Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [88]
“Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” I murmured, speaking to the gentle Yeshua-that-was, and not the hot-eyed warrior on the wall, holding the world in his palm. “Yeshua the Anointed, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
The Patriarch of Riva approved.
“I have a mind to reward you, Moirin,” he said to me in a jovial tone, visiting me in my cell after I had completed my fourth day of flawless penance.
“Oh?”
He nodded. “I will be conducting the morning service tomorrow. Would you care to attend?”
“Of course, my lord,” I said politely. It was a lie. I wanted nothing to do with him. I still hated Pyotr Rostov. I would always hate him.
“Very good.” He smiled at me. “Since you are unbaptized, you will have to observe from the narthex, but I think you will benefit from the experience. Luba will escort you.”
Doubtless that would be a pleasure for both of us. “Thank you, my lord.”
The Patriarch laid one hand on my head. “You’re welcome, Moirin.”
Despite everything, I had to own that I was curious—and more than a bit apprehensive, too. Since the day I arrived, I hadn’t seen another living soul save Pyotr Rostov and his family. I would see them in the temple, all the fine folk of Riva who would take part in stoning me to death if I didn’t find a path out of this mess one way or another.
Scowling Luba came for me at daybreak, the ferocity of her expression letting me know just exactly how little she welcomed this chore. At least her dislike was honest and genuine. I preferred her heartfelt scowls to her husband’s unctuous smiles. Since I was still trying to be good and open myself to the possibility that there was some purpose in my presence here, I met her glare with a calm, steady gaze.
It didn’t impress her.
She led me on a different course through the living quarters. It seemed we were to exit onto the street, and enter the temple through the main doors.
I hadn’t been outdoors for days—weeks, by this time. If it hadn’t been for the magic of the bedamned chains stifling my senses, like as not I would have lost my mind by now, confined in a man-made structure for so long.
Even so, the sight of the blue sky above me and the feel of open air around me was a powerful tonic. I drew a long, shaking breath, every fiber in my body urging me to run, to flee, to get away.
But there were the shackles on my ankles, limiting me to mincing steps. There was Luba at my side, taking a fierce grip on my elbow. There were streams of Vralian worshippers heading for the temple, eyeing me with avid curiosity.
I let out my breath and allowed Luba to steer me into the temple.
Vralians stood to worship—men on the right, women on the left. Most of them passed beyond the outermost chamber of the narthex to enter the inner chamber of the nave. I winced to see dirty shoes and boots trampling the pebbled floor.
A few lingered in the narthex, staring and whispering. I did not see kindness or pity in any of their faces. At best, curiosity; at worst, revulsion. I made myself meet their eyes, willing my expression to give nothing away. When I did, they averted their eyes. It was altogether too easy to picture the stones in their hands.
It was better when the service began. Since it was conducted in Vralian, I understood none of it. Pyotr Rostov had been careful to ensure that precious little was spoken in my presence so I had no chance to learn to communicate with anyone else, keeping me as isolated as possible. But there were long prayers chanted in deep, sonorous tones, and at least the sound of it was pleasing. The Patriarch stood before the altar wearing a fine embroidered stole over his robes and swinging a censer from which sweet-smelling smoke trickled.
I let the sounds wash over me, lifting my gaze to contemplate the image of Yeshua on the wall above the altar.
I tried to envision him as Yeshua-that-was, willing his stern visage to soften into the gentler one Rebbe Avraham described.
“What is it you will of