A good time, then, to meet with the Rebbe.
It was Joscelin who arranged the meeting; he had become friendly with this grand Yeshuite scholar—Nahum ben Isaac, his name was—insofar as Joscelin became friendly with anyone in those days.
The day was cold and sharp, and I was glad of the car riage affording protection from the wind. We did not linger in the courtyard, but hurried into the hall.
Knowing some little bit about Yeshuite sensibilities, thanks first to our friends Taavi and Danele, who gave us succor on our flight from the Allies of Camlach, and latterly to Seth ben Yavin, the young scholar who had tutored me in Montrève, I dressed modestly. It is not my way to flaunt myself as a Servant of Naamah—whatever certain prudish Cassilines may think—but I have my vanity. Nonetheless, I put it aside to meet the Rebbe, donning a gown of brown worsted which I used to wear travelling, and a thick woolen shawl. Well-made, but the sort of stuff a rustic noblewoman might don for commonwear. With a woolen cap on my head, my hair coiled in a braid, and sturdy boots, surely, I thought, I was the very picture of drab modesty.
That is what I thought at home, anyway. When we entered the hall of the yeshiva, where charcoal braziers battled the chill and the sound of children's voices murmuring filled the air, it was another matter.
In a sea of foreign faces, a D'Angeline stands out like a beacon, flashing that deadly beauty that cuts like a blade. In the City, among my own kind, I forgot; here, as voices fell silent and Yeshuite children raised wondering eyes, I remembered. What must it be like, for them? I had offered Cecilie an apology on their behalf, but still. To see the blood-lineage of an errant branch of their own mythology stamped in the faces of the folk who surround them; it must be a strangeness. Yeshua ben Yosef walked the earth, and died, and was risen. So they believe, with enduring stubbornness; he is their .Mashiach, the Redeemer and the King-to-Come. But Blessed Elua, whom they do not acknowledge, walked the earth as well, and he and his Companions peopled a nation. There is no D'Angeline peasant, no matter how mean his origins, but has a tale in his heritage of a celestially begotten ancestor; mayhap it is only that Azza tumbled his thirty-generations-ago grandmother in a haystack, but there it is.
So the children stared, and the young woman leading them. Joscelin cleared his throat. "We are here to see the Rebbe," he told them, blushing—although they were not staring at him. Only me. "I am sorry, we are early. Please continue."
To my surprise, the young woman colored too. "Caleb, tell the Rebbe his friend Joscelin Verreuil is here," she said to one of the boys in charmingly accented D'Angeline. "And ... I am sorry," she said to me, "who shall I say is with him?"
"I am Phèdre nó Delaunay," I said, remembering to add, "the Comtesse de Montrève."
"Oh!" Her color deepened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Removing it hastily, she pushed the boy gently toward the door. "Make haste, Caleb."
He must have done so, for a tall man of middle years and a solemn face emerged in short order. "I am sorry, Com tesse," he said, giving a brief bow. "We expected you at three bells, but the Rebbe will see you now." He allowed a small smile for Joscelin. "Brother Verreuil. A pleasure, my apostate friend."
"Barukh hatah Adonai, father." With an answering smile, Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow. "This way," he said to me, gesturing.
How often had he been here since the first visit? It had not been long, and yet he was familiar with the passages, striding surely along at the rear as our escort guided us. There were small cubbyholes for study; I heard the murmuring voices of older scholars reciting passages that were half-familiar to me.
The Rebbe's quarters were larger, though poorly illumed. He kept us waiting a moment in the hallway, before our guide ushered us into his study.
Joscelin had spoken truly; Nahum ben Isaac cut a for midable figure indeed. Despite the withering effects of age, one could see he had been doughty in his youth, and his broad shoulders still strained at the black cloth of his jacket. He must have been nearly eighty; his hair was almost wholly white, shot with a few strands of black. He'd not lost a whit of it, either—his sidelocks almost hid the dangling ends of his prayer shawl and his square-cornered beard fell midway to his waist. Fierce eyes glowered at me from a face like crumpled parchment.
