Naamah's Blessing (69 page)

There was sorrow in her smile. “So you always said.”

“Because it’s true.”

“My beautiful girl.” Jehanne touched my cheek again. “Once more, you find the right thing to say.”

“I quoted
you
,” I reminded her.

“So you did.” Leaning forward, she brushed my lips with a kiss. “You are the one love I have no cause to regret, Moirin. But for all that Naamah has blessed you, you’ll not be taking the same journey when the time comes, will you? Your final destiny lies with your bear-goddess.”

“Aye,” I said. “But I would not be so sure it is the
final
destiny, my lady. Master Lo Feng said that all ways lead to the Way, and he was the wisest man I’ve ever met.” I nodded at the rustling rows of
maize
. “Were it not for his teaching, I would not have had the strength to do this thing.” Taking a deep breath, I continued. “And I believe it is possible that there is somewhat that lies beyond even the Terre d’Ange-that-lies-beyond, beyond the presence of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, a vastness beyond men and gods and heavens, wherein all of us are part of a greater whole.”

“It’s a lovely notion,” Jehanne murmured. “Do you suppose it’s true?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope so.”

“I shall choose to believe it,” she said firmly. “Because it is preferable to believing in a world in which our paths never cross again, Moirin
mac Fainche.” Unexpectedly, a dazzling smile lit her face. “Thank you. I had need of your gentle counsel one last time. But I think I am ready now.”

It was my turn to be dismayed. “So soon?”

“It is long past time.” Jehanne wound her soft, slender arms around my neck, gazing intently into my eyes. The intoxicating scent of her perfume mingled with the odor of fresh-turned soil and the green scent of thriving plants. “Be well,” she whispered against my lips. “Be happy. I wish you every joy, Moirin. Do not forget to tell Desirée that I loved her. Do not forget to tell your own plump babes and your reformed ruffian of a husband. He loves you very, very much, and that will see you through every darkness.”

My eyes stung. “Jehanne—”

“Naamah’s blessing on you, my beautiful girl.” She kissed me, her lips soft and tender, lingering; and I felt Naamah’s blessing break over us like a wave, like a warm, golden embrace, an enduring affirmation of the power of love and desire.

I wrapped my arms around Jehanne, holding her close.

For a moment, my lady Jehanne was
there
, warm and living and present in my arms. And then there was only empty sunlight sparkling in my embrace, the stalks of
maize
waving their blameless tassels.

I awoke with a start.

On the pallet beside me, Bao roused sleepily to prop himself on one elbow, reading my expression. “You dreamed of the White Queen?”

I nodded. “She is gone now.”

“I’m sorry.” His sympathy was sincere. “It must be hard to lose her twice.”

“It was.” I found myself smiling through tears. “But it was time. As it is ours, too. Time to go home.”

SEVENTY-FIVE

T
here was one last matter to be dealt with ere we could depart the empire of Tawantinsuyo. Because he had worn the crown of the
Sapa Inca
, no matter how briefly, the Quechua had preserved Raphael de Mereliot’s body.

“Whatever else is true, he commanded great magic,” the
Sapa Inca
Huayna said soberly. “There can be no place for him among our ancestors, but we did not wish to offend whatever gods he served. Do you wish to return him to your own temple?”

“We are not lugging that maniac’s carcass across the entire continent of Terra Nova,” Balthasar muttered.

Prince Thierry silenced him with a scowl, then turned to me. “Moirin, you understand these matters better than most. What are your thoughts?”

I gazed at Raphael’s face. Even beneath the cerements, one could see that he had been a beautiful man. I thought of the fallen spirit Focalor forcing his essence into him, and of the spark of lightning that had lingered in Raphael’s eyes, haunting my thoughts for so many years. What if a spark lingered even now? Having seen the dead rise and walk, I did not wish to take any chances.

“I would build a funeral pyre,” I said slowly. “Let the fire cleanse him and release any trace of the spirit that remains. Let his ashes be scattered to fertilize the fields.”

“It seems a fitting end,” the
Sapa Inca
Huayna said in quiet approval.

So it was done.

The Quechua built a pine-wood pyre in the temple square. There, Raphael de Mereliot’s body was cremated, his cloth-wrapped limbs twisting and blackening in flames that burned so hot they were nearly invisible in the sunlight. Now and again, a burst of sparks rose into the sky.

I thought of Focalor and wondered.

Despite everything, I did not believe the fallen spirit was
evil
. It was a force of destruction that had been constrained for long centuries if the legends were true, and unleashed on the world, it would have wreaked havoc. So had the ants Raphael commanded done; and yet, within their rightful habitat, they had a role to play. Mayhap the fallen spirits had a role to play, too.

If the spirit Marbas had not given me the gift of finding hidden things, my Ch’in princess would have drowned in the reflecting lake atop White Jade Mountain, the dragon would have ceased to be, and the weapons of the Divine Thunder would have been loosed on the world, altering it forever.

Mayhap even my youthful folly had a purpose. The gods use their chosen hard, but reveal little to them.

When the pyre had burned down to a few restless embers, the Quechua gathered the ashes in earthenware bowls, transporting them to the fields where they were distributed with care, churned into the soil to nourish it.

I gazed at the waving rows of
maize
, praying silently that Raphael’s bitter, tormented heart would find healing.

And then there was nothing left to do but say our farewells. Our supplies were gathered, our caravan in readiness. The long journey awaited us.

It was time.

“Good-bye, my sister,” I whispered in Machasu’s ear as I hugged
her. “Thank you for your strength and courage, and thank you for sharing your food with me when I needed it most.”

