Naamah's Blessing (37 page)

Something in the words caught at my heart. “Is that a poem?”

“Yes. It is part of a famous poem.” He met my gaze. “It is in honor of life and death. Your people honor life, but they do not honor death.” He broke the stem of a purple dahlia, lifting the blossom. “To me, the skulls in the
tzompantli
are no different from this flower, and are as beautiful in their own way.”

I took a long, slow breath. “I am trying to understand, my lord. But the flower does not feel pain. The flower does not bleed.”

Achcuatli nodded gravely. “And that is why the flower’s death is not enough to feed the gods. Blood is needed.”

I looked away. “What if you’re wrong?”

He touched my hair. “Who are you to teach the Nahuatl about their own gods?” For a mercy, he sounded more amused than offended.

“A child of my mother’s people,” I said in a low tone. “Who lost a great gift because we did not understand the will of our god. One who has seen for herself that men try to shape the gods’ will to serve them.” I thought about Raphael de Mereliot. “One who did the same when she was young.”

Achcuatli chuckled. “You are still young.”

Without looking at him, I laid a finger on the tightly furled bud of an unopened dahlia blossom. Summoning the merest hint of the twilight, I exhaled softly and coaxed it to grow. It opened obligingly, its myriad petals unspiraling to reveal a crimson blossom with a yellow center.

Beside me, the Nahuatl Emperor drew a sharp breath.

I glanced up at him.

His eyes were narrowed. “What
are
you?”

“Myself,” I said simply.

Beneath the thin veneer of stoicism, warring emotions crossed his mien. Without warning, he seized my face in his hands and kissed
me hard, his tongue thrusting past my lips, the gold plug in his chin digging into mine. Just as quickly, he released me and took a step backward.

“I must think.” Achcuatli beckoned to the entourage trailing us. “My servants will return you to your chamber. I may send for you tonight, or I may not.”

I inclined my head, knowing he would.

FORTY

T
he summons came an hour after sunset.

Once again, my two attendants helped me dress in Nahuatl finery. I was escorted with ceremony through the halls of the palace to the Emperor’s bedchamber.

I could sense Bao’s
diadh-anam
not far away. I could not help but think that within these same walls, Bao was consorting with Achcuatli’s youngest wife; and I could not help feeling a pang of jealousy. I set it aside along with my guilt, to be dealt with later.

The Emperor’s bedchamber was aglow with lamplight, hung about with intricate feather tapestries. His gaze was avid, but his expression was set and hard. “I do not know if this is wise.”

I shifted my hands into a soothing
mudra
. “Nor do I.”

The admission eased him. “No?”

I shook my head. “No, my lord. Only that Naamah wills it.”

“Are you sure?” There was a note of wry humor in his tone. “You said you have mistaken the will of the gods before.”

I smiled. “Not this time.”

He extended one hand. “Come, then.”

“I must pray to Naamah first, and ask her blessing.” I’d brought an unlit taper in a silver candle-holder from my chamber. Now I kindled it at a lamp, setting the holder on an elaborately painted chest. While Achcuatli watched curiously, I knelt and gazed at the flickering flame, praying silently.

“Do you do this every time?” he asked.

“No.” I concentrated on opening my heart to Naamah that she might speak through me if that was her will. I thought about what Porfirio Reyes had said, and what I’d learned to love about the Nahuatl in this brief time. Achcuatli had shown me kindness and generosity. He had spoken openly and honestly to me. And although I could not help but recoil from the thought of the skulls lining the racks of the
tzompantli
, I’d caught a glimpse of it through his eyes, and I understood that we saw very different things.

I
saw the horror of thousands upon thousands of needless deaths. The Nahauatl Emperor saw a sea of flowers, their hearts’ blood shed to nourish the gods so that the sun might rise and the rains might fall.

And since the Aragonians had come, he was walking a narrow and difficult path, trying in his own way to be a good shepherd to his people.

I breathed slowly and deeply, my hands resting on my knees palm upward, feeling Achcuatli’s gaze on me.

When the words came to me, they seemed to come from a distant point beyond the candle-flame, a place of tremendous brightness. “Blood is not the only sacrifice,” I heard myself say. “And heaven is not the only reward. The roots of the tree of Aztlan have been well watered. Let its branches spread far and wide, and its seeds fall on fertile ground.”

Naamah’s grace settled over the chamber, as delicate and ephemeral as the feather cloak Achcuatli had given me.

I glanced at him to see his obsidian eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Do you know the meaning of those words?” he asked me.

“No, my lord,” I said softly. “Do you?”

He nodded. “I believe I do.”

Rising to my feet, I went to him. I laid one hand on his bare chest, feeling his heart beat beneath my palm. He put his arms around me, Naamah’s blessing doubly enfolding me. I felt his warm breath stir my hair.

It had been a long time since I’d been with someone who was scarce more than a stranger to me. I had to own, there was a certain fearful thrill at the newness and difference of it, and in giving myself over wholly to Naamah’s will.

Despite his abrupt kiss in the garden, Achcuatli was gentle. He undressed me with reverence, untying the feather cloak, setting aside the feather headdress with the long emerald
quetzal
plumes that were his gifts. He removed my clothing and left me adorned in golden armbands, gazing at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

“You are very beautiful,” he said at length.

I kissed him, learning how to angle my head to avoid the golden chin-plug. “Thank you.”

In turn, I undressed him. His skin shone coppery in the lamplight. In the course of undressing him, I performed many of the kisses and caresses and love-bites that were part of Naamah’s arts, raising his desire to a feverish pitch. After I knelt to unlace his sandals, I wrapped my long hair around his erect phallus with a deft twist of my head, drawing back to pull away in a long, silken glide.

