Fires of the Faithful Read online

  Now even Bella had lowered her eyes.

  “This is not the time for this music,” Giorgi said. “This is not the place. You are children, and you are playing with fire. I just hope you don’t all end in fire.” He turned his back on us and left the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” Mira whispered.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Bella said. “This was the right way to pray for my sister.” She packed up her trumpet and put on her cloak. Giula slipped out after her, her face white.

  Flavia wrapped her drum and put on her cloak. Mira was still staring at the floor, her face bleak, and Flavia took Mira’s chin to lift her face. “I knew we could get in trouble,” Flavia said, “and I’ve never believed that conservatories are somehow invulnerable to the Fedeli. And I chose to play with you. Take heart.”

  Alone with Mira in the north practice hall, I touched her hand gently. “I’m not sorry, either,” I said. “Come on. If we’re not going to do something illegal, let’s go somewhere warmer.”

  A few days later, I overheard Bella talking to Giorgi, and paused to listen. And to warn them, of course, if anyone else tried to overhear their conversation. “Teach me, then,” Bella said. “I don’t care how dangerous it is. I don’t care what the Fedeli could do to me.”

  “You have to promise me that you won’t play the songs anymore,” Giorgi said. “Faith is more than music—and faith is more important.”

  “I swear,” Bella said.

  Giorgi had her swear in the old way, kissing the crux of an X. Then Bella blessed herself: “B’shem Arka, v’barah, v’nehora kadosha.”

  “That blessing means In the name of God, and Her son, and the Holy Light,” Giorgi said. “It’s not a prayer, exactly—it’s a blessing, a dedication.”

  “Teach me a prayer,” Bella said.

  “Rachamin, Arka. Rachamin, Gèsu,” Giorgi said, and I recognized the words of the healing song we’d played together. “It means, God, have mercy; Gèsu, have mercy.”

  “Protect us from the Maledori,” Bella said. “How do I say that in the Old Tongue?”

  “There are no Maledori,” Giorgi said. “All that happens is the will of God.”

  I felt a sudden cold uncertainty in my stomach. Everything? The priests and priestesses taught that the Lord and the Lady wished only good for us; all suffering came from the Maledori. What sort of God would send pain to Her followers?

  “B’shem Arka,” Bella said. “God’s will be done.”

  You really are an apostate, I thought. But that night, staring into the darkness, I whispered Giorgi’s prayer—“Rachamin, Arka. Rachamin, Gèsu.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  If two among you quarrel, then clasp hands and make amends. You have not time to waste on enmity.

  —The Journey of Gèsu, chapter 15, verse 9.

  Today we’re going to work on dancing,” Domenico said. “Pair up.”

  Mira and I grabbed hands without so much as looking around the room; Giula cast a longing look at Domenico before partnering off with Bella, who was rolling her eyes at Giula’s wistfulness. Celia danced with Flavia. There were other girls in the conservatory class on courtly graces, but Mira’s arrival meant there was an even number now, so no one had to dance with the teacher. Not that Domenico had ever picked Giula as his partner, but that didn’t stop her from hoping.

  As the teacher who’d spent the longest time in Cuore, Domenico had for years been stuck teaching this class. Few of us (if any) would ever play in Cuore, but certain etiquette would be expected among the nobility even in Pluma.

  “You’ll take turns dancing the woman’s part,” Domenico said, and reviewed the steps to the dance. “One-two-three, one-two-three, left-right-left, right-left-right, got it?”

  I didn’t have it. Mira was supposed to be dancing the man’s part, but I was so busy watching my feet that I failed to follow her lead and we collided. Mira laughed. “How are you going to flirt with your partner if you’re staring at your feet, Eliana?”

  “Would it be better if I batted my lashes at you while stepping on your toe?”

  “You’re supposed to trust me to keep my feet out of the way.”

  I tried looking up at Mira, and she gave me a look of mock gallantry. “You look lovely this evening, my dear,” she said in a husky voice, and I started laughing again and tripped over the hem of my robe.

