Fires of the Faithful Page 4

  Mira nodded. “Can you ask them for me?” she asked. “You know them, I don’t.”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking already about how best to approach each girl. “Although—I know Bella will ask this, so promise me you aren’t here as a spy for the Fedeli, to uncover heretics?”

  Mira’s eyes sparkled and her smile was warm. “No, of course not. I’m not here as a Fedele spy, and I’m happy to swear that for anyone who asks.” Mira leaped off the wall. “Dance with me,” she said. “Dance to the music from Bascio.”

  So we clasped hands, and closed our eyes, and listened to the faint drumbeats from the village piazza, then lost ourselves in the crunch of the leaves under our feet, and the pounding of our hearts, and the wind in our ears.

  • • •

  I approached Bella, Flavia, Giula, and Celia about one week after Viaggio. I tackled each one individually, so that they wouldn’t talk each other out of the idea.

  Bella raised one eyebrow when I asked her if she was interested. “Old Way music? What makes you think I know any?”

  “I learned the wedding song from eavesdropping on you,” I said.

  Bella’s eyes widened, then she gave me an easy grin. “Fair enough, Eliana. At least you’re as much of a heretic as I am. Tell me where to show up and when.”

  Giula was a bit more difficult. “But we’re not supposed to play those,” she said.

  “Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And nobody ever does. Kind of like nobody ever has a boyfriend, and nobody ever skips chapel services, and—”

  “All right, all right,” she said. “But having a boyfriend can’t get you charged with heresy.”

  “When have the Fedeli even come to Verdia? You’re a lot more likely to be caught with a boyfriend, and you can be thrown out for that.”

  Giula sighed sadly. “I’ve never actually had a boyfriend, Eliana.”

  “You’ve wanted one, though. I’ve seen you vying for an aisle seat in the chapel.” I caught Giula’s arm. “You want to play this music, too. Give it a try.”

  Celia gave me much the same argument that Giula did, except that she had actually had a boyfriend. “I’m not saying that I’ve lived a life of unblemished virtue,” Celia said, flushing. “But my sins have at least been small.”

  “Are you telling me that you’ve never sung the Old Way music?”

  “No, I’m not telling you that.” Celia turned even more red. “But I see the difference between playing it alone and playing in a group as sort of like—”

  “Sort of like the difference,” I said, “between holding hands with a boy and meeting him at night behind the south practice hall for some—”

  “I’ll be there,” Celia said hastily. “Tell me where.”

  I had all sorts of arguments ready by the time I made it to Flavia’s room. Flavia listened to me carefully, then said, “I’ve been wishing for years I had the courage to do just this. Thank you—I’ll be there.”

  Mira asked us to meet in the north practice hall. The weather had gotten colder in the last week, and no one used the north practice hall in winter if they could avoid it; it was even draftier than the chapel.

  Giula walked over with me. “This was Mira’s idea?” she asked. “No wonder she didn’t fit in at the seminary.”

  I laughed, but didn’t answer.

  “Have you ever seen her use witchlight?”

  “No. So far as I can tell, she doesn’t use magery of any kind.”

  Giula looked speculative. “Do you suppose that she, you know, can’t?”

  “It’s possible. There was a man in my village who couldn’t. He was simple, though.” I paused. “Domenico said that there used to be musicians who wouldn’t use magery—they believed that abstaining from magic made them better musicians.”

  “Huh,” Giula said. “Well, is there anything to that? Have you heard her play?”

  Thinking about Mira’s playing, I had to admit that there might be something to it. “Domenico said the theory’s been discredited. But Mira’s playing—” I shrugged. “Well, you’ll see.”

  Mira had brought a large supply of candles, and lit them throughout the hall. Bella and Flavia were already there, but otherwise the hall was echoingly empty. Except for the night of Mira’s strange illness, I’d never spent much time in the north practice hall; now I walked around to take a good look. It was one of the oldest buildings at the conservatory and had not been well maintained, but I could see the remains of frescoes along the walls. One of those frescoes had frightened me half to death the night I sat with Mira. Now, in the daylight, it was hard to see why. Almost all the frescoes had been torn out or had crumbled away; the best-preserved one showed a man clutching a faint light to his breast. I assumed that it was a depiction of Gaius with the Lady’s Gift, but Gaius was generally depicted as looking triumphant rather than terrified.

