Naamah's Curse (34 page)

I was silent.

She paused in her stitching, gazing into the distance. “Do you know, in the western Church, they venerate Yeshua’s mother, Marya. We do not do that here in the east. Women are not venerated, not even the Mother of God. After all these years, I still miss it.” She continued stitching. “Would that I had appreciated such grace when I had it.”

“I understand,” I murmured. I did, all too well.

A single bitter tear trickled down her cheek. “God help me, I’d come to hope…” She did not finish the thought.

I knew, though. Valentina had come to hope that I would succeed in seducing her son, that I would persuade him to leave this place and find his wings. I wanted to tell her that I had tried my best, that one cannot free someone who doesn’t wish to be set free. Two months ago, I would have done it without hesitation.

Moirin the unrepentant sinner would have said it. Moirin the penitent catechumen didn’t dare.

Even so, I reached out and wiped the tear gently from Valentina’s face, trying to tell her without words that I was sorry for failing. She shook her head at me, and finished stitching me into my white robe, then winding a white woolen scarf around my head.

And then it was time.

My nemesis Luba came to fetch us. Once again, I was led outside so that I might enter the temple properly. It was a fine, bright summer day. If I’d actually wanted to be baptized, I couldn’t have asked for a more auspicious day.

Inside the temple, there was a considerable crowd. Scores of villagers were present. Aleksei was there, and gave me a slight, encouraging nod. The Patriarch was there before the altar in his vestments, flanked by a handful of priests including my former captors Ilya and Leonid. There was a wide-set fellow with a greying beard and keen blue-grey eyes. He wore fine clothes and was surrounded by soldiers, and I took him to be the Duke of Vralsturm. He eyed me with intense interest as I approached the altar, breathing the Breath of Ocean’s Rolling Waves to calm my nerves.

“Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn,” Pyotr Rostov addressed me in a deep voice, speaking in D’Angeline for my benefit. “Is it your will this day to be baptized into the faith of the One True God and his son Yeshua?”

“It is, my lord,” I said firmly, willing myself to meet his eyes without a trace of guile.

He asked me the first question of the catechism. “What is our church called?”

“The Church of Yeshua Ascendant.”

“Why is it called the Church of Yeshua Ascendant?”

These were the easy questions. “Because it is dedicated to building the Kingdom of Yeshua on earth and preparing for his return.”

The Patriarch nodded in approval. “State its teaching briefly.”

I took a deep breath, reciting the words Aleksei had taught me. “God made the world and created Edom the First Man and his wife, the All-Mother, Yeva. Although our first parents were fashioned to be good, they succumbed to temptation and disobeyed God. Through the sin of disobedience, their minds were darkened. Their hearts were made evil, and they fell into wickedness and death. Their descendants suffered for their sins. But God in his infinite love sent his son Yeshua ben Yosef to redeem them…”

On and on it went.

I made a few mistakes, faltering here or there. Aleksei and I had agreed it would be more believable if I didn’t have the catechism down letter-perfect. But on the whole, I performed to Pyotr Rostov’s satisfaction.

The Duke of Vralsturm appeared impressed. I wondered if he spoke D’Angeline, but then I realized Aleksei was translating for him in a quiet murmur.

The Patriarch was pleased. On the surface of it, his expression remained grave, but I could sense his creamy look hovering just beneath his solemnity. This was the beginning of his great moment of triumph.

I let him bask in it.

He stepped down from the dais, swinging his censer about me, enveloping me in a cloud of fragrant smoke, laying a hand on my head and speaking in sonorous Vralian. The crowd murmured, ascertaining that I had passed the first test.

From thence, the processional to the shores of the lake.

It was a slow process, the pace dictated by the mincing steps I was forced to take, constrained by the shackles around my ankles and the short length of chain joining them, my bare feet shuffling on the sun-warmed cobbled streets. Pyotr Rostov didn’t mind. He would be happy for this moment to stretch into eternity.

I saw the Duke of Vralsturm gesture at my chains, leaning in to ask the Patriarch a question.

Rostov made him a somber reply. I’d learned enough Vralian to catch the gist of it.

Yes, yes, it is necessary
.

We reached the shores of Lake Severin. They were stony and harsh beneath my bare soles. I’d gone unshod since the day Ilya and Leonid had wrenched off my thick Tatar boots in the Great Khan’s
ger
and clamped the shackles onto me.

That seemed a very long time ago.

The sun was high overhead, sparkling on the lake’s surface. I felt a touch lightheaded, no doubt from fasting. The villagers fanned out along the rocky shoreline, watching with avid interest. The Duke took a good vantage point for himself and his men, watching, his expression curious and interested.

The Patriarch waded into the lake and beckoned to me.

I wallowed into the cold water, my white robes billowing around me, my chains weighing me down.

“Moirin, recite the creed.”

“We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, and all things visible and invisible,” I said in a breathless rush. “And in Yeshua the Anointed, the only-begotten son of God, light of the light, being of one substance with the Father, by whom all things were made. Yeshua, who came down from Heaven and was made man, who suffered and was buried and rose again. Yeshua, who will come again in glory to judge us all, whose kingdom shall have no end.”

Pyotr Rostov smiled, laying his hand on my head. Gods, I hated that gesture.

“Verily, verily I say unto thee,” he quoted. “Except a man be born of water and the spirit, he cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Moirin mac Fainche, be you born anew this day in the faith of God and Yeshua, his son.”

He pushed my head underwater.

Once…

Twice…

Thrice.

