Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [98]
“The oath Berlik the Cursed swore and broke,” the Patriarch reminded me. “The one you uttered to me once before. Swear it now.”
Oh, gods.
I couldn’t.
If I swore it and broke it, I would lose my diadh-anam. If I swore it and kept it, I would lose my diadh-anam.
I swallowed hard. “I can’t, my lord.”
THIRTY-FIVE
The Patriarch of Riva had not expected defiance. He frowned at me, holy oil dripping from the tips of his fingers. “What do you mean you can’t?”
It had gotten very quiet in the temple. I could hear the low murmur of Aleksei translating for the Duke of Vralsturm, and faint whispers as those around him eavesdropped and passed on his words.
I’d gone ice-cold beneath my damp robe. My mind worked frantically. “I… It would be blasphemy, my lord. I cannot swear an oath to Yeshua on the troth that binds me to my diadh-anam.” My voice trembled. “You may as well ask me to swear it by the Maghuin Dhonn Herself! That cannot be right!”
Over the course of months, I’d gotten good at lying, good at dissembling. Not good enough. Not here, not now. He could see the panic in my eyes.
“I will be the judge of what is blasphemous or not, Moirin,” Pyotr Rostov said in a smooth tone. “Not you, a lowly catechumen. Will you swear the oath or not?”
I shook my head slowly. “No.”
He lowered the dish of holy oil. “Then I will cancel the ceremony.”
“My lord…” My mouth had gone dry. “Please, no. I’ve worked so very hard to obey you. This is your moment of triumph. Will you spoil it?”
The Patriarch’s eyes narrowed. I watched him weigh the decision. If he acceded, he would have his moment of mortal triumph intact and unspoiled, but it would be a lie, a holy rite violated in the temple of God. In the struggle for my soul, he would be acknowledging his failure.
All I could do was pray that his ambition outweighed his fanaticism.
It didn’t.
“I’m sorry, Moirin. More sorry than you know. I take no pleasure in what must follow.” He returned the dish to its stand, addressing the congregation in sonorous Vralian, his voice heavy with regret.
Shocked gasps rippled through the crowd. I didn’t know enough Vralian to follow everything he said, but I didn’t need to. Here and there, I caught words I knew. The reaction of the crowd and the look of dawning horror on Aleksei’s face told me everything I needed to know. All my hard work, all my patience, everything had unraveled in a matter of heartbeats. All for one oath unsworn.
“You’re condemning me to death, aren’t you?” I whispered.
Rostov didn’t look at me. “You leave me no choice.”
“No choice!” My long-repressed anger returned ten-fold, fueled by mindless terror. “Oh, please, my lord! You have chosen everything! Everything! You have chosen which of the prophets you will heed, and which you will ignore! You have chosen to elevate the harshest strictures over the kindest of Yeshua’s teaching!” I yanked off my sodden head-scarf, hurling it away from me. “You have chosen this endless fascination with sins of the flesh!”
His face darkened. “Moirin, be silent!”
“No!” I shouted at him. “I have been silent long enough! Do you think I do not know how it aroused you to hear my confession? How many times did you fornicate with him? Did you pleasure her with your mouth?” I asked, mimicking him. “Do you think I did not know it made your rod harden and swell to hear it?”
“You will be silent!” The Patriarch strode down from the dais and struck me hard across the face, knocking me to the floor in a tangle of chains and wet robes.
I scrambled backward, my head ringing, but I did not cease taunting him. “Does it harden even now, my lord?”
He strode after me, reaching down to grasp my chains and haul me to my feet, raising his hand to strike another blow.
And then the Duke of Vralsturm and his men were there to intervene, easing us apart. I gasped with relief at the reprieve and gazed at the Duke’s weather-beaten face,