Naamah's Blessing

Maidens of the Sun, lady.” She beckoned to me. “Come.”
    After exchanging my thin sleeping-shift for a gown, I exited the palace and followed the Maidens of the Sun through the streets of Vilcabamba, accompanied by the ever-present stream of ants.
    The city was quiet and sleeping, for Lord Pachacuti had no need to post sentries. His ants would respond to any intruder, or anyone seeking to flee. We were neither, and there was no one to take notice of us. We passed through the city like silent ghosts. My hand continued to throb, slow blood seeping through the bandages.
    I daresay the Temple of the Maidens of the Sun was a glorious place in daylight, when the sun was meant to be worshipped. By night, it wasa vast, eerie space. Low flames flickered in a firepit in the center of the main temple chamber, shedding enough light to illuminate a massive golden disk depicting the Quechua sun god Inti on the far wall, not enough to chase the shadows from the corners or the high ceilings.
    More silent women awaited us, many of them young and pretty.
    After the black stream of ants had finished pouring over the threshold, the doors to the temple were closed.
    “So!” Ocllo’s voice echoed in the vast chamber. “You say Lord Pachacuti is not a god!”
    There was a soft, murmuring echo as someone translated her words from D’Angeline into Quechua.
    “I do,” I said.
    She gestured at the thousands upon thousands of ants. “Yet he has great power. What other man can do such a thing?”
    “None here,” I said. “Lord Pachacuti killed the only man in our company to possess the ability to understand them.”
    Ocllo frowned. “You say his gift comes from bad spirits, yet you have a gift, too. I have seen it.”
    I nodded. “It is a gift from my gods.”
    Her shrewd eyes narrowed. “How is that different?”
    “I did not ask for it, my lady,” I said honestly. “I was born with it. Lord Pachacuti
asked
for his gift.”
    “And the gods gave it to him,” Ocllo observed.
    “A fallen spirit who was once a god’s servant, yes. With my aid—aid I gave him because I was young and foolish and knew no better. And the gift that was given him, the gift of the language of ants, was not even the gift he sought. It was given him as a
jest
, one he has turned to dire ends I daresay not even the spirits themselves could have foreseen.” I opened my arms. My wounded right hand throbbed, wrapped in blood-stained bandages. “My lady, I do not lie. If Lord Pachacuti succeeds in this conquest, he will become more powerful than ever. He will become a god in truth.” I shook my head. “But if you think he cares for the people of Tawantinsuyo, you are wrong. In the end, only bad will come of it.”
    Ocllo pursed her lips. “So you say.”
    I raised my voice in frustration, unwanted tears stinging my eyes. “I’ve
seen
it! How can I make you understand?”
    “Hush.” Ocllo’s voice deepened, unexpectedly soothing. The corners of her eyes crinkled. “There is one way, child. But I fear it cannot come from you.”
    “The ancestors?” I asked.
    Cusi’s bandaged hand found mine and squeezed it. Despite the pang of pain, I welcomed her grip.
    Finding herself with a captive audience, Ocllo paced the floor of the temple in a leisurely manner, treading with care and drawing her skirts to avoid the ants. “It begins many, many years ago with the first Earth-Shaker,” she said conversationally. “The first Lord Pachacuti, the first
Sapa Inca
. He told the secret to his Queen, his Queen of Queens, his first wife, the great Mamacoya, and swore that she and her descendants must keep it always.” She nodded to herself. “So we have, every one of us. Have we not?”
    Voices murmured in agreement.
    My skin prickled. “Will you speak of it now?”
    She fixed me with her gimlet gaze. “You say to me that the man who is your husband died, and lives. I ask again, is it true?”
    “Aye, it is.”
    Ocllo snorted. “I do not mean that he was struck on the head and slept for a time.”
    “Bao
died
,” I said simply. “Everything I told you is true. He was killed by a poisoned dart. He drew no breath, no blood beat in his veins. I felt his body myself, felt it grow cold and stiff. For a long time, not a short time. He journeyed to the Ch’in underworld, and remembers it. And I do not know why this matters to you, but it is true.”
    “Because the first
Sapa Inca
said that one who had returned from death would wield the key to call on