Naamah's Blessing (12 page)

“You’ve a knack with the child,” Paulette said softly. “Do you want me to take her? I daresay she’ll nap for a time.”

“Aye, my thanks.” Rising, I shifted my burden into her arms.

Clinging to her nursemaid, Desirée roused sleepily. “Bao?” she asked. “Where were you when Moirin was with the Tatars?”

“Oh…” He met my eyes. “Well, you might say I was hiding, young highness. A big change, a very big change, happened in my life. I was scared, and I ran away from it. But in the end, I learned it was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I would not be here if it hadn’t.”

“I’m glad you are, even if Nurse doesn’t like you.
I
do.” She hesitated. “Can I still have tumblers?”

“Oh, yes!” Bao grinned. “I will make sure of it.”

THIRTEEN

A
s one might expect, the City of Elua was also divided over the matter of Eglantine House’s invitation to perform at the ceremony, which was scheduled to take place in a month’s time.

The announcement was made in the grand salon of Eglantine House in the evening of the day the invitation was received, and it was accompanied by Lianne Tremaine declaiming a poem she had composed for the occasion.

By the next day, the poem was on everyone’s lips.

The former King’s Poet hadn’t held back. The poem lauded the King’s decision as a return to the true origins of the Montrèvan Oath, the oath that Anafiel Delaunay had sworn to his beloved, Rolande de la Courcel, to protect his infant daughter Ysandre. Lianne Tremaine made the bold claim that this was the first time in generations that the honor had been bestowed in keeping with the spirit of that oath, making much of my having returned from great tribulation to accept the role.

“Thus was the sorrowful spirit of the lamented Queen at long last appeased/For knowing her eldritch lover would stand guard over the child, her grieving heart was eased,” Lianne quoted with a shudder. “Dreadful pap, but I had to work quickly. ’Tis the sentiment that matters. Does it meet your needs?”

I’d gone to pay her a visit while Bao had his morning’s lesson with Desirée. “It’s… a bit excessive,” I said carefully.

“Poetry glories in excess,” she said. “When it’s not extolling the virtues of austerity. Do you think I went too far in comparing you to Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève? After all, you did say you loved Jehanne.”

“Aye,” I murmured. “But I left her.”

Lianne cocked her head. “Why
did
you leave?”

Long ago, before I’d known about the Circle of Shalomon, I had tried to explain my
diadh-anam
and the prompting of destiny to Lianne Tremaine, who was still the King’s Poet at the time. Unlike most D’Angelines, she had at least some familiarity with the notion from her extensive reading. Now I reminded her of that conversation, telling her how the same prompting had driven me to Ch’in. She listened quietly, seeming to understand it better than most. “Jehanne knew,” I said when I was done. “She always knew I would leave. It’s just that neither of us thought it would be so soon. If I had been able to stay longer…” I couldn’t finish the thought. “When I told her, she said it was as well she was an adept of Cereus House, and taught to revere the transience of beauty, for this had been a fleeting and precious thing.” My eyes stung. “And when I left… when I left, I asked her how one could find beauty in somewhat that hurt so much.”

“What did she say?” Lianne asked quietly.

I rubbed my eyes. “Jehanne said that it would always be like this. That I would always be young and beautiful in her memory, and she in mine. That I would never grow resentful, never be tempted to betray her. That she would never grow restless and fickle, and seek to replace me.” I smiled through my tears. “So you see, not exactly the sentiments of a great and terrible love affair.”

“Oh, but it is.” There was sorrow in Lianne’s gaze. “If Jehanne had lived, mayhap it would have been otherwise. Mayhap you would have returned to find yourselves both too changed to resume the liaison. But Jehanne died, and it will ever be what it was, exactly as she said. Fixed in time, like a portrait of a delicate blossom cut too soon immortalized in paint.” Steepling her fingers, she touched her lips in thought. “That’s not a bad image.”

“Mayhap you can work it into your next poem,” I murmured.

