Turning the Storm (13 page)

There has to be a way I can turn this to my advantage
. And no violinist would be likely to turn down a solo engagement. “Certainly,” I said. “I play at your pleasure, Mother Rosalba.”

That night, after the evening meal, I retired alone to my room and barred the door, then drew the window shutters closed. I had never prayed much, back with the Lupi; I generally figured Lucia prayed enough for both of us. I had asked God to spare Lucia's life, but that was pretty much the extent of it. But here, surrounded by the Fedeli and the faithful, watching people around me making the offering to the Lady at meals because they feared the Fedeli if they didn't, I suddenly wished I could celebrate Mass. I wanted to taste the wine-sweetened water we shared; I wanted to see the light in Lucia's eyes when she spoke of her God. Most of all, I wanted to play the forbidden music, and even alone in my room I didn't dare. It was ironic because, as Teleso had said,
all
musicians learned the music, sooner or later. And played it, quietly and secretly. But not here.

Once I was certain that no one could spy on me, I pulled my dagger from its sheath. The cross-piece formed a strangely proportioned cross, but a cross all the same. I laid the dagger on my bed in front of me, knelt, crossed myself, and folded my hands.
B'shaem Arkah, v'Bar Shelah, v'Nihor Kadosh
. Except for my urgent requests before battles, I never knew what I was supposed to
say
to God. So I closed my eyes, and thought of Lucia. I hoped God would know what I meant.

∗    ∗    ∗

∗    ∗    ∗

I woke up and for a moment I didn't remember where I was, and reached out in the darkness, not even
certain who I was reaching toward. “Lucia?” I whispered, but it was Mira my half-sleeping self had hoped to find by my side.

I will never serve you again. I will never serve you again
. My dream had been about Lucia, but the words were Mira's—spoken in the darkness of her own dream when she first came to the conservatory. “Fine words, my friend,” I whispered. “But you served them well enough when you rained fire onto the Lupi.”

I closed my eyes, but I could see Mira's gray gaze; against my will, I found myself thinking of the cold softness of her hand when I'd held it the evening after she arrived, in the darkness of the practice hall. I clenched my hands into fists, trying to will myself to think of Lucia instead, but I knew that I had trusted Lucia so quickly and so willingly in part because the light in her eyes had reminded me of Mira.

I turned over and pulled the blankets over my head, trying to dispel my thoughts. I didn't want to think about Mira. Mira had saved me only to leave me; she had saved me again only to destroy the Lupi. I never wanted to see her again, I told myself. I prayed to God that I
not
see her—it would be terribly dangerous, as she could recognize me. I had changed a great deal, but I didn't think that I had changed so much that Mira would not recognize me if she saw my face.
Miriamne
, I thought.
Her name is Miriamne here. And she is not the woman I knew
.

I dozed fitfully for a while, but it was a relief when a soft rap roused me. I scrambled out of bed, pulling on my robe and tying it securely, checking in my mirror to be sure that nothing about my appearance would betray me. It was just dawn. “Who is it?” I called.

“It's Ulisse,” he said. “Let me in, I need to talk with you.”

I checked the mirror one more time, then lifted the bar on the door and let him in. I was afraid he was going to start asking for details about the Lupi or, God forbid, Eliana, but he had more prosaic things on his mind. “Valentino told me about the—you know. Heretical icon in his room,” he said. “Quirino is afraid that Valentino hasn't broken things off with Sura.”

I shrugged sleepily. “I wouldn't know.”

“His room's right near yours,” Ulisse said, and his voice took on a wheedling tone. “Daniele, do you think you could follow Valentino? Watch to see if he slips out? We
really
need to know if he's trying to still see Sura secretly.”

“Look,” I said. “Isn't this Valentino's business? If you're so worried, why are you trying to get
me
to follow him?”

“He'd notice if I followed him,” Ulisse said. “But he's my best friend, Daniele. If he came to grief because of his friendship with me, I could never forgive myself.”

“So what is it you want me to do?” I decided to go along with it; if nothing else, it would give me a chance to practice my eavesdropping skills on an escapade that didn't seem likely to get me into
that
much trouble.

“Watch for him, tonight,” Ulisse said. “After dark. If you see him leaving, follow to see where he goes. And
tell me
if he goes to meet Sura.”

“Fine,” I said. “But only
once
.” I could always let Ulisse talk me into doing more spying if I decided it was to my advantage.

It was one of my days to play for Rosalba; when I
was done with breakfast, I made my way to her office and slipped in unobtrusively. Rosalba glanced up to give me a quick smile as I took my spot, then turned back to an old man who sat rigid in the chair in front of her. “What do you have to confess?” she asked him.

“I, Lecto, do confess to the crime of blasphemy,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I took the Lady's name in vain. I would not afflict your ears with my blasphemy, but I repent and regret my words, and will never speak them again. I renounce my sin. I make my confession.” He looked up at Rosalba anxiously. “Is that all right? Did I say the right thing?”

Rosalba finished writing and looked up. “Is this certified as sincere?” The guard nodded. “You did fine,” she reassured the old man. “So long as you repent your sin; that's the important part. Come here and make your sign.”

The old man could write his name, and did, at the bottom of the parchment, then hobbled off, escorted by the guards.

Rosalba sat back and cracked her knuckles. “I don't know how we get involved in that sort of thing,” she muttered.

I finished the piece I was playing and lowered my violin for a moment. “Mother Rosalba? I have a suspicion that I know which phrase he used, and—uh—I've heard it used a lot over the years. And I'm just wondering, is that the sort of crime you hunt down? I mean, not that I
ever
take the Lady's name in vain—”

Rosalba turned to give me an amused look. “You can go ahead and confess your sin to me, Daniele. I promise, saying ‘Lady's tits’ is not exactly a capital offense.”

