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

by Jacqueline Carey

  He spoke to his wife in Vralian, then addressed me in D’Angeline. “Very good. Say it again.”

  I repeated it, while Luba listened intently.

  The Patriarch nodded in satisfaction. “She will be listening to make sure you do not err.” His face softened. “I know you do not mean the words, not yet. But repetition is a powerful tool. If you say a thing often enough, it may become true.”

  I blew out my breath, glancing over the vast expanse of squares and crosses. “Do you expect me to finish it today, my lord?”

  “No.” He smiled at me. “I do not think that is humanly possible. But it matters not when you finish, for you can always begin again.”

  Helpless tears stung my eyes, and I bit the inside of my cheek to try to keep the tears from spilling. I didn’t want him to see.

  He knew, anyway. “God’s work is endless, Moirin,” he said, and took his leave.

  Luba handed me the scrub-brush and addressed me for the first time, pointing toward the corner and speaking three curt words in Vralian. They didn’t need translating.

  Get to work.

  Scrub-brush in hand, I hauled the wooden bucket to the far right of the altar and knelt on the pebbled floor, my chains clanking and rattling around me.

  It hurt; of course it hurt. If the mosaic floor had been comprised of smooth bits of tile like the one on the wall, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But the inlaid pebbles were raised, digging into my knees. Right now, the pain was a minor annoyance. Over the course of hours, or gods, days, it would grow much, much worse. Gritting my teeth, I contemplated the first square. It was a bit larger than the palm of my hand, mayhap four inches by four.

  It was the first of more than I could count.

  Hovering behind me, Luba repeated her curt Vralian injunction. I dipped the brush into the bucket, into cold water that smelled strongly of lye. Water sloshed onto the floor as I withdrew the brush, scrubbing the pebbles.

  “Yeshua the Anointed,” I said grimly, “Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

  I moved the brush to the adjacent square. Luba made a disapproving sound, leaning over to tap the bucket, indicating that I was to dip the brush anew.

  I sat back on my heels. “Every single bedamned square?” I pointed, miming. “Each and every one?”

  She nodded and tapped the bucket again.

  I eyed her, remembering the fantasies of violent escape I had entertained on my journey here. We were alone in the temple together. If I rose right now and wrapped my chains around Luba’s neck, throttling her, there was no one to stop me. I was young and strong, and I was fairly confident I could overpower her.

  And go… where?

  Alarmed by the unspoken menace in my face, Luba retreated a few cautious steps, fixing me with a seething gaze. She pointed toward the temple doors far behind us, interlacing her fingers with a sharp gesture. She pointed at my chains, and mimed rattling them, mimed stones being thrown. She shook her head slowly at me, pointing at the bucket and the floor.

  In the Tatar lands, I had come to recognize how easily two people of like minds could converse without a common tongue. Checheg with her gentle, unremitting kindness and hospitality had taught it to me, long before I had mastered the rudiments of her language.

  This was the other side of the coin.

  And I understood it full well. The meaning of Luba’s gestures was clear. The temple doors were locked, inside and out. Even if I could escape, my chains marked me as a witch, singled out for death in eastern Vralia.

  Here, I would be stoned.

  I dipped my brush into the harsh lye and scrubbed at the second square, intoning the prayer the Patriarch had taught me.

  “Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

  Again.

  Again.

  Again.

  I kept count during that first row. There were one hundred and fifty squares in it. Each and every one, I scoured. Over each and every one, I uttered the same prayer.

  I reached the end of one row, moved on to the second one. The temple was at least twice as long as it was wide, which meant there were at least three hundred rows. I was no mathematician, but by my calculation, that meant I had some forty-five thousand squares in total.

  I drew a long, shaking breath, trying once more not to weep.

  Luba smirked.

  I shuffled on my bruised, aching knees, bowing my head to the task. I was sweating and itchy beneath the coarse woolen dress. My back began to ache from bending. The words of the prayer began to blend together into one long stream of meaningless syllables.