  Giula paced, her hands tucked into her sleeves and squeezed under her arms. I took out my violin and started tuning up. Mira, next to me, gave me a sudden flash of a smile, her gray eyes warming me.

  “What are we going to play?” I asked Mira.

  “I thought we’d play the prayer for healing,” Mira said.

  “I don’t suppose you know a prayer for warm hands?” Giula asked.

  Celia came in, peering curiously around the shadowed room.

  “Everyone’s here,” Mira said. “Let’s start.”

  I knew the tune for healing, as did Bella, but Celia, Giula, and Flavia did not. Mira sang the words for Celia: “Rachamin, Arka / Rachamin, Gèsu. Refuya, Arka / Refuya, Gèsu.” Mira had a thin, high voice, like a boy’s. Then she played the tune through once by herself. I joined in, harmonizing, and the others joined in, following her lead. It didn’t work right away. Flavia had brought a small drum of wood and hide, which she tucked under her arm; she set a strong beat. After a few repetitions, it started to fall into place. The song was deceptively simple. Like all the old songs, it was eerie; we passed the melody around between violin, horn, and voice. “I like it,” Giula breathed when we paused.

  “Let’s try it again,” Mira suggested.

  It had a simpler rhythm than the funeral song, but it was still infectious; I wanted to dance, but kept my feet still, self-conscious. We picked up the tempo. The melody was passed back to me; I started in, but an octave higher. We wound up in a rushing conclusion, and stopped to catch our breath.

  “Well, I don’t know about you,” Bella said, “but my hands are warm.”

  Mine were, too. I’d forgotten about the cold. I looked at Mira. To my surprise, Mira looked disappointed, even forlorn. She saw my surprise and straightened up.

  “Some of us have sectional rehearsals starting soon,” Mira said. “We should probably head back.”

  “Let’s meet tomorrow,” Bella suggested.

  Mira shook her head. “If we do this too often, someone will notice, and just might decide to make a fuss. Next week—same day, same time, same place. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Everyone drifted out. I lingered for a moment and caught Mira’s eye.

  “Why were you disappointed? That was amazing.” But Mira shook her head and wouldn’t answer.

  I’d worried that someone—Giula, particularly—would let slip what we were up to. But at supper, our heresies were the farthest thing from her mind. “I heard the postman came today!” Giula told me. She was glowing, despite the cold.

  “Who’d you hear it from?” I asked. The postman had been due several days ago; this was the third time I’d heard the rumor and I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

  “Flavia says she saw him come in with his horse.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” I said, trying to act unimpressed, but my heart was racing. Sure enough, when the midday meal was over, the Dean’s assistants came out with bulging sacks.

  “Sit!” the Dean bellowed. “No one’s getting their mail unless they are seated and behaving themselves.”

  Giula bounced up and down in her seat. “It’s b
een months and months,” she said.

  “Two months, same as always,” I said, “plus four days, since he’s late.”

  I had a letter; so did Giula and Bella. “You all have until tomorrow morning to finish any letters you want to send,” the Dean announced. The room was quiet as people broke the seals and unfolded their letters. Not everyone’s news was good. Across the table from me, Bella went ashen, then stood and ran out of the hall.

  Dear Eliana, my mother’s handwriting said, we’re all healthy and doing fine. I sighed in relief. We hope this letter finds you equally well. The harvest was good, thank the Lady. She went on to enumerate the village gossip. Doratura was fine; more than fine, Doratura was beginning to thrive again. But all these hungry people! she added. Refugees from the devastated southern parts of Verdia were streaming north, and many had passed through Doratura. All this desperation …

  Near the bottom of the letter, she added, Good news! Donato and his wife have had another child, a fine little boy. I suppressed an exclamation; Donato’s daughter was almost eight years old, and he and his wife had been unable to have another since then. Donato couldn’t write, but tucked into the folded letter was a thin sheet with an ink drawing of a sleeping baby: Donato’s son. I smiled as I smoothed the drawing, careful to keep even a corner of the paper away from the damp spot where I’d spilled my tea.

