Naamah's Blessing

blessing unfolding like a burst of golden warmth over the Rani’s garden, the looks of wonder on the faces of all assembled. “So she did,” I agreed, returning his kiss.
    There was the sound of soft laughter.
    Extricating myself from Bao’s arms, I rose to see my father standing in the doorway, his green eyes sparkling with affection and mirth. Sunlight from the oculus above us gleamed on his long hair the color of oak-leaves and illuminated his crimson priest’s robes until they glowed. His smile widened as a joyful cry escaped my lips, and I flung myself on him. “You’re here!”
    “I’ve been here all along, Moirin.” My father held me close. “You’re the one who’s been gone, and I give thanks to Blessed Elua for your safe return.” Like Noémie, he drew back to look at me. “Your mother will be so very, very glad.”
    My heart leapt into my throat. “You’ve had word from her? She’s well?”
    He nodded gravely. “Oh, yes. I sent word of your departure to Clunderry Castle as you asked. Since then, once or twice a year, we’ve exchanged letters.”
    I rubbed my eyes. “I wonder who writes them for her. Or reads them, for that matter.”
    “Aislinn mac Tiernan, I believe,” my father said.
    “Oh.”
    “Who is Aislinn mac Tiernan?” Bao inquired. “Another of your royal ladies?”
    “Royal, but not mine.” I gathered my scattered thoughts, smiling through my tears. “Father, this is Bao, my husband.”
    “Indeed, so I heard. Naamah’s blessing on your union.” My father executed a graceful Ch’in bow. “Master Lo Feng’s apprentice, I believe?”
    Bao blinked at him. “You remember?”
    My father’s eyes crinkled. “A day of breathing lessons, yes. And then you and your mentor spirited my daughter to the far side of the world. It is not the sort of thing one forgets.”
    Bao looked guilt-stricken. “Ah… we did not mean to take her from you.” Without thinking, he touched his chest where the spark of our shared
diadh-anam
flickered deep inside. “Moirin was following her destiny.”
    My father laid one hand on Bao’s shoulder. “I know,” he said somberly. “And I am grateful to you for bringing her safely home.” His gaze settled on me. “Did you find it?”
    “I did.” I took a deep breath. “Although… I do not think it is finished.”
    For a moment, I saw the weight of worry and years age my father’s face; then he squared his shoulders, and it passed. “Will you be leaving again, then?”
    Bao and I exchanged a glance. Since arriving in Terre d’Ange, neither of us had felt the imperative drive of destiny; only a sense that it was lying in wait.
    “No,” I said. “Not right away, I don’t think. I don’t know. I’ve unfinished business here, too.” I rubbed my eyes again. “I’d like to see my mother, but ’tis late in the season to set out for Alba, isn’t it?”
    “It is,” my father said in a gentle tone. “Already the Straits grow dangerous. You might send word through a swift courier, but I’d advise against travel.”
    “Spring,” Bao said firmly. “After the expedition to Terra Nova returns, and that idiot Lord Lion Mane with it. You will finish your business with him, Moirin, and we will go to Alba.”
    “Aye?”
    He gave a decisive nod. “I dream of a cave in the hollow hills, and a stone doorway. I dream of a bear unlike any mortal bear. We will go there.”
    My father glanced from one of us to the other. “You’ve stories to tell, haven’t you?”
    I thought of the long history that unfurled behind the shining wake of the ship that had brought us to these shores; of the bronze cannons of the Divine Thunder booming on the battlefield, our princess Snow Tiger dancing on the precipice of a cliff with an arrow in each hand, brave Tortoise blown into a smoking crater.
    Of the dragon in flight, summoning the thunderstorms; of the vast blue sky unfolding above the Tatar steppe.
    Of Vralia and chains, scrubbing the endless tiles of the floor of a Yeshuite temple. The Patriarch of Riva’s creamy smile, and my sweet boy Aleksei’s reluctant heroism, until he became a hero in truth.
    Of Bao tossing and turning in sweat-soaked sheets in the Rani’s palace, purging the poppy-sickness from every pore and orifice.
    Of Jagrati seated in the throne-room of Kurugiri, the black fire of Kamadeva’s diamond at her throat, glaring at me through the twilight while the Rani Amrita stood between us, her hands raised in a