Naamah's Blessing (5 page)

It made me smile in the darkness, although there was sorrow in it. “Cillian’s sister.”

Bao went still. “He was your first love?”

Unseen, I nodded. “Aislinn was kind to me. She was the only one in her family who didn’t blame me for Cillian’s death.”

He released his breath. “I had forgotten. No wonder it grieves you so to think to be blamed for Jehanne’s.”

“That, and being accused of having seduced and ensorceled her,” I said. “Or you, or anyone. Stone and sea! The only time I
tried
to seduce someone, I failed miserably.”

Bao stifled a yawn. “Your spineless Yeshuite boy?”

I rolled over in his arms. “Aleksei wasn’t spineless.”

His eyes glinted. “Oh, he was! But he ended up in your bed anyway, didn’t he? So I suppose you succeeded after all.”

“That was Naamah’s blessing, and an altogether different matter,” I informed him.

“If you say so.”

“I do.” It was a familiar argument between us. I realized that Bao had succeeded in breaking the endless chain of thought I’d been chasing, which had likely been his intention all along. For that, I kissed him. “Good night and thank you, my Tatar prince.”

He gave me a sleepy smile. “You’re welcome.”

In the morning, aided by a night’s sleep, I was calmer than I would have reckoned. My apprehension had settled into a deep place inside of me. This was going to be painful, but it was necessary.

Bao and I rode to the Palace, where the royal steward greeted us both with a sincere bow.

“Lady Moirin mac Fainche,” he said in a respectful tone. “Messire… Bao, is it? Welcome. Brother Phanuel indicated that you would visit today.”

“Is his majesty King Daniel receiving?” I inquired.

The steward hesitated. “His majesty is enjoying a concerto.” He lowered his voice. “Music is one of the only things in which he yet takes pleasure. But I think, my lady, that he would wish to be interrupted by you.”

My stomach tightened. “You’re sure?”

He nodded. “I do believe so. Come, permit me to escort you and your… husband.”

It felt strange, so strange, to walk the marbled halls of the Palace with its gilded columns and ornate frescos. We passed the Hall of Games, where Prince Thierry had taught me to play games of chance. I remembered Jehanne carelessly wagering a love-token that Raphael had given her as an apology for some offense, a choker of pale blue topaz that matched her eyes. She’d demonstrated her annoyance with him by putting it around her silken-haired lap-dog’s neck as a collar, and then tossing it upon the gaming table as though it meant less than nothing to her.

She’d won her wager, though.

I remembered the cool touch of her fingertips on my face, her complicated expression, and her barbed warning.
You oughtn’t play games you’re bound to lose
.

I had; and I hadn’t.

I’d never stood the least chance of winning Raphael de Mereliot’s affections away from Jehanne. That, I’d come to understand at last. But never, ever had I imagined that I would win a portion of hers instead; that tempestuous Jehanne would take it upon herself to rescue
me, that I would offer my loyalty to her, and she would come to love and trust me.

That I would find a place in her heart.

Tears blurred my eyes.

“Moirin?” Bao touched my arm.

I blinked away tears. “Memories.”

He nodded, understanding.

After a discreet pause, the royal steward led us onward. We passed the great, winding staircase that led to the upper stories of the Palace, where Jehanne had ordered a suite filled with green, growing things, an enchanted bower made just for me.

I’d awoken there to find Bao keeping watch over me. I saw him glance at the staircase, remembering. Gods, we hadn’t even
liked
one another then. It had been a long, long journey that had led me back to this place.

It was in that enchanted bower that Master Lo Feng had lectured me against letting my gift be used in unnatural ways—ways that had nonetheless saved lives, including my father’s.

Ways that could have saved Jehanne’s life.

I breathed the Breath of Earth’s Pulse, grounding myself. I remembered Jehanne naked and shameless in my bower, the green shadows of ferns decorating her alabaster skin.

Her blue-grey eyes sparkling at me the first time she had visited during my convalescence.
Are you wondering if I mean to kiss you before I leave
?

I had laughed.
I am now
.

She had.

