Naamah's Curse (29 page)

I shook my head. “None that I know of, my lord.”

“You are lying again.” A note of sorrow returned to his voice. “Ah, Moirin! God cannot save you if you will not let me help you.” Behind his veneer of compassion, the threat of stoning lurked. He dipped his pen in the inkwell. “Now, why did you use witchcraft to steal men’s memories?”

My eyes stung with defeat. “I did not steal them, my lord. Every single one was offered to me.”

That made him pause. “But you did not have to take them.”

“No,” I murmured. “But if I had not, the Emperor would have put to death every man with knowledge of the Divine Thunder’s workings. It was an act of mercy on his part to allow me to take their memories instead.”

He was silent.

“That was the choice, my lord,” I added. “You will have to explain to me how what I did was a sin.”

“It was witchcraft,” he said simply.

“Aye, but—”

“Moirin…” Pyotr Rostov sighed. “Oh, child! I do not deny that this was a very difficult choice. But the choice Emperor Zhu laid upon you was a false one, based on a false premise.” He steepled his fingers. “He did not have to kill those men, did he? That was
his
choice.”

“Aye, but—” My voice faltered. How could I make him understand that the weapons of the Divine Thunder had been
that
terrible? That it was worth almost any cost to suppress that knowledge, even the cost of innocent lives? Although I lacked a poet’s words, I had glimpsed a future more dreadful than I could begin to articulate. The smoking crater that housed Tortoise’s remains was only the beginning. It led to a far, far worse place.

“You took this sin upon your head that the Emperor’s hands might remain clean,” he said firmly. “It is enough that you repent of it.”

I bowed my head. “Yes, my lord.”

“Moirin.”

I looked up at him. “Yes, my lord?”

His fingers were still steepled. “Understand, child. The scripture is very clear in places. In the earliest writings, it tells us that we must not allow a witch to live.” His velvet-brown eyes were warm and earnest. “Based on what you have confessed from the first day to the last, I would be justified in putting you to death. But I believe that God’s grace is truly infinite, and even one such as you should be given the chance to repent. Do you understand?”

I shivered involuntarily, huddled on my stool, my chains rattling. “I am trying. I am always trying.”

“No.” Pyotr Rostov smiled at me. “Mostly, you are still trying to defy me, still trying to find some way to escape. I know. But God and I have not given up on you, Moirin. Here and there, we catch glimpses of the truth, and it is the truth that will free you in the end.” He paused, contemplating me. “Have you anything left to confess?”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

He put away his things, straightened his papers, and corked his inkwell. He stood and laid a hand on my scarf-wrapped head. “My child, you have made your confession to me. I, a mortal man and a lowly sinner myself, do not have the power to absolve you. This, only God can do. These sins you have confessed to me, and any you may have neglected, either through ignorance or forgetfulness, may God forgive you for them, in this world and the next.”

I wondered if I was supposed to feel any different. I didn’t feel much of anything, except a vague sense of relief that the process of confession appeared to have reached an end, and apprehension about what came next.

The latter was well placed.

The Patriarch removed his hand from my head. “I am satisfied with your progress, Moirin. I am willing to pronounce you ready for the next stage of your penance.”

“Oh?” My heart sank. “What is that, my lord?”

He gave me another smile. “Come, and see.”

F
or the first time in days, I was allowed to leave my cell.

That was the one good thing about this second stage of my penance. To be sure, it was the
only
good thing about it.

Pyotr Rostov led me through the modest living quarters back to the temple where I had first arrived, passing through a curtained doorway in an alcove behind what I would later learn was a stand for chanters during the liturgy.

We entered the temple proper. Yeshua ben Yosef was there in the presence of the immense mosaic on the wall, holding the world cupped in his hand, looking stern and imposing and not at all like the kind fellow from Aleksei’s readings.
That
Yeshua had prevented an adulterous woman from being stoned. This one looked like he would give the order himself, and look on with an impassive gaze.

The Patriarch’s wife, Luba, was there waiting for us at the foot of the altar, a wooden bucket on the floor beside her. They exchanged a few words in Vralian.

“Very good,” Rostov said, switching back to D’Angeline for my benefit. “Now, Moirin. It is important that you understand this is not a punishment. To do penance is to seek redemption, to purge one’s sins. It is a time to reflect and meditate.”

“Yes, my lord,” I said obediently when he paused.

Luba’s upper lip curled. A few times, she had brought food to me; otherwise, I’d seen very little of her since I’d been brought here, and I suspected that was by her choice. On no occasion had she spoken a single word to me. But although she did not like me and did not want me here, based on their interactions, I was certain she would sooner cut out her tongue than defy her husband.

“As an act of penance, you will wash the floor,” the Patriarch said.

“Oh, I see.” I relaxed a bit. No doubt he thought it was a fitting humiliation for the descendant of three royal houses, but I had been raised in a cave in the Alban wilderness. From the time I was old enough to hold a broom, I’d swept our hearth every day. I wasn’t afraid of hard work, nor did I think it beneath me.

I glanced at the bucket, looking for a mop.

With a satisfied look on her face, Luba held out a very, very small scrub-brush.

“You see the squares, Moirin?” Her husband pointed at the floor. Until this moment, I hadn’t bothered to take it in. The floor was also a mosaic, this one formed of pebbles in contrasting hues. The pattern was an abstract one of small squares, each one a box containing a flared cross.

Any sense of relief I had vanished. “Yes, my lord.”

“On your knees, you will scrub each one in order,” he said, pacing to the far right of the altar. “Beginning here.” He raised a finger in caution. “You are not to touch the altar, or anything on it. You are not to venture past it into the sanctuary. Is that understood?”

I sighed. “It is.”

“This is
not
a punishment,” the Patriarch repeated. “It is an opportunity. Focus your thoughts on each square. Contemplate the sign of the cross, that vile instrument on which Yeshua suffered for your sake. Think upon his suffering. Think upon your sins, and beg his forgiveness. Will you do this?”

As if I had a choice. “Yes, my lord,” I muttered.

“Moirin.” He said my name sharply. I looked reluctantly at him. “Over each square, you will utter this prayer. ‘Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’ Say it.”

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

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.