Naamah's Curse (Moirin's Trilogy #2)

Naamah's Curse (Moirin's Trilogy #2) Page 22

In Terre d’Ange, one of the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court is dedicated to modesty—Alyssum House, whose motto is With eyes averted. When first I heard of it, I hadn’t understood the allure. Jehanne had explained to me that there were two kinds of patrons drawn to modesty. The first kind simply reveled in the delicious sense of wickedness involved in coaxing a modest adept to a state of wanton abandonment.

The second, more sensitive kind was moved by the tender sense of protectiveness modesty aroused in them.

Young Aleksei was surely the latter.

So I played at being modest, feeling him relax a measure in my presence. When he finished his reading for the day, I thanked him for it.

“You’re welcome.” He gave me a shy smile. “Did you enjoy it?”

It had been a long, repetitive tale about the plight of the Habiru folk in the land of Menekhet in which their prophet Moishe dueled with the Pharaoh’s magicians. I felt very sorry for the Habiru, enslaved in a foreign land and forced to labor, but I also felt sorry for the ordinary folk of Menekhet, forced to endure rivers of blood, plagues of flies and frogs, boils, hailstorms and locusts, darkness that lasted three days, and the death of their firstborn children, all because the ridiculously stubborn Pharaoh wouldn’t grant the Habiru their freedom. It seemed to me that God was cruel to punish a whole nation of common folk for the whim of one stubborn man.

And I couldn’t understand for the life of me why it was acceptable for this fellow Moishe to call down darkness across the entire land, while it was a sin for me to summon the gentle twilight. But I had a sense it would be better not to ask.

“It was very interesting,” I said politely. “When do we begin to learn about Yeshua ben Yosef?”

“Not for a long while,” Aleksei admitted. “The history of the Habiru is a lengthy one. Perhaps….. perhaps Uncle would consent to allow me to read to you from the gospels that tell Yeshua’s tale.”

“I would like that, I think.” I averted my eyes, smoothing the prickly grey wool of my dress over my knees. “Among my people, it is said that Berlik, who came here many years ago, said that if there were any god he might call a friend, it was Yeshua ben Yosef.”

Aleksei drew in a sharp breath. “Berlik the Cursed?”

I nodded.

He was silent for a moment. “You should not take him for your example. I have read about him.”

I glanced up in surprise. “You read Rebbe Avraham’s memoir?”

Aleksei colored. “Conversations with a Heretic Saint, yes. My mother…..” He looked away. “A year ago I came across a copy in her things, hidden beneath a false binding. I began reading before I knew what it was. I found it….. dangerous.”

The soft tone of his voice said otherwise, said he had found beauty in it. I kept my mouth shut on that observation, watching him.

He looked back at me, his brow furrowed with worry. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t tell my uncle, please? He doesn’t know she has it. It’s a small thing, but it gives her comfort, and I cannot find it in my heart to begrudge her.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

“Thank you.” The worry lines eased from his face. “I will ask Uncle about reading from the gospels.” He essayed another shy smile. “He said your confession yesterday went well. He is pleased with your progress.”

I bit my tongue on a number of scathing responses, lowering my gaze modestly once more. “I am pleased to hear it.”

Now that, I thought, was an auspicious beginning more to my liking. We shared a secret, Aleksei and I.

Trust was a beginning. The rest would come.

Far less to my liking was my second confessional session with the Patriarch. As before, he came laden with notes and his portable desk, balancing it on his knees, dipping his pen in the inkwell and preparing to exhume every last private detail of my life, sullying each and every one in the process.

“Well, Moirin.” His creamy look came and went, quick as the flick of a cat’s tail. “Let us turn our attention to Terre d’Ange.”

I sighed. “Where do you want to start?”

He shook a few drops of ink from the quill and poised it over the paper. “Raphael de Mereliot.”

If I had a sin to confess, surely it was Raphael, and I knew it full well. I had let him use me. I’d committed follies I regretted, the worst of which was helping the Circle of Shalomon to summon Focalor.

