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

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Fascinating,” the Patriarch murmured. “Is a royal companion always of the same sex as his master or her mistress?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  He stroked his beard. “Very cunning. So Naamah’s Order seeks to corrupt and debauch the flower of D’Angeline nobility from a youthful age, enticing them into unnatural perversions.”

  “No.” I rubbed my palms on my dress. “It is only because a royal companion is meant to be a friend, and it is easier to forge a friendship with someone of the same sex, especially at a young age. Men and women take different paths to adulthood.”

  Pyotr Rostov scowled. “It is a pretty argument to hide an ugly, sordid truth.”

  I shook my head, unwilling to relent. “My lord, I have not lied to you. Loyalty is the most important aspect—the ability to give them one person they can trust without fear, one friend who will keep all their confidences. That is the one gift I had to offer Jehanne, and the one gift she accepted from me.”

  He wetted his pen, tapping it on the edge of the inkwell. “But it was part of your job to service the queen in a sexual manner, was it not?”

  Give my brother whatever he wants.

  He would not listen; he would never listen. These Yeshuites accused me of closing my ears to God, but at least I was trying to understand what they wanted and why. The Patriarch of Riva would never hear aught but what he wanted to believe from my lips. To service, gods! As though anyone in their right mind wouldn’t rejoice at the chance to share Jehanne de la Courcel’s bed, as though anyone could consider it a job, and not an honor and a privilege. It was an ugly, sordid term to describe something lovely.

  “Yes,” I said wearily, leaning back on my stool and resting my scarf-wrapped head against the wall. “It was part of my job.”

  The Patriarch’s pen skated avidly across the page. “How?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He gestured impatiently at me. “These are sins against nature, child. You must confess them in full. What acts did you commit?” He lowered his voice. “I have heard that D’Angelines sculpt vile semblances of a man’s generative organ through art and artifice. Did you play the man’s role with her? Or did you take turns at it?”

  I closed my eyes, remembering Jehanne in Cereus House, showing me the ivory aide d’amour, cradling it in her palm and promising with a wickedly sweet smile to demonstrate all its uses to me. It had been one of the only times. “Not usually, no.”

  “Did you perform unclean acts on her?”

  “Unclean acts?” I opened my eyes.

  The hectic sheen had returned to his gaze. “Did you pleasure her with your mouth?”

  “Oh.” It wasn’t a topic that had arisen before. I wondered if it was because the act of the languisement was less unclean when performed on a man, or if the confession of fornication had sufficed, or if the Patriarch had been saving the accusation for the moment when it would hurt me the most, knowing my grief was still fresh. All three, mayhap. “That, yes.”

  He muttered to himself in Vralian, recording my confession. “How many times?”

  “Many. But it is not listed among the things that God finds an abomination, my lord,” I observed. “Why is it reckoned unclean?”

  His head jerked up, outrage written on his features. “Need you ask?”

  I shrugged. “Apparently so.”

  Pyotr Rostov’s face darkened, and he leaned forward in his chair. “God gave you lips and a tongue that you might give praise to him, Moirin. Not that you might pollute them by placing them where the body’s foulest excrescences emerge. It should be obvious. Is it so hard to understand?”

  I flinched away from him, my chains rattling.

  Give my brother whatever he wants.

  I couldn’t, not this. “You speak of the very font and wellspring of life, my lord,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. “And no, I do not understand.”

  My memories blurred.

  There was my lady Jehanne, lying indolent and languid in the bower she’d had created for me, her arms stretched above her head, her thighs parted so I could kneel between them, her pink nether-lips already glistening with desire. She had smiled at me, her eyes sparkling with unremitting delight, the overhanging ferns painting intricate green shadows on her oh so fair skin. And Checheg, grunting and straining in the ger in the throes of labor, the babe Bayar’s head crowning, tearing delicate flesh. It was all part and parcel of the same thing.

  My voice shook. “How is that not a sacred thing to worship?”

  The Patriarch did not answer, not right away. He sat very still, gazing at me with fixed intensity, until I had to look away. “It is not your fault that you were born into sin, Moirin,” he said at length. “But your actions are your own. If you cannot learn to acknowledge them for what they are, I cannot help you.”