  Giula started babbling about the news from her village—several dozen weddings, funerals, and infants of people I’d never met. I excused myself to go find Bella; Mira followed me. We found Bella and Flavia by the wall at the edge of the conservatory, Bella weeping against Flavia’s shoulder.

  “My sister died,” Bella said when she could speak again. “My youngest sister. She was just a baby when I left.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  Bella wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “My brothers are leaving the village and going north to look for work. My father wants to go, too, but my mother is almost mad with grief—Erucia was her favorite.” She paused. “When my father wrote the letter, he said they have food enough to last a few more weeks, and then they will have nothing. ‘Pray for us,’ they said.” Bella’s hand tightened over the letter, crumpling it. “If the Lady is listening to our prayers, why did every seed my parents planted die in the ground? Why did this happen to us?”

  Flavia tightened her arm around Bella’s shoulder.

  “Well,” Bella said, and wiped her eyes again, impatiently. “Tell me your news. I don’t want to be the only person sharing my letter.”

  “I didn’t have any mail,” Mira said. “That’s what comes of moving around. People don’t know where to find you.”

  Bella laughed a little at that, the sound catching in the tears still in her throat.

  “Everyone in my family is fine,” I said.

  Flavia unfolded her own letter. “My family is also well,” she said. “But soldiers have been marching through our village, heading south. No one knows why. We know that the Vesuviani were well and truly beaten, so what does the Emperor have to fear now? Besides, no one has seen a Circle detachment, and how would the soldiers fight without magefire?”

  I shook my head. Bella’s head was still bowed, and Mira’s eyes were fixed on Bella’s face.

  “Also,” Flavia said, folding her letter again and putting it away, “this is kind of interesting. You know that song about the wicked stepmother with the poisoned honey—the song reached our village sometime in the last month. My mother mentioned it in passing.” Bella looked up at that, and Flavia gave her a sympathetic smile. “And before you ask, Bella, no—they don’t know what it means, either.”

  We all comforted Bella as well as we could, though we had no answers to offer her, and she didn’t want our prayers. Back in my room, I took out the box where I kept my letters from under my bed, opened the lid, and put the newest letter on top.

  “How is your family?” Mira asked.

  “They’re all fine,” I said.

  “Any new nieces or nephews?”

  “One nephew.” Mira was acting interested; I sighed, resigned myself to the change in subject and started telling her about the news from my village. I’m sure I sounded just like Giula, babbling on about a bunch of people Mira didn’t know.

  “So your village isn’t affected by the famine, then?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “The war never came to our part of Verdia. Some of the men were conscripted to fight in the army, but even then, they got by.”

  “What does your village think caused the famine?”

  “They say that the retreating Vesuviani soldiers sowed salt in the fields,” I said. “That’s the prevailing theory, at least.”

  “Have you heard any others?”

  “There are some who believe that the Maledori poisoned the land. Others think that the Lord and the Lady are punishing them, though of course the priests say that the Lady never wishes ill upon Her children.”

  “What did your family think of the war itself?”

  I sighed, trying to think back to the letters my mother had sent as it was starting. “There had been raids from Vesuvia, coming across the border to steal crops and burn fields—not into my village, but still, close enough to feel as if the wolves were at our neighbor’s door, if not our own. The story that went around right before the army marched—about the farm family burned with their crops—hit my mother hard. I remember one letter where she talked about how it could have been her and my father and brothers, even though they were a few days’ walk from the border and not really that vulnerable to raids.”

  Mira nodded, not saying anything.

  “What were things like in Cuore during the war?” I asked.

  “The food shortages didn’t hit us as hard,” Mira said. “You probably would have guessed that.”

  “What do people in Cuore say caused the famine?” I asked.

