Chapter 3
As we descended at last from the Siovalese mountains, the air became thicker, warmer, and damper.
I missed the heights.
I missed my family, although I did my best not to think on it.
I missed fresh-baked bread, my mother and brothers and sisters, my father’s stern affection, the warmth of the great hall and the genial chaos of milling hounds.
At the same time, it was my first visit to a city, and I could not help but be excited. The city of Bergeroche spilled down the foothills of the Siovalese mountains along the course of a tumultuous river, broadening at the base where the river slowed and widened. All the streets were paved with cobblestones and bustling with activity. There was a market in the square at the city’s center with vendors selling various preserved goods and cellared root vegetables, as well as early spring crops like peas and sallet greens.
Although we arrived in the city with hours of daylight to spare, our mounts were weary from the long journey and our stores were low. In a spate of magnanimity, Master Jacobe determined that we would pass the night in a genteel inn where we might enjoy a hot meal and a decent pallet and our horses would be well tended.
The inn was called the Shepherd’s Sweetheart; it is peculiar, sometimes, the details that one recalls.
There was a brief silence that fell as we entered, which did not seem strange to me—I was a lord’s son, I was accustomed to people assuming a respectful silence in my father’s presence and it seemed to me that a pair of Cassiline Brothers were no less deserving. But I had also learned to listen to different kinds of silences in the past weeks; this one held a certain curiosity, too.
I learned why soon enough.
My younger brother Mahieu loved to build dams in a creek that flowed from a small mountain spring into Lake Verre, endlessly fascinated by the way the patterns of water changed with each branch or twig he placed. I could not help but think of that when the lone woman entered the inn’s common room, her presence preceded by the ripples of attention it sent through the place.
I thought nothing of it at first; she was a pretty dark-haired lady, not young but not old, either. She greeted a number of the inn’s patrons with a variety of familiar pleasantries—a gracious smile, a pleased nod, a lingering touch. She acknowledged those who struck me as fellow travellers with sidelong glances of warmth and welcome, a hint of merriment and promise lurking in the upturned corners of her mouth. The barkeep poured her a brimming cup of cordial unbidden, and it wasn’t until she turned to accept it that I saw the finial of the marque inked at the nape of her neck below her upswept hair and realized that she was a Servant of Naamah.
At ten years of age and pledged to the Cassilines, even I knew what that meant.
This is what I understood of the history and founding of Terre d’Ange: A thousand and a half years ago, the One God begat a divine son on a mortal woman and that son was Yeshua ben Yosef, who was revered for his wisdom by the people of his ancestors. But Yeshua and his teachings caused trouble and strife in the Tiberian Empire, and so the Imperator had his soldiers execute him by nailing him to a wooden cross like a criminal, taunting him and piercing his side with a spear. But they did not know that Yeshua was divine. As he hung dying, the woman who loved him best in the world, as much and more as his mother even, knelt at the foot of the cross and wept, covering her eyes with her hair. Her name was Mary of Magdala and my sister Jehane always insisted on taking her role when we staged a tableau. Of course, Luc was Yeshua, sagging dramatically on a wooden ladder, his head hanging and arms outflung, while I had to content myself with being a Tiberian soldier poking him in the ribs with a broom handle.
But a thousand and more years ago, Yeshua’s dripping blood mingled with the Magdelene’s falling tears in the soil, and there Blessed Elua was engendered and nourished in the womb of Earth.
As our own mother explained, the Earth is the Mother of us all, not just the ground upon which we walk. As the sun of the One God in his Heaven shines upon her, she brings forth all things: the wheat we grind into flour, the grapes we press into wine, the grass on which our flocks graze, the trees we hew into timber.
And she brought forth Blessed Elua.
Blessed Elua burst from the womb of Earth fully formed, laughing and singing; but the people of Tiberium reviled him as the scion of an enemy and the people of his ancestors regarded him as an abomination, for his birth seemed unnatural to them.
So Elua wandered the world, exploring it with no plan or purpose, simply rejoicing in its existence.
Our father had a great fondness for maps and he took considerable pleasure in charting Elua’s journey for us. “From here to here,” he would say, tracing a course with a hovering forefinger on a faded vellum map. “Elua wandered barefoot and alone, leaving a trail of flowers blooming in the wake of his footsteps. And thence to ancient Persis ” He would look up at his attentive children with a bright, expectant gaze. “And of course, you know what happened there, do you not?”
There was always a clamor as all of us older children begged to be the one to tell how the King of Persis threw Blessed Elua into prison and the tale of the One God’s wayward grandson reaching Heaven at last. And while the One God turned his face away, still grieving for the earthly suffering and death of his rightfully begotten son Yeshua, there were eight members of the angelic hierarchy who were moved by Elua’s plight and descended from on high to attend to him.
