Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [80]
Pyotr Rostov refused to believe, refused to accept the dragon’s nature as a celestial being of elemental magic. No, nothing would do but that it was a fallen spirit bent on wreaking havoc and harm in the world.
“You said yourself that the fallen ones took strange and fantastic forms, Moirin,” he pointed out to me. “That they liked speaking to you, that at least one wielded power over the elements. Can you not see that this is exactly the same?”
“But it’s not, my lord.” I turned the jade bangle on my wrist, agitated. “The dragon is a creature of his place. He wanted nothing more than to drowse on the peaks of White Jade Mountain, gazing at his reflection and guarding his pearl.”
“And yet he caused the Emperor’s daughter to tear her bridegroom from limb to limb,” he said sternly.
“He awoke trapped in her flesh! He was in a blind panic. It drove him mad not to be able to see himself.”
“You excuse the deed?”
“No! Of course not. I understand it, which is not the same. When the dragon understood what he had done, when he understood what had befallen him, he regretted it very deeply.”
The Patriarch shook his head with sorrow. “Child, have you learned nothing from your experience yet? Nothing of the lies unclean spirits will offer to tempt you? You of all people should know better.”
Around and around we went. I was fighting another losing battle, and I knew it. In the end, I would acquiesce. I was alone and scared, and I did not want to be stoned to death. I would betray the dragon’s memory as surely as I had betrayed Cillian’s, Jehanne’s, Bao’s… even Raphael’s, as much as he deserved it. Unless one counted the coach-driver, Snow Tiger’s memory was the only one I’d been able to protect. I couldn’t save the dragon’s.
But I would not surrender without a fight.
During the long, losing argument, I thought about a woman I had known in the City of Elua, Lianne Tremaine, the King’s Poet. She was the youngest ever to have been appointed to that post.
And she was good, very good. I heard her recite a poem about a man mourning the death of his beloved. It had moved everyone in the room to tears, including me.
Even so, she had been a member of the Circle of Shalomon, longing for gifts the spirits they summoned could bestow. When I asked her what more a poet of her stature could possibly want, she had replied that there were always further thresholds to cross.
I seek words of such surpassing beauty that they might melt the hardest heart of stone, she had said to me.
I hadn’t understood the hunger at the time, but I was beginning to. If one of those fallen spirits had appeared in my cell and offered to gift my tongue with words that would melt the Patriarch’s heart, I would have accepted it in a heartbeat and damned the consequences.
Of course, the King’s Poet had been driven by excessive ambition, not fear and desperation. Still, I did not think this business of forcing me to betray my fondest memories was teaching me to resist the temptation to sin.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
When I saw the Patriarch’s face begin to darken with frustration and impatience flickering in his eyes, I gave up.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” I whispered, bowing my head and gazing at the translucent jade bangle, apologizing in my heart to the dragon above his reflecting pool. “I do not mean to be so stubborn. It is only… it is hard to admit one has been so foolish as to be taken in by the same lies twice.”
“Well done, child.” Leaning over his portable desk, Pyotr Rostov reached out and lifted my chin. At least he didn’t have his creamy look. Apparently, the confession of sins that didn’t involve fornication, unclean acts, or blaspheming against Yeshua weren’t quite as delectable. “Remember, pride is also a sin.”
I nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Having stripped that away from me and besmirched it to his satisfaction, he moved on to further acts of iniquity on my part—namely, my role as