“Yes,” Aleksei murmured. “I took it from my mother’s hiding place.”

I was intrigued, especially given the Patriarch’s aversion to the book. “You said you found it dangerous.”

“Yes.” Although his rangy, long-limbed figure was hunched and awkward, his blue gaze was clear and steady. “But….. I think what you are feeling now is dangerous, too. You are giving in to hatred and anger, straying farther and farther from grace. And though I am loath to question my uncle’s judgment in any way, I do not think he understands your need for, um…..” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Love.”

“Love,” I echoed.

Aleksei nodded. “The Rebbe Avraham ben David found much to love in your people, Moirin. Both in the magician Berlik and the D’Angeline prince Imriel who delivered him into martyrdom. I hope….. I hope that perhaps his words will find a path to your heart, and you will allow yourself to accept God’s love, and learn to love him and his son Yeshua in return.”

I contemplated him thoughtfully. “You’re an interesting young man, Aleksei.”

He looked away. “Will you at least read it?”

“I will.”

THIRTY-ONE

The Rebbe’s memoir was beautiful, so beautiful in places that it made my heart ache.

He was a wise, compassionate, eloquent, and profoundly conflicted man, who had seen his deepest-held desire come to pass, and feared he did not welcome the form it had taken, even though he had helped to shape it.

At the center of the book was his struggle to reconcile the two Yeshuas: Yeshua-that-was, the gentle philosopher whose teachings formed much of the long-held faith of the Habiru, whom he called the Children of Yisra-el; and Yeshua-who-comes, the fierce warrior in whose name a new faith arose in Vralia.

It was during his long conversations with Berlik that doubt had arisen. Here was a man who had committed a terrible deed to save his people, who had taken on his shoulders the price of breaking an oath sworn in their name. If ever there were a man in need of Yeshua’s salvation, it was Berlik.

And yet he refused it.

“Gently, sorrowfully, and steadfastly, he refused it,” the Rebbe wrote. “Insisting that the burden was his own to bear, he refused it; and with consummate and relentless kindness, he pointed out the discrepancies between my own beliefs and events transpiring in war-torn Vralia. Yet it was also true that Berlik found his own grace through Yeshua, whose compassion made him believe that the gods themselves were capable of forgiveness.”

There were things the Rebbe had not fully understood, but I did. When Berlik broke the oath he had sworn on his diadh-anam, the Maghuin Dhonn Herself had turned Her back on him. The divine spark within him had been extinguished.

In distant Vralia, where Berlik had resigned himself to death at the prince’s hands, She had forgiven him and it had been rekindled.

Accepting sanctuary, Berlik had vanished into the wilderness. And then Prince Imriel had come, and in time Berlik had surrendered himself willingly to his justice, bowing his head for the sword.

Before he died, he spoke of Yeshua ben Yosef.

I had known part of it, but the Rebbe had recorded Berlik’s words in full—at least as related to him by the prince. “I came to see that he is the one god who understands what it is to fall low. That when every other face is turned away from you, he is the friend who is there, not only for the innocent, but for the guilty, too. For the thieves and murderers and oath-breakers alike, Yeshua is there.”

It made me want to weep. I could pray to that Yeshua, if he had not seemed so very, very far away.

Such was the argument the Rebbe Avraham ben David made, that until such a time as Yeshua-who-comes returned to make his will manifest, an hour that Yeshua himself had declared unknowable, those who worshipped him should obey the teachings of Yeshua-that-was, who turned no one away.

“Against the backdrop of war, of great and awesome change, I witnessed a profound mystery take place,” the Rebbe wrote. “Even now, I cannot claim to understand it. As I reflect upon those events, I am reminded that the will of Adonai is vaster and more wondrous than any mortal mind can encompass, and that the world is filled with marvels and terrible beauty. To those who will shape Vralia’s future, I say this. You are mortal, and you will err. It is inevitable, as inevitable as the rising of the sun. I beg of you, have compassion in all your doings and always err on the side of love, for that is the greatest gift of all.”

Reading that, I did weep.

Aleksei’s gift had accomplished its purpose.

I tried, I truly did. After reading the Rebbe’s book, I thought that mayhap if Berlik could find his way back to grace through Yeshua, so could I. Mayhap the Maghuin Dhonn Herself was wroth with me. I had done some very foolish things, especially allowing the gifts She had given me to serve Raphael de Mereliot’s ambitions.

For four days, I was good.

