Fires of the Faithful

by Naomi Kritzer

  In the firelight, with the crowd and the masks, it was surprisingly difficult to tell who was who. Mira clasped my hand, and we joined the dancers. No one was smiling, which was strange; one week ago, most of the girls would have traded their boots for the opportunity to spend a night dancing with the boy students. Now, though, everyone’s attention was focused on Galeria and Cassio—and everyone wanted to be sure to look devout. The drummers took turns so that they didn’t get tired, but the dancers didn’t have that luxury. Out of breath, Mira and I slumped briefly in the shadows, out of sight. “I can’t keep this up much longer,” I whispered.

  “Yes, you can,” Mira said. “We’ll take breaks. You’ll make it.”

  We rose and rejoined the dancers. Flavia was drumming now, and some other instrumentalists were joining in. I spotted Bella taking a spot beside Flavia and getting out her trumpet; as I forced my tired feet to move, I felt a surge of jealousy. Violins weren’t well suited to this sort of thing, but trumpet music carried over the crowd.

  Dancing to honor the Lord and the Lady was supposed to be spontaneous. The Lady asked us to pray with our bodies as well as our voices and our hearts, according to Mother Emilia; a scripted prayer was not sincere. That might be true, but sometime during the long, cold night, we began to move in a sort of unison: bounce to the right, bounce to the left. Right-bounce, left-bounce. It was all our exhausted bodies could manage. I could hear Bella playing the trumpet again—something appropriately syrupy—and then, suddenly, I felt a strange warmth surge through the crowd. For a moment, I thought I’d wandered into the bonfire’s warmth without realizing it. But the wind was still as cold as ever; it was a different sort of warmth that I felt—as if I had drunk hot wine. I touched my cheek, wondering if my face was flushed. Bella’s trumpet music was loud in my ears, and when I looked at her, I saw that her eyes were wide and bright behind her mask. I thought I saw light shining through her—shining out of her. And then Cassio snatched the trumpet from her hands and threw it to the ground.

  Bella stumbled back a step. Behind her, Flavia’s eyes were wide, but her face was rigid. Mira squeezed my hand tightly.

  Galeria stepped forward. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Bella.” Bella knelt to pick up her trumpet, then rose to face the Fedeli.

  “Bella,” Galeria said. “The Lady has spoken to me, Bella. She has shown me the darkness inside you. There is a terrible, terrible darkness there.” Galeria’s voice was high, almost frightened. “A darkness that threatens to spill out of you, to infect others.”

  Bella said nothing.

  “You can still be saved, child,” Galeria said. “Swear your loyalty to the Lady, and all shall be well.”

  For a moment, I thought that Bella was going to do it—that she would say whatever they wanted her to say. Then she threw back her shoulders. “I bear witness that the Lord and the Lady are false gods,” she shouted as loud as she could. “In the name of God, and Her Son, and Her Holy Light, I pledge my life to the truth, and nothing else!” She flipped the cross out from under her robe. “I am Redentore. If I must die for the truth, then so be it.”

  Cassio yanked the cross from around her neck and threw it to the ground. This is it, I thought, and wondered if Mira would have a chance to steal a horse and get away, since Bella would be tortured and would undoubtedly name every one of us. But instead of binding Bella and taking her away, Cassio pushed Bella to her knees, then drew his knife and cut her throat.

  Bella fell forward, and the students who had been dancing near the front leapt back from the gush of blood. Because of the crowd, I couldn’t see Bella as she died—I couldn’t see if she tried to make a cross on her breast, or if she grabbed for her throat as if she could stanch the blood. I clasped my own hands over my mouth, smothering my own cry of anguish. This isn’t happening, I thought. This isn’t real. That isn’t Bella they just murdered—not Bella.

  “In the name of the Lady,” Cassio said, looking down at Bella, “I commend your soul to Her.”

  I shuddered. The warmth I’d felt a few moments ago was gone, as thoroughly as a doused flame.

  Cassio turned back to us. “Dance,” he said. “Tonight, we honor the Lord and the Lady.”

