Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [59]
It was the first settlement of any significance that we had encountered, and I knew within the space of a few heartbeats that it was our destination. Almost entirely deprived of conversation, I’d grown skilled at reading more subtle cues. Leonid’s chin rose, and he gave the reins a brisk shake. Beside him, Ilya took a deep breath. The cart-horses pricked their ears and leaned into the traces.
“Home?” I murmured in Tatar.
Ilya turned his bearded head a few degrees in my direction. “Yes.”
I gazed at the city as we approached. It wasn’t large, but it wasn’t insubstantial, either. There were farms on the outskirts, using up every bit of arable land in the valley. The city proper was compact, nestled against the shores of the lake.
It had one building of note, larger than the rest. It put me in mind of the palace of the Lady of Marsilikos, where Raphael de Mereliot’s sister, who had once reviled me spitefully, held that ancient hereditary title. Like the palace, it sported a gilded dome that shone in the sunlight, a beacon to weary travellers. There was one difference, though. Unlike the palace, this dome ended in a spire, for all the world like a sprouting onion.
Atop the spire, a flared cross gleamed.
Ilya raised his medallion to his lips and kissed it.
I found myself tensing as we descended into the valley and entered the city. Folk going about their business on the narrow streets paused to stare. A few—men, always—called out questions.
Ilya answered in his deep voice.
In response, they shuddered with distaste and gazed at me with fascinated horror. I flinched, waiting for stones that were not thrown.
Not yet, anyway.
The promise was there. I saw it in the way the men clenched their fists, muscles knotting. I saw it in the hot gazes of small boys, ever unwittingly eager for mayhem. I saw it in the way modest Vralian women with scarves wrapped around their heads turned away, averting their eyes, blocking the sight of me with their bodies lest their daughters see.
It scared me.
Stone and sea! What in the world had I ever done that these people, total strangers, should hate and despise me? I thought I’d become accustomed to living with fear, but I was wrong. After the initial rush of terror, I’d come to rely on Ilya and Leonid’s reluctant forbearance. This, this was different.
I huddled in my chains, breathing quietly, trying to cling to a sense of calm. It was not easy. I felt helpless and vulnerable, dirty, disheveled, and very, very alone.
When we reached the building with the gilded dome, Leonid reined in the cart-horses. They cocked their haunches, resting in the traces. Ilya dismounted and came around the side of the wagon to help me climb down, touching me as little as possible.
My bare feet struck the cobblestones, my toes curling.
I was scared, so scared.
“Come.” Ilya beckoned to me. “Here, it is good.”
I went with him, mincing awkwardly in my chains.
Inside the temple, there was a large space for worshippers to gather. There was an altar, and a vast mosaic on the wall behind it, an image of a bearded man I took to be Yeshua ben Yosef. His big eyes were hot and stern, and he held a disc that depicted the earth in the palm of one hand, a flared cross sprouting from it, his other hand raised in a foreboding gesture.
It seemed word of our arrival had already reached the temple. A bearded middle-aged man in embroidered woolen robes stood before the altar. Like Ilya and Leonid, he wore a flared cross medallion on a gold chain. Behind him were three other figures: two women, and a much younger man, taller than the other, his head averted.
“Welcome.” The man in the front breathed the word with a startling reverence, addressing me in flawless D’Angeline. “Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn, be welcome to this place God has brought you.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
He came toward me, smiling. “Do not be