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.

“Aleksei,” the Patriarch said in a somber voice. “She is a test and a trial of your faith as much as mine, and perhaps even more so. It is the only way you can ever redeem your mother’s sin.”

The young man nodded. “Yes, Uncle.” Squaring his broad shoulders, he lifted his head and met my gaze.

I drew in a sharp breath. He was half-D’Angeline, no doubt. The stamp of Terre d’Ange was on his features, that keen, fearful symmetry wedded to the rugged Vralian bones to form a different kind of beauty. His full lips were made for kissing, and his eyes, gods! They were a vivid hue of blue tinged with violet, like rain-washed speedwell blossoms.

At the moment, they gazed at me with a mixture of fascination and morbid fear.

His mother, Valentina, made a choked sound and turned away.

I let out my breath. “Is that what this is really about?” I asked the Patriarch, trying not to let my anger show. “Some D’Angeline laid a cuckoo’s egg in your sister’s nest, and I must be punished for it?”