Naamah's Blessing (19 page)

I breathed slowly and deeply to settle my nerves, holding Desirée’s hand in mine. Earlier, she had been high-strung and excited, but the solemnity of the occasion had made an impression on her, and she was behaving herself impeccably.

His majesty greeted his young daughter with quiet dignity, doing his best to mask the pain the sight of her caused him. Clad in a white satin gown, her fair hair caught in a gilded mesh net studded with pearls, Desirée looked more than ever like a miniature version of Jehanne.

I stood beside her as the senior priest from the Temple of Elua gave an invocation, citing the bonds of love and loyalty in which the tradition was rooted.

“The gods in their wisdom answer our prayers as they see fit, not
as we ask.” The priest fixed me with a deep-set gaze. “Love and courage are often found in unlikely places, and there is no nation on earth that knows this better than Terre d’Ange, no nation better suited to honor this truth. Moirin mac Fainche, is it your will to accept this duty offered you today?”

“It is,” I said in a firm tone.

The priest inclined his head. “May Elua’s blessing be on your undertaking.”

King Daniel beckoned for Desirée and me to approach the throne, summoning his daughter to the dais beside him, while I stood before them. Together they made an achingly poignant picture: the dark, melancholy King with lines of sorrow etched on his face, his gossamer-pale daughter with hair like spun moonlight. A soft sigh went around the room. Whether they agreed with the King’s choice or not, no one could fail to be moved by the sight.

“Moirin mac Fainche,” the King said in his deep, resonant voice. “Do you pledge yourself this day to be her highness Desirée de la Courcel’s oath-sworn protector?”

“I do.”

“Will you regard her interests as your own, seek to defend her from every danger, and hold her happiness as a matter of sacred trust?”

“I will.”

His majesty extended his right hand, the signet ring of House Courcel on his forefinger. “Then in the presence of all assembled here, I bid you give your oath.”

There was a weight to the moment. I felt it pressing down on me, felt my
diadh-anam
flicker in response to it.

The folk of the Maghuin Dhonn did not swear oaths lightly. I had prayed to the gods of Terre d’Ange; now I prayed to the Great Bear Herself to give me the strength to carry out this duty.

“On the blood of Blessed Elua, I swear it.” Raising my voice, I added the ancient oath of the Maghuin Dhonn. “By stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass, by the sacred troth that binds me to my
diadh-anam
, I swear it!”

The words rang in the quiet throne room, followed by a startled murmur. But King Daniel met my eyes with grave approval, understanding what it meant to one of the Maghuin Dhonn. I knelt and pressed my lips to his signet ring. “So be it,” he murmured, laying his hand on my head in benediction. “May you serve my daughter as faithfully and truly as you served her mother.”

My eyes stung. “I will do my best, your majesty.”

He smiled sadly. “I know.”

“Thank you, Moirin!” Desirée flung her arms around my neck, hugging me hard. “Can we see the tumblers now?”

I kissed her soft cheek. “I do believe we can, dear heart.”

She gave her royal father an unwontedly shy look. “Will you come, Father? To see the tumblers?”

The King hesitated.

“It is a day for joy,” I reminded him. “A day to be celebrated. And I have just sworn an oath to hold your daughter’s happiness as a sacred trust. Would you have me forsworn already?”

His mouth quirked. “Yes, child,” he said gently to Desirée. “I will come see the tumblers.”

Of all the gifts I could have given the young princess, I daresay that was the best one. She glowed in her father’s presence, basking in his rare affection.

Every seat in the Palace theater was filled to capacity, and there were ordinary D’Angeline citizens who had drawn gilded tiles in the lottery standing shoulder to shoulder on the floor, gazing up at the stage in eager anticipation. We sat in the royal box, directly overlooking the stage.

“Will there be dragons, Bao?” Desirée asked, her blue-grey eyes sparkling at him. “Truly?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. Only one, but truly.”

She shivered with delight. “Did you hear, Father?”

