Naamah's Curse

That’s why he tolerates my foibles, she had told me once. We’re unfaithful to one another in different ways.

It was true, but not wholly so. Deep down, Jehanne was a great deal wiser and kinder than she pretended. I knew, because she’d let herself show it to me. And for all her fears and uncertainties, I didn’t doubt that motherhood would bring out the best in her.

I only hoped I’d have the chance to see so for myself one day. Rattling my chains ruefully, I remembered gentle Checheg lying exhausted and calm in the aftermath of giving birth, assuring me of just that thing as she described my glad return to Terre d’Ange with Bao at my side—and little Sarangerel telling me that Jehanne’s babe would be as big as her bright-eyed, toddling brother, Mongke, already creating mischief.

It had seemed possible then.

Now…..

I fought down a wave of despair, stroking the blue silk scarf that Checheg had given me. I wore it knotted around my throat.

That, and one jade bangle the color of the dragon’s translucent reflecting lake were all that were left to me of the tokens I had collected along the way, reminders that I had been loved once.

Everything else was gone.

My yew-wood bow, gone, left behind in Batu’s ger. My ivory-hilted dagger, gone or taken. Also left behind, my battered canvas satchel that held items of little value to anyone but me. There was the Emperor’s jade seal, which I’d stashed there for safe-keeping. That, I supposed, might be bartered for a considerable amount. The same was not true of the other items. Not the signet ring my mother had given me, proof that I was a child of Alais’ line.

Not the square of cloth embroidered with flowering bamboo by Bao’s half-sister, Song.

And surely, surely, not the little crystal vial of perfume that Jehanne had given me to remember her by.

No one but a D’Angeline would know what that was worth.

It shouldn’t have mattered so much; they were only things, after all. But they were things that had given me comfort.

And there was no comfort here.

None at all.

TWENTY

We began to pass through villages.

I had some mad idea that I might find help or allies within them. I called out to the staring villagers in the Tatar tongue, rattling my chains plaintively, clasping my hands and pleading, doing my best to convey that I was a captive in need of rescue.

They looked away.

Ilya spoke to them in his deep, sonorous voice, and they nodded in understanding. Some turned and spat as I passed. One little boy stooped, picked up a rock, and hurled it at me, his face contorted with disgust. He had good aim and a strong arm; although I jerked away, the rock grazed my brow in passing.

“What are you saying to them?” I asked in fierce frustration.

He eyed me sidelong. “God wills this.”

God.

God.

God.

Oh, how perishing sick I was of hearing it! Why? It nagged at me.

If the answer didn’t lie in the distant past, nor the recent past, mayhap it lay in the immediate past. The Vralians and the Tatars appeared to have an alliance of sorts, and it was no secret that the Tatars would gladly invade Ch’in if the opportunity presented itself. I knew Batu’s men had been indiscreet regarding my role in resolving the civil war there. Mayhap I was being punished for it; or mayhap the Vralians believed they could use me as a bargaining chip in some way.

“Ilya?” I tapped his shoulder. Although he did not meet my eyes, his head turned in my direction. “Is it because of what I did in Ch’in?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it?” I persisted. “There were tales told, I know. Am I being punished?”

Ilya gave his head a faint shake. “No.”

“Is it politics, then?” I asked. “If you imagine the Emperor of Ch’in will move heaven and earth to rescue me, you are mistaken.”

Another shake of his head. “God wills this.”

I had reached the end of my tether. Ilya was never going to give me a meaningful answer. I was never going to fathom his god’s mysterious intent on my own. I couldn’t think of any further way to break or compromise the chains that bound me, nor to overpower my captors and escape.

And no one, no one was going to aid me.

We passed through forests of majestic spruce trees and stands of graceful birch. I gazed at them with bittersweet longing, severed from my awareness of their slow, stately thoughts. I wished I were a great magician like Berlik. I wished I could take on the shape of the Great Bear Herself and burst my chains, vanishing into the wilderness where no one would ever find me unless I willed it.

My imprisoned diadh-anam flared in agreement.

