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

by Jacqueline Carey

  It must have taken the better part of an hour for Luba to cut away the last of my filthy clothing. Avoiding my gaze, she gestured for me to climb into the tub. Naked and clanking, I did.

  The water was cold, and although I would gladly have done it myself, Luba set about scrubbing me with relentless determination, as though the act were some kind of hateful duty. The lye soap was stinging and caustic, especially on the myriad nicks she had inflicted on my skin and the chafed welts that had begun to rise beneath my shackles. The wire brush was harsh and painful, taking off layers of skin. Unbidden tears came to my eyes.

  “It is good to mortify the flesh,” Valentina said unexpectedly, an edge to her tone. “The flesh is weak and sinful. Only the spirit is pure.”

  I sought her gaze. “Is that what you believe?”

  She looked away. “You should not be here. My brother is a fool to bring you under his roof.”

  I raised my hands helplessly. “Steal his key and set me free, and I will go, my lady. I will go so swiftly, it will be as though I were never here.”

  Her shoulders tensed. “I dare not.”

  “Are you afraid of him?” I asked softly. “Your brother?”

  “Pyotr? No.” Valentina fixed me with a hard stare, pointing at me. “I fear you, and all you represent. I am afraid for myself, and I am afraid for my son. I am afraid of God’s judgment upon us. But if there is a chance that I am wrong and my brother is right, I will take it. If you are the penance we must endure, I will accept it.”

  I was confused. “I don’t understand.”

  She gave a short, harsh laugh. “You will in time.”

  Luba spoke to her in Vralian, words that sounded like a warning; and then the Patriarch’s wife put her hand on the back of my neck, dunking my head forcibly beneath the cold water. When at last she allowed me to lift my head, I sputtered for breath. She scoured irritably at my long, tangled hair with the lye soap, then gave up and put out her hand for the shears, which Valentina gave to her.

  I felt an unexpected pang. “Oh, please don’t—”

  The shears closed with a sharp, snicking sound. I felt cool air on the nape of my neck. My wet hair swung forward, chin-length.

  “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity!” Valentina said bitterly. “How weak is a woman’s spirit? How willing is she to succumb to the temptations of the flesh? How eager to tempt others into sin?”

  “I am hardly in a position to tempt anyone,” I muttered. “Nor am I to blame for whoever led you into temptation.”

  She shrugged. “We shall see.”

  They took no chances with me, no matter how much effort it entailed. Once I was scrubbed and shorn, the two women worked together to pick apart the seams of a coarse woolen dress, then draped it around my chained body and sewed it in place. It was drab, shapeless, and grey, and the unrefined wool itched and chafed against my raw, abraded skin. Valentina wrapped a woolen scarf around my head, tucking the strands of my wet hair beneath it.

  “You will learn to cover your head like a decent woman,” she said firmly. “Wear this at all times in the presence of men.”

  “Lest I tempt them with my dazzling beauty?” I asked in a wry tone. Never in my whole life had I felt so thoroughly miserable and unappealing.

  Even so, Valentina’s mouth tightened. She surveyed me with profound distaste and apprehension. “Yes.”

  From the bathing chamber, they led me to my cell—another simple, stark room. It contained a bed with a thin pallet and a single blanket, a chamberpot, a straight-backed chair, a wooden stool, a stand with a ewer of water, and a tin cup. There was one high, narrow window, far too narrow for anything larger than a cat to squeeze through.

  Luba spoke to Valentina, who nodded and translated. “Here, you will stay. Today and tonight, you will fast and think on your sins. Fasting clears the mind. Tomorrow, the Patriarch will begin your instruction.”

  I unwound the head-scarf with a yank, shaking my damp, shorn hair loose in a defiant gesture. “Then I’ll not need this until tomorrow.”

  “You would be wise to heed my advice and think on your sins.” Valentina’s gaze was bleak. “As my brother said, the path to salvation begins with confession. And he will demand a very full accounting.”

  Pity stirred in me. “As he did of you?”

  Her gaze slid away. “Think on it.”

  The women left me, locking the door behind them with a firm click. I tried it anyway and found I couldn’t budge it.