"Come in." His voice was as strongly accented as the young teacher's, but harsh with it. Joscelin bowed, murmuring the blessing again, and took a seat on a low stool at his feet; to my surprise, the Rebbe patted his cheek. "You're a good lad, for an apostate." The pitiless gaze came back to me. "So you're the one."
"Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, father." I inclined my head. I did not curtsy, though it cost me a good deal of effort. Comtesse or no, I am trained to be subservient to authority, and the Rebbe had it in abundance.
"A Servant of Naamah." The words fair curdled on his tongue. "Call it what you will, I know what you are, girl, fancy titles and all. Why would one such as you want to study Habiru and the teachings of the Mashiach?"
We call them Yeshuites; so they call themselves, now. Before, they were the Children of Yisra-el. But before that, even, they were a tribal folk on the outskirts of Khebbel- im-Akkad, and Yeshuite scholars still call their ancient lan guage by that name. If the Rebbe thought I would blink in confusion, he was mistaken. I am still one of the few D'Angelinas who understands the divisions of the Cruithne, whom Caerdicci scholars name the Picti. Delaunay made me learn such things, and I have not lost the trick of it. I took a seat on a second stool, spreading my skirts carefully about me.
"I have some knowledge of the teachings of Yeshua ben Yosef, father," I said, drawing a deep breath. "All the de scendants of Blessed Elua and his Companions know the tale of the Mashiach, for it is, too, a part of our history. But it is the older teachings that interest me; the Tanakh, and most especially such midrashim as have been recorded in writing or passed from ear to ear. And for that, I must study Habiru."
The Rebbe
did
blink; I daresay he never expected to hear such words from the mouth of a Servant of Naamah. Nonetheless, he repeated his question relentlessly; although there was a crafty gleam in his fierce old eyes now. "Why?"
I answered with a question. "What do you know of the Lost Book of Raziel, father?"
"Bah!" Nahum ben Isaac made a dismissive gesture. "You speak of the book of all knowledge, that Adonai gave to Edom the First Man? Tales to entertain children, no more."
"No." I shook my head, surety giving me strength. "What of the Master of the Straits, father? Is he a tale to frighten children?"
He chewed thoughtfully on a corner of his beard. "Sailors say he is not. Sailors lie. But a schism eight hundred years long across a piece of water I could shout across does not lie." Yes, it was definitely a crafty light. "You say it has somewhat to do with the Sefer Raziel?"
"Yes." I leaned forward. "And the angel Rahab, who begot a child on a mortal woman. For this, the One God punished him; but Rahab brought up pages—scattered pages, from the Lost Book of Raziel—from the deep, and gave them to his son, and bound him to endure the length of his punishment as the Master of the Straits, unless someone could penetrate his mystery and take his place.”
The Rebbe chewed fiercely; I don't think he was aware of what he was doing. Not with his beard, at least. "You tell a good story," he said grudgingly. "But it is only that."
"No." Joscelin intervened quietly. "Not a story, father; I was there too. I have seen the Face of the Waters, and been carried on the crest of a wave that never breaks. And I know the Tsingano who penetrated the mystery. He was ..." He hesitated, then finished the thought firmly. "He was a friend of mine."
I was grateful to hear him say it. Joscelin caught my eye and smiled ruefully; for a moment, it was as if nothing had changed between us.
"He was a prince of his kind," I said sharply, "and gifted with the
dromonde,
that looks backward as well as afore. He was my friend, and I beg you do not mock him to my ears, father."
"Pay it no mind." The Rebbe waved his hand dismissively again. "So." He fixed me with his gimlet stare. "Do I un derstand, Naamah's Servant? You wish to study Habiru and learn a secret to unlock the chain that binds this Tsingano friend of yours. You seek a means to force the messengers of Adonai Himself to obey."
"Yes." I said it simply.
To my great surprise, the Rebbe began to chuckle. "Well." Shaking his head, he picked strands of his beard from the corner of his mouth. "Well, well." Perhaps he did know, after all, that he chewed his beard. "I am compelled by the word of Yeshua to give succor where I may," he said mildly, "and it seems you make a case for it after all, Naamah's Servant. You claim to have studied with Seth ben Yavin of L'Arène, and he writes to me that you are not a bad pupil, despite the fact that you would make the Magdelene unrepentant blush. But he is a young man, and I do not trust the word of young men any more than I do sailors. Tell me, what does this mean?" From within the depths of his beard, he brought forth a pendant, worn close to the heart on a chain about his neck.