Lianne grimaced. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to make light of your grief. But I do know what I’m doing, Moirin. No one will accuse you of comparing yourself to Anafiel Delaunay. They will blame
me
. That is the risk poets take when we exaggerate for the sake of effect, which is what we do. And believe me, there are many who agree with the sentiment.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to question your knowledge of your craft. I’m grateful for your aid.”

She lifted her chin. “And you owe me for it. Tell me the tale of your ordeal in Vralia. No… wait. That’s not where it begins, does it?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Begin at the beginning,” she demanded. “Begin with the Ch’in expedition that came in search of that physician. What was it they were after? What was so urgent that the Emperor of Ch’in would send well nigh an entire army to fetch one lone man?”

I told her.

Not all of it; there were a few parts I left out. I did not tell her what had passed between the Emperor’s dragon-possessed daughter and me at our first encounter, when the dragon had chosen me for her mate; and I did not tell her what had passed between us at the end, when Snow Tiger had asked me to invoke Naamah’s blessing on her behalf. That, no one knew; nor was it anyone’s business but Naamah’s.

I did not tell her about the aftermath of the battle that had nearly torn Ch’in apart, when I had served as Emperor Zhu’s swallower-of-memories, using the gift of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself to take into myself the memories of every soldier, engineer, and alchemist with knowledge of the workings of the Divine Thunder. D’Angelines already had enough cause to fear the folk of the Maghuin Dhonn, and I did not need to give them one more reason.

But I did tell Lianne Tremaine one thing I’d told no one else. “There is a part of the tale I left out. Do you remember the spirit Marbas?”

“Of course.” There was an edge to her tone. We had not spoken of the summonings yet. “He took the form of a lion.”

I nodded. “And you could not compel him to speak, because you could not compel him to take human form.”

“I remember.” Her fox-like gaze was sharp.

“He spoke to me in the twilight,” I said slowly. “All of the fallen spirits did. But Marbas offered me a gift. He offered to teach me the art of shape-shifting, the art my mother’s folk lost.”

Lianne’s breath hissed between her teeth. “Name of Elua!”

“I refused it,” I hastened to add. “I will own, I was tempted, but the Maghuin Dhonn Herself took that gift away from us, and it is Hers, and Hers alone, to restore. But Marbas… Marbas said that for that, he would give me a gift unasked. And he did.” I took a deep breath. “The charm to reveal hidden things. He roared, and placed it in my thoughts like a jewel. He said the words would be there if I needed them.”

Her expression was unreadable. “Have you?”

“Aye,” I said. “In the reflecting lake on White Jade Mountain. When the princess and I jumped into its depths, nothing happened except that she began to drown, and take me down with her. It came to me that the dragon’s spirit was surely a hidden thing—and then the words of the charm were there, and I spoke them. That is when the dragon’s spirit emerged from the princess.”

“You never told any of us that the spirit Marbas had given you a gift,” Lianne said in a flat tone.

“No,” I said. “I didn’t.”

Lianne Tremaine rose from her chair and paced her tower chamber restlessly. “Elua have mercy! All that time we were haggling for gifts, and the spirits were showering you with them unasked.”

“Just the one,” I murmured. “And I suspect it was because it
was
unasked. I do not think bargains with them ever end well, my lady. How do you like the one gift you bargained for?”

She gave me a strange look, her nostrils flaring. “The language of ants? Let us say there is a reason I begged a chamber high above-ground, and that I am grateful for winter’s dormancy.”

“Even so.”

“You tried to tell us.” Lianne raked both hands through her hair. “From the first time when we summoned the spirit Valac; it was a trick, it was always going to be a trick. And none of us listened. Gods! We were fools.”

I watched her pace. “And yet if you had not done it, my Ch’in princess would have died in that lake,” I said. “And the dragon with her. The Emperor would have been overthrown, Ch’in conquered from within, and the weapons of the Divine Thunder loosed upon the world. So mayhap there was some greater purpose in it after all.”