  I was alone with my sins, whatever they were.

  TWENTY-TWO

  As promised, the Patriarch came on the morrow, bringing with him sheaves of paper filled with writing in yet another unfamiliar alphabet. He smiled at me with unnervingly genuine warmth. “Good morning, Moirin.”

  I bowed my head, demurely wrapped in the woolen scarf. Left to contemplate my sins, I had taken Valentina’s advice to heart, insofar as I had determined to wrestle my fear and anger into submission, and give the semblance of cooperating with Pyotr Rostov to the utmost of my ability. “Good morning, my lord.”

  He fixed me with a shrewd look, and I warned myself inwardly against overplaying my hand. “I expect you have many questions.” He took a seat in the straight-backed chair, indicating the stool with a nod. “Let us see if I might answer some of them before we begin.”

  I sat obediently, wondering if this was some sort of trick.

  The Patriarch saw the uncertainty on my face. “Allow me to speculate,” he said gently. “Surely you must wonder how I knew of your existence, your nature, and your history. Is that fair to say?”

  I nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

  He stroked the sheaves of paper in his lap. “Are you aware of the prophecy that Yeshua will return to establish his kingdom in the north?”

  I nodded again.

  “Very good.” He gazed into the distance. “When I was a child, I believed that Vralia had done everything possible to make ready for his return. Every day, I awaited it; and yet it did not come. As a man, I began to doubt. I sought answers. In my quest, I turned to men of great wisdom and discipline.” His expression turned stern. “Are you aware that there was a schism in the Vralian Church of Yeshua?”

  I shook my head.

  “Yes, indeed.” The Patriarch nodded, half to himself. “It came about after the death of Avraham ben David, the Rebbe who counseled the mighty Grand Prince Tadeuz Vral in the aftermath of his historic victory and shepherded the birth of the Church of Yeshua.”

  It struck a distant chord of memory within me. “Was he the priest who granted sanctuary to Berlik?”

  “Exactly so!” His eyes shone, his gaze returning to me. “Berlik of the Maghuin Dhonn, Berlik the Cursed. Is he your ancestor?”

  I shrugged. “All of the Maghuin Dhonn are kin in some way. We are a scarce folk.”

  “So you are,” he agreed. “Scarce and secretive.”

  I was confused. “I don’t understand.”

  Pyotr Rostov lifted a finger. “Patience, child. I am telling you a tale.” A deep solemnity returned to his features. “In his last years, when he was old and ailing, Avraham ben David wrote a series of essays, memoirs of his life. One infamous tract centers around his encounter with Berlik the Cursed, and the many discussions they had.”

  “Oh?” I murmured.

  He leaned forward, like a man uttering a confidence. “It is called Conversations with a Heretic Saint.”

  I still didn’t understand.

  The Patriarch of Riva leaned back in his chair, obviously feeling he had made his point clear. “That is the tract that led to the Great Schism,” he said in a satisfied tone. “For all that he was a great man, the Rebbe Avra-ham ben David faltered in the face of his mortality. The path to God’s grace is a straight and narrow one. In his final days, the Rebbe expressed regrets for helping make it so in Vralia.”

  I blinked. “Because he was kind?”

  He raised his voice like thunder. “Because he was weak and fearful!”

  I
forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply. “Forgive me, my lord. I do not understand why you are angry with this man.”

  “No.” With an effort, he controlled himself. “No, of course not. Suffice it to say that from that day forward, the Church was divided. Tadeuz Vral’s heirs embraced a broader path toward the faith. It is only in the far east of Vralia, where greater discipline was necessary to enforce order, that they remember it is not meant to be an easy path to tread.”

  “Why?” I asked honestly.

  Pyotr Rostov ignored the question. “Thus began my interest in your mother’s folk,” he said in a conversational manner. “Your people. Berlik’s folk. The bear-witches of the Maghuin Dhonn. I was intrigued by the fact that they had gone so deep into hiding. For three generations… nothing.”

  “We were not in hiding, exactly,” I murmured. “It is the way we live. We are a reclusive folk as well as a scarce one.”

