Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [97]
I let him bask in it.
He stepped down from the dais, swinging his censer about me, enveloping me in a cloud of fragrant smoke, laying a hand on my head and speaking in sonorous Vralian. The crowd murmured, ascertaining that I had passed the first test.
From thence, the processional to the shores of the lake.
It was a slow process, the pace dictated by the mincing steps I was forced to take, constrained by the shackles around my ankles and the short length of chain joining them, my bare feet shuffling on the sun-warmed cobbled streets. Pyotr Rostov didn’t mind. He would be happy for this moment to stretch into eternity.
I saw the Duke of Vralsturm gesture at my chains, leaning in to ask the Patriarch a question.
Rostov made him a somber reply. I’d learned enough Vralian to catch the gist of it.
Yes, yes, it is necessary.
We reached the shores of Lake Severin. They were stony and harsh beneath my bare soles. I’d gone unshod since the day Ilya and Leonid had wrenched off my thick Tatar boots in the Great Khan’s ger and clamped the shackles onto me.
That seemed a very long time ago.
The sun was high overhead, sparkling on the lake’s surface. I felt a touch lightheaded, no doubt from fasting. The villagers fanned out along the rocky shoreline, watching with avid interest. The Duke took a good vantage point for himself and his men, watching, his expression curious and interested.
The Patriarch waded into the lake and beckoned to me.
I wallowed into the cold water, my white robes billowing around me, my chains weighing me down.
“Moirin, recite the creed.”
“We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, and all things visible and invisible,” I said in a breathless rush. “And in Yeshua the Anointed, the only-begotten son of God, light of the light, being of one substance with the Father, by whom all things were made. Yeshua, who came down from Heaven and was made man, who suffered and was buried and rose again. Yeshua, who will come again in glory to judge us all, whose kingdom shall have no end.”
Pyotr Rostov smiled, laying his hand on my head. Gods, I hated that gesture.
“Verily, verily I say unto thee,” he quoted. “Except a man be born of water and the spirit, he cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Moirin mac Fainche, be you born anew this day in the faith of God and Yeshua, his son.”
He pushed my head underwater.
Once…
Twice…
Thrice.
I came up dripping, my wet robe plastered to my body, my head-scarf askew. The wool was thick enough that it didn’t become sheer, but I doubted it left much to the imagination otherwise. Onlookers murmured once more, and I made an extra effort to keep my expression earnest and guileless.
“Well done, child.” The Patriarch extended his hand to me, and I took it, letting him help me out of the lake’s chilly depths. “Only the final step remains.”
I nodded. “Yes, my lord. I am ready for it.”
Dripping, we returned to the temple in another slow, mincing procession. I was acutely aware of my own sodden discomfort and the gaze of others on me.
I was ready, so ready, for this to be over.
To be free.
I had entertained fantasies of defying the Patriarch the instant my chains were loosed, but I had decided against it. Better to be circumspect and keep up the charade until the Duke had departed.
Once more, I stood before the altar. Pyotr Rostov swung his censer, sanctifying the dish that held the holy oil, then took up the dish, dipping his fingers into the oil. He offered another prayer in Vralian, then turned his attention to me. “One last step, Moirin,” he repeated, his fingers glistening with oil.
“Yes, my lord.” I raised my face obediently, ready for him to anoint me.
But that wasn’t what he meant. “Very good. Before God and all here assembled, pledge yourself to the Yeshuite faith on the sacred oath of your people.”
I stared at him, my mind a blank.
It felt as though the ground had crumbled beneath me, leaving me teetering on