  I might have fallen, but Mira clasped me around the waist. “Do as he says, or we’ll all follow Bella,” she whispered. “Move your feet. They don’t expect enthusiasm—just obedience.”

  I managed to shuffle my feet to the music. Around me, others did the same. Through the crowd, I saw Celia; she had turned her face to hide from the Fedeli, and her mask was wet from her tears.

  I wasn’t crying, because I still couldn’t believe that Bella was really dead.

  At dawn, the fire had burned down, and we were sent to rest for a few hours. The Dean announced that all lessons and rehearsals were canceled for the day. Mira and I made our way back to our room, and I collapsed onto my bed.

  Moments later, there was a knock at the door. It was Flavia. She hadn’t taken her mask off, and her hands were shaking. “I saw them do it,” she whispered. “I was standing right there. I saw Bella die.”

  I let Flavia sit down on my bed. “After they cut her throat, she was struggling to speak,” Flavia said. “Her body convulsed, and when she saw me, her lips moved. She wanted to tell me something. But I can’t read lips.”

  “She probably just wanted to tell us to believe,” I said. I put my arm around Flavia, and she pulled off her mask, leaned her face against my shoulder, and cried.

  There was another knock at the door. Giula, this time. “I can’t sleep,” she said. Her voice was flat and toneless; her face was expressionless. “I’ve been trying, and I can’t sleep.”

  “Come lie down on my bed,” Mira said. “We’ll talk to you, if you need company.”

  “Are they going to do that to all of us?” Giula asked.

  “No,” I said. “They’re not going to hurt you, Giula. I promise.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she asked.

  I wasn’t, really—it just seemed to me like reassuring Giula as much as I could would increase the chances that we’d get through this without her losing her nerve. “Domenico told me that he thought they wanted to make an example of someone. Bella was their example. They don’t need to hurt anyone else.”

  Giula shook her head, sinking down on Mira’s bed. “I can’t believe it,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if she meant that she couldn’t believe me, or if she meant that she couldn’t believe what had happened.

  There was another knock at the door, and then Celia opened the door before Mira could let her in. Her mask dangled from her limp fingers, and her eyes were swollen. She closed the door and leaned against it. “They weren’t supposed to do that,” she said.

  Flavia’s head snapped up. “Did you turn Bella in?” she hissed.

  “No!” Celia said. “How could you think that? I haven’t told them anything!” She sat down on my stool. “But it doesn’t matter. They were supposed to give her a chance to recant—”

  “They did,” I said.

  “They were supposed to try harder than that,” Celia said. “They wanted to kill Bella!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Mira said.

  “I don’t understand it. Why would the Lady want Her servants to do that? Why?”

  None of us said anything.

  Celia looked at me, her red eyes meeting mine. She crossed her index fingers. “I swear that I will not go to the Fedeli to volunteer information,” she said. “I will not offer to name names, and I will do everything in my power to avoid betraying you.” She kissed her crossed fingers.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Celia nodded once, then stood up and left.

  After she had gone, Flavia sat up. “You know, she has a point,” she said. “If the Fedeli really thought that Bella was a heretic, why wouldn’t they have questioned her?”

  I looked at Mira.

  Mira shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”

&nbs
p; “They must have been afraid of something,” Flavia said. “I wish I knew what.”

  We managed to sleep a little in midmorning, Flavia beside me and Giula beside Mira. We slept right through the bell summoning us to the midday meal. Shortly after the meal ended, there was a loud rap at our door. “What?” I called, raising my head from the bed.

  “The Fedeli have ordered that everyone at the school report to the courtyard,” said a voice—one of the teachers, I thought. “Immediately.”

  We piled out of bed, pulled on our boots, and grabbed our cloaks. Bella’s body had been removed from the courtyard; all that remained was a dark stain on the stones. The ashes of the bonfire had been swept away. The Dean and the teachers organized us into lines, as if we were in chapel—the boys on one side of the courtyard, the girls on the other. Mira, Flavia, Giula, Celia, and I stood together. At the end of the courtyard, Domenico stood with the Fedeli. I could see him smiling and joking, and my blood ran cold, even though I knew he wasn’t really on their side.