  “You’re not,” he observed. “But then, you’re a half-blood. No matter.” He waved the issue away. “I’ll come to your father’s people in time. You know, there is very, very little written or known about the Maghuin Dhonn. And yet one bear-witch managed to change the entire course of the Vralian Church.”

  Since I didn’t know what to say, I held my tongue.

  “For all their conversations, the Rebbe Avraham was never able to persuade Berlik to accept salvation through Yeshua’s sacrifice,” the Patriarch continued. “That is when it came to me that if I could succeed where he failed, it would restore the Church to its rightful path. I let it be known that I would pay traders or diplomats for any word of the Maghuin Dhonn resurfacing.”

  I met his gaze. “And they did.”

  “Not for many long years,” he said ruefully. “It was during that time, when my sister succumbed to temptation and fell into sin, that I turned my attention to Terre d’Ange. Now, about Elua ben Yeshua and the Fallen Ones, much is written. I began reading the lesser-known prophets. Do you recall I spoke of Elijah of Antioch yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  Rostov’s eyes took on a hectic light. “Do you know what apostasy means, Moirin?” I shook my head. “It is the sin of abandoning one’s faith in God.” He steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips. “It is not uncommon to find scripture that names Cassiel of the Fallen Ones the Apostate whose return to God will bring about the return of Yeshua ben Yosef. Elijah of Antioch believed otherwise. He believed that it is Elua ben Yeshua himself who is the Apostate, that it is the Fallen Ones, and most especially the Great Whore Naamah, who led him astray.”

  “I see,” I said politely.

  “No, you don’t. Not yet.” He smiled at me. “But I am giving you the tools to understand, and in time, you will.”

  “I am trying, my lord.”

  The Patriarch shook his head. “You are dissembling in the hope of fooling me. Don’t worry, child. God is patient, and so am I. I came to understand that my sister’s disgrace was an opportunity in disguise. Like you, my nephew is afflicted by Naamah’s curse, but I have taught him that it may be repudiated through prayer and discipline. Once you have accepted salvation, I will do the same for you.”

  Unable to hide my feelings, I looked away.

  “You are angry.” He gave me another indulgent smile. “Only consider this, Moirin.” He tapped the sheaf of papers on his lap. “Long after I had begun to lose hope that the Maghuin Dhonn would ever resurface, you appeared. Not only a witch born to Berlik’s folk, but the daughter of a priest of the Great Whore herself. And your deeds!” He fanned the pages. “Fornicating with men and women alike… well, that is no surprise in Terre d’Ange, bastion of depravity as it is. But wreaking false miracles and summoning demons?” He raised his brows. “Surely your presence is a sign that God is testing us to see if we are prepared for his son Yeshua’s return.”

  “There were no false miracles,” I said in a low tone. “The gift of healing was Raphael’s, not mine.”

  Pyotr Rostov peered at his notes. “By all accounts, he was a skilled physician, but he credited your magic with allowing him to achieve miraculous cures. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. When you make your full confession, you may tell me how you used your dark arts to tempt him into the sin of hubris. Do you know that word?”

  “Yes.” I shifted on the stool, my chains rattling. “It is a Hellene word for excessive pride that leads to folly. Cillian taught it to me.”

  “Cillian…” He glanced at his notes again. I suspected it was just for show, and that he had my entire history memorized. Not for the first time, I cursed the fact that gossip was the life-blood of Terre d’Ange, and precious little I had done in my life was hidden from common knowledge. “Cillian mac Tiernan, son of the Lord of the Dalriada. That’s a good place to begin your confession. He is the first man you ensorceled, is he not?”

  “I didn’t ensorcel him. He was my friend.”

  “It says here—”

  “I don’t care what it says!” I sighed. “How did you find me, anyway? The Tatar lands are a long way from Terre d’Ange.”

  “Indeed.” The Patriarch nodded gravely. “I received these reports only last autumn, for they were many months on the road. It was in my thoughts to petition the Duke of Vralsturm to fund an expedition to Terre d’Ange in the spring to seek you out. Instead…” A look of awe settled over his features. “Before winter fell, traders from the east brought rumors of war in Ch’in, and a jade-eyed foreign witch who served the Emperor. I did not think there could be two such in the world. So I had these chains forged over the course of the winter, and come spring, I sent Brother Ilya and Brother Leonid eastward to investigate.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said bitterly.