The poetess laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound. “Ah, gods! There is a part of me that hopes it is true, Moirin mac Fainche, for it redeems our folly in some measure.”

“And there is a part of you that resents the notion,” I observed.

She shrugged. “That all of us in the Circle of Shalomon were but unwitting bit players in a drama meant to be played out on a stage far, far away? Yes, of course. I cannot help it.”

“I know.”

Lianne gave me a wry smile. “And we have not even gotten to Vralia yet.”

“No,” I said. “Nor to Raphael de Mereliot, of whom I would speak.”

Her brows rose. “You care for him yet?”

I frowned. “I have a sense that there are matters yet unsettled between us,” I said, choosing not to elaborate. “But it can wait longer. There are more pressing matters at hand.”

“Yes, there are.” Lianne resumed her seat, regarding me with a critical eye. “And I’ve a few thoughts on them, starting with your attire.”

I ran a fold of my gold-embroidered orange sari through my fingers. “Too exotic?”

“Too foreign,” she said bluntly. “To be sure, I suspect we’ll see the influence emerge in the next season’s fashions, but in the meanwhile, you ought to pay a visit to the couturiere.”

I nodded in understanding. “I’ve not had time, that’s all.”

“Make time, you and your husband both. And this business of
your living at the Temple of Naamah…” Lianne shook her head. “It’s not good. It suggests you’re merely seeking sanctuary along the way. Folk in the City need to have the sense that your presence here is more permanent. I understand that your… your
diadh-anam
may send you elsewhere, but you can’t afford to maintain the appearance of some pair of romantic vagabonds.”

“The Royal Minister offered us a suite at the Palace,” I noted.

“I suggest you accept the offer.”

“All right.” It would evoke painful memories, but it was a small sacrifice to make if it rendered this process more acceptable, and kept any hint of the politics involved far, far from Desirée’s notice. “What else?”

Her topaz eyes glinted. “Antoine nó Eglantine promises that the performance will be a great spectacle. The royal theater holds only so many seats, and every peer in the City will be clamoring for one whether they support you or not. I’d advise his majesty to reserve a block of seats to be allotted to the commonfolk, awarded by lottery. They’ll adore the gesture.”

“That’s a good thought,” I said.

“I’ve a cunning mind,” Lianne said unapologetically. “Be grateful I’m putting it at your service.”

“I am.” I glanced at the window. “I should leave; the morning’s passing. Thank you for your counsel.”

“Thank you for your candor.” She paused. “The tale you told me, your adventure in Ch’in, the princess and the dragon, the Divine Thunder… Moirin, tell me. How much of it was true?”

I rose. “All of it.”

Her mouth twisted. “I feared as much.”

“Feared?” I echoed curiously.

“I’m envious.” She gave another shrug. “ ’Tis a poet’s curse to live in placid times.”

“Do you think so?” I asked. “The Ch’in have a saying that speaks to it. That it is better to be a dog during peacetime than a man during a time of chaos.” I gazed at her clever, sharp-featured face, feeling
a memory not my own surface in my thoughts: a young Lianne Tremaine, no more than a child of nine or ten years, huddled over a rough-hewn plank by the light of a single guttering candle, scrawling urgently on it with a hunk of charcoal while an unseen woman’s voice harangued her. I felt the yearning in the child—a yearning for greatness, for an opportunity for glory beyond what her meager life afforded her.

Lianne turned away. “Don’t
do
that!”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Truly, my lady! I cannot help it. It comes upon me unbidden.”

When she glanced back at me, unshed tears glittered in her eyes, and I understood that despite her penitence, Lianne Tremaine would always hunger, always yearn. And that she would always hate me a little bit for having lived through events she longed to have witnessed.

If she had, I thought, she would feel differently.

It was one thing to hear tell of the weapons of Divine Thunder. It was another thing to have ridden across that battlefield, to see our brave, good-hearted comrade Tortoise jouncing in the saddle, one hand clinging to the pommel, the other clutching his reins, his face terrified but determined as he rode to the aid of the dragon-maddened princess.