“I'm just wondering how careful I should be should I, say, trip over a rock in the garden or something …”

“Don't stay awake at night worrying,” Rosalba said. She shook her head. “I suppose, as the Lady's Servants, we must guard the way to wrong on her behalf, and one sin leads to another. But really, I don't know how the Fedeli get involved in that sort of thing. It's the
major
sins that are really our domain.”

“Like heresy,” I said.

“Or apostasy,” she said. “That man … Lecto? … probably swore
at
his priest; that's how he wound up here. Now—” she dropped her voice. “The Redentori, they're actually dangerous.”

I tried to decide whether I ought to be familiar with the term, and ended up giving her a blank look. “Who?”

“You know. The Old Way apostates. A few years ago, no one had ever even heard of them. Then—” She dropped her voice again. “Would you believe there was an Old Way apostate at my
seminary
?”

I could believe it, actually. Rosalba's home city was Varena, and suddenly I had a strong suspicion that I knew exactly who she meant.

“There was this girl,” Rosalba said, confirming my suspicions, “Lucia. She was a friend of mine, actually, when I could stand to be around her. She was one of those really
morose
people. You know, sad all the time and if you spent any time talking to her you'd be just as depressed. I tried, though, I
really
tried. I think—” she sighed. “I hate to judge this sort of thing, but I think the biggest problem was that she didn't
really
have a vocation. Maybe her parents pressured her into the seminary, for whatever reason; it happens. And seminary is a lot of work. You wouldn't necessarily know that, but it's a
lot
of work, and some of it's hard and
dirty and unpleasant. If you don't
know
that you're serving the Lady, I can see where someone might hate it.” She paused and glanced toward the door, but there was no sign yet of guards or a new prisoner, so she shrugged and went on with her story.

“Eventually the priestesses in charge of the seminary must have reached the same conclusion, because they sent Lucia to do a solitary vigil. That was their first mistake. Lucia came out convinced she'd heard the Old Way deity speaking to her. Their second mistake was that they decided all she really needed was a
nap
—” Her voice dripped baffled scorn, “—and left her alone, if you can believe it. She escaped, but not before trying to convince a half dozen of us that worship of the Lady was a stupid idea and we all needed to go learn the Old Way.”

“Was she mad?” I asked.

“I actually think she was possessed,” Rosalba said. “Their first step should have been to restrain her, and bring someone from the Fedeli skilled in casting out the Maledori when they have taken over someone's heart and mind.” We could hear footsteps outside, and she hastily got out another sheet of paper. “In any case,” she added, “that was when I realized that the Lady wanted me to join the Fedeli. Because when Lucia told me that I was worshipping a false god, I could
sense
the darkness within her. And I knew—” Rosalba's eyes showed deep regret, “I knew that if only I had the right words, the right ritual, the right prayer, I could cast out the Maledori and return her to the Lady. But I didn't; I wasn't one of the Fedeli yet.” She sighed. “And now, of course, I record confessions. Thanks be to the Lady.”

The door opened and a guard came in. Then two
more guards, because this prisoner had to be carried. I realized with horror that this was because there was very little left of his feet. The guards set him in the chair.

The prisoner wore a shapeless gray shift, and filled the room with the stench of blood and excrement. His cheeks were hollow and much of his hair was missing. His eyes were mostly closed. One of the guards nudged the prisoner and he began to speak. “I, Octavio, do confess to the crime of apostasy,” he said. He spoke almost inaudibly.

Rosalba glanced over at me, and I quickly set my violin on my shoulder and started to play. At the sound of the violin, the prisoner looked up. His eyes were glazed and dull. After a moment he continued.

“I confess to the crime of apostasy. I have secretly been a Redentore, worshipping false gods and subscribing to superstition.” His voice faded again.

“Your companions in apostasy,” Rosalba prompted when he paused.

“Also practicing this crime with me,” he said, and paused again, closing his eyes.

“Go on,” Rosalba said.

Octavio was silent for a long moment. I realized that he was listening to my playing, and a slight smile came to his face. He opened his eyes again and looked straight at me. Where before his eyes had been dull, they were now lit with a dark fire. “No,” he said.

“Go on,” Rosalba said. “You have agreed to make a full confession. Do you want to be taken back to the torture?”

“I will not speak more,” he said. “You have my confession. You may content yourselves with it. I have no
one to accuse. I practiced alone; I worshipped alone. I know of no other Redentori.”

“Octavio,” Rosalba said, and set down her pen. She rose and strode across the room to face him. Her back was to me, but I could imagine her face, rigid as steel, her dark eyes gleaming. “Don't be a fool, Octavio. We will bring you back to the Lady's mercy sooner or later, one way or another. What have they done to you?” She jabbed a hand against his side and I could see his face contort in pain. “How long have you been here? One week? You might hold out another minute, another hour, but you will return to Her in the end. Why not return now?”

“No,” Octavio said. “I have nothing more to say to you. In Gèsu is my strength. I recant my confession. I worship the true God.”

“
Fool
,” Rosalba said, and slapped him. I saw a trickle of blood run from his mouth; he had already been beaten, many times, and she had reopened an old wound. “Do you think you can stand against us? Against the Lady?”

“We must be a threat to you,” Octavio said. “Or you would not come for us; you wouldn't care so much that you'd wrest the spirit from my body just for a handful of names.”

“You are no threat,” Rosalba spat. “It is only out of mercy that we seek to return you to Her. It's to save
your
soul.”

“My soul knows its true home,” Octavio said. “You can tear my body apart, but my soul knows its true home.”

“You will be put to the torture again,” Rosalba said. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” Octavio said, his hoarse voice breaking. “But I will not give you names.”