  “I am trying!” I said in frustration.

  “Not hard enough.” He took his line of questioning in a different direction. “Let us move forward in time. You spent a great deal of time travelling with the Emperor of Ch’in’s daughter. Did you serve as a royal companion to her?”

  It caught me unaware, and I felt the breath go out of me. Pyotr Rostov’s lids drooped and his lips curved in the beginning of his creamy look, sensing he had landed a blow.

  A cold, hard anger settled over me. He could tell himself whatever he liked, but deep inside, this confession he was forcing from me titillated him.

  “Yes,” I said coolly, watching his creamy look deepen. “I had the honor of serving as her confidante on several occasions.”

  That drove the smirk from his lips. “That is not what I asked.”

  “It is exactly what you asked, my lord,” I retorted. “You were not listening when I spoke of trust and loyalty.”

  His brows rose. “You deny a physical relationship with her?”

  “Physical?” I shrugged. “Not entirely, no. I offered such comfort as she would accept. The princess suffered from night terrors, memories of her bridegroom’s death. When it was very bad, when she would awaken shaking and trembling, sometimes she would let me hold her until she fell asleep.”

  The Patriarch studied me with a hooded gaze. “But that is not the whole truth, is it, Moirin?”

  “It is!” I protested.

  His lips curled. “Do you think you can lie to me? I am a servant of God, and I hear the lie in your voice. I see it festering on your soul. Tell me, did you debauch the Emperor’s daughter under the guise of giving comfort to her?”

  Gods, I hadn’t been prepared for this. Too much of my life was an open book. I’d known I couldn’t protect my memories of Cillian, of Raphael such as they were, of Jehanne, or Bao when it came his turn. I’d conducted my affairs in far too public a manner.

  But it should have been different with Snow Tiger, my fiercely private and reserved princess.

  What had passed between us in the beginning at the dragon’s insistence, neither of us had chosen—and only Bao knew about it. What had passed between us at the end was another matter altogether. She had blushed to the tips of her ears when she had asked me to invoke Naamah’s blessing for her, charming me beyond words. She knew how deeply she was wounded, but she was proud and it had not been easy for her to ask.

  And Naamah… Naamah had granted her blessing when I prayed for it, placing words in my mouth that took the fear away, every last bit of it. Snow Tiger had laughed out of sheer wonder—laughed, and kissed me. I had laughed, too, pulling her down atop me.

  I wasn’t willing to give up that memory, either. The Patriarch was merely guessing in his ungodly perceptive way, probing at my vulnerabilities. I couldn’t bear to have him sully it with his vulgar accusations. He didn’t know. No one knew, except mayhap a few discreet servants who loved their mistress too well to gossip. I had gladly given the princess every ounce of pleasure I had to offer, gladly accepted it in return, delighting in the healing she found in it, delighting in her.

  But I had not sought it out.
/>   And I hated the Patriarch for trying to make it something vile. He awaited my answer with infernal patience.

  I remembered how the fallen spirits had tricked the Circle of Shalomon over and over, finding loopholes in the commandments given them even as they obeyed to the letter, and I parsed my words with care.

  “You are asking if I seduced her, and the answer is no.” I met his gaze steadily, my anger a cold blaze within me. “Do you need to hear truth in my voice, my lord? Very well, I will swear to it.” I uttered the sacred oath of the Maghuin Dhonn, each word precise. “By stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass, by the sacred troth that binds me to my diadh-anam, I swear I did not seduce the Emperor’s daughter.”

  My chains shivered, the sigils and inscriptions etched on them flaring briefly. This time, it was the Patriarch who flinched.

  “Witch!” he hissed.

  The spark of my diadh-anam was undiminished. Although I had pared it to the bone, I had spoken the truth. “It is the sacred oath of my people,” I said coldly. “The one Berlik the Cursed broke. I do not swear it lightly.”