She gave an indignant sniff. “I did no such thing, lady!”

I smiled. “As you will.”

The high priestess Iniquill acknowledged me with a grave bow of her silver-haired head, and I returned it with dignity.

Ocllo surprised me by seizing me in a fierce embrace, pressing me to her stalwart bosom, then releasing me just as abruptly. “On behalf of the ancestors, I thank you,” she said in a formal tone. “And on behalf of my granddaughter…” Her voice broke. “Please thank the twice-born for making it swift and merciful.”

I stared at her. “Cusi was your granddaughter? You did not tell me!”

Tears glinted in her eyes, but did not fall. “No, I did not. But it is true. And young as she was, I do believe the gods chose wisely when they guided Lord Pachacuti’s hand in sending her to you.”

I kissed her lined cheek. “Her courage shames us all. I will never forget her, I promise.”

Ocllo blinked. “I should hope not.”

One day after Raphael’s cremation, we departed the city of Qusqu at dawn. Behind us, the slanting rays of the rising sun kindled the snowy mantles of the western mountains, turning them gold. The air was dry and crisp, and I breathed it deep into my lungs. I had my yew-wood bow and quiver slung over one shoulder, my battered satchel with a few wordly goods and a fair share of supplies over the other.

A long journey faced us. A long, long journey.

We would serve as our own porters. Every man among us, Prince Thierry included, carried a woven basket on his back, tump-lines of corded wool stretched across their brows. They carried baskets laden with stores, with samples and specimens, bits and pieces of gilded, jade-studded Quechua workmanship tucked amidst potatoes and
maize
, sacks of powdered
cinchona
bark, nuts and seeds from myriad plants, and the stores of herbs Eyahue had assiduously gathered.

Bao sighed, shifting his shoulders. His bamboo staff rode high atop his back, thrust through the handles of his basket.

“Home,” I reminded him.

He echoed the word, his voice wistful. “Home. I am not sure what it means, but I like the sound of it, Moirin.”

“So do I,” I murmured.

SEVENTY-SIX

I
t was a long journey indeed.

It was a very, very long journey. We followed well-kept footroads in the empire of Tawantinsuyo, curving along the crests of mountains, camping in the arid open beneath a sky filled with countless stars. We crossed hanging bridges that swayed above rushing torrents, and we forded broad rivers that had never been bridged, picking our way with care.

We descended from the mountains and fought our way through jungles. We crossed vast savannahs. We marched until the light began to fade, and rose every day at dawn to resume our journey.

Those of us who could hunt, did. When we encountered villages, we bartered what we could.

Betimes we were hungry, but we did not starve. We were tired and footsore, but by this time all of us had long since grown inured to the hardships of travel. Even Balthasar kept his grumbling to a minimum.

After enduring the misery of the barren swamplands, we gained the isthmus and wound our way along the sloping spine of the long mountain range that divided it, catching glimpses of the sea. Septimus Rousse muttered to himself, scratching notes and maps on a piece of crude parchment he’d obtained in Qusqu.

The whole of the journey does not bear telling. I leave it to
mapmakers like Captain Rousse to chronicle in exhausting detail the landscape we spent so many months traversing on our return. Suffice it to say that it was long and arduous, but at the end of it, the majority of our company reached the lands of the Nahuatl Empire alive.

Alas, not all.

There were losses suffered. One of the men from my original company, Bernard de Vouges, perished when he lost his footing during a difficult river-crossing. The swift current carried him downriver, dashing his head against a boulder and splitting open his skull, ribbons of blood staining the water.

At least we were able to retrieve his body and bury it with honor.

Two of Prince Thierry’s men, Féderic Bardou and Perrin de Fleury, died in the mountains in a sudden rockslide—or so we were forced to presume. On Thierry’s orders, we spent the better part of the day digging frantically amidst the rubble to no avail. Only the ominous creaking sounds from the slopes above us and Eyahue’s urgent warnings persuaded Thierry to abandon the effort.

We mourned them and continued, entering the territory of the Cloud People, where we posted multiple sentries every night. We passed through without incident, those of us who remembered Pochotl’s betrayal breathing a sigh of relief, and crossed the invisible boundary that marked the southern verge of the Nahuatl Empire.

There, we were greeted with astonishment. Eyahue and Temilotzin were hailed as returning heroes. And I began to believe that mayhap this seemingly endless journey had an end after all.

Without the burden of plate armor slowing the men, our pace was quicker than it had been at the outset. Still, rumor ran ahead of us.

We were some two weeks away from the city of Tenochtitlan when a startling sight greeted us—a company of mounted Aragonian soldiers in full armor, trailing a long line of pack-and saddle-horses, Commander Diego Ortiz y Ramos riding at their head.

Our own company halted, uncertain.

“Drop your packs,” Thierry murmured, suiting actions to words. He laid one hand on his sword-hilt. “And be ready for anything.”

My throat tightened, and I prayed silently that the Aragonians had not grown ascendant in our absence.

Commander Diego Ortiz y Ramos drew rein, his gaze sweeping over our weary, footsore crew and settling on Thierry.

“Your highness.” He bowed from the saddle. “I am pleased to see that the rumors of your return are true, and that you are well. With the blessing of Emperor Achcuatli, my men and I are here to escort you and your people to the city of Tenochtitlan.” His lips thinned above his pointed beard. “I hope that you will speak kindly of us when you return to Terre d’Ange and lay claim to its throne.”