At that, Achcuatli groaned and pulled me to my feet, his fingers digging hard into my shoulders. “Enough!” he said in a hoarse voice.

The bed was soft, a pallet filled with feathers. I sank into it under the weight of Achcuatli’s body on mine. With Naamah’s gift beating in my veins, I spread my thighs to welcome him.

Slowly and steadily, Achcuatli thrust himself into me. The absence of a shared
diadh-anam
brought home the strangeness of it all. His strong-featured, unfamiliar face hovered over mine, his gaze hard and intense as he moved in and out of me. I wanted to close my eyes, but some prompting of Naamah’s told me not to.

Blood is not the only sacrifice
.

I offered up my own pleasure as a sacrifice, my own deep wellspring of desire. I felt the fluttering of Naamah’s doves in my belly, the deeper waves of climax fluttering lower. I watched Achcuatli’s face break into a fierce grin of pride as my hips rose to meet his, my back arching, nails scoring his back.

And I understood that there was a deeper wound beneath the slight that the Aragonians’ disgust and dismay had provoked, that it was symbolic of the profoundly injured pride of the entire Nahuatl folk, regarded as little better than animals by these strangers from across the sea who would gladly have razed Tenochtitlan to the ground if they could.

Naamah’s blessing was not enough to heal the wound, but it could spread balm over it, that healing might begin.

With a low groan, Achcuatli buried himself deep inside me and spent.

Afterward, he lay quiet and thoughtful, idly stroking my skin, gazing at the ceiling with open eyes.

“What did it mean to you?” I asked at last, unable to resist my curiosity. “The words I spoke?”

He glanced at me. “It is a thing my advisors and I have discussed. I told you that the Aragonians made alliances with tribes who resent our rule.” I nodded. “We have discussed making our own peace with enemy tribes, and bringing them more fully into the fold of our empire.”

“Instead of making war on them to gain captives to sacrifice?” I asked.

“Yes.” Achcuatli studied me. “No one put those words in your mouth?”

“No one but Naamah, I swear.”

“Why would a foreign goddess speak to me through a stranger when our own gods are silent?” He shook his head in frustration. “I do not understand.”

Rolling onto my side, I propped my head on one arm. “Years ago, I had a teacher who taught me that all ways lead to the Way,” I said slowly, thinking. “That there is a great truth behind all the truths of the world, and the faces of the gods are masks that may be changed at will. Mayhap Naamah is not so foreign as you think.”

The Nahuatl Emperor traced the curve of my waist with one finger, then settled his hand on my hip. “We worship a goddess of desire, too. Xochiquetzal’s festival is celebrated with flowers and masks.”

My skin prickled. “Truly?”

He nodded. “It is said she appears as a young and beautiful woman, followed everywhere by birds and butterflies.” He smiled a little. “I would not be surprised to find birds and butterflies following you.”

I smiled, too. “I am mortal, I promise.”

“I will think on what you have said to me,” he said. “I will take counsel with my priests and advisors. The world has changed since I was a boy. Perhaps the will of the gods has changed with it.”

I kissed his shoulder. “Thank you, my lord. I am glad.”

Achcuatli’s grip on my hip tightened, and there was heat rising in his gaze. “But for now, the night is not over.”

It was a long night.

In the morning, I was tired and sated, filled with a complex mixture of emotions, pride and guilt warring in me. I was glad to have served Naamah’s will, glad that mayhap it would help steer the Nahuatl a measure farther away from their harsh practices, leading them to question the gods’ will and altering the tenuous balance of power in Terra Nova for the better. Naamah’s blessing was a pebble tossed into a lake the depths of which I could not fathom. All I could do was hope that the ripples would carry onward.

But I felt guilty, too.

To his credit, Achcuatli continued to be gentle with me. We broke our fast in the bedchamber, where servants brought
chocolatl
and an array of fresh fruits.

“I wish you would not go on this quest,” the Emperor said softly. “It is very, very dangerous.”

“I know.”

He shook his head. “You think you do, but you do not. Very few
pochtecas
have undertaken it in my lifetime, and most have not returned. It was not easy to find guides.”

I sipped my frothy
chocolatl
. “You sent Thierry into danger on purpose, didn’t you?”

He was silent a moment. “I thought he would turn back, and the problem he posed would go away.”

“He didn’t.”

Achcuatli searched my face. “You know it is likely he is dead? That they are all dead?”

I nodded. “It is likely, yes. But they are not.”

He sighed. “You are very stubborn.”

With an unexpected pang, I thought of my mother. “Aye, I am.”

The Emperor picked at the fruit on his plate. “I will keep my promise. I will give you the aid of my
pochtecas
, and anything else I may. All will be arranged within a day. While you are here, you are under my protection. But once you leave, I do not expect to see you alive again, Moirin.”

I hoisted my goblet to him. “Believe me, my lord, you are but the latest in a long list of men who feel the same way. I will do my best to prove you wrong.”

His obsidian eyes glinted. “I hope you do.” Achcuatli paused, his expression turning grave. “There is another warning I would give you. Last night, you said to me that blood is not the only sacrifice, and I took heed of the words your goddess sent you. Perhaps it is true, that the roots of the tree of Aztlan are soaked, and the gods are sated for now. Do not forget, that does not mean it holds true elsewhere in the land.”

“I will not,” I promised.

The Nahuatl Emperor inclined his head in approval. “Sometimes when the gods thirst, blood
is
the only sacrifice.”

FORTY-ONE