  Once people had stopped coming out of the dorms, the teachers counted us twice, to be sure that everyone was there. Someone was missing—one of the boys—and it was determined after a few minutes of looking that he was in the privy, throwing up. He was escorted down to the courtyard with the rest of us. A freezing cold wind blew through the courtyard. I hugged my cloak around me, but it didn’t help. Despite the sick fear in my stomach, I was very hungry. I had eaten nothing that day.

  The Fedeli approached the first of the boys. “Make a witchlight in your hand,” Cassio said. Puzzled, the boy cupped his hand and summoned a feeble light. Galeria held out the symbol of the Lady, two linked circles worked in gold, and said, “Swear your loyalty to the Lady.”

  “I swear that I am the Lady’s humble and obedient servant,” the boy said, and kissed the gold circles.

  They moved on to the next boy, and made the same request.

  Beside me, I felt Mira go rigid, though her facial expression didn’t change.

  The Fedeli worked their way through the boys; no one balked at the request. Bella would have, though, I realized. Bella would have refused to swear loyalty. Even if she’d survived Mascherata, she would have been caught here, in the courtyard.

  They made their way up and down each line of girls. The wind blew through the courtyard, whistling a little against the stones; I heard a door blow shut somewhere.

  To my left, they had reached Celia. “Make a witchlight in your hand,” Cassio said. Celia made a light, her eyes staring straight ahead, past Cassio’s shoulder. “Swear your loyalty to the Lady.”

  Celia took the symbol in her hand. “I swear that I am the Lady’s humble and obedient servant,” she said tonelessly, and kissed the circles.

  Flavia. “Make a witchlight in your hand,” Cassio said. Flavia made a witchlight, and swore loyalty to the Lady.

  Now it was my turn. “Make a witchlight in your hand,” Cassio said. I made a witchlight. “Swear your loyalty to the Lady.”

  I took the circles. They were warm from all the hands that had held them, all the lips that had touched them. “I swear that I am the Lady’s humble and obedient servant,” I said. My voice rang oddly in my ears, and I felt a sudden surge of shame that I didn’t have Bella’s courage—even though I didn’t really believe in her god, either. I kissed the circles.

  Mira. “Make a witchlight in your hand,” they said.

  Mira raised her right hand in front of her. Her expression never changing, she summoned a tiny light. Beside her, I could feel a sudden warmth radiate from her body.

  “Swear your loyalty to the Lady,” they said.

  Mira dispelled the light, swore her loyalty, and kissed the circles.

  Giula. “Make a witchlight in your hand,” they said.

  Giula held out one trembling hand. She closed her eyes, cupping her hand slightly. “I—” she said, and stopped. She squeezed her eyes tighter. No light formed in Giula’s hand; I could see Galeria’s eyes flicker.

  “I can’t do it!” Giula cried. “I want to, but I can’t! You have to believe me!” She fell to her knees, grasping Galeria’s sleeve and kissing the symbol of the Lady embroidered to the side. “I swear that I am the Lady’s servant,” she sobbed. “I swear it! I’m loyal!”

  Galeria pulled her sleeve away from Giula. “Make a witchlight, daughter,” she said. “Show that you are unafraid to use the gifts that the Lady has given us.”

  Giula cupped her hands together, weeping. “Sweet and gentle Lady,” she choked out, but no light formed.

  Domenico threaded his way through the crowd and grasped Cassio’s arm. “Father Cassio,” he said. “Giula is my student. Really—she’s not very bright, and panics easily under pressure. I can assure you that she uses magery on a regular basis—I’ve seen her use witchlight.”

  Cassio patted Giula on the shoulder; his voice became a comforting croon. “The Lady accepts your profession of loyalty,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Cassio and Galeria moved on, leaving Giula still sobbing on her knees. No one else failed—or refused—to summon witchlight. When every student at the conservatory had proved that they were not Redentori—or at least that they didn’t have enough faith to die for it—we were herded into the chapel for another prayer service. I sat down in the pew, lightheaded from fear and hunger. Giula still shook with occasional hiccuping sobs; Mira’s cheeks burned with a strange heat, as if the witchlight she’d summoned had kindled a fire inside her.