She had ducked beneath the immense fern fronds and kissed me; and she had stayed when I begged her to stay, winding my arms around her neck. She had stayed, and she had loved me. And she had known, all along, that I would not stay, could not stay. She had not asked, nor had she held any part of herself back from me.

And King Daniel… he had
known
her. Known and loved Jehanne in a way few folk could understand, even in Terre d’Ange where love
was reckoned an art. Raphael de Mereliot was her storm; Daniel de la Courcel was her anchor.

“My lady?” The steward stood with his hand poised on the door to the Salon of Eisheth’s Harp.

I nodded. “Aye.”

Inclining his head, he opened the door. Music spilled into the hallway. I took one step beyond the threshold. A bow screeched across the strings of a violoncello, and the music went silent. In the arranged chairs, heads turned.

A tall figure rose.

“Moirin.” Daniel de la Courcel, King of Terre d’Ange, said my name quietly. Our gazes locked.

Ah, gods! There was a world of sorrow in his, as much as I had feared and more. Lines of grief etched his handsome face.

A terrible memory surfaced behind his dark blue eyes, and I
saw
. I saw Jehanne on her death-bed, her fair skin deathly white from loss of blood—white as lilies, white as paper. I saw her pale lips move, shaping a word.

Desirée
, her daughter’s name.

Somewhere in the King’s memory, Raphael was still trying, still plying his physician’s arts, still trying to stanch the endless flow of blood that spilled from her and sopped the bed-linens with crimson, still raging, still exhorting Jehanne to stay with him, to be strong and live.

But Daniel had known it was already too late.

I saw the light in her sparkling eyes, her eyes like stars, flicker and die. I saw them stare blindly, her head going slack on her pillow, her perfect lips parted.

“I’m sorry!” I fell to my knees in the aisle, borne down by the weight of his grief; tear-blinded, limp as a cut-string puppet. I buried my face in my hands. “Oh, my lord! I’m so very, very sorry. I should have been there.”

“No.” His hands descended onto my shoulders, and his deep voice was firm. “Moirin, no.”

I peered up at him between my fingers.

“You could not have known,” Daniel said. “You loved her. It was enough.”

“But it wasn’t,” I whispered. “It
wasn’t
.”

Gently, inexorably, he raised me to my feet. “It was.” The King’s arms enfolded me, and I clung to him. “Against all odds, you were one of the better things in her life. It was enough.”

His words, and the tenderness with which he held me, broke open a dam of grief and guilt inside me. Only the King, who had loved Jehanne more than anyone, had the right to absolve me. I accepted it and wept unabashedly, my tears dampening the front of his velvet doublet.

When at last Daniel released me, there were tears on his cheeks, too. A soft sigh ran through the salon, and I could feel the mood of the D’Angeline people shift toward me. In one compassionate stroke, the King’s absolution had changed me from a figure of suspicion to one of tragic romance.

A discreet attendant handed Daniel a silk kerchief. He blotted his tears, summoning the ghost of a weary smile. “A poor greeting, I fear. Come, cousin, introduce me to this husband you have brought from afar.”

Stepping beside me, Bao bowed deeply in the Ch’in manner. “We have met, your majesty,” he said. “Years ago. I served as Master Lo Feng’s apprentice.”

“Ah, yes.” The King nodded. “A very wise man, your master. Does he prosper?” His tired smile turned wistful. “Did the Camaeline snowdrop bulbs I gave him survive the long journey?”

Bao hesitated. “I fear Master Lo is no longer with us.”

King Daniel’s faint smile vanished, the weight of grief returning to his features. “I am sorry to hear it.”

“Your gift survived the journey, my lord,” I said softly. “I kept them alive. And on the slope of White Jade Mountain, where no mortal foot had trod before, I planted three snowdrop bulbs. It is a sacred place. There, I have been promised that the snowdrops will thrive, until mayhap one day they will play a role in someone else’s story.”

The King’s deep gaze settled on me. “Then you found the destiny your gods ordained for you?”

I nodded. “I did.”

He exhaled a long breath. “Was it worth the cost?”