I came up dripping, my wet robe plastered to my body, my head-scarf askew. The wool was thick enough that it didn’t become sheer, but I doubted it left much to the imagination otherwise. Onlookers murmured once more, and I made an extra effort to keep my expression earnest and guileless.

“Well done, child.” The Patriarch extended his hand to me, and I took it, letting him help me out of the lake’s chilly depths. “Only the final step remains.”

I nodded. “Yes, my lord. I am ready for it.”

Dripping, we returned to the temple in another slow, mincing procession. I was acutely aware of my own sodden discomfort and the gaze of others on me.

I was ready, so ready, for this to be over.

To be free.

I had entertained fantasies of defying the Patriarch the instant my chains were loosed, but I had decided against it. Better to be circumspect and keep up the charade until the Duke had departed.

Once more, I stood before the altar. Pyotr Rostov swung his censer, sanctifying the dish that held the holy oil, then took up the dish, dipping his fingers into the oil. He offered another prayer in Vralian, then turned his attention to me. “One last step, Moirin,” he repeated, his fingers glistening with oil.

“Yes, my lord.” I raised my face obediently, ready for him to anoint me.

But that wasn’t what he meant. “Very good. Before God and all here assembled, pledge yourself to the Yeshuite faith on the sacred oath of your people.”

I stared at him, my mind a blank.

It felt as though the ground had crumbled beneath me, leaving me teetering on the edge of a precipice. This wasn’t part of the chrismation ceremony. I knew it backwards and forwards, Aleksei had gone over it with me a hundred times. This was not part of it.

“The oath Berlik the Cursed swore and broke,” the Patriarch reminded me. “The one you uttered to me once before. Swear it now.”

Oh, gods.

I couldn’t.

If I swore it and broke it, I would lose my
diadh-anam
. If I swore it and
kept
it, I would lose my
diadh-anam
.

I swallowed hard. “I can’t, my lord.”

T
he Patriarch of Riva had not expected defiance. He frowned at me, holy oil dripping from the tips of his fingers. “What do you mean you can’t?”

It had gotten very quiet in the temple. I could hear the low murmur of Aleksei translating for the Duke of Vralsturm, and faint whispers as those around him eavesdropped and passed on his words.

I’d gone ice-cold beneath my damp robe. My mind worked frantically. “I… It would be blasphemy, my lord. I cannot swear an oath to Yeshua on the troth that binds me to my
diadh-anam
.” My voice trembled. “You may as well ask me to swear it by the Maghuin Dhonn Herself! That cannot be right!”

Over the course of months, I’d gotten good at lying, good at dissembling. Not good enough. Not here, not now. He could see the panic in my eyes.

“
I
will be the judge of what is blasphemous or not, Moirin,” Pyotr Rostov said in a smooth tone. “Not you, a lowly catechumen. Will you swear the oath or not?”

I shook my head slowly. “No.”

He lowered the dish of holy oil. “Then I will cancel the ceremony.”

“My lord…” My mouth had gone dry. “Please, no. I’ve worked so very hard to obey you. This is your moment of triumph. Will you spoil it?”

The Patriarch’s eyes narrowed. I watched him weigh the decision. If he acceded, he would have his moment of mortal triumph intact and unspoiled, but it would be a lie, a holy rite violated in the temple of God. In the struggle for my soul, he would be acknowledging his failure.

All I could do was pray that his ambition outweighed his fanaticism.

It didn’t.

“I’m sorry, Moirin. More sorry than you know. I take no pleasure in what must follow.” He returned the dish to its stand, addressing the congregation in sonorous Vralian, his voice heavy with regret.

Shocked gasps rippled through the crowd. I didn’t know enough Vralian to follow everything he said, but I didn’t need to. Here and there, I caught words I knew. The reaction of the crowd and the look of dawning horror on Aleksei’s face told me everything I needed to know. All my hard work, all my patience, everything had unraveled in a matter of heartbeats. All for one oath unsworn.

“You’re condemning me to death, aren’t you?” I whispered.

Rostov didn’t look at me. “You leave me no choice.”

“No choice!” My long-repressed anger returned ten-fold, fueled by mindless terror. “Oh, please,
my lord
! You have chosen everything! Everything! You have chosen which of the prophets you will heed, and which you will ignore! You have chosen to elevate the harshest strictures over the kindest of Yeshua’s teaching!” I yanked off my sodden head-scarf, hurling it away from me. “
You
have chosen this endless fascination with sins of the flesh!”

His face darkened. “Moirin, be silent!”

“No!” I shouted at him. “I have been silent long enough! Do you think I do not know how it aroused you to hear my confession?
How many times did you fornicate with him?
Did you pleasure her with your mouth?
” I asked, mimicking him. “Do you think I did not know it made your rod harden and swell to hear it?”

“You
will
be silent!” The Patriarch strode down from the dais and struck me hard across the face, knocking me to the floor in a tangle of chains and wet robes.

I scrambled backward, my head ringing, but I did not cease taunting him. “Does it harden even now,
my lord
?”

He strode after me, reaching down to grasp my chains and haul me to my feet, raising his hand to strike another blow.

And then the Duke of Vralsturm and his men were there to intervene, easing us apart. I gasped with relief at the reprieve and gazed at the Duke’s weather-beaten face, a spark of hope coming to me. I tried to think of a single word of Vralian, and failed. My wits were too scrambled. “Aleksei!” I looked frantically for him, found him and caught his arm. “Aleksei, I need your help.”