Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [81]
It was a gift of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, the ability to take away memories.
Among my folk, it had a purpose. It hid the hollow hill and the stone doorway that I had passed through after Cillian’s death, that Bao had seen in his dreams since he’d held half of my diadh-anam. Those of us whom the Maghuin Dhonn Herself acknowledged as Her own kept the secret of Her sacred place. Those She did not accept surrendered it, giving unto the keeping of Old Nemed, who was the only one of us to wield that particular gift until I had discovered it within myself at a time of extreme need.
It worked only if the memory was offered freely and willingly. Old Nemed had said no one the Maghuin Dhonn Herself did not acknowledge ever, ever failed to consent to have her take their memory.
I believed it.
The memories I had taken in Ch’in were those of every soldier, engineer, and alchemist with knowledge of the workings of the Divine Thunder, those terrible bronze tubes and fire-powder that belched foul smoke and spat death across an impossible distance. I had seen firsthand the horrible carnage they wrought on the battlefield.
Tortoise…
Tortoise had been one of the stick-fighters who had accompanied us, a member of Bao’s old gang of thugs and ruffians. For all that, he’d been a loyal companion with a generous heart, the first to pledge himself to the quest to free the dragon and the princess. In my last memory of him, he had been hurrying across the battlefield to aid me, jouncing in the saddle, his homely face determined.
And then the Divine Thunder had boomed, and Tortoise was no longer there. There was only a smoldering crater with his unrecognizable remains.
“Why did you do it, Moirin?” the Patriarch asked in a gentle tone. Lost in my reverie, I looked blankly at him. “Why did you use witchcraft to steal men’s memories on the Emperor’s behalf?”
“Oh…” I rubbed my hands over my face, remembering the acrid taste of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal permeating my awareness. Too weary to argue, I tried a different tack. “Is that what folk are saying? I fear it is but a fanciful tale spread by the Emperor’s men to explain his clemency.”
Pyotr Rostov regarded me in silence.
Beneath my head-scarf, sweat gathered along my brow. “Surely you do not believe me capable of such a dire thing.”
“I do,” he said soberly. “Make no mistake, Moirin. I do not underestimate your foul magics, bound though they may be.” His voice took on an edge. “Do you think I do not know your folk have the ability to cloud men’s minds? Your ancestor Berlik swayed the thoughts of Rebbe Avraham ben David, a great and devout leader, one of the greatest thinkers of his day; swayed him from the path of righteousness and discipline to a soft-minded tolerance of sin. By what dire magic was that done?”
I shook my head. “None that I know of, my lord.”
“You are lying again.” A note of sorrow returned to his voice. “Ah, Moirin! God cannot save you if you will not let me help you.” Behind his veneer of compassion, the threat of stoning lurked. He dipped his pen in the inkwell. “Now, why did you use witchcraft to steal men’s memories?”
My eyes stung with defeat. “I did not steal them, my lord. Every single one was offered to me.”
That made him pause. “But you did not have to take them.”
“No,” I murmured. “But if I had not, the Emperor would have put to death every man with knowledge of the Divine Thunder’s workings. It was an act of mercy on his part to allow me to take their memories instead.”
He was silent.
“That was the choice, my lord,” I added. “You will have to explain to me how what I did was a sin.”
“It was witchcraft,” he said simply.
“Aye, but—”
“Moirin…” Pyotr Rostov sighed. “Oh, child! I do not deny that this was a very difficult choice. But the choice Emperor Zhu laid upon you was a false one, based on a false premise.” He steepled his fingers. “He did not have to kill those men, did he? That was his choice.”
“Aye, but—” My voice faltered. How could I make him understand that the weapons