Even so, it hadn’t been all bad. There had been moments of brightness here and there, moments when I felt Raphael genuinely cared for me and desired me. The first time he kissed me and I felt his healer’s gift entwine with my own magic in a way I hadn’t known was possible….. it had been glorious. We had saved lives together, Raphael and I, and even though the process proved too dangerous for me to continue, I had been proud of what we had done. He had introduced me to Master Lo Feng, for which I was grateful.

The act of confession tainted it all. Pyotr Rostov was merciless in his inquiry, already knowing many of the answers, but not content until I confessed them aloud.

Yes, I had engaged in fornication with Raphael de Mereliot. How many times? I don’t know, mayhap a dozen times.

Yes, I had used my magic to help him heal others; and no, I did not understand why that was a bad thing, except insofar as it was an unnatural use of my gift that nearly killed me.

“Life and death are God’s to command, Moirin,” the Patriarch said sternly. “You have meddled in affairs beyond the mortal ken, and nothing good can come of it.” His velvet-brown eyes darkened ominously. “We will speak more of this later.”

Yes, I had helped Raphael and the Circle of Shalomon summon fallen spirits, and yes, I had consorted with these spirits.

No, I had not fornicated with them. Yes, I was sure.

“They spoke to me!” I said in frustration. “What was I to do? Stop my ears?”

“Better you should thrust bodkins in your ears than listen to the beguilings of demons,” he said grimly. “Did they tempt you?”

“No—” I remembered Marbas.

Rostov was quick to seize on the slightest hesitation, the slightest opening. “Aha! What did they offer you?”

I met his gaze. “The gift of shape-shifting, the gift the Maghuin Dhonn Herself withdrew from us. I refused it.”

He studied my face, looking for the lie, then gave a slight, genuine smile when he did not find it. “Well done, child.”

Gods help me, I found myself grateful for his praise.

The summoning of spirits was a matter of great interest to the Patriarch of Riva, and he went back and forth over it, demanding that I relate each incident in ever-increasing detail. I obliged, talking myself hoarse while his pen hovered and scratched over the paper, recording my every word.

He didn’t know about the gift Marbas had given me, the charm to reveal hidden things. I did not offer it. If there were any small secrets he was unable to exhume, I meant to keep them to myself.

Thus far, it was Marbas’ gift, and the fact that I had bedded a coach-driver.

It wasn’t much comfort.

“My lord?” I inquired when he paused to dip his pen. I raised my hands, chains dangling from my wrists. “It seems to me that these chains are very like the silver chain with which we attempted to bind Focalor, only they were wrought without flaws. Tell me, how is this not witchcraft?”

The Patriarch frowned. “Because it is done in the service of God’s will and with the intention of saving your immortal soul. It is not even remotely the same.”

“No?” I let my hands fall into my lap, chains rattling.

“No.” He didn’t like that question, I could tell. He began to gather up his things brusquely. “That is enough for today. We will resume your confession on the morrow.” He hesitated, taking on a more compassionate tone. “What we must discuss will be difficult for you. But it is necessary, I assure you.”

My chest tightened, and I looked away. “You mean to make me speak of Jehanne.”

“I know it seems cruel,” he said gently. “But you must make your confession in full, Moirin.”

I couldn’t bear the thought of it, knowing the covert pleasure he’d taken in telling me of her death, and that grief yet raw. “And if I don’t?”

“God is patient, and so am I,” Pyotr Rostov said. “I am prepared to wait a long time. And yet I am only mortal. If, in the end, you prove intractable…..” He gave a sad, weary shrug. “If you do not repent, you will be stoned to death for your sins.”

I stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I fear that is the punishment God demands,” he said to me. “I do not wish to administer it, but I will. Think on it.”

TWENTY-SIX

Aleksei began reading Yeshua’s tale to me.

It was clear he took pleasure in it. I did my best to appear to listen attentively, all the while scheming ways to engage him. With the Patriarch’s threat hanging over my head, it had become more urgent than ever.

