Fires of the Faithful (4 page)

Domenico shook his head, raking his fingers through his sand-colored hair. “That would explain why she’s literate, but not where she got the money. Are her parents wealthy?”

“They’re from a village in southwest Verdia,” I said. “I can’t imagine they’re that rich.”

“Maybe she had a rich friend from the seminary,” Domenico said. “Do you know why she left?”

“No, but I think she probably got in some sort of trouble. Bella was speculating last night that it involved a love affair, but I doubt that.” I paused. “You know, as far as I can tell, she doesn’t use magery.”

“Really?” Domenico looked up, startled and fascinated.

“Does that mean something?”

Domenico averted his eyes. “Well … probably not.”

He was hiding something from me; that was obvious. I couldn’t very well call him on it, so I folded my arms and waited silently.

“Have you made your list yet?” he asked. It was a lame attempt to change the subject. The Lord was known for handling the little things, the small requests that the Lady was too important to bother with. Making a list wasn’t part of official church rites, but since the Lord was leaving on His journey, everyone tried to get in requests before He left.

“Sure,” I said, continuing to glare at the floor.

Finally Domenico sighed and said, “Certain heresies hold that the use of magery is a sin.”

“You think she’s a
heretic
?” Trouble with the Fedeli would certainly explain Mira’s departure from Cuore. “Although, you know, she doesn’t know the first thing about getting by
without
magery, either. When I first saw her, she was trying to light a candle cold with flint and steel.”

“That wouldn’t be it, then,” Domenico said. “I’ve heard of musicians who stop using magery because they say their music is
their
gift from the Lady—they want to use that power in their playing rather than to make lights to read by. That particular school of thought has been out of fashion for a few hundred years, but maybe Mira read something that mentioned the idea and adopted it.”

“That fits,” I said. “Well, at least it fits better than anything else.”

Domenico nodded, still reflective. I leaned forward. “I heard you had a visitor yourself, this week.”

Domenico’s eyebrows shot up. “Who did you hear that from?”

“Bella saw someone on a horse stop in at your cottage,” I said. “She thinks he’s the man who brought the Wicked Stepmother song.”

“Bella was watching?” Domenico shook his head. “I shouldn’t tell you anything; you’ll only repeat it to that gaggle of goslings you call your friends.”

I shook my head. “Not if you’d rather I didn’t.”

“It hardly matters. I take my meals with Nolasco, Bella’s teacher, and I’m sure she’ll worm everything I’ve said out of him.” Domenico raked back his hair again. “Bella was right. That was the man who brought the song. It was a very young nobleman, handsomer than anyone has a right to be but with a manner that could curdle milk. He invited himself in, sang me the song enough times for me to learn it by heart, then went on his way. No explanation, not even an apology for interrupting my meal. He acted like he was
doing
me
a favor by singing it for me.” Domenico shook his head. “But the song is a puzzle. I passed it on hoping that someone would be able to explain it to me, but so far no one has.” He leaned forward. “Have you and the goslings had any ideas?”

“Flavia thinks that the ‘poisoned honey’ is some sort of heresy, and that the song might have been written by the Fedeli,” I said.

“Interesting thought.”

“Celia thinks it’s literal—well, mostly literal. About some stupid feud between noble families. That was Bella’s theory, too, till Celia picked it up.”

“I’m dubious on that one. And not just because Celia likes it.”

“But with the young nobleman bringing the song—”

Domenico shook his head. “No. If it were a feud, they’d have hired professional musicians to spread it. The man who sang it for me could barely carry the tune.”

“Do you have a theory?” I asked.

Domenico shrugged. “Not yet,” he said.

•  •  •

Viaggio fell on a perfect autumn day, sunny and cool. It was a shame to waste most of the day indoors, but we were required to go to church in the morning. I refused to drag myself out of bed before dawn to primp for the boys, like Giula or Celia—but I did make sure I had a clean robe to wear as we’d be playing publicly that afternoon. As a fourth-year student, I was allowed to wear my hair long enough that I could pin it neatly back. Mira combed my hair for me, so that it could be parted straight. Her hands were gentle as she eased out the tangles; she focused as completely on my hair as she did on her music.

