Naamah's Curse

THIRTY-FOUR

Beneath the Patriarch’s stern gaze, I dipped my brush in the lye bucket and scrubbed the last square of my penance.

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

It was done, twice over. Over the course of weeks and months, I had finished one complete circuit and begun anew.

Now that was done, too.

I clambered wearily to my feet, my stiff back and bruised knees protesting. “Again, my lord?”

“No.” Pyotr Rostov placed both hands on my shoulders. “No, child. You have done well, so very, very well, and I am proud of you.” His velvet-brown eyes shone with genuine warmth. “Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn, are you prepared to be baptized into the Yeshuite faith?”

I would have danced naked in the village square if it meant getting rid of these hateful chains.

I lowered my gaze. “Do you think me worthy?”

He embraced me. “I do.”

I made myself glance shyly at him beneath my lashes. “Then it would be my honor, my lord.”

“Good, good!” The Patriarch embraced me again. I managed not to shudder with revulsion. After a moment, he let me go, regarding me and steepling his fingers. “The Duke of Vralsturm comes next week for the festival. I shall arrange for your baptism and chrismation to coincide with his visit, that he might see God’s glory at work. I trust you do not mind?”

I shook my head. “No, my lord. I am privileged to serve as an example.”

His creamy look came and went, replaced by one of solemn gravity. “And I to serve as the vessel of your redemption.”

“Yes, my lord.”

In the privacy of my cell, I wondered if he believed it. I daresay he did. Like Raphael de Mereliot, he was a man of great ambition. Unlike Raphael, I had no idea what forces had shaped the Patriarch’s nature. I only knew he had a profound hunger to believe himself the conduit of his God’s will.

Well and so, I would let him.

Like Aleksei, I did not feel wholly good about our endeavor. Alone in my cell, I addressed Yeshua ben Yosef in quiet prayer.

“Forgive me,” I whispered. “I do not wish to lie. But I do not wish to die, either. So when the time comes, I will lie. If Berlik was right about you, you will understand and forgive me, along with the oath-breakers and the murderers, and everyone else who has fallen low. Will you?”

Yeshua did not answer me-but then, gods seldom did.

The following week, the Duke of Vralsturm arrived in Riva, where he was received with great fanfare. I was not permitted to take part in any of the celebrations, but I could hear them through the narrow window of my cell. Hard as it was for me to imagine them rejoicing, the folk of Riva sounded merry.

My baptism was to take place the following day on the shores of Lake Severin, for one of Yeshua’s apostles had decreed that it was best done in living water. There was to be a solemn procession through the town wherein the Patriarch and a coterie of lesser priests led me in my chains to the lake. There I was to be submerged in water three times, and then led in procession back to the temple, where the final ceremony of the chrismation was to be performed.

I was not looking forward to it.

But Pyotr Rostov had promised that once I was baptized and anointed, once he had pronounced me born anew in the Yeshuite faith, he would unlock my chains and set me free; and Aleksei claimed his uncle was a man of his word.

Stone and sea, I hoped so.

For two days before the ceremony, I was made to fast. I would have reckoned it yet another punishment, but the truth was, these Yeshuites were mad for fasting. Aleksei regularly fasted for days at a time. I wondered if they would be quite so keen on the practice if they’d ever had to endure a long, lean winter.

Probably. In Aleksei’s case, definitely. He would welcome the opportunity to offer his suffering up to God. Me, I could not help but think that there was more than enough suffering in the world without adding to the balance.

The morning of my baptism, Valentina came to fetch me. I was to be given a thorough bath and dressed in a clean garment of white wool. Gods willing, I thought, it would be the last time I had to be sewn into my clothing.

Although she had shown me occasional small gestures of tenderness since my whipping, today Valentina handled me with impersonal efficiency, draping the shapeless robe of white wool over me once I was scrubbed clean. Her face was more careworn than usual, and she looked unhappy.

“What is the matter?” I asked softly. “Is this not the very outcome you desired upon my arrival, my lady?”

She gave me a sharp look. “Is it?”

“Your son has helped guide me on the path toward redemption.” I’d developed a certain fondness for poor Valentina, forever punished for her transgression, unable to help yearning for beauty nonetheless-but not enough to trust her with the truth. “Is that not pleasing in God’s eyes? Does it not suggest he has forgiven you?”

Valentina laughed, a broken sound. “It begs the axiom, does it not? Beware what you pray for, lest God grant your prayers.”

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.”