Naamah's Blessing

to be of interest. The road followed a river that ran eastward from the highlands. We camped in a long train, foot-weary servants shuttling back and forth to tend to the needs of men and ants alike. There were tents for Prince Manco and Lord Pachacuti, and one for the Maidens of the Sun. I was glad of the latter for I worried about Machasu, who had a lingering fever from the effects of the
wurari
, but after three days, it passed.
    Everyone else slept in the open, taking their chances with the elements.
    On the first night, I ventured to visit Raphael’s tent and upon being granted admittance, I asked his permission to seek out Bao, reminding him that he had told me I might see them on the road.
    “I did, didn’t I?” Raphael was in good spirits and well rested, being the only one among us who had not walked for leagues. He had Cusi in attendance on him, and Bao’s bamboo staff in his hand, twirling it inexpertly.
    I eyed him. “Did you bring that just to torment me?”
    He laughed, nodding toward a corner of the tent where my yew-wood bow and quiver were propped. “No. I brought
those
to torment you.” He tucked Bao’s staff under his arm. “This I brought in case I need to remind your Ch’in husband that he is powerless here. I find his stubborn refusal to show a proper degree of fear quite vexing.”
    “You would not be the first to find Bao vexing,” I said. “May I see him?”
    Raphael shrugged. “I suppose so. You haven’t forgotten your oath to me, have you, Moirin?”
    I wished I could, for that bedamned oath preyed on my mind. “No, my lord. Believe me, I have not forgotten. You know full well that the Maghuin Dhonn cannot afford to take such things lightly.”
    “Good.” He waved me away. “Go.”
    I inclined my head. Cusi caught my eye as I straightened, giving me the hint of a sweet, trusting smile that made my heart ache for her all over again. Ah, gods! She was young, so young.
    Following the urging of my
diadh-anam
, I located Bao and the others half a league down the
road
. He rose to embrace me, his cheek pressed against my hair. “Was Eyahue able to aid you?” he whispered into my ear.
    “Aye,” I murmured in reply. “He was. It seems we have the means to incapacitate the priests for an hour’s time without harming them. But I fear it will not be an easy feat to accomplish.”
    Loosening his arms, Bao kissed me. “In our lives, what is?”
    I smiled ruefully. “Precious little. Is all well with you?”
    Bao nodded. “I do believe your missing prince has come into his own, Moirin. If we survive this, he’ll make a fine ruler.”
    For a mercy, it appeared to be true. The mood in the D’Angeline contingent was calm and resolved. There were no more factions between them. Since his decision, Prince Thierry seemed to have matured into his role as a King in exile, taking on a mantle of authority that he had not possessed before.
    It heartened me to see it.
    I prayed it was not too late.
    On the fourth day of our march, we passed our first settlement, a small fishing village along the banks of the river.
    The villagers stared, for which I could not blame them. They stared at the vanguard of men marching in bright, shining armor; they stared at the Quechua in traditional gear who followed. They stared at Raphael in his feather-canopied litter, and the stoic bearers who carried it. Most of all, they stared fearfully at the black tide of ants that accompanied us.
    So it went.
    Jungle gave way to lowland plains. The ants scoured the earth, augmenting their diet with aught they could devour. Despite the vast supplies our porters carried, it was not enough, never enough. Storehouses along the way, meant to protect the folk of Tawantinsuyo from starvation, were raided and emptied.
    Days passed; and then weeks. The swift
chasquis
running relays might be able to make the journey in mere days, but our plodding caravan could not.
    Rumor ran ahead of us, carrying the bitter truth. The
chasquis
sent forth from Vilcabamba had spoken truly.
    Lord Pachacuti the Earth-Shaker and his black river of death were a reality.
    Our first pitched battle came in the foothills of the mountain range in which the capital of Qusqu was located. Determined to test his opponent, the
Sapa Inca
Yupanqui had sent several thousand of his best warriors to make a stand in a low, flat valley. They outnumbered us three-fold or better.
    It was no contest.
    I saw it from a distance, on the slope of the hill that led