I had only to glance at it once; the symbol, wrought in silver, was known to me. A broad, flat brush-stroke atop two legs, it looked like, with a tail squiggled on the left. "It is the word
Khai,
father, combined of the Habiru letters Khet and Yod."
"And what does it mean?" He looked cunningly at me.
"It means 'living.' " I made my voice firm. "It is the sym bol of the resurrection of Yeshua, a pledge that the Mashiach rose from death and lives, and will return as the King-to- Come and establish his reign on earth."
"So." Nahum ben Isaac tucked away the pendant beneath his beard. "Seth did teach you something, it seems. And yet you do not believe."
I offered the only answer I had. "Father, I do not believe or disbelieve. I am D'Angeline."
"Even a D'Angeline may be redeemed." The Rebbe ad justed his prayer shawl. "There is no sin, of the blood nor of the flesh, so great but that the Mashiach's death may not redeem it." He glanced at Joscelin as he said it, and Joscelin did not meet my eyes. "So be it, then. I will teach you, Naamah's Servant, insofar as I am able." I opened my mouth to thank him and he raised a finger, gesturing me to silence. "This I ask. For so long as you choose to live a life of indecency, you will come only when I summon you. You will heed our ways, and speak to no one. Our children shall not lay eyes upon you. Do you agree to these terms?"
I made to retort, stung, and thought better of it. Hyacin the's face rose in my memory; alight with merriment, black eyes shining, his teeth flashing in a white grin. Eight hun dred years, condemned to a lonely isle. "Yes, father." It bears saying that I can sound very meek when I choose to do so. "I will abide as you say."
"Good." The Rebbe clapped his hands. "Then for the next week, you will study the Be'resheith, the first book of the Tanakh. We will begin, as it is written, 'In the beginning.' And when I summon you, you may be sure, I will question you." His glare returned. "In Habiru! Do not speak to me of this language you call Yeshuite, is that clear?"
"Yes," I murmured. "Thank you, father."
"Barukh hatah Yeshua a'Mashiach, lo ha'lam," the Rebbe intoned, and waved his hand. "Now go away. And wear something decent, when you return."
Outside, Joscelin looked sidelong at me and fidgeted with the carriage-team's harness. It was quiet in the courtyard, no children in sight, Elua be thanked. I did not want to give offense on the heels of our agreement. "He is a very great man, Phèdre," Joscelin said with restraint. "He does not mean to insult you."
"And I am a living insult to all that he holds holy," I replied calmly. "I understand, Joscelin. I will do my best not to tax him with it. If he can help us find a way to free Hyacinthe, that is all that matters. Unless you fear I will intervene in your redemption."
It was hurtful, my last words, and I knew it. He shuddered as if they pained him. "I am not seeking
redemption,"
he said, his voice low and savage. "It is only that the Rebbe is the first one to tell me that I need neither share Cassiel's damnation nor discard my vows as facilely as if they were naught but some outmoded convention!"
"Joscelin!" I took a step back, startled. "I never said that!"
"No. I know. But you have thought it." He shuddered again, turning away to needlessly check the harness buckles. "Get in the carriage," he said, his voice muffled. "I'll drive you home."
It was a long ride home, and quiet and lonely in my car riage.
EIGHT
It was on the following day that Thelesis de Mornay called upon me, and I greeted her visit with unfeigned delight. The Queen's Poet was an unprepossessing woman with features that might almost have been homely, were it not for her luminous dark eyes and musical voice. When she spoke, one heard only beauty.
"Phèdre." Thelesis embraced me with a smile, eyes aglow. "I'm sorry I've not had a chance to see you sooner. Forgive me for coming unannounced."
"Forgive you? I can't think of anyone I'd rather see," I said, squeezing her hand. It was true. Once, when I thought I was suffering the gravest sorrow of my life, Thelesis had drawn me out of it; it had been nothing more than childish jealousy, I know now, but I have always treasured her kind ness and tact.