  Yeshuatheanointedsonofgodhavemercyonmeasinner.

  Although she did not speak D’Angeline, Luba had a good ear. When my prayer degenerated into an inarticulate mumble, she tapped me on the shoulder and made a gesture with both hands as though stretching a rope, telling me without words to slow down and do a proper job of it.

  “Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” I said with fierce precision, dipping and scrubbing. “Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

  The only small mercy that Yeshua the Anointed saw fit to grant me was that by the time I had finished the second row, Valentina came to replace Luba on sentinel duty. Her, at least, I could bear.

  And she did not badger me when I paused to wipe my sleeve over my sweating brow and stretch my aching back. My spine made unpleasant crackling sounds. I shifted on my sore knees, trying to find a position in which the pebbles didn’t dig into my flesh so.

  “He assigned me this penance, too,” Valentina said in a low voice. “For sins committed with Aleksei’s father.”

  “Did you find redemption in it?” I asked wearily.

  “Yes,” she said simply. I gave her a sharp look, and for once she did not look away. “There is peace to be found in surrendering to God’s will and begging his forgiveness.”

  I shook my head. “For his children, mayhap. I am not one of them.”

  “We are all God’s children,” she replied.

  I smiled bitterly. “Tell that to the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, who claimed me as Her own.”

  “Where is she, then?” Valentina gestured around. “You are here in the temple of God and his son Yeshua, Moirin. Where is your bear-god? Where is your D’Angeline whore-goddess Naamah? They have abandoned you.”

  “No.” I touched my chest. “Perhaps they cannot find me, with my spirit shrouded in chains and charms. But I carry the divine spark of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself within me. I carry Naamah’s gifts in my blood. So long as that is true, I do not believe they have abandoned me.”

  There was sympathy in her gaze. “It would be better for you if you did.”

  “I know.” I picked up the brush, dipped it in the bucket, and began scrubbing anew. “Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

  I had completed a grand total of four rows when Valentina bade me stop—not out of any sense of pity, but because it was time to prepare the temple for the afternoon liturgy.

  I got gratefully to my feet, pain shooting through my abused knees and stiff, aching back. I felt a hundred years old. “Does it get any easier?”

  “No,” she said. “Harder.”

  I’d assumed as much. I wiped my tired, stinging hands on the woolen dress. I stank of lye and sweat. “My lady, is it possible to have a bath?”

  She hesitated.

  “I do not ask with an eye toward seducing your son, who seems to be avoiding me anyway.” Even my voice was tired, my throat raw from endless prayer. “I’ve been chained in the same garment for many days. Whatever else you may think of me, I do not like being unclean.”

  For a mercy, another small mercy, Valentina relented. She even let me scour myself, although I suspected it was due to a reluctance to get anywhere close to touching my skin. I could feel the tension in her haste as she sewed me into a fresh, sack-shaped woolen dress just as drab, prickly, and hateful as the first one.

 
Still, it was something.

  My soul might be black with sin, but my flesh was clean.

  THIRTY

  I was wrong about Aleksei.

  To my surprise, he came in the early evening to read to me. I hadn’t expected him, and I was in a morbidly foul mood. My entire body was sore and aching. In something like three hours of scrubbing, I’d gotten through four rows.

  If my rough calculation was remotely accurate, that left at least two hundred and ninety-six to go.

  And then I could start over.

  I didn’t bother rising from the narrow bed where I had flung myself, greeting Aleksei with silence and a sullen glare.

  It took him aback. “What is it?”

  “What do you think?” I asked in a cool tone. “Have you ever knelt on that bedamned floor?”

  His blue eyes were wide and earnest. “Many times, yes.”

  “For three hours?”

  “No.” He flushed a little, looking away from me in that skittish way. “Moirin… your head is bare.”

  I hadn’t put on the head-scarf when I heard the key in the lock, expecting Valentina or Luba. “Oh, for the love of all the gods! My hair is cropped like a twelve-year-old boy’s. How tempting can it be?”