Day after day, I did my slow, exacting penance, row by row, shuffling in my chains, kneeling on the hard pebbles, and dipping my scrub-brush into the bucket that I might scour each and every square.

“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 me?” I whispered under my breath, asking the question in earnest for the first time.

A vision unfolded behind my eyes: Yeshua ben Yosef as savior and intercessor, coming to my aid as he had come to the aid of the adulterous woman in one of the tales Aleksei had read to me.

And truly, his face was oh so very kind.

And as in the tale, Yeshua stooped and traced an unknown word on the ground. Then he stood and touched my chains one by one, and one by one my chains fell away. He reached out his hand to me, beckoning for me to take it.

I gazed into his eyes.

They were dark, dark and wise and fathomless. There was an entire world behind them, a night sky filled with stars, vast mountains blotting out sections.

No.

The mountain moved forward and dwindled, taking on a familiar shape, taking on mortal dimensions. I gazed through the eyes of Yeshua into the eyes of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, and they were filled with infinite sorrow.

With infinite regret, She turned away from me. I felt the divine spark of my diadh-anam go out like a blown candle and gasped, my soul suddenly empty and hollow.

There would be no more twilight, no more gifts, no more magic. Never again would I sense the slow thoughts of trees growing, the flickering awareness of animals in the field. Never, ever, would I pass through the stone doorway. That was the price of accepting Yeshua’s salvation.

“No!”

The world, the real world came crashing back as though I had released the twilight. I hadn’t known I’d shouted aloud until I heard the echoes of my own voice in the sudden, shocked silence. My chains were shivering, the sigils on them glowing.

My diadh-anam blazed within me. It had only been a vision—a true vision, mayhap, but a vision nonetheless.

I had not taken Yeshua’s hand.

I gasped again with relief, and then a third time as Luba fetched me a great, ringing slap across the face, knocking me sideways, staggering in my shackles. Without giving me a chance to recover, she grabbed the chains that ran from my collar to my wrists, hauling me out of the temple unceremoniously.

I stumbled in her wake, scarce able to keep my feet, my wits addled and my face stinging. The anger that Aleksei’s compassion and the Rebbe’s book had softened returned full force. Halfway to the door to the living quarters, I got my feet beneath me, planted my heels, and yanked the chains out of her grasp.

Luba reached for me. I grabbed her arm first, pivoting on my heel to swing her against the outer wall of the temple.

Her grey eyes went wide and shocked.

I leaned my right forearm across her throat. “I am not a dog, and you will not treat me like one!”

And then there was the sound of running feet and shouting, and there were hands dragging me off her, many hands. I didn’t fight. Three Vralian men held me uncertainly, waiting for the Patriarch, who came striding down the street, his fine vestments swinging, his face filled with anger.

“You disappoint me, Moirin,” he rumbled. “You disappoint me sorely!”

Behind him, I could see Aleksei shaking his head in frantic warning, urging me not to further anger his uncle.

I gazed at the sky and breathed the Breath of Ocean’s Rolling Waves, willing myself to find the still, calm place within me that Master Lo had taught me to seek. It had been too long since I had practiced the discipline of the Way.

It helped.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” I said to the Patriarch. “A kind of fit came over me.”

It was an answer he could understand, and the worst of his anger abated. “It is Naamah’s curse within you struggling against the forces that would contain it,” he said in a judicious tone. “In my eagerness, I fear I misjudged your progress, as well as the tenacious nature of the curse. I should have allowed you to finish a full cycle of penance before exposing you to God’s holy liturgy.”

I sagged a bit in my captors’ grip. “Thank you, my lord. I’m very sorry.”

Pyotr Rostov said somewhat in Vralian to the men holding my arms. They let me go with alacrity. Luba coughed and massaged her throat in an ostentatious manner, malice in her gaze. Rostov turned back to me, his face grave. “You understand, of course, that you will have to be punished. It is for your own good. I fear the demons that possess you will only respond to strong discipline.”

“Of course, my lord.” I met his gaze. “For my own good.”

He smiled with gentle regret. “I’m glad you understand.”

THIRTY-TWO

My punishment was a whipping, and the Patriarch administered it himself.

Of course.

It took place in a small inner courtyard I hadn’t even known existed. There, I was made to kneel on the slate, my chained wrists draped over a hook on a large post. With great delight, Luba took her shears to the back of my dress, cutting downward from the neckline and parting the flaps of fabric to lay my back bare.

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