  Mira actually knew how to dance court-style, which startled me a bit; I wondered if she was worried that the other girls would notice. I was fairly certain that dancing was not taught at most seminaries. Still, when I managed to relax enough to actually follow her lead, I found that I didn’t step on her feet, or trip over my own. Domenico stopped counting and started playing his violin for us to dance to, which was distracting enough that I fell out of step again. “Hey,” Mira said, and let go of my hand to punch my arm. “Pay attention to your partner, not the music.”

  “Again,” Domenico said. “One-two-three, one-two-three.”

  Mira cupped her hand lightly against my waist and gave me a grin. “You’re allowed to smile while you’re dancing, you know.”

  I grimaced at her, knowing that if I tried to answer I’d fall out of step again.

  “You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself, or at least convincing your partner that you’re enjoying yourself.” When I didn’t answer, Mira pulled a solemn face and said, “Oh, the horror, the horror! I could be practicing my violin, but instead people are making me dance!”

  That did it. I started laughing again and fell out of step. Domenico stopped playing. “Do I need to separate the two of you? Mira, why don’t you dance with Giula; Eliana, you and Bella can partner up.”

  Bella was a more competent dancer than I was, but not as skilled as Mira; I had to watch my feet again. She was preoccupied and didn’t make much eye contact. I wished I knew what she was thinking about.

  “You aren’t telling us what some of us most want to know,” Giula said when Domenico called for us to stop. “How do we get young men to ask us to dance?”

  Domenico returned her pout with a wry smile. “You flirt, Giula! Do you really need instructions?” Giula blushed and pouted some more. “Well, all right, then. There are a hundred ways to flirt, but one of the most popular these days, or so I hear from my friends still at court, involves flowers.”

  Giula was now paying rapt attention, as was most of the rest of the class. Bella still looked preoccupied; Mira caught my eye and made a face to get me to laugh again.

  “Many of the ladies and gentlemen at the Imperial Court carry flowers, either in their hands or fixed to their clothing,” Domenico said. “They’re used to cover up unpleasant smells; fresh flowers are preferred but expensive, and sachets of dried flower petals the less pricey alternative. If you find a young man attractive, you can buy a flower—a rose, ideally—and drop it when he’s nearby; with luck, he’ll pick it up and bring it to you. If a young man wants to approach you, he might buy a flower, then bring it to you saying that he thinks you might have dropped it.”

  “And if I’m not interested?” Bella asked.

  “Then you say—” Domenico put on a squeaky falsetto voice “ ‘—You must be mistaken, signore, that isn’t mine.’ ”

  “What if you drop your flower, and the wrong man picks it up for you?” Celia asked.

  “Then you’re probably out a flower,” Domenico said. “And the man who brings it to you will probably be quite embarrassed, just as you’d be in his shoes.”

  Domenico moved on to talk a little about proper forms of address if we happened to want to flirt with a member of the Imperial family, or high-ranking members of the Fedeli or the Circle. “The Emperor rules,” he said, quoting an aphorism we’d all heard before. “The Circle protects, and the Fedeli guide.”

  Bella stirred. “I’ve heard that it’s common knowledge outside the conservatory that the Circle and the Fedeli rule, not the Emperor.”

  Domenico raised one eyebrow. “Bella, you’re going to get yourself in trouble
someday if you’re not careful,” he said, and ended the class.

  That evening, I bent my head over my music theory assignment while turning Bella’s comment over and over in my mind. Domenico was typically quite frank about life at court, so why would he repeat something he knew wasn’t true? Unless he feared getting in trouble. But then, why would Bella—or Giorgi, who undoubtedly was the person who’d told her this—be any more reliable? I pushed my stool back finally and looked at Mira, who sat cross-legged on her bed, her head bent over a book. “I suppose you’d know,” I said, setting down my pen.

  “Know what?” Mira said, looking up. A lock of hair had fallen over one eye, and she twitched it back behind her ear.

