Naamah's Blessing

Qusqu.
    Streams of ants scuttled throughout the streets of the city, accompanying us in an informal manner. I walked in procession with the high priestess Iniquill, Ocllo, and a half-dozen Maidens of the Sun including Machasu, all of us clad in garments of fine-combed
vicuña
wool. Theirs were dyed a saffron hue while mine was blue, trimmed with red and saffron embroidery.
    The temple was already crowded, filled with Prince Manco’s Quechua warriors in D’Angeline armor, and other Quechua of high standing. I recognized the
Sapa Inca’s
elder sons among the latter. Everywhere, ants crawled.
    The ancestors in their gallery watched silently, blank, sunken faces wrapped in cerements, their laps filled with flowers.
    Raphael de Mereliot stood behind the altar. He wore a long robe of scarlet wool, belted with gold, a great emerald-studded collar around his neck. His head was bare, awaiting the crown, and his face was stern and beautiful. Last night had been his final crossroads, and he had made his choice. There was no trace of the tormented mortal man who had loved so deeply and endured such a bitter loss. Somewhere in the small hours of the night, he had put the past behind him. Raphael was ready for the mantle of godhood.
    At a gesture from him, his knights made way for me. Temilotzin caught my eye as I passed and gave an infinitesimal nod, his expression more grave than I’d ever seen it.
    It should have reassured me, but it didn’t. All he knew was that Cusi and the men had been safely delivered to the temple last night. My stomach was in knots, and I felt ill. Ah gods! I’d taken so much on trust. Now it seemed the gods asked me to take a further leap of faith, and I didn’t even know in which direction.
    “Moirin.” Raphael acknowledged me in a flat tone. “Are you prepared?”
    “Aye, my lord,” I murmured, wishing it were true.
    He gazed at the sea of copper-colored faces regarding him with superstitious awe, at the impassive figures of the ancestors, at the winding lines of ants. “Today will be a glorious day,” he said, more to himself than to me, drinking it all in. “Today will be a day that lives forever in history.”
    I said nothing.
    Raphael glanced at me. “You should be honored to witness it, Moirin. You should be honored that the gods have chosen you for this. But you have never, ever valued the gifts you have been given.”
    I met his gaze. “And you have never, ever understood them, my lord. I was not put on this earth to serve your ambition.”
    “You are mistaken,” he said simply. “Your presence here is proof.”
    And then we spoke no more, for somewhere in the hidden chambers beyond the stairs at the rear of the temple, a drum began to beat. Silence settled over the Temple of the Ancestors. Even the restless ants stilled. The Quechua watched Raphael with fascination, awaiting the coronation of this second Lord Pachacuti the Earth-Shaker who had overturned the order of the world. Raphael fixed his own gaze at the apex of the stairs, awaiting the arrival of the head priest and the willing victim who was to be sacrificed on the altar before him, the terrible, worshipful offering he believed would give him the power to contain the fallen spirit Focalor.
    Atop the stairs, Cusi appeared.
    She stood alone for a moment, clad in a long shift of unadorned white wool, her black hair loose and gleaming over her shoulders, and ah, stone and sea, she looked so
young
! She gave a faint, tremulous smile, one cheek dimpling, and I knew that despite everything, she had to be afraid. Raphael stared hungrily at her, his breathing quickening.
    I closed my eyes for the space of a few heartbeats.
    When I opened them, the high priest had emerged to stand behind Cusi, and although his face was obscured by a gilded mask depicting the sun god and gold bands hid the tattoos on his forearms, I knew by the flare of my
diadh-anam
that it was Bao.
    His head was averted, the hilt of the bronze knife clasped in his right hand. And I thought in a panic that this was wrong, all wrong. There was no way Bao could commit this dreadful deed, no way that he could take an innocent girl’s life in cold blood in the service of the unknown dead and foreign gods.
    Even as Raphael began to frown, wondering why they did not descend the stairs in procession, a line of priests behind them, a cry of protest rose in my throat.
    But before I could give voice to it, Cusi spoke. “Brothers and sisters!” she cried. “The hour