  “Do you not see that it is a sign from God that they found you so swiftly, so near to this place?” he asked with the inexorable logic of his faith. “You were already on a path toward salvation, Moirin. You just didn’t know it.”

  My palms were sweating, and I rubbed them against the prickly woolen fabric of my dress. “Are you so certain you know your God’s will? Mayhap I was sent here for some other purpose.”

  “No.” The Patriarch shook his head. “You were not. I am not immune to doubt, but in this, I am certain. There have been other signs that the days of conflict that will accompany Yeshua’s return are nigh. I have sensed it ever since the King of Terre d’Ange had the temerity to raise a whore, an unrepentant whore, to the royal throne.”

  I flushed.

  He ruffled his notes. “Yes, you knew her intimately, did you not? Take heed from her fate, Moirin mac Fainche, lest God strike you down, too.”

  A jolt of unexpected horror ran through me, and I found myself staring at him. “What fate?” I raised my voice. “What fate?”

  “You didn’t know.” It was a statement, not a question. The Patriarch of Riva met my gaze without flinching. He didn’t smile, not exactly, but his lips curled and his face took on a satisfied expression I would come to think of as his creamy look, the one that meant he was reveling in the pain he was about to inflict upon me for my own good.

  It came and went in the flicker of an eye, but it was there, and already I dreaded the words that would follow it.

  He spoke them. “The D’Angeline whore-queen Jehanne de la Courcel died in childbirth over a year ago.”

  It hit me like a fist to the belly. I wasn’t aware of toppling from the stool, wasn’t aware of falling. Only that there was cold stone pressed against my cheek, and I couldn’t breathe. I lay curled around my misery and shoved my manacled hands against my stomach, gasping for air, my body punishing itself.

  Jehanne! Ah, gods.

  All this time.

  No.

  I wanted to weep, and couldn’t. The grief was too vast, too unanticipated. Not Jehanne, my unlikely rescuer, my mercurial Queen. I dragged a ragged gulp of air into my lungs, expelling it with a low keening sound.

  I wanted to believe it was a lie.

  I knew it wasn’t.

 
Chair legs scraped. “You are upset,” Pyotr Rostov said with regret from somewhere above me. “Forgive me, I should have realized it had been a very long time since you had news from your homeland, Moirin. I will leave you to your grief, and we will resume on the morrow.”

  He left.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The days that followed were a blur.

  I refused to eat, refused to talk, turning my face to the wall of my cell. There was no thought or strategy behind it, only the profound, endless ache of grief.

  Jehanne. My lady Jehanne.

  All this time… ah, gods! She had been frightened, so frightened. Frightened of impending motherhood, frightened of childbirth. And I had left her anyway, obeying the call of my bedamned destiny.

  If I had stayed, I could have saved her. Raphael de Mereliot and I could have saved her.

  It was a thought that haunted me, circling back upon me no matter how hard I sought to avoid it. We had done it before, Raphael and I. Together, with my magic channeling his gift for healing, we had saved a young mother bleeding excessively during the act of giving birth.

  I wondered if he had been there at the end.

  I suspected he had.

  King Daniel would have sent for him. It was true, even without my aid Raphael was a skilled physician. In their own ways, they had both loved her, and Jehanne had loved them, too.

  And me.

  I tortured myself with imagining it. Jehanne, weakening, her exquisite face drained of blood. Raphael, rubbing his healer’s hands together to generate warmth, laying them on her, trying in vain to stanch the bleeding. King Daniel hovering over the tableau in anguish, all his solemn poise undone.

  And all the while, a thing unsaid lying between them.

  If Moirin were here…

  Folk came and went. The Patriarch tried to coax me into talking. Valentina and Luba took turns trying to coax me into eating, putting spoonfuls of hot broth to my lips. I ignored them, keeping my mouth stubbornly closed. For a mercy, no one tried to force me.