Naamah's Curse (22 page)

“No,” I said curtly.

“You will,” he said in a calm tone. “Have no fear, Moirin mac Fainche. I will teach you. Through Yeshua’s grace, I will guide you to the light of the One True God.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” I muttered.

The Patriarch laid a hand on my shoulder. “Child, you only think that because there are blinders on your eyes. I will remove them and teach you to see. What men call Hell is but the absence of God. When you learn to see, when you accept God’s presence in your life, you will understand that you have been suffering needlessly for a very long time.”

I jerked away from him, my chains rattling. “Will you remove
these
when I do?” I asked, holding out my shackled wrists.

“I will.” He beckoned to Ilya, still loitering discreetly behind us. Ilya came forward, fishing the key from a second chain around his neck, hidden beneath his robes. It was one of the first places I would have looked if I’d ever succeeded in bashing his head in. I wished I had. He handed it over with ceremony. The Patriarch let it dangle from his fist. “On the day that you pledge yourself heart and soul to the One True God and his son Yeshua, I will unlock your chains, Moirin.”

“I’ll do it now,” I offered, reckoning that under the circumstances the Maghuin Dhonn Herself would forgive me the lie.

He gave me a condescending smile. “True faith is hard won. I will know when you have won yours. You have not even made a beginning until you confess the full litany of your sins.” He stroked his beard. “I suspect that alone will take a long, long time.”

I was silent.

The Patriarch sighed. “There will come a day when you will thank me, but I do not expect you to believe me now. Now…” His nostrils flared. “I do believe you would be well served by a good scrubbing.”

With that, I was dismissed.

Luba and Valentina led me away. I glanced over my shoulder to see Aleksei kneeling at his uncle’s feet, the Patriarch’s hand resting on his head in benediction as he spoke to the young man in hushed tones.

There were living quarters attached to the temple, modest and simply adorned. The bathing chamber was a stark affair—a room with a tin tub filled with water, and a wooden bench with a ball of soap and a wire brush. As I wondered exactly how I was meant to bathe while I was still chained into my clothing, Luba exited and returned with a pair of sharp shears and a grim smile.

It wasn’t easy to cut through the thick Tatar wool and felt. She struggled, breathing hard, scoring my skin a number of times as she strove to find an angle that would give her leverage.

The third time it happened, I winced. “It would be a great deal easier if you just took off the chains for one bedamned moment.”

She ignored me.

“It’s not as though there aren’t enough of you to overpower me,” I added.

The tip of the shears dug into my spine. She gave a wrenching squeeze, and more thick fabric tore. I sighed.

“Luba does not speak your tongue,” Valentina said in a low voice. “You cannot tempt her to folly.”

“I was not trying—”

She gave me a sharp look. “Save your lies!”

At least she had looked at me. I breathed slowly and held my tongue, reminding myself to be patient. I needed some ally, any ally. I would not find one in this woman by insulting her intelligence.

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.

A
s 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 Avraham 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.”