Pity stirred in me. “As he did of you?”

Her gaze slid away. “Think on it.”

The women left me, locking the door behind them with a firm click. I tried it anyway and found I couldn’t budge it.

I was alone with my sins, whatever they were.

TWENTY-TWO

As promised, the Patriarch came on the morrow, bringing with him sheaves of paper filled with writing in yet another unfamiliar alphabet. He smiled at me with unnervingly genuine warmth. “Good morning, Moirin.”

I bowed my head, demurely wrapped in the woolen scarf. Left to contemplate my sins, I had taken Valentina’s advice to heart, insofar as I had determined to wrestle my fear and anger into submission, and give the semblance of cooperating with Pyotr Rostov to the utmost of my ability. “Good morning, my lord.”

He fixed me with a shrewd look, and I warned myself inwardly against overplaying my hand. “I expect you have many questions.” He took a seat in the straight-backed chair, indicating the stool with a nod. “Let us see if I might answer some of them before we begin.”

I sat obediently, wondering if this was some sort of trick.

The Patriarch saw the uncertainty on my face. “Allow me to speculate,” he said gently. “Surely you must wonder how I knew of your existence, your nature, and your history. Is that fair to say?”

I nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

He stroked the sheaves of paper in his lap. “Are you aware of the prophecy that Yeshua will return to establish his kingdom in the north?”

I nodded again.

“Very good.” He gazed into the distance. “When I was a child, I believed that Vralia had done everything possible to make ready for his return. Every day, I awaited it; and yet it did not come. As a man, I began to doubt. I sought answers. In my quest, I turned to men of great wisdom and discipline.” His expression turned stern. “Are you aware that there was a schism in the Vralian Church of Yeshua?”

I shook my head.

“Yes, indeed.” The Patriarch nodded, half to himself. “It came about after the death of Avraham ben David, the Rebbe who counseled the mighty Grand Prince Tadeuz Vral in the aftermath of his historic victory and shepherded the birth of the Church of Yeshua.”

It struck a distant chord of memory within me. “Was he the priest who granted sanctuary to Berlik?”

“Exactly so!” His eyes shone, his gaze returning to me. “Berlik of the Maghuin Dhonn, Berlik the Cursed. Is he your ancestor?”

I shrugged. “All of the Maghuin Dhonn are kin in some way. We are a scarce folk.”

“So you are,” he agreed. “Scarce and secretive.”

I was confused. “I don’t understand.”

Pyotr Rostov lifted a finger. “Patience, child. I am telling you a tale.” A deep solemnity returned to his features. “In his last years, when he was old and ailing, Avraham ben David wrote a series of essays, memoirs of his life. One infamous tract centers around his encounter with Berlik the Cursed, and the many discussions they had.”

“Oh?” I murmured.

He leaned forward, like a man uttering a confidence. “It is called Conversations with a Heretic Saint.”

I still didn’t understand.

The Patriarch of Riva leaned back in his chair, obviously feeling he had made his point clear. “That is the tract that led to the Great Schism,” he said in a satisfied tone. “For all that he was a great man, the Rebbe Avraham ben David faltered in the face of his mortality. The path to God’s grace is a straight and narrow one. In his final days, the Rebbe expressed regrets for helping make it so in Vralia.”

I blinked. “Because he was kind?”

He raised his voice like thunder. “Because he was weak and fearful!”

I forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply. “Forgive me, my lord. I do not understand why you are angry with this man.”

“No.” With an effort, he controlled himself. “No, of course not. Suffice it to say that from that day forward, the Church was divided. Tadeuz Vral’s heirs embraced a broader path toward the faith. It is only in the far east of Vralia, where greater discipline was necessary to enforce order, that they remember it is not meant to be an easy path to tread.”

“Why?” I asked honestly.

Pyotr Rostov ignored the question. “Thus began my interest in your mother’s folk,” he said in a conversational manner. “Your people. Berlik’s folk. The bear-witches of the Maghuin Dhonn. I was intrigued by the fact that they had gone so deep into hiding. For three generations… nothing.”

“We were not in hiding, exactly,” I murmured. “It is the way we live. We are a reclusive folk as well as a scarce one.”

“You’re not,” he observed. “But then, you’re a half-blood. No matter.” He waved the issue away. “I’ll come to your father’s people in time. You know, there is very, very little written or known about the Maghuin Dhonn. And yet one bear-witch managed to change the entire course of the Vralian Church.”

Since I didn’t know what to say, I held my tongue.

“For all their conversations, the Rebbe Avraham was never able to persuade Berlik to accept salvation through Yeshua’s sacrifice,” the Patriarch continued. “That is when it came to me that if I could succeed where he failed, it would restore the Church to its rightful path. I let it be known that I would pay traders or diplomats for any word of the Maghuin Dhonn resurfacing.”

I met his gaze. “And they did.”

“Not for many long years,” he said ruefully. “It was during that time, when my sister succumbed to temptation and fell into sin, that I turned my attention to Terre d’Ange. Now, about Elua ben Yeshua and the Fallen Ones, much is written. I began reading the lesser-known prophets. Do you recall I spoke of Elijah of Antioch yesterday?”

“Yes.”

Rostov’s eyes took on a hectic light. “Do you know what apostasy means, Moirin?” I shook my head. “It is the sin of abandoning one’s faith in God.” He steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips. “It is not uncommon to find scripture that names Cassiel of the Fallen Ones the Apostate whose return to God will bring about the return of Yeshua ben Yosef. Elijah of Antioch believed otherwise. He believed that it is Elua ben Yeshua himself who is the Apostate, that it is the Fallen Ones, and most especially the Great Whore Naamah, who led him astray.”

“I see,” I said politely.

“No, you don’t. Not yet.” He smiled at me. “But I am giving you the tools to understand, and in time, you will.”

“I am trying, my lord.”

The Patriarch shook his head. “You are dissembling in the hope of fooling me. Don’t worry, child. God is patient, and so am I. I came to understand that my sister’s disgrace was an opportunity in disguise. Like you, my nephew is afflicted by Naamah’s curse, but I have taught him that it may be repudiated through prayer and discipline. Once you have accepted salvation, I will do the same for you.”

Unable to hide my feelings, I looked away.

“You are angry.” He gave me another indulgent smile. “Only consider this, Moirin.” He tapped the sheaf of papers on his lap. “Long after I had begun to lose hope that the Maghuin Dhonn would ever resurface, you appeared. Not only a witch born to Berlik’s folk, but the daughter of a priest of the Great Whore herself. And your deeds!” He fanned the pages. “Fornicating with men and women alike… well, that is no surprise in Terre d’Ange, bastion of depravity as it is. But wreaking false miracles and summoning demons?” He raised his brows. “Surely your presence is a sign that God is testing us to see if we are prepared for his son Yeshua’s return.”

“There were no false miracles,” I said in a low tone. “The gift of healing was Raphael’s, not mine.”

Pyotr Rostov peered at his notes. “By all accounts, he was a skilled physician, but he credited your magic with allowing him to achieve miraculous cures. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. When you make your full confession, you may tell me how you used your dark arts to tempt him into the sin of hubris. Do you know that word?”