  Aleksei shivered. “It’s… very shiny.”

  “It’s clean,” I said rudely.

  “And soft-looking,” he whispered.

  “Oh?” I hauled myself upright, tilting my head. My hair fell forward in a short, glossy curtain. “You may be interested to learn that there is an act of love in Terre d’Ange called Winding the Spindle,” I said in a conversational tone. “One twines one’s hair around a man’s erect phallus, then pulls it away slowly. To be done properly, it is done without using one’s hands, only swirling one’s head gently around the phallus.”

  He stared at me in shock. I’d never spoken to him thusly before.

  “My lady Jehanne says that the technique is a tricky one,” I said sweetly. “But she assures me that men find the sensation subtle and exquisite, and the sight most provocative. I fear it will be some time before I’m able to attempt it, since your aunt Luba saw fit to shear me like a sheep.”

  “Why—” Aleksei’s voice cracked. “Why are you saying such things?”

  “Don’t you like it?” I raised my brows. “Your uncle does. Nothing brings him greater pleasure than hearing me confess to unclean acts.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Aye, it is.” I gave him a pointed look. “Do you think I cannot tell when a man is aroused?”

  “I… yes. No.” His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath, struggling for self-control. “You’re being cruel, Moirin. That’s unlike you.”

  “True.” I rattled my chains with a theatrical gesture. “Today, I entertained the notion of throttling your aunt. A wolf in the wild will leave you alone. If you capture it and put it in chains, do not be surprised when it tries to bite your hand off.”

  “This is not you,” Aleksei said stubbornly. “It is only Naamah’s curse talking, trying to sway me.”

  “There is no curse!” I shouted.

  He ignored me, pulling up the stool. “I will read to you. What would you like to hear today? I’ll let you choose.”

  “I don’t care.” I sighed, losing my will to antagonize him. “Do you know, the Maghuin Dhonn have no written language?”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because knowledge is a living thing.” I leaned against the wall of my cell, rubbing my sore knees. “I knew the name of every plant and tree that grew in our woods. I knew which were good to eat, which were good for other purposes, which were to be avoided. I knew when they came into season, and how to recognize signs of rot or taint. I knew the habits of every creature that shared our woods, how to track and hunt them, or merely to spy on them with delight, like a fox playing with her kits. It is a living knowledge that changes with the seasons. The whole of it could never have been confined to writing.”

  “But a written record could be a useful tool, could it not?” Aleksei asked with genuine curiosity.

  I shrugged. “Yes and no. When I first learned such a thing as writing existed, I thought it a fine kind of magic. But folk come to rely on the record, and ignore the living truth before their eyes.” I pointed at the book in his hands. “What happens when there are errors in the record?”

  His color rose. “Now you are baiting me again. Come, Moirin. If you won’t choose, I will.”

  I closed my eyes. “Read what you like, Aleksei. I don’t care. I’m tired. I hate this place. I hate your uncle. I hate your aunt. I hate your mean-spirited God and his precious son Yeshua.”

  “You don’t mean that!”

  “Today, I do.” I shrugged again. “Why shouldn’t I? Everything I am is hateful to them.”

  Aleksei was silent long enough that I opened my eyes again and glanced at him. He wore an uncertain look that gave way to one of determination. “Wait,” he said to me, getting to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  Since I had no choice, I waited.

  He left and returned a few moments later with another book in his hands—a different one, a slender volume.

  “Here.” He presented it to me.

  I glanced at it without interest. The title was etched on the leather binding in the Vralian alphabet. “I cannot read it.”

  “It’s not what it says it is.” Aleksei hunkered on the stool, watching me with a grave look. “Inside, it’s written in D’Angeline script. You… ah, can you read your native tongue, Moirin?”

  “Yes.” I scowled a bit. “I am no scholar like Phèdre no Delaunay, who could likely recite your bedamned scriptures to you backward and forward in the original Habiru, but I can read. And D’Angeline is not my native tongue, by the way.”