I thought of the future I had glimpsed on the battlefield where the bronze cannons of the Divine Thunder boomed, a future written in blood and fire, where there were no bear-witches or dragons. I thought of the thousands upon thousands more men who would have died had the dragon not called the rain and lightning, drowning the dreadful cannons.

I thought of Jehanne, too.

“How can one measure such a thing, my lord?” I asked. “All I can tell you is that if I had to make the choice over, knowing what would come to pass, in sorrow and grief, I would choose as I did.”

Wordlessly, the King bent to kiss my brow, then straightened. “Would it please you to meet her?” he asked. “Jehanne’s daughter?”

“Aye, my lord. Very much so.”

The King’s gaze drifted onto the distance. “I do not see her as often as I ought,” he murmured, half to himself. “I should. But it is… painful.” I waited in silence, not knowing what to say, until his gaze returned, and he beckoned to the royal steward. “Messire Lambert will escort you to the nursery. It is what Jehanne would have wished. Later, mayhap, we will talk.”

I curtsied in the D’Angeline manner. “My thanks, my lord.”

“Moirin.” After I thought myself dismissed and had turned to follow the steward, the King’s deep voice called me back. With considerable effort, he summoned another weary smile. “I am glad you are here.”

My eyes stung, and my
diadh-anam
gave an unexpected flicker of agreement hinting at the presence of destiny’s call. “So am I.”

SIX

W
hat do you suppose it means?” Bao asked as we followed Messire Lambert, the royal steward.

I didn’t have to ask what he meant; Bao had felt the spark of our shared
diadh-anam
quicken as surely as I had. “I don’t know.”

“Do you ever?” he asked.

“Seldom precisely.” I smiled ruefully. “The Maghuin Dhonn Herself may guide us in certain directions, but She leaves us to make our own choices. Especially the difficult ones.”

“I don’t see a choice here,” Bao remarked. “Difficult or otherwise.”

“Not yet,” I agreed.

We climbed the wide, winding staircase to the second floor and followed the steward down the hall. Outside the door of a corner chamber, Messire Lambert hesitated. Beyond the door came the sound of women’s voices raised in frantic pleading.

“Wait here, please,” the steward said to us before knocking.

The door opened a crack, and a woman with a pretty, harried face peered out, her eyes widening at the sight of the steward in the livery of House Courcel. “Oh, messire! Tell me his majesty’s not sent for her!”

“No, no,” he assured her. “But his majesty sends visitors. Lady Moirin mac Fainche, and Messire… Bao.”

Her eyes widened further, showing the whites. “Jehanne’s
witch
?”

The steward cleared his throat. “As I said, Lady Moirin and her husband.”

The young woman shuddered. “Elua have mercy! All right, all right, messire. Give us a moment.”

She closed the door behind her. Sounds of a heated argument interspersed with urgent pleas ensued. Bao raised his brows at me. I shrugged in reply. The royal steward looked profoundly uncomfortable.

“Oh, let them in!” a second woman’s voice said in frustration, loud enough to be heard clearly through the door. “If the Queen’s witch can lay a spell on the child before she breaks her stubborn neck, so much the better!”

“Fine!”

The door was flung open wide. The young woman dropped a curtsy, her face flushed. “Welcome, my lady, my lord.” She made a sweeping gesture. “Forgive us. Her young highness is as you find her.”

I entered the nursery chamber, and caught my breath.

It was a pleasant, sunlit chamber with a canopied bed set into the near wall. Against the far wall stood an array of ornately painted cubes filled with cunningly made toys and dolls. Atop a dangerous perch on the highest cube sat a girl of some three years of age, kicking her heels and giggling.

Jehanne’s daughter.

Belatedly, it struck me that that was what King Daniel had called her—Jehanne’s daughter, as though she were not his own, too.

Gazing at her, I understood why. Desirée de la Courcel was her mother in miniature, a picture of gossamer beauty. A thin white shift adorned her small figure, leaving her arms and legs bare, skin so fair the pale blue tracery of her veins showed through it. Her pink lips formed a perfect bow. Her white-blonde hair curled in soft ringlets, haloing her head. Her eyes were Jehanne’s eyes, an ethereal blue-grey.