I wished I knew what had befallen Bao. Despite what the Khan had said, I did not for an instant think that he would rest content among the Tatars with his hot-tempered princess now that the bond between us was broken—or at least blocked.

No, my stubborn magpie had made his choice; and Bao would move heaven and earth to rescue me. Of that, I hadn’t the slightest doubt.

I suspected in truth the Great Khan didn’t, either. That was why he had prepared a tale to send Bao far, far away.

The thought made my heart ache. Gods, it seemed so unfair! Bao and I had only just begun to make sense of our strange fate, sorting out the tangled threads of friendship, love, desire, and magic that bound us together.

I missed him, and this time it was a yearning that owed nothing to magic. Until we were reunited, I hadn’t realized how much I simply liked being with him—even when he infuriated me, even when he told me true things about myself no one else saw.

After conceding that at least for the moment, my situation was hopeless, I allowed myself a full day to wallow in self-pity and despair.

I turned the jade bangle on my wrist, thinking of the dragon dreaming on the distant peaks of White Jade Mountain above his reflecting pool, and allowed myself to entertain a fantasy of rescue and revenge in which the dragon flew to my aid and descended from the sky in all his celestial glory, roaring in mighty fury while Ilya and Leonid cowered and begged forgiveness.

It was a pleasant fantasy.

But it was nothing more, and I knew it all too well. If I were not bound, mayhap it would be different. Snow Tiger had said once that no one in Ch’in would raise a hand to me for fear of the dragon’s fury. If he had been able to sense my plight, mayhap he would have come to my rescue.

I doubted it, though. For all his celestial might and majesty, the dragon was very much a creature of his place, inextricably linked to his mountain and pool. I did not think his jurisdiction over the skies extended beyond the boundaries of Ch’in.

Anyway, so long as I was constrained by my chains, it didn’t matter. After a day of wallowing, I did my best to set aside despair, self-pity, and useless fantasies.

For the first time since I had been taken captive, I willed my thoughts to be quiet and practiced the Five Styles of Breathing, returning to my original plan.

I would wait.

I would be patient. Sooner or later, a chance would come. When it did, I would be ready to seize it.

Such were my thoughts several days later when we emerged from the mountain passes and caught sight of the city of Riva, as I later learned it was called, built along the shores of an inland lake in a sizable valley.

It was the first settlement of any significance that we had encountered, and I knew within the space of a few heartbeats that it was our destination. Almost entirely deprived of conversation, I’d grown skilled at reading more subtle cues. Leonid’s chin rose, and he gave the reins a brisk shake. Beside him, Ilya took a deep breath. The cart-horses pricked their ears and leaned into the traces.

“Home?” I murmured in Tatar.

Ilya turned his bearded head a few degrees in my direction. “Yes.”

I gazed at the city as we approached. It wasn’t large, but it wasn’t insubstantial, either. There were farms on the outskirts, using up every bit of arable land in the valley. The city proper was compact, nestled against the shores of the lake.

It had one building of note, larger than the rest. It put me in mind of the palace of the Lady of Marsilikos, where Raphael de Mereliot’s sister, who had once reviled me spitefully, held that ancient hereditary title. Like the palace, it sported a gilded dome that shone in the sunlight, a beacon to weary travellers. There was one difference, though. Unlike the palace, this dome ended in a spire, for all the world like a sprouting onion.

Atop the spire, a flared cross gleamed.

Ilya raised his medallion to his lips and kissed it.

I found myself tensing as we descended into the valley and entered the city. Folk going about their business on the narrow streets paused to stare. A few—men, always—called out questions.

Ilya answered in his deep voice.

In response, they shuddered with distaste and gazed at me with fascinated horror. I flinched, waiting for stones that were not thrown.

Not yet, anyway.

The promise was there. I saw it in the way the men clenched their fists, muscles knotting. I saw it in the hot gazes of small boys, ever unwittingly eager for mayhem. I saw it in the way modest Vralian women with scarves wrapped around their heads turned away, averting their eyes, blocking the sight of me with their bodies lest their daughters see.

It scared me.