Those were Elua’s Companions, and they were Shemhazai—the ancestor of my family’s line—Camael, Azza, Eisheth, Kushiel, Anael, Cassiel, and Naamah.
It was Naamah who beguiled the King of Persis into freeing Blessed Elua from his prison, and there were many adventures that followed until Elua and his Companions found their way to Terre d’Ange, where the people received them with open arms, and they knew that they were home.
Although I was bound for a life of celibacy, I was not above surreptitiously skimming the pleasure-books that Luc found on the high shelves in the library at Verreuil, so I understood to some extent what it meant that Naamah lay with the King of Persis to secure Blessed Elua’s freedom or that she lay with strangers on their journey to procure money for food, for Elua was half-mortal and unlike angels, must needs eat. I understood enough.
And there in Terre d’Ange, Elua founded the city that bears his name. His Companions divided the land amongst themselves into seven provinces and shared their gifts with the people. During their time on mortal soil, they begot a great many children—all save Cassiel, who claimed no province for his own and lay with no woman nor any man.
Those chosen to serve Cassiel followed in his footsteps.
Those who chose to serve Naamah followed in hers.
In the Shepherd’s Sweetheart, the dark-haired woman’s gaze alighted on our small party, seated at the far end of one of the long tables. Her eyes widened in curiosity at the sight of a pair of Cassiline Brothers. Léon blushed furiously and stared down at his trencher as she crossed toward us, gliding with a practiced elegance that would have turned my older sister green with envy.
Master Jacobe sighed.
“Messires Cassiline.” The dark-haired woman lifted her cup in salute. “Welcome to Bergeroche. Pray tell, what brings you?” Her gaze shifted to me. “Are you their ward, young messire?” The curve of her mouth deepened. “A royal heir in disguise, mayhap? You look as though you’re on an adventure.”
There was only warmth and no unkindness in her teasing, but it angered me nonetheless. I didn’t care to be treated like a playacting child and I didn’t like the way her presence turned Léon from a dazzling warrior to a blushing youth.
I stood and bowed with cold precision, relishing the thump of my crossed forearms. “I am Joscelin Verreuil, second-born son of my House,” I informed her. “And I am pledged to serve Cassiel.”
That wasn’t true in a strict sense, since nine years of training and a series of vows lay between me and the goal of becoming a Cassiline Brother, but it was true enough and it took the dark-haired woman aback. She looked at me in a brief moment of surprise, lips parted, then gave her head a rueful shake.
“Well then, may Elua bless and keep you, young messire,” she said to me.
“’Tis a challenging course you’ve set for yourself.” She cocked her head and angled her gaze at Master Jacobe, who returned it impassively. “I daresay you understand the full cost of the sacrifice you’re asking the boy to make even if he doesn’t yet,” she mused. “Is that why you begin training them so young?”
He didn’t deign to reply, but Léon jerked his chin up, eyes blazing. “It takes a fair bit more skill to become a warrior than a whore!”
This time, she didn’t flinch, only looked amused. “Oh, does it?”
“My lady.” Master Jacobe cleared his throat. “Forgive my students’ uncouth behavior. We did not come here to provoke.” He grimaced and kneaded his bad knee. “There may be fundamental disagreements of philosophy between the Servants of Naamah and Cassiel, but we are all D’Angelines, are we not?”
There were murmurs of agreement from the dozens of patrons eavesdropping on the entire encounter. I sat down, feeling chastened.
“Ah, old man.” The dark-haired woman’s tone softened. “Yes, and I hear the admonishment you are too courteous to say aloud. You are right, it was unbecoming of me to bait your young students.” She studied him. “Though you’re not so old, are you? It’s only that your body has known no mercy, no tenderness.” Reaching down, she laid a gentle hand upon his knee. “I studied with an adept of Balm House in my younger days. Let me make amends and ease your pain.”
I was fairly sure wagers were laid on the outcome of his response.
“No.” Politely but firmly, Master Jacobe removed her hand from his knee. “Be assured, my lady, that I do believe your offer was made in good faith. But please understand that it does not accord with my faith.”
Behind me, I heard the discreet clink of coins being exchanged. Wagers had definitely been laid.
She straightened. “I spoke only of comfort.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Nonetheless, it is a luxury I cannot afford.”
The dark-haired woman inclined her head, her gaze filled with regret. “As you will, messire.”
To that, Master Jacobe made no reply.
When my thoughts chanced across that encounter many years later, I wondered if my mentor truly understood what was offered and refused that evening; and mayhap he did, for he was a man who thought and felt deeply in his own quiet way. I think it is likely, however, that he did not.
As for me, there was no way my ten-year-old self could have known the encounter for a harbinger of events not yet set in motion.
That was likely for the best.
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