  “Who really rules. Like Bella said, we’re always told that the Emperor rules, the Circle protects, and the Fedeli guide—that the High Circle and the High Priest and Priestess of the Fedeli advise the Emperor, but he makes the decisions.”

  Mira gave me a steady look. “Bella is absolutely correct. It’s the Circle and the Fedeli who rule, and everyone in Cuore knows that. Even in the provinces—if you’d been older when you left your home village, the Emperor’s place in the ensemble of power, or his lack of one, would probably be known to you.”

  “Oh,” I said, and lowered my eyes, disappointed. Bella could be such a know-it-all, and her relationship with Giorgi had only made this worse. It was a disappointment to find out that she really did know what she was talking about.

  “When I say the Circle and Fedeli, of course, I mean the Circle Council and the High Priest and Priestess. There are about two hundred mages in the Circle, not counting initiates, and there are thousands of priests and priestesses in the Fedeli. Of course it’s not all of the Fedeli and the Circle who rule; that would be absurd.”

  I laughed a little, though Mira wasn’t really smiling. “This should stand me in good stead if I ever do get to play at Court,” I said. “I won’t be quite as ignorant as they’d like to keep me.”

  “Playing at court really is what you want?” Mira asked.

  “Why else would I be here? It’s what almost everyone here wants. There’s no higher position for a musician.”

  “Domenico gave it up,” Mira said.

  “That’s true. He didn’t like court. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t.”

  Mira was silent for a long moment, looking into her candle. “There’s an old saying I’ve heard: ‘The one who pays the piper, calls the tune.’ I wouldn’t want to play the tunes the Circle calls.”

  “Well, if you want to get technical about it, they’re paying for my ‘piping’ now, in a way. They pay my scholarship. And Bella’s, and Giula’s, and Flavia’s, and Celia’s. They paid Lia’s until she left. We’re all beholden to the Circle, since we’re sponsored by them. And thus so is Domenico, even if he left court years ago.”

  Mira wouldn’t look up at me. “And none of you wish to speak ill of your benefactors?”

  “It doesn’t stop Bella,” I said. I wanted, desperately, to lighten the mood, but I wasn’t sure how. “I’ve met only one mage in my life, anyway, and he was nice enough.”

  “Really?” Now Mira looked up. “Tell me about it.”

  “It was when I was six. You know how the Circle sends people down into the provinces to find children who are particularly good at magery? Well, I was good enough as a child that my father took me up to the next village to be tested.”

  Mira leaned forward, putting her book down. “How good were you?”

  “Honestly, it wasn’t so much that I was good at magery as that I was precocious. I started making witchlight when I was barely more than a baby, and when I was six I could light a fire with damp wood. That’s why my father thought I had a chance.” I smiled ruefully at the memory. “But the man from the Circle wanted me to set fire to stone. He gave me a little pebble and asked if I could make it burn. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t even warm it up.”

  “Too bad,” Mira said.

  “Yeah, well. It was worth the trip. The mage was very kind; he gave me an apple for trying so hard, and a dozen more to my father for bringing me in.” I shrugged and smiled at Mira, but her face had gone hard. She ducked her head down to look at her book again. “What? Mira, was your trouble in Cuore with the Circle?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice was hard.

  I looked down at my music theory work; I had dripped a great big inkblot onto the paper. I muttered a curse and blotted it up as well as I could. “I’m sorry, Mira. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, but she didn’t want to talk more that evening.

  Mira was still being distant with me the next morning at breakfast, and I felt terrible about it, but didn’t know what to say to mend the rift. Thinking back to our class with Domenico, I thought that maybe I could offer her a flower, as if I were a young man approaching a young lady at court; that would make her laugh, and everything would probably be all right after that. Finding a flower would be difficult, though. It was late November, and the roses and most of the other flowers around the conservatory had gone dormant for the winter. That had to be true at court, as well, though; Domenico would know an appropriate offering for late November. I could ask him at my lesson, later that morning.