  Mira’s voice was heavy. “Salt.” She didn’t seem to want to say anything more.

  After Mira blew out her candle and we lay down, I lay awake for longer than usual. After a long time, Mira thought I was asleep, and in the darkness, I could hear her choking back wrenching, wracking sobs.

  The next morning, the priest and priestess announced a prayer service, for Bella’s sister and all the other relatives we’d just found out we’d lost. Lessons and rehearsals were canceled, and I trudged reluctantly to the chapel.

  “Lord and Lady,” the priest intoned. “Look down upon us, thy servants, and have mercy. May the hungry be fed; may the grieving be comforted. May the dead find peace in thy eternal garden.”

  “So may it be,” we said. I stopped listening. Giula sat to my right, sitting on her hands to keep them warm; she’d been distracted enough by Bella’s sad news that she hadn’t even scrambled for an aisle seat. Mira sat on my left; she had a glazed look, like she wasn’t listening any more than I was. Bella sat in the pew in front of us. Her eyes were red from crying, and she did not look comforted.

  As we left the chapel service, Bella caught Mira’s arm. “Our ensemble plays today,” she said.

  Mira nodded as if she’d been thinking the same thing.

  We met after the midday meal. Bella reached the north practice hall first. “You know the funeral song,” she said to me. “Teach us.”

  It worked better this time. I played the song through, then played it a line at a time, the group playing the line back to me. Da dat da da dat da wham wham wham. Da dat da da dat da wham wham wham. I stamped out the rhythm with Flavia’s drumming. Everyone else was stamping with the beat, too. We passed the music to Bella, and she began improvising, taking the music higher and higher and higher. There was an odd feeling in the air. It was like a swarm of bees in my head, or like standing on a wooden floor right over the percussionist sectionals, feeling the rolling bass more than hearing it. Like I was inside a cello. I was breathless; something was going to happen.

  Then Celia stopped singing and stepped out of the circle. Her face was very white. “This is
wrong,” she said.

  Bella opened her mouth to say something scathing, but Mira put a restraining hand on Bella’s arm. Celia went on. “We’ve crossed the line,” she said. “It’s one thing to play for the sake of the music, but you can’t say anymore that that’s what we’re doing. I’m not going to turn away from the Lady. Worshipping the old gods is wrong.”

  In the silence, she put on her cloak and left the hall.

  “We’d better not play anymore today,” Mira said. Her voice was gentle, and she was speaking to Bella. Bella shook her head, not saying anything.

  The door to the practice hall swung open. We looked over, expecting Celia, but it was Giorgi—the cook’s assistant and the village healer. “We need to talk,” he said.

  Bella stepped forward. “About what?” she asked.

  “I don’t think you realize the sort of trouble you could get into for what you’re doing,” Giorgi said. “Celia’s right; you’ve crossed the line. The Dean and the teachers know that students play the Old music—they did the same, when they were students—but alone, and in secret. Not like this.”

  “This is the way the music is supposed to be played,” Bella said.

  “Of course,” Giorgi said. “That’s why you need to stop.”

  Bella was shaking her head and I said, “I don’t understand.”

  Giorgi gave me an exasperated look. “You probably have grandmothers who bless themselves to ward off the evil eye, don’t you?”

  Flavia touched her forehead, heart, left shoulder, and right shoulder. “B’shem Arka, v’barah, v’nehora kadosha,” she said in the Old Tongue. “Like that?”

  “Yes. For a long time, the Fedeli have carefully ignored some small amount of Old Way practice, mocking it as superstition instead of treating it as a serious threat. But that’s changing—in Cuore, and elsewhere. Conservatory students are kept deliberately isolated, so you had no way of knowing that.” He turned to Mira. “You, however, had an obligation to warn these children what you were getting them into. And you did not.”

  I glanced at Mira, expecting her to look defiant. Instead, she looked crushed.

  Giorgi went on. “If Celia decides to make a fuss, the Fedeli could be summoned to the conservatory, to look for heresy, apostasy, disloyalty—anything and anyone they could find. You could get far more people killed than just your little group. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”