One sunny morning when I was eight years old, my mother had left the dishes unwashed after breakfast and had taken me down to a pond near our house where we could see our reflections in the water. She spent the morning teaching me how to braid hair, first hers, then my own—with four strands, or six, or so that the braid started at my temples. She braided her own hair so that it twisted in a dark wreath around the crown of her head. My hair was too short for that, but she let me braid and rebraid her hair until it was perfect.

When Mira had finished with my hair, she pinned it back for me in my clasp. Then I combed Mira’s hair for her, though her hair was cropped so short that it hardly mattered. I spent more time on it than the job really justified, wishing that it was long enough for me to braid. Her hair was fine, and feathery soft. It curled just a little at the nape of her neck.

We filed into the chapel after breakfast, with most of the students vying for a spot near the center aisle that divided the boys from the girls. I sat by the far wall, next to Mira; Bella was in front of us. Despite the sun, the chapel was chill. I tucked my hands inside my sleeves. My brother, before he quit the seminary, spoke of the fire of devotion he felt inside. I never felt even enough fire from the church to warm my hands.

Once everyone was in place, Father Claro and Mother Emilia filed in with a few of the more devoted conservatory students acting as assistants. A cloud of rose-sweet incense smoke blew over me in a wave, and I stifled a sneeze. Mira stood with her head bowed, her eyes closed. The percussion instructor struck a large, deep drum twelve times, to dispel any Maledori that might be lingering near the doors, and we took our seats. I propped my chin on my fist,
hoping that if I nodded off it wouldn’t be too noticeable. Father Claro insisted on chanting most of the service, which was always painful to hear; he was tone-deaf.

At the midpoint of the service, we rose again and picked up the bells and sheet music that had been set by our seats before the service started. This was by far my favorite part of the service; even if most of the church music was honey-sweet and ploddingly predictable, the after-echoes of the bells gave it a faint savor of the Old Way music. I checked the keys on my bells and followed along with the music, Mother Emilia conducting. The sound of the bells hung in the air for a long time even when the song was done. Mira’s eyes were closed again and she had a faint smile on her face. Then we sat down and the service became boring again. Father Claro led a long prayer to the Lord and the Lady, and Mother Emilia preached an even longer sermon. Then was time for silent prayer and meditation; I closed my eyes and meditated on the piece I’d be playing in the recital later, running the notes through my head like a stream of water.

Finally the service was over. The meal before the recital was rushed and excited. Giula and Celia picked at their food; Bella attacked hers with single-minded concentration. I ate quickly and thoroughly, forcing myself to finish at least one full bowl of soup. I was thirsty, but drank only one cup of tea. Too much and I’d want to go to the privy during the concert.

The autumn and spring recitals were a big deal, even in a village as small as Bascio; the entire village attended. Signs were posted at the gate saying who would be playing, and where; I’d heard that there were villagers who specifically sought out my performances, though I didn’t believe it. Giula and I played immediately before one of the senior quartets, though, so I wasn’t surprised that the hall was filled.

As Giula and I stood up to play, Giula looked out at the audience and her eyes grew wide. “Lady’s tits,” she whispered. “I’ve forgotten how the duet goes.”

“Just close your eyes and don’t look at the audience,” I said. “You’ll remember when you hear the opening notes.” I looked out at the audience, searching for Mira. She was in the very back, but our eyes met and she gave me just a hint of her devastating smile.

Domenico nodded at us to start. Giula looked petrified, but tucked her violin under her chin when I lifted mine. The crowd grew silent.

I played the opening cascade of notes, hearing the audience let out its breath in a sigh. As I’d predicted, Giula remembered her part on cue, and even played through the full piece without stumbling. I could see Mira watching me, and I closed my eyes and poured my heart through the music. It finished far too quickly, and I ended my part with an improvised flourish that I realized too late I’d borrowed from the Old Way wedding music. Domenico’s eyes narrowed slightly, but I could see the hint of a smile on his face. I caught just a glimpse of Mira’s face again through the crowd, and she was giving me her quiet secret smile. The audience applauded with an enthusiasm that reassured me I’d done well, and Giula and I bowed. As we moved out of the way for the next performers, I looked back to see Mira again, to see if she knew that I’d been playing just for her.

