Naamah's Blessing

on a throne before an elaborate wall hanging wrought of feathers, a figure clad in a robe of fine-combed red wool, a great collar of gold, and a flared gold headdress.
    “Lord Pachacuti,” the lead guard announced. All of them knelt, touching their brows to the floor.
    The ants flowed forward, clicking and rasping, forming a teeming black pool around the base of the throne. The maidservants moved out of their way with the grace of long practice. The man on the throne smiled, reaching into a basket and tossing a handful of leaves to the swarming mass of ants.
    I caught my breath, my
diadh-anam
flaring.
    From his throne, Raphael de Mereliot turned his smile on me; and it was a terrible smile, cold and hard and cruel. “Well met, Moirin,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

FIFTY-FOUR

    T here was a shocked silence in the throne room.
    It was Denis de Toluard who broke it with a short, wondering laugh. “Raphael!” He unbuckled his helmet, running a hand through his damp hair. “Blessed Elua bugger me, I’m glad to see you!”
    “Denis.” Raphael’s hard smile softened into ruefulness. “Would that I could say the same, old friend.”
    “What do you mean?” Denis blinked at him, then glanced around. “Where’s his highness? Where are the others?”
    “Safe.” Raphael rose from his throne. Despite his foreign attire, he looked the same as I remembered him, with his tawny gold hair, grey eyes, and D’Angeline beauty; and yet he looked utterly different, too. He approached Denis with one hand extended. “I’m so very, very sorry about this, but I simply can’t take the chance.”
    Denis clasped his hand in bewilderment, raising the other to rub his nose. “What do you mean?” he asked again.
    Raphael’s free hand shot up, steel flashing as he planted a dagger under Denis’ chin and shoved it home with one ruthless thrust.
    I let out an involuntary cry.
    “I’m so sorry,” Raphael repeated, catching Denis as he sagged and wrenching his dagger free, lowering him to the floor. “Truly.”
    The black river of ants flowed forward, chitinous mandibles clicking.
    Raphael de Mereliot glanced over his shoulder. “No,” he said to them. “He was my friend.”
    The tide subsided.
    For a long, stunned moment, no one moved; and then Bao sprang into action with a hoarse shout, his staff whipping through the air.
    Before it could make contact the tide of ants surged once more, pouring over Bao, crawling up his legs with impossible speed, enveloping him like a living carpet despite his frantic efforts to brush them off, all thoughts of attack abandoned.
    “I suggest you hold still,” Raphael said in a mild tone. “They’ll eat you alive if I order it, starting with your eyes.” He peered at Bao. “Master Lo Feng’s surly lad, is it? Where’s your master?”
    Bao glared at him through a mask of writhing ants and gritted his teeth. “Dead.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it.” Raphael’s regret sounded unnervingly genuine. “He was a wise man, and I always admired him.” He plucked Bao’s bamboo staff from his hand. “So this one serves you now?” he asked me. “Is that how it is?”
    “No,” I whispered, shaking with terror. “He’s my husband. Please, Raphael, call them off him, won’t you?”
    He laughed. “Your
husband
?”
    I nodded.
    “How low you’ve fallen, Moirin,” Raphael remarked. “Naïve as you always were, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But it’s a long way from sharing the bed of Jehanne de la Courcel, Queen’s Companion.” He met my gaze, sparks flickering in his implacable storm-grey eyes. “You know I blame you for her death?”
    “Aye,” I murmured. “So do I.”
    Bao closed his eyes, ants crawling over his eyelids.
    Balthasar Shahrizai cleared his throat. He was pale and trembling, but his voice was steady. “My lord de Mereliot?” he inquired. “Or should I address you as Lord Pachacuti? Which do you prefer?”
    Raphael shrugged. “Either will suffice.” He eyed Balthasar. “I’m surprised to find
you
here, Shahrizai.”
    “No more than I.” Swallowing with a visible effort, Balthasar glanced uneasily at the black, seething statue that was Bao. “Mylord de Mereliot, if you mean to kill him, I beg you, at least do it cleanly.”
    “Oh, I don’t think killing him will be necessary.” Raphael smiled at me. “I suspect he’ll be quite useful to me in keeping Moirin in line—and vice versa. But he needed to be taught a lesson.