Naamah's Blessing

testament to his will.
    “Stone and sea! I’m so sorry, my lord,” I said to him with genuine remorse. “This must be the worst place in the world for you.”
    Denis gave me a wry glance. “It’s no more than I deserve, Moirin. Raphael must have suffered the same.” He shrugged. “Mayhap it’s the gods’ way of allowing us to atone for our sins.”
    Balthasar examined his fingernails. “As a scion of mighty Kushiel, I assure you, he does not use
ants
as an instrument of atonement.”
    I ignored him, approaching Denis and laying one hand on his cheek. “My lord, you have atoned and more,” I said softly. “You have saved us twice over—once aboard the ship, and secondly when the Cloud People attacked us. Were it not for your warning, they would have slaughtered us in our sleep. I daresay the gods have forgiven you.”
    His eyes brightened with emotion. “You truly think so?”
    I nodded. “I do.”
    Denis let out his breath and rubbed his twitching nose. “Let’s go find Thierry and the others,” he said with renewed resolve.
    Once again, we launched our canoes, carrying them over the rocks, mindful of the brittle wood.
    The first few days on the big river were days of sameness. The river unfurled before us like a broad, milky-green ribbon, leading us ever deeper and deeper into the depths of the jungle. We rode atop its breast in our canoes, paddling, ever paddling. Our arms and shoulders grew stronger, muscles toughening as we journeyed.
    It rained almost every day, but not for long. We grew accustomed to ignoring the rain, bailing out our vessels as necessary, trusting that the rain would end. Sooner or later, the sun came out and steamed us dry. By day we paddled; by night, we made camp along the banks of the river, eating fruits and roasted sweet potatoes and sleeping in hammocks strung between trees, all of us doing our best not to heed the sounds of the jungle at night. Bit by bit, we began to relax a little.
    That was a mistake.
    I was fishing when we took the first casualty of our river journey. Calling on the skills of my youth, I’d gone a few dozen yards downstream with Bao, summoning the twilight once we were out ofsight. Lying on my belly on a rocky promontory, I coaxed the bottom-dwelling whiskered fish into my hands, grabbing them and tossing them to Bao, who stuffed them deftly into a reed creel.
    While immersed in the business of procuring food, we heard cries from the campsite behind us.
    Bao and I exchanged a glance. “We’d better go,” he said.
    I nodded, releasing the twilight. “Don’t forget the fish.”
    When we reached the campsite, we found one of our men on the ground, his chest heaving as he struggled futilely for air—Eric Morand, a mercenary from Camlach province.
    My own throat tightened. “What happened?”
    “Went gathering firewood and got bitten by a snake.” Eyahue nodded at Temilotzin, who held up a headless, writhing length of crimson-banded serpent, his broad face dispassionate. “I told you, if it’s pretty to the eye, don’t touch it.”
    I stared in horror at Eric Morand, who stared back at me with wide, stricken eyes. “Can’t we do something? Anything?”
    Eyahue shook his head. “Nothing but give him the mercy blow,” he said gently. “Do you want it?”
    Kneeling beside the Camaeline mercenary, I asked him if he wanted the mercy blow. “Can you blink?” I asked, tears streaming down my face. “If you can, blink once for yes.”
    His eyes closed once, and opened.
    I beckoned to Temilotzin, who stooped beside me. He placed one hand on Eric Morand’s brow with unexpected tenderness. With the other, he placed the tip of his obsidian dagger over his heart, driving it home with one efficient thrust.
    Eric Morand went still forever.
    A stark mood settled over the camp that evening. It was impossible to dig a grave in the dense, root-packed floor of the jungle, so we built a cairn instead, gathering stones and heaping them over our fallen comrade’s body. Once again, Septimus Rousse gave the invocation. This time, there were no fond jests.
    No one had much of an appetite for the fish I’d caught, but weroasted them and ate them anyway, doling out a few bites for everyone, aware that we couldn’t afford to waste food. The cairn loomed in the gathering darkness, a harsh reminder of the day’s tragedy.
    When we launched our canoes the next morning, I felt as though Eric Morand’s stricken gaze followed us from beneath the cairn,