  After opening prayers, Cassio preached a sermon about Old Way apostates. I might have learned a lot about what Bella had believed if I’d been able to pay attention. Instead, despite the danger, I kept almost dozing off. I had stayed up all night and slept only fitfully that morning, and I was exhausted. My mind kept running through the bedtime prayer Giula had started to recite when she hadn’t been able to summon the witchlight.

  Sweet and gentle Lady

  Hear my little prayer

  Hold me in your arms tonight

  I know that you are there.

  Sweet and gentle Lady …

  My hands were ice cold, and I clasped them between my knees, trying to listen to Cassio. He was talking about the Redentori sexual practices—apparently, they believed in picking their own marital partners, rather than letting the Lady pick for them. This was yet another way that they went against the Lady’s will and rejected Her love. I thought that was kind of funny; I mean, normally—in my village— young men and women would make their choice, then keep trying until the Lady blessed their union. It wasn’t like anyone really let the Lady pick for them. I tried to imagine a village where the young women slept with each young man in turn, to see whom the Lady liked best.

  When Cassio had finished, Galeria led us in a long, long prayer. For the death of heretics and blasphemers, for the protection of believers, for the peace of Bella’s soul. After each line, we repeated, “So may it be.” I stopped listening after a while; I didn’t want to hear anymore what I was praying for.

  Then, to my surprise, Domenico stood up to speak. “After investigation, the Fedeli have determined that Bella was seduced into apostasy by a servant at the conservatory named Giorgi,” he said. “Unfortunately, Giorgi fled sometime last night; rest assured, however, that he will be found and brought to justice. You all know Giorgi, so it may come as a surprise to you that he was an apostate. If Giorgi ever attempted to sway any of the rest of you to apostasy, please know that you are welcome to submit a deposition with Father Cassio and Mother Galeria; this will be used as evidence against him when he is caught.”

  As soon as Domenico said that Giorgi had fled, relief swept through me like a warm wind. While a group of six conservatory girls would have stuck out like a six-toed foot in the area around Bascio, Giorgi would be able to disappear. There was nothing about him that was so unusual that the Fedeli would be able to identify him from a description. If they blamed Giorgi, but couldn’t find Giorgi, then the rest of us were—probably—safe.
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  “If you have anything to tell Father Cassio or Mother Galeria, please come by my quarters tonight,” Domenico said. “They will be leaving early tomorrow morning.”

  Domenico sat down, and after a final prayer, the service ended. As we filed out, a bell rang—it was time for the evening meal.

  Bella’s space at the table was painfully empty. Flavia and Celia sat a little closer together, trying to make it less obvious. I was too hungry to think about much of anything other than food. Knowing that the Fedeli were leaving had made the mood almost festive; the conversation around us was loud and boisterous, if still a little nervous. The soup had meat in it—technically, this was a festival meal, but I suspected they hadn’t planned to give us meat until the Fedeli showed up. I was surprised that I was able to get it down.

  After the evening meal, I took my violin and a candle to go practice. I had barely had time even to tune my instrument in the last few days, and I ached to spend some time playing. I was fairly certain that I didn’t need to convince Celia not to turn us all in, nor to convince Giula that she wasn’t going to die.

  Besides, I wanted to mourn Bella alone.

  As I closed the door of my practice room, I wished that I had the courage to play the Old Way funeral music. That was what Bella would have wanted—a Redentore funeral, or the closest thing to it that I could give her. With the Fedeli still at the conservatory, though, I didn’t dare. Instead, I played some music that Bella had liked—first an achingly sad violin piece that I’d played in recital a few years earlier, then the tune of her favorite trumpet serenade. “Rachamin, Arka,” I whispered when I was done, very quietly, my eyes closed. “Rachamin, Gèsu.”

  I remembered Bella’s fascination with the Wicked Stepmother song and plucked the tune gently on my violin.