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.