“I heard.” King Daniel spared Bao a rueful glance. “I hope this spectacle of yours does not disappoint.”

“It won’t,” Bao said confidently.

It didn’t.

It was a gorgeous, glorious affair. Antoine nó Eglantine began by taking the stage and announcing that the day’s performance was a tribute to my adventures in the faraway, exotic empire of Ch’in.

That, I hadn’t known.

I looked sideways at Bao, who grinned. “Just watch, Moirin.”

There were tumblers performing slow, measured feats of strength, grace, and balance atop high poles; and somehow it reminded me of learning the Five Styles of Breathing from Master Lo.

There was a sequence with trapezes that somehow managed to evoke the feel of a long sea-voyage.

Then came war.

It began with drums—gods, so many drums! There must have been two dozen of them, deep-bellied and resonant. At first, the drummers beat softly on them, but the percussive chorus rose steadily. Tumblers on one side of the stage shot mock arrows from mock bows, trailing glittering strands of gilded fabric. On the other side, tumblers tossed round balls trailing broad crimson ribbons. Back and forth they went, filling the air between them.

The drums grew louder.

In the background, a pair of women mounted a scaffold, climbing ever higher and higher.

When they reached the apex, they jumped, silken robes billowing around them.

The drumming reached a crescendo, and halted. All the tumblers onstage fell down, exiting the stage with backward somersaults.

Somewhere, bronze sheets rattled, evoking thunder and lightning.

And then the dragon appeared, eliciting a shriek of pure joy from Desirée and gasps of awe from the crowd.

It was immense, long silvery coils shimmering in the lamplight as it flowed sinuously over the stage, winding like a river. The long-jowled whiskered features were so familiar, my heart ached at the memory.

“How in the world…?” my father whispered in bemusement.

“Look.” The King leaned forward. “The tumblers are underneath it, holding it up on poles.”

Desirée gazed raptly at it.

I stole a glance at Bao. “Well done, my magpie.”

He gave me a quiet smile. “It looks a lot like him, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. “Very like.”

Onstage, the dragon continued its graceful, flowing dance, accompanied by the sound of flutes. And somehow it truly did manage to convey the beautiful and terrible majesty of the dragon in flight as he rose from the peaks of White Jade Mountain and descended onto the battlefield.

All too soon, the performance ended. The tumblers hoisted their poles, revealing themselves beneath the silvery segments of the dragon’s carapace.

The applause was thunderous.

Antoine nó Eglantine strode onstage and bowed in all directions, beginning and ending with a deep bow in the direction of the royal box.

“May I throw the flowers, Moirin?” Desirée looked at me with shining eyes. “May I?”

I handed her a bouquet of white roses grown out of season beneath the warmth of the glass pavilion. “Indeed, you may, young highness.”

“ ’Tis a long way to the stage.” Daniel de la Courcel took his daughter’s hand as she leaned over the balustrade, his voice gentle. “May I help?”

She nodded, wordless.

All around us, peers of the realm in their boxes watched. Below us, fifty faces were raised in wonderment as the King helped his daughter toss a bouquet onto the stage of the royal theater.

It landed at Antoine nó Eglantine’s feet.

He accepted it with a bow and a flourish. “Long life and good health to her highness, the princess Desirée!” he called. “Elua’s blessing on her and her oath-sworn protector!”

More cheers.

More applause.

I was glad. Glad for Bao and the tumblers of Eglantine House,
who had worked so hard to make this occasion a worthy spectacle. Glad for myself that it had exceeded the considerable expectations it had raised. Most of all, I was glad to see his majesty allowing himself to love his tempestuous young daughter, at least in this moment.

My father laid one hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done a good thing here, Moirin.”

I smiled at him. “I have, haven’t I?”

There was no doubt in his voice. “Indeed.”

TWENTY-ONE

W
inter in Terre d’Ange.

