Redentori.”
“Octavio,” Rosalba said, and set down her pen. She rose and strode across the room to face him. Her back was to me, but I could imagine her face, rigid as steel, her dark eyes gleaming. “Don't be a fool, Octavio. We will bring you back to the Lady's mercy sooner or later, one way or another. What have they done to you?” She jabbed a hand against his side and I could see his face contort in pain. “How long have you been here? One week? You might hold out another minute, another hour, but you will return to Her in the end. Why not return now?”
“No,” Octavio said. “I have nothing more to say to you. In Gèsu is my strength. I recant my confession. I worship the true God.”
“Fool,” Rosalba said, and slapped him. I saw a trickle of blood run from his mouth; he had already been beaten, many times, and she had reopened an old wound. “Do you think you can stand against us? Against the Lady?”
“We must be a threat to you,” Octavio said. “Or you would not come for us; you wouldn't care so much that you'd wrest the spirit from my body just for a handful of names.”
“You are no threat,” Rosalba spat. “It is only out of mercy that we seek to return you to Her. It's to save your soul.”
“My soul knows its true home,” Octavio said. “You can tear my body apart, but my soul knows its true home.”
“You will be put to the torture again,” Rosalba said. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” Octavio said, his hoarse voice breaking. “But I will not give you names.”
Rosalba turned and went back to her desk. “Take him away, then,” she said to the guards, and tore up the paper on which she'd started writing his confession.
My hands were shaking; I could barely hold my bow steady. I let the last note fade away and then carefully lowered my violin. Rosalba said nothing, crumpling the shreds of paper on her desk. Finally she spoke. “They will drive the Maledori from his heart eventually,” she said, “but there may be very little left by then.”
“And then?” I asked, lowering my violin.
“He'll be executed, of course, to prevent the evil from spreading, and the Lady will take him to Her.” She sighed. “I'm sorry, Daniele; I know that was hard for you to see. Why don't you go to the chapel and say a prayer for Octavio before you go back to your room?”
Since arriving at Court, I had not set foot in the Imperial Chapel of the Lady—in fact, the last time I had been in a church was during my trip to Doratura, when Giula and I had taken shelter from the rain. The church by the roadside had
been a simple building, wood and brick with a linen cloth on the altar. I found myself trembling slightly as I walked up the white marble steps into the Imperial Chapel, opening the heavy door to slip inside.
The chapel interior was shadowed and dark, even with the faded autumn sun shining through the windows of colored glass. The building was chill, almost as cold inside as out, and I tucked my hands inside my cloak, trying to warm them. I had no particular desire to pray, but I decided to walk Gaius's Circuit anyway, because I was afraid that Rosalba might have followed me or sent someone to watch me. I paused to meditate by the first altar, the Lady's Appearance to Gaius in a Vision, raising my hands and bowing my head in a prayerful attitude.
Gèsu forgive me, I thought, not willing to risk praying under my breath. You know why I am truly here. The icon of the Lady smiled benignly at me; this was one of the more insipid icons I'd seen, clearly designed by someone who strongly approved of the Lady as the Ever-Doting Mother of us all. Either that or a secret Redentore painted it to make trouble, but that seemed a little unlikely.
After an appropriate interval, I moved on to the next altar, Gaius's Return to the Old Imperial City. I wished Giovanni were here, so I could yell at him. What am I supposed to do here? How much longer do I have to take this? How am I supposed to use what I know to do anything useful? “You'll figure out a way,” Giovanni would have said. “You're supposed to be so clever, aren't you? Uncorrupted by a university education.”
I moved on toward the next altar on the Circuit— Gaius's Founding of the Circle—and then the next, the Lady's Victory Over Foolish Superstition. Still insipid, the smiling Lady rested her dainty foot on a broken cross. I closed my eyes. Gèsu, I whispered aloud, but very softly, give your servant Octavio strength. Help him to know that he is not alone. I knew I could never endure what Octavio had. And I wasn't sure whether to be happy or horrified that my music had given him strength to refuse them again. “There must be some way to turn this to my advantage,” I whispered. “Help me find a way.”
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