Stone and sea! What in the world had I ever done that these people, total strangers, should hate and despise me? I thought I’d become accustomed to living with fear, but I was wrong. After the initial rush of terror, I’d come to rely on Ilya and Leonid’s reluctant forbearance. This, this was different.

I huddled in my chains, breathing quietly, trying to cling to a sense of calm. It was not easy. I felt helpless and vulnerable, dirty, disheveled, and very, very alone.

When we reached the building with the gilded dome, Leonid reined in the cart-horses. They cocked their haunches, resting in the traces. Ilya dismounted and came around the side of the wagon to help me climb down, touching me as little as possible.

My bare feet struck the cobblestones, my toes curling.

I was scared, so scared.

“Come.” Ilya beckoned to me. “Here, it is good.”

I went with him, mincing awkwardly in my chains.

Inside the temple, there was a large space for worshippers to gather. There was an altar, and a vast mosaic on the wall behind it, an image of a bearded man I took to be Yeshua ben Yosef. His big eyes were hot and stern, and he held a disc that depicted the earth in the palm of one hand, a flared cross sprouting from it, his other hand raised in a foreboding gesture.

It seemed word of our arrival had already reached the temple. A bearded middle-aged man in embroidered woolen robes stood before the altar. Like Ilya and Leonid, he wore a flared cross medallion on a gold chain. Behind him were three other figures: two women, and a much younger man, taller than the other, his head averted.

“Welcome.” The man in the front breathed the word with a startling reverence, addressing me in flawless D’Angeline. “Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn, be welcome to this place God has brought you.”

I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

He came toward me, smiling. “Do not be afraid. My name is Pyotr Rostov, and I am the Patriarch of Riva. Let me have a look at you, child.”

Since I didn’t have a choice, I stood my ground as he lifted my chin with gentle fingers, peering at me.

I took his measure, too. He was ruggedly handsome in the Vralian manner, with weather-beaten skin and strong, prominent bones. His hair and long, thick beard were black, his eyes a dark, velvety brown. At the moment, they shone at me with surpassing warmth, so much so that I felt myself relaxing.

“Flawless!” Pyotr Rostov breathed with the same peculiar reverence. Releasing my chin, he lifted his medallion and kissed it, murmuring a prayer in Vralian. “Oh, child! I have been looking for someone like you for so very, very long, but never in my fondest dreams did I imagine God would grant my prayers with such perfection.”

“Oh?” I whispered uncertainly.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at me with a father’s tenderness. “Look at you! Every abomination of two sinful races combined in one flesh, trailing a history of foul magic and blasphemy—and all of it wrapped in a package of unholy temptation.” He kissed his medallion again. “Truly, God is great.”

I felt sick. “Why?” I asked for the thousandth time, trying not to break down in tears. “What do you and your god want of me?”

This time, I got an answer. The Patriarch of Riva spread his arms. “I am the servant of God and his son Yeshua, and I pray that they work through me.” His eyes shone even brighter, taking on a hectic, avid quality. “If I can lead one such as you to salvation, surely I can change the world!”

My trapped diadh-anam surged in alarm.

I had my answer, and I did not like it. Not one bit.

TWENTY-ONE

With unctuous courtesy, the Patriarch of Riva introduced me to his family, my new jailors.

The older of the two women was his wife, Luba, a stern-looking woman with grey eyes and lips thinned with disapproval. The other woman, Valentina, was his sister. Although she was younger than her brother, she had the same velvety brown eyes and worn traces of beauty in her features. Both of them wore scarves wrapped around their heads.

Neither of them cared to meet my eyes, nor did the young man.

He intrigued me.

He hadn’t lifted his head once since Ilya escorted me into the temple, keeping his face stubbornly averted. Tawny hair, bronze streaked with lighter gold, fell to curtain his features, reminding me uncomfortably of Raphael de Mereliot.

It wasn’t just that, though. When I gazed at him, I felt the unmistakable stirring of Naamah’s gift within me, recognizing its presence in another. Without ever looking at me, the young man flushed beneath my gaze, a tide of red blood creeping upward to stain his throat and cheeks. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">