Naamah's Blessing

conquest.” Seated in his litter, Raphael drew a deep breath as we entered the city walls, as though to take possession of the air itself. “But where is the
Sapa Inca
?” He frowned. “He must surrender to me.”
    One of the Quechua pointed. “There.”
    There
was a fortress that loomed above the city, perched atop it like a falcon hunched over its prey, defended by high walls. A hastilydug moat surrounded it, filled with churning water diverted from the river and channeled back into the canals.
    Prince Manco scowled. “My father thinks to make a stand.”
    Raphael smiled. “Oh, he does, does he? Well, let him. We’ll take the fortress at our leisure.”
    Standing close enough to hear the exchange, I eyed the myriad streams of ants scuttling along the streets of Qusqu. “Do not delay overlong, my lord,” I said quietly. “The mountains do not possess the abundance of the jungle. Your black river may starve us all in this place.”
    Raphael narrowed his eyes at me. “Do not presume to tell me my business, Moirin. I have no more patience for your insubordination.”
    I held my tongue.
    Beneath the shadow of the fortress, we settled into the city. Raphael took possession of the palace, lodging his men in its myriad rooms. He sent forth criers to announce that Qusqu was under the rule of the Divine Lord Pachacuti, and that the surrender of the
Sapa Inca
was imminent. The inhabitants left behind acknowledged his sovereignty with alacrity, terrified by the roving streams of ants. Even my own attendant entourage had been absorbed into the rivers that roamed the streets.
    On Raphael’s orders, I lodged with the Maidens of the Sun, which suited my purposes better than he could have known. On that first night, Ocllo secluded herself with the high priestess for many long hours. I slept fitfully, fearing that she did not tip our hand unwisely, praying that the religious women of Qusqu would aid us. I wished I could confer with Bao and the others, but it could wait until I knew more.
    In the morning, Machasu brought word that the high priestess had sent for me.
    The high priestess Iniquill received me with Ocllo in attendance. She was an elderly woman with hair turned pure silver and sharp eyes beneath wrinkled lids, and one could see from her strong bones that she had been beautiful in her youth. She beckoned me close, studying me for long minutes.
    “Lord Pachacuti commands an army of death and hunger with his magic,” she announced in Quechua. “This I have seen. My sister-maiden Ocllo tells me you command the gift of life with yours. This I would see.” She pointed at a wilting shrub in an earthenware pot. “If you can bring forth blossoms, I will believe.”
    I bowed to her. “As you will, my lady.” Kneeling, I thought of my dream of a bulwark of flowers raised against the darkness. I brushed the plant’s broad, hairy leaves with my fingertips. “It wants water.”
    “Anyone can water a plant,” Iniquill said dismissively.
    “Aye, my lady,” I said. “But it can draw no more moisture from the soil than what is in the pot. If I coax it to bloom, it will die soon after, and it is a gift of life you asked to see.”
    The high priestess relented grudgingly and there was a brief delay as one of the maidens was summoned to fetch a jar and water the plant until the soil was sodden, doing her best to hide her curiosity.
    When she had been sent away, I knelt once more. I breathed the Breath of Trees Growing and summoned a flicker of the twilight, exhaling softly over the shrub’s wilted leaves.
    The leaves stiffened and brightened, dark green lightening to a more vivid hue. The muddy soil dried visibly as the shrub brought forth dangling buds that elongated before our eyes, peach-colored petals furling back to reveal trumpet-shaped blossoms.
    I glanced up at the high priestess Iniquill.
    She turned her keen gaze toward Ocllo. “And you vouch for the one who is twice-born?”
    “I do,” Ocllo said calmly. “The holy sacrifice Cusi has spoken with him. The gods have granted her true sight, and she saw the shadow of death upon him. He has knelt for her blessing and received the blade from her own hands.”
    “Then it seems I must believe.” The elderly priestess’ wrinkled eyelids flickered. “But this strange and terrible Lord Pachacuti has not yet won the throne of Tawantinsuyo. It may yet be that the
Sapa Inca
Yupanqui will defeat him.”
    “My lady, I would not be sorry to hear it,” I said