  Pyotr Rostov mastered his unease, resuming his study of me. “And yet you are angry,” he observed. “Angrier than the question warrants. Even under oath, you withhold the greater truth.” His creamy look returned. “You say you did not seduce the princess, but you do not deny making the attempt.”

  I looked away, willing him to believe it.

  “Yes.” He nodded to himself in satisfaction. “I think it is so, child. You tried and failed. Is it not so?”

  “Must you humiliate me as well?” I muttered.

  “It is for the good of your soul,” he said sternly. “You must confess it.”

  It seemed I could lie to the Patriarch after all—so long as it was a lie he already wished to believe.

  I let my shoulders slump. “Yes, my lord,” I lied in a defeated whisper. “In the small hours of the night, when she was lonely and frightened, I sought to entice the Emperor’s daughter. I failed.”

  “Good, very good.” His pen skated over the page. “The Ch’in are a heathen folk, but they have a great respect for custom and propriety,” he said in an absent tone. “Take heed from the lesson of the Emperor’s daughter, Moirin. The temptations of the flesh can be resisted. All it takes is discipline.”

  I bowed my head. “Yes, my lord.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When Aleksei came to read to me the following morning, he was moving stiffly, as though he were in pain.

  I eyed him. “Are you hurt?”

  Predictably, he flushed. “No…no!” He shrank away from me as I ignored his protestations, stooping beside the stiff-backed chair and unlacing the ties of his linen shirt, peeling back the lapels. “Moirin, please don’t.”

  “Let me see.”

  “No!”

  I did, though. I caught a glimpse of the garment he wore beneath the outer layer of his clothing, a crude goat’s-hair vest.

  My nostrils flared. “Stone and sea!” I gagged. “Aleksei, this thing is crawling with lice. How is that not unclean?”

  “It helps me ignore the distraction of temptation.” He pulled away from me, lacing his shirt. “Even the lowest of the low is part of God’s creation, and may serve his purpose. Do you not see the beauty in it?”

  “No.” Yesterday’s anger lingered in me. I paced my cell, taking precise, mincing steps. “No, Aleksei. I do not. I am sick unto death of hearing about your God and his everlasting fascination with things he has decided are abominations. Apparently, that includes everything in my life I have ever done that brought me joy.”

  “False joy,” he whispered.

  I rounded on him. “How in the name of all the gods would you know? Filled with abject terror as you are?”

  He shuddered away from me.

  That, and the sight of that crude, stinking vest seething with lice, broke something inside me.

  I sank to my heels, covering my face with my hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” I forced myself to breathe slowly, fighting a losing battle with tears.

  Aleksei hovered anxiously in front of me, undone by my tears. “Don’t cry! Moirin, please.” Greatly daring, he knelt and held out his hands. “Come, pray with me. It will help, I promise.”

  His glorious blue eyes were filled with genuine pity and compassion. Unlike his uncle, I’d never seen anything less in him. I took one of his hands in mine, rubbing at my tears with the other.

  His breathing quickened, and his long fingers stirred in mine. I stroked them gently. “Sweet boy, do you know what I see when I look at you?” I whispered. He shook his head, tawny locks shining in the sunlight that slanted through my narrow window. “I see a bird raised in captivity, taught that his wings were a curse and flight a sin. A beautiful bird taught from birth to love his cage and fear the open sky.”

  Aleksei’s lips parted. “You must not say such things!”

  “It’s true.” I lifted my free hand, chains dangling. “Your uncle has clipped my wings. But he will not be content until he has broken every bone in them.”

  “It’s not true!” He wrenched himself away from me, fumbling back toward the chair for his book. “I will read to you. Only… be still, and listen. I keep telling you, you must open your heart and listen, Moirin!”

  “I have listened,” I said wearily. “And yes, there are moments of glory and wonder in your tales. Yes, your Yeshua sounds like a decent fellow for a god, filled with love and kindness toward mankind. But there are also great, long boring bits about the genealogy of the Habiru, which holds little interest for me, and there are tales that make no sense at all, and other parts that are simply harsh and cruel.”

  He looked aghast. “Only because you do not understand them yet!”