  “I’m sorry.” He flushed. “Who is Phèdre nó Delaunay?”

  “The D’Angeline courtesan who sought out and found the Name of God? You don’t know that story?” I asked. He shook his head. “I’ll have to tell it to you,” I said absently, opening the book he had given me. “Among other things, it suggests that perhaps you do not know your God as well as you think.” I glanced at the inner title page. “This is the priest’s book about Berlik.”

  “Yes,” Aleksei murmured. “I took it from my mother’s hiding place.”

  I was intrigued, especially given the Patriarch’s aversion to the book. “You said you found it dangerous.”

  “Yes.” Although his rangy, long-limbed figure was hunched and awkward, his blue gaze was clear and steady. “But… I think what you are feeling now is dangerous, too. You are giving in to hatred and anger, straying farther and farther from grace. And though I am loath to question my uncle’s judgment in any way, I do not think he understands your need for, um…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Love.”

  “Love,” I echoed.

  Aleksei nodded. “The Rebbe Avraham ben David found much to love in your people, Moirin. Both in the magician Berlik and the D’Angeline prince Imriel who delivered him into martyrdom. I hope… I hope that perhaps his words will find a path to your heart, and you will allow yourself to accept God’s love, and learn to love him and his son Yeshua in return.”

  I contemplated him thoughtfully. “You’re an interesting young man, Aleksei.”

  He looked away. “Will you at least read it?”

  “I will.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The Rebbe’s memoir was beautiful, so beautiful in places that it made my heart ache.

  He was a wise, compassionate, eloquent, and profoundly conflicted man, who had seen his deepest-held desire come to pass, and feared he did not welcome the form it had taken, even though he had helped to shape it.

  At the center of the book was his struggle to reconcile the two Yeshuas: Yeshua-that-was, the gentle philosopher whose teachings formed much of the long-held faith of the Habiru, whom he called the Children of Yisra-el; and Yeshua-who-comes, the fierce warrior in whose name a new faith arose in
Vralia.

  It was during his long conversations with Berlik that doubt had arisen. Here was a man who had committed a terrible deed to save his people, who had taken on his shoulders the price of breaking an oath sworn in their name. If ever there were a man in need of Yeshua’s salvation, it was Berlik.

  And yet he refused it.

  “Gently, sorrowfully, and steadfastly, he refused it,” the Rebbe wrote. “Insisting that the burden was his own to bear, he refused it; and with consummate and relentless kindness, he pointed out the discrepancies between my own beliefs and events transpiring in war-torn Vralia. Yet it was also true that Berlik found his own grace through Yeshua, whose compassion made him believe that the gods themselves were capable of forgiveness.”

  There were things the Rebbe had not fully understood, but I did. When Berlik broke the oath he had sworn on his diadh-anam, the Maghuin Dhonn Herself had turned Her back on him. The divine spark within him had been extinguished.

  In distant Vralia, where Berlik had resigned himself to death at the prince’s hands, She had forgiven him and it had been rekindled.

  Accepting sanctuary, Berlik had vanished into the wilderness. And then Prince Imriel had come, and in time Berlik had surrendered himself willingly to his justice, bowing his head for the sword.

  Before he died, he spoke of Yeshua ben Yosef.

  I had known part of it, but the Rebbe had recorded Berlik’s words in full—at least as related to him by the prince. “I came to see that he is the one god who understands what it is to fall low. That when every other face is turned away from you, he is the friend who is there, not only for the innocent, but for the guilty, too. For the thieves and murderers and oath-breakers alike, Yeshua is there.”

  It made me want to weep. I could pray to that Yeshua, if he had not seemed so very, very far away.

  Such was the argument the Rebbe Avraham ben David made, that until such a time as Yeshua-who-comes returned to make his will manifest, an hour that Yeshua himself had declared unknowable, those who worshipped him should obey the teachings of Yeshua-that-was, who turned no one away.