Naamah's Curse

TWENTY-FIVE

I n Terre d’Ange, seduction is reckoned an art and a sport alike, and yet I’d never had cause to practice it, not really.

When I arrived in the City of Elua, I fell straightaway into Raphael de Mereliot’s schemes-quite literally, from the moment his carriage struck me down unwittingly in the street and he found the signet ring around my neck identifying me as a descendant of House Courcel.

And from the moment Raphael made me a pawn in his complicated game with Jehanne, I became a target, a prize to be claimed.

I’d known it when I let Jehanne seduce me.

I’d known it when Prince Thierry courted me, and I bedded him in a moment of loneliness.

I’d been prey, not a hunter, albeit rather willing prey. Now that would have to change, and I would have to play a very subtle game with my oh so skittish prey.

Well and so, I knew how to hunt. Unlike D’Angelines, I had never practiced it as a sport. It was a means of survival.

So was this. And as Batu had said, survival was the best reason of all.

Any overt move on my part would send Aleksei fleeing, of that I was sure. I could sense it in the nervous tension in his body when he was alone in my cell with me, in the way his voice broke and faltered as he read to me, in the way he avoided my gaze. But a good hunter observes his prey, and a very good hunter makes the prey come to him. For now, I was content to wait and observe Aleksei.

I sat demurely on my stool and listened to him read, keeping my expression open and earnest. I learned to look away when he faltered, for those were the times when he allowed himself to steal glances at me.

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.”