  “Do you think so?” I shook my head. “No, I think I am beginning to understand. These scriptures, they were written by mortal men. And mayhap some of them were moved by divine grace, but others were petty, jealous fellows moved by the ordinary concerns of everyday life, like being cuckolded by a straying wife.”

  “Now you throw my mother’s sin in my face?” For the first time, he sounded angry. “I have spent my life trying to atone for it!”

  I winced. “No. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  “I suppose your D’Angelines would not reckon it a sin,” Aleksei said bitterly. “I suppose it’s just fine for a woman to betray her husband, to give a man a bastard son and expect him to call it his own.”

  “No, it’s not.” That brought him up short. “For all her infidelities, my lady Jehanne knew full well that was the one betrayal the King would not tolerate. But unlike your mother, I suspect, she loved her husband.”

  “That’s a cruel blow,” he said in a low voice.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It is. And yet if your mother had been allowed to wed for love instead of prestige, would she have strayed?”

  “D’Angelines do.”

  “Many, aye. Within their culture, it is permitted. Blessed Elua allows what God and Yeshua forbid.” I shrugged. “And it is possible to love more than one person.”

  Aleksei swallowed hard, the words evoking a yearning in him that he could not hide. “Have you?”

  I held his gaze. “Yes.”

  Gods, I could almost taste the ache of desire in him! And not only for sex, no. He was Naamah’s child, as surely as I was. His poor, caged spirit longed to love freely. To share Naamah’s gift within him, to delight in pleasures ranging from the sheer carnal bliss of pleasure to all of love’s myriad tendernesses. Oh, he hungered for it so.

  He turned away, his shoulders hunched. “I will read to you.”

  I sighed. “As you will.”

  Later that day, the Patriarch returned with his hateful desk and his hateful quill to resume the hateful process of hearing my confession.

  “So, Moirin,” he said when he had everything in readiness, pen poised above his account of my sins. “Let us speak of this young Tatar prince.”

  I almost
laughed, picturing Bao’s insolent grin at hearing himself described thusly. “Bao?”

  “Bao, yes.” Pyotr Rostov frowned. “I must confess, I am confused. Is he Ch’in or Tatar?”

  “Both,” I said. “His mother was a Ch’in woman, ravaged by a raiding Tatar warlord. Although to be fair,” I added, “Bao’s father sought to avenge the loss of his own wife, taken by the Ch’in. It is a complicated matter.”

  He stared at me. “And this Bao, who is the Great Khan’s son-in-law, is also the companion of the physician Lo Feng?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “You travelled from Terre d’Ange to Ch’in in his company?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Although I had dreaded this moment, too, now that it had arrived, it was not as awful as I had feared. It was different from the others. My diadh-anam shone within me, a reminder that there was a powerful magic about the bond between Bao and me that not even Pyotr Rostov could sully. And, too, the thought of Bao’s cocky grin made me smile inwardly. I could guess what he would say if he knew, could almost hear the cheerful cynicism in his voice. Tell the stunted old pervert whatever he wants to hear, Moirin, and I will bash his head in when I have the chance. “Do you want to hear about the fornication and unclean acts?” I asked politely. “It was a very long journey.”

  “Ah… yes, of course.” The Patriarch glanced at his notes. “For the moment, let us take it as a given fact.”

  “All right.” Bao, I thought, would be obscurely disappointed. He was proud of his prowess in bed—and rightfully so. As usual, he made good on his boasts.

  Rostov gave me a sharp look. “Brother Ilya gathered extraordinary reports from the Tatar gathering. It seems that you claimed that this young man, this Bao, died and was restored to life.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “So he was.”

  “By you.”

  “No, not exactly.” My moment of private mirth faded. This was another trap I hadn’t seen coming, one I didn’t begin to understand. Gods, it seemed there was an unintended sin lying in wait around every corner of my life! Once again, my palms were sweating. “It was Master Lo Feng’s doing. He was grieving. He gave his life to restore Bao’s, and required my magic and half my diadh-anam to do it, although I did not know what he was asking at the time.” I shook my head. “And if you are asking me to tell you how it was done, I cannot.”