It was long, and it was cold. Even so, it was a good time. Thanks to good counsel, a considerable measure of hard work, and the support of the priestly orders, Bao and I had won the battle in the court of public opinion. We were well liked by many, and with the deed done and my oath sworn, those who had spoken against it ceased their grumbling.

Desirée continued to flourish under the firm, tender care of Sister Gemma and the tutelage of Aimée Girard. Bao continued to study with her on a daily basis. King Daniel paid more attention to his daughter, making a point of visiting her at least twice a week.

Thanks to the largesse of House Shahrizai, we settled into a comfortable routine in our borrowed home, and began to entertain visitors like Balthasar Shahrizai, whose company Bao enjoyed, and Lianne Tremaine, for whom I had come to feel a certain prickly fondness.

It was a good time.

The Longest Night drew nigh. Benoit Vallon devised costumes for Bao and me, deciding that we should attend the Midwinter Masque in the guise of Hades, the Hellene god of the dead, and his bride Persephone.

“I’m not usually so literal, but it seems apt,” he said, framing Bao with his hands. “I’m not sure why.”

As with everything the couturier did, the costumes were lovely.
Bao made a grave Hellene deity in robes adorned with sparkling jet, a wreath of iron laurels on his head. My gown was green and gilt for spring, and my hair was crowned with a wreath of gold.

We attended the royal masque with her young highness, who was dressed as a winter sprite in a frothy white gown with a pair of charming gauze wings.

I had to own, the taste of
joie
and the sight of the great hall filled with massive pine trees shimmering with glass icicles evoked memories that made my heart ache. “Did you know it was your mother who first thought to decorate the hall with trees on the Longest Night?” I asked Desirée.

She shook her head, gazing up at a towering specimen. “Truly?”

“Oh, yes.” I brushed the fragrant green needles with one finger. “She did it just to please me.”

“What did she wear?” she inquired.

I smiled. “White, just like you. She was dressed as the Snow Queen, with a white cloak trimmed with ermine. And after the pageant when the lights were rekindled, tumblers from Eglantine House came and begged her to come to the Night Court. Every year, they would come, and every year, your mother refused. But that year your father told her she should go, and take me with her, since I’d never seen the Night Court’s masque.

There was a yearning to hear more in her gaze. “Did you go?”

“We did,” I said. “And when the night was over, we went up to the rooftop terrace to watch dawn break, your mother and I and all the beautiful adepts of the Night Court, none of whom were as beautiful as she was. It was cold, very cold, and your mother wrapped her ermine cloak around me to keep me warm.”

“I bet that’s not all she did,” Bao commented in the Ch’in scholar’s tongue. I chose to ignore him.

“I wish I could have known her,” Desirée said in a wistful tone.

“I know, dear heart.” I stroked her fair hair. “She wished it, too. Do you know what we did the very next day?”

“What?”

“We rode in a carriage to a Temple of Eisheth called the Sanctuary of the Womb,” I told her. “There’s a hot-spring pool with water as warm as a bath, and as white as milk. And there, your mother waded into the pool and lit a candle to Eisheth, praying that the goddess would send her a child. You.”

Desirée slid her hand into mine. “I’m glad you were there, Moirin.”

I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “So am I.”

She searched the bright hall. “My father isn’t here tonight, is he?”

“No.” I shook my head. “His grace the Duc de Barthelme, the Royal Minister, is here in his stead.”

“Because it makes my father sad to remember?” she asked.

“Aye.” I swallowed against a sudden lump in my throat. “I’m afraid so. But there is joy in remembering, too. That’s why I shared my memories with you tonight, so that you might share my gladness.”

Together, we watched the peers of the realm in their gorgeous, glittering costumes mingle and dance. Sister Gemma hovered in the background, ready to intervene if Desirée grew tired and fretful.

The Duc de Barthelme came to pay his respects to the princess. “Joy to you on the Longest Night, young highness,” the Royal Minister said, offering her a formal bow. “Is the ranking member of the royal family here in attendance enjoying herself?”