Mira met my gaze immediately. She knew.

•  •  •

In the years before the war, the autumn concert was followed by a feast attended by students and faculty alike. Because the famine around us forbid that kind of waste, though, supper after the concert was now a simple, even
haphazard affair, and Mira and I took our bread and soup and carried it down to the low conservatory wall to eat it. The wind had turned chill, and we both wrapped up in our cloaks, sitting on the wall and looking down at Bascio while we ate. Bascio was a hill town, the buildings clinging to the sides of the steep slope, the paths winding up to the top like gut around a tuning peg. The conservatory was at the very top of the hill, allowing us to see almost everything on our side of the hill.

In the cobbled streets of the town, the villagers were lighting bonfires to celebrate Viaggio, drinking wine and dancing. Like most of the festivals, Viaggio was believed to increase fertility, and many people took advantage of that. I vaguely remembered festivals that I’d celebrated in Doratura before I came here, but I was too young to participate so my parents gave me plenty of wine and then put me to bed.

“Thinking of home?” Mira asked.

“There’s only one Viaggio I really remember,” I said. “When I was nine years old, I knocked myself senseless the morning of the festival.” Mira gave me a startled look over her soup bowl. “My second-oldest brother, Donato, had given in to my wheedling and boosted me up to the lowest branch of the chestnut tree that grew outside our house, so that I could climb it. I fell out.” I dunked my bread into the broth and took a bite. “Donato felt just terrible, even though I was the one who’d pestered him to help me climb the tree. I didn’t tell our parents that he’d helped me climb, and Donato did all my chores until the headaches went away. Which took
months
, of course. A bad knock on the head hurts for an amazingly long time. Kind of funny, though, that
that
is what I remember—a bad knock on the head.” I scraped out the last of my soup bowl
with the crust of the bread. “So what was Viaggio like in Cuore?”

Mira stared down at Bascio thoughtfully. “Bigger,” she said.

I waited for her to go on. “No other differences?” I asked, when she didn’t.

Mira set down her soup bowl. “There are other differences, of course.” She considered for a moment. “In the city, the Fedeli are always close by. You never know when they might be watching you, especially during a festival, when they can shed those black robes they usually wear. So in Cuore things are a bit more—frenetic. It’s necessary, you see, not only to express your devotion toward the Lord and the Lady, but to make sure that the Fedeli, should they be watching, see that you do so.”

I had always daydreamed about landing a place in one of the Imperial ensembles, but right now that didn’t sound very appealing. Mira saw my smile fade and touched my hand. “Sorry to make you sad.”

“What do you want to do when you’re done at the conservatory?” I asked. “Do you want to go back to Cuore?”

“Not a chance,” she said. “I want to be a minstrel.”

I swung my head around to stare at her. “With a
violin
?” I asked. She shrugged. “You should take up lute. Minstrels have to sing.”

“Well, I suppose. I’ve been trying to work out a way to harmonize with the violin.”

I shook my head. “My old roommate, Lia, wanted to be a minstrel. But she was always a little eccentric. And she played lute.”

Mira shrugged again. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll come up with something else. But I’m never going back to Cuore. Not even if someone held a sword to my throat.” Her
voice had taken on a bitter edge that made me feel cold and strange inside.

“What’s so horrible about it? Just the Fedeli?”

“There’s more to it than that, but—” She broke off and turned her eyes back toward the bonfires in the Bascio streets. “I don’t want to get into the dirty details of it. Maybe some other day.”

“I don’t know what to think of you, Mira,” I said. “I know you were never a seminarian.”

Mira didn’t look up. “I know that you know. Thank you for keeping my secret.”

“So what
were
you doing in Cuore? And why did you leave?”

“I can’t tell you,” Mira said. “Not now, not here.”

“Mira—” I said, and broke off. I didn’t know what to say. If not now, then when? If not here, then where? “Who’s Liemo?”

Mira’s eyes widened. “Where did you hear that name?”

“You spoke it in your sleep once.”