Naamah's Blessing

And fellows like that Aragonian make it harder. I shouldn’t have hit him, should I?”
    “I think you needed to.” I smiled. “For my part, I found it quite satisfying.”
    That earned a reluctant answering smile from Bao. “Did you see the look on his face?”
    I nodded. “He was gaping like a fish on dry land.”
    Laying down his staff, Bao sat beside me and took one of my hands in his, lacing our fingers together. “I am not angry at you, Moirin. I swear it.”
    “I know.”
    “I have been thinking of what you said to Desirée at her father’s funeral,” he said. “That it was all right to be angry at the gods sometimes. You told her that the gods understand sorrow—and anger, too.”
    “She asked why they send so much of it,” I said, remembering. “And you told her it was to make us stronger. That it was hard, but it was the only way.”
    “Yes.” Bao took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “It helps to remember why we are doing this.”
    “For Desirée?”
    He squeezed my hand. “Yes. For her, I can be strong.”
    “Strong like a dragon?” I asked, echoing the young princess’ words.
    Bao smiled. “Exactly.”

FORTY-TWO

    A day later, all was in readiness.
    The steel tools we had brought had been delivered to the Emperor’s palace, keeping back only the hatchets and adzes that Septimus Rousse gauged we might need to create vessels to navigate the jungle rivers.
    For that alone, I was grateful that he had chosen to accompany us. Even Bao, my resourceful magpie, admitted such a need would not have occurred to him.
    Emperor Achcuatli assigned two
pochtecas
to guide us into the verdant wilderness of Tawantinsuyo.
    It was strange to see him once more after the lone day and night we had shared. Truly, we were intimate strangers. His obsidian gaze lingered on me with a certain tenderness as he made the introductions. I could not but help remember his weight upon me as I sank into the feather pallet, the feeling of him inside me.
    I pushed those memories away.
    Bao maintained an expressionless face.
    The
pochtecas
were an uncle and nephew. Neither were young; indeed, the elder of the two, Eyahue, was a wiry old fellow with skin tanned like leather by time and sun, his black hair gone to grey, his mouth sunken around missing teeth. At least he looked to be in reasonably good spirits regarding the journey. His nephew, Pochotl, was a sturdy fellow in his late forties, and he looked none too happy to obey the Emperor’s order.
    Rounding out our company was the spotted warrior Temilotzin, and he looked downright cheerful at the prospect. I had the impression Achcuatli had assigned him the duty simply because Temilotzin had taken a liking to us.
    Standing atop a gilded dais in the great temple square of Tenochtitlan, the Nahuatl Emperor bade us a ceremonial farewell, publicly announcing that we were under his protection as far as the empire extended. He invoked the blessing of the gods on our journey, adding that offerings of flowers and honey would be given to Xochiquetzal, goddess of desire, in my name—every day until our return, or a year had passed.
    I found myself unexpectedly touched by the gesture. The Nahuatl folk seemed to approve.
    Bao raised his brows at me, but he kept his silence.
    And then it was done, and there was nothing left but to bow deeply to Achcuatli, offer thanks for his generosity, and take our leave.
    I cannot imagine what an odd sight our caravan made as we departed the city of Tenochtitlan and crossed the broad southern causeway for what might well be the last time. Forty D’Angeline warriors, sunlight bouncing off their steel helmets, bright reflections wavering in the placid water of the lake along which they marched. Our two
pochtecas
, one wizened, one sullen. Temilotzin in his jaguar hides and a wooden helmet with a feathered crest, a club in one hand, spear in the other, his wicker shield slung over his shoulder. Bare-headed Septimus Rousse, his coppery red hair a blaze beneath the blue sky. Bao with his staff lashed across his back, resembling no one else in our company. Three laden pack-horses, and me riding astride the fourth.
    Nahuatl fishermen in reed boats and farmers on the artificial islands watched us go. It felt as though we were marching into history, never to be seen again. The Aragonians would tell the tale of the D’Angeline expedition that had tried to whore its way into the Emperor’s graces with disdain.
    Mayhap the Nahuatl would tell the tale