  But that lesson, at it turned out, was canceled. As all of us (except for Mira) lingered over our tea, the Dean came in and knocked the floor with his staff to quiet us. He was trailed by three of the teachers; none were smiling. “There is solemn news,” the Dean said. “The Emperor is dead. His son, Travan, has ascended to the Imperial throne. May the Lady shelter the soul of Emperor Iago; may the Lady guide and defend Emperor Travan.”

  “So may it be,” we chorused, stunned to near-whispers.

  “Classes and lessons are all canceled for the rest of the day,” the Dean said. “Father Claro and Mother Emilia are convening a prayer service in one hour to mourn the old Emperor and pray for the new; I expect to see you all there.” He nodded to all of us and stomped out, presumably going to tell the same thing to the boys. A few minutes later, we heard the chapel bell tolling.

  I went looking for Mira, hoping that she’d have gotten over her anger enough to sit next to me, but I couldn’t find her. She wasn’t in her favorite practice room, not in the north practice hall, not by the wall that bordered the conservatory grounds. I even tried the bell tower, which was where I’d normally have looked for Bella—of course, neither Mira nor Bella was there that day. In the end, I sat with Flavia, since Giula had managed to score a seat next to the aisle. When we rose for the priest and priestess to come down the center aisle, I saw that Mira and Bella were both sitting in the very back row.

  It was a strange service. In form, it closely resembled the service of prayer and mourning that we had observed a month earlier, after so many students had received bad news through the mail—but there had been a bitter edge a month ago that was missing today. The death of an Emperor was a solemn occasion, but it was an impersonal sort of mourning. None of us, except possibly for Domenico, had ever met the Emperor. I stole a look at Domenico, standing with the teachers near the front; his face was grim and inscrutable, and I couldn’t tell if he was grieving over the Emperor’s death, worried about the new Emperor, or thinking about something else entirely.

  But because the ascension of a new Emperor to the Imperial throne was an occasion for celebration, even as the death of the old Emperor was a cause for mourning, we were supposed to have a festival meal after the prayer service, with meat, wine, and fruit pies. With the famine around us, though, the conservatory’s larder couldn’t permit much of a celebration. Our cook planned very carefully in order to have meat in the stew on festival days, and an unplanned festival was not part of his calculations. Our midday meal was the same bean soup as always. We did each receive a small serving of stewed apples. Mira still didn’t seem to want to look at me, so we let Giula babble on about the Emperor’s death and the Dean’s announcement and the prayer s
ervice and which boy students had managed to snare aisle seats on short notice.

  “How old was Emperor Iago, anyway?” Celia asked as we ate our fruit.

  “Not that old,” I said. “My father’s age.” I remembered my father noting this once. “Too young to die of old age. I wonder how he died?”

  “A sudden illness?” Flavia said. “Or maybe an accident. Even if he wasn’t old, things happen.”

  “They certainly do,” Bella said, and raised one eyebrow.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Celia asked.

  “I’d better not say anything,” Bella said. “Like Domenico said, I could get myself in trouble one of these days.”

  Mira scraped up the last of her fruit and excused herself, still avoiding my gaze. “Lessons or not, I’m going to go practice,” she said.

  There was a pause as she left, and then four pairs of eyes turned toward me. I didn’t really want to try to explain to Giula, Flavia, Celia, and Bella why Mira was angry at me, so I shoved my plate away as well and left the hall.

  I picked up my violin and went to practice for a while, but my mind kept returning to Bella’s comment. Finally I sighed and put my violin back in its case, and went to find Bella; if I asked her what she meant, she probably would tell me, despite her claim about wanting to avoid trouble. She just wanted to be asked, and I was curious enough about what she knew (or thought she knew) that I was willing to give her that satisfaction.

  I found Bella in the library, her head bent over a musical score, brown from age. “Hey,” I said, and pulled up a chair across from her. “Is that for one of our classes?”

  “No, actually.” Bella slid the score gently across the table toward me. “I’m doing some independent research.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “On what?”

  “Honey.” She grinned at my puzzlement. “You remember that song that showed up last fall? The wicked stepmother with the poisoned honey? Well, I’ve been trying to figure out what the song is talking about.”