Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [83]
“As an act of penance, you will wash the floor,” the Patriarch said.
“Oh, I see.” I relaxed a bit. No doubt he thought it was a fitting humiliation for the descendant of three royal houses, but I had been raised in a cave in the Alban wilderness. From the time I was old enough to hold a broom, I’d swept our hearth every day. I wasn’t afraid of hard work, nor did I think it beneath me.
I glanced at the bucket, looking for a mop.
With a satisfied look on her face, Luba held out a very, very small scrub-brush.
“You see the squares, Moirin?” Her husband pointed at the floor. Until this moment, I hadn’t bothered to take it in. The floor was also a mosaic, this one formed of pebbles in contrasting hues. The pattern was an abstract one of small squares, each one a box containing a flared cross.
Any sense of relief I had vanished. “Yes, my lord.”
“On your knees, you will scrub each one in order,” he said, pacing to the far right of the altar. “Beginning here.” He raised a finger in caution. “You are not to touch the altar, or anything on it. You are not to venture past it into the sanctuary. Is that understood?”
I sighed. “It is.”
“This is not a punishment,” the Patriarch repeated. “It is an opportunity. Focus your thoughts on each square. Contemplate the sign of the cross, that vile instrument on which Yeshua suffered for your sake. Think upon his suffering. Think upon your sins, and beg his forgiveness. Will you do this?”
As if I had a choice. “Yes, my lord,” I muttered.
“Moirin.” He said my name sharply. I looked reluctantly at him. “Over each square, you will utter this prayer. ‘Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’ Say it.”
“Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” I echoed.
He spoke to his wife in Vralian, then addressed me in D’Angeline. “Very good. Say it again.”
I repeated it, while Luba listened intently.
The Patriarch nodded in satisfaction. “She will be listening to make sure you do not err.” His face softened. “I know you do not mean the words, not yet. But repetition is a powerful tool. If you say a thing often enough, it may become true.”
I blew out my breath, glancing over the vast expanse of squares and crosses. “Do you expect me to finish it today, my lord?”
“No.” He smiled at me. “I do not think that is humanly possible. But it matters not when you finish, for you can always begin again.”
Helpless tears stung my eyes, and I bit the inside of my cheek to try to keep the tears from spilling. I didn’t want him to see.
He knew, anyway. “God’s work is endless, Moirin,” he said, and took his leave.
Luba handed me the scrub-brush and addressed me for the first time, pointing toward the corner and speaking three curt words in Vralian. They didn’t need translating.
Get to work.
Scrub-brush in hand, I hauled the wooden bucket to the far right of the altar and knelt on the pebbled floor, my chains clanking and rattling around me.
It hurt; of course it hurt. If the mosaic floor had been comprised of smooth bits of tile like the one on the wall, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But the inlaid pebbles were raised, digging into my knees. Right now, the pain was a minor annoyance. Over the course of hours, or gods, days, it would grow much, much worse. Gritting my teeth, I contemplated the first square. It was a bit larger than the palm of my hand, mayhap four inches by four.
It was the first of more than I could count.
Hovering behind me, Luba repeated her curt Vralian injunction. I dipped the brush into the bucket, into cold water that smelled strongly of lye. Water sloshed onto the floor as I withdrew the brush, scrubbing the pebbles.
“Yeshua the Anointed,” I said grimly, “Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
I moved the brush to the adjacent square. Luba made a disapproving sound, leaning over to tap the bucket, indicating that I was to dip the brush anew.
I sat back on my heels. “Every single bedamned square?” I pointed, miming. “Each and every one?”
She nodded and tapped the bucket again.
I eyed her, remembering the