All I had to guide me was Naamah’s gift and my own instincts. I developed a finely honed sense of Aleksei’s reactions, and the response of Naamah’s gift within him.

So long as I looked away from him, he could not resist stealing glances at me. Swaddled in a shapeless woolen dress and draped in chains, a long scarf wrapped around my cropped hair, I hardly felt at my most alluring.

Still, he was a young man with a young man’s appetites surging beneath his efforts to suppress them, and I found ways to tempt him. If I angled my body just so and clasped my hands in my lap in a demure pose, the chains that ran from the collar around my neck to the cuffs at my wrists pressed the fabric against my skin, showing the shape of my breasts beneath the prickly wool.

When I smoothed the fabric over my knees in another seemingly absentminded gesture, it pulled it taut for a moment, revealing the line of my thigh; and when I tilted my head a certain way, the trailing end of the woolen scarf fell away to bare my throat.

Such small enticements! And yet, to a starving man, they held all the promise of an extravagant banquet.

Once again, I thanked him for the day’s reading. “I look forward to hearing more,” I added. “Especially the love story.”

Aleksei looked confused. “What love story?”

“The love between Yeshua ben Yosef and Mary of Magdala,” I said. “Surely that is one of the best parts.”

“Ah….. no.” He flushed, fidgeting with the book. “No, it is not reckoned so in the Church of Yeshua Ascendant.”

“Oh.” I was disappointed.

He gave me a yearning look. “Mary of Magdala took the blood that Yeshua spilled on the cross and used it to a corrupt end. God only allowed it that even Elua might learn to resist temptation in the end. Moirin, you must set aside the false beliefs you were taught in Terre d’Ange.”

I shook my head. “There is no sin in love, Aleksei, nor in honest desire.”

“Please do not say such things!” His face looked pale and pinched.

“Why?” I asked softly. “Because they are dangerous truths you fear to hear? Or because your uncle will have me stoned to death for saying them?”

Aleksei scrambled to his feet, once more avoiding my gaze, clutching the book before him as though it were a talisman to ward me off. “It’s best that I go.”

Still, he hesitated. I rose from my stool, crossing the space between us. Although it was difficult to move gracefully in shackles, I had been practicing. “Aleksei, I am trying,” I said in a low tone. “But I am as the gods have made me. Naamah’s gift is real. I have felt her blessing, and there is only grace and beauty in it. It is no curse, and I do not know if I can repent of it in earnest.”

He was trembling, and I was standing close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him in waves. “I should go,” he repeated.

I touched his cheek—oh so lightly. His pupils dilated, and the pulse in the hollow of his strong young throat beat hard and fast. “You feel it, too. I know you do.”

If I pressed him any harder, I would lose him. I made myself turn away, bowing my head. Aleksei’s breathing was ragged in the small cell.

“Moirin…..” He whispered my name.

Whatever else he meant to say, he fell silent at the sound of a key turning in the lock. Valentina opened the door and entered the chamber, bringing a tray with my mid-day meal. Mother and son exchanged a long glance, and then Aleksei left, stumbling and banging his shoulder against the door-frame in his haste.

I sighed.

“I know what you’re about with my son.” Valentina set the tray down on the little table, hard enough to make it rattle. Her voice was grim. “God help me, I don’t know if I’m praying for you to succeed or fail.”

I extended my arms toward her in supplication, dangling my chains. “Believe what you will, my lady. My offer stands. Purloin the key, and I will go and take any dilemma I may pose from you.”

Her mouth hardened. “Would you take him with you?”

“Aleksei?”

“Who else?”

“Yes,” I murmured. “If he wished to go, yes, of course. Your son was not meant to live this way.”

“Would you love him?” Valentina appraised me with a mother’s shrewdness.

I found myself unable to lie to her. For all I knew, I could come to love him. As Bao had observed, I had a tendency to give my heart away quickly. But at the moment, Aleksei was but a means to an end; and no matter what else transpired, it was Bao who held the missing half of my soul.

So I stayed silent.

“As I thought,” Valentina said bitterly. “You do but ply him with a whore’s cheap wiles.”