Naamah's Blessing

of our need is upon us!”
    Beneath the shadow of the ancestors’ gallery, the assembled Quechua turned, staring up at her in wonder.
    Beside me, Raphael swore savagely, gripping my shoulder and shaking me. “What the hell trick is this, Moirin?”
    I bit the inside of my cheek until it bled, wishing I could turn back time, wishing it were yesterday again and this was not happening.
    Atop the stairs, Cusi sank to her knees. She lifted her chin, her pretty face luminous. Now that she had begun the invocation, there was no more fear in her. “Great ancestors, hear me!” she called, her voice clear and strong. “I call upon you to save us in our hour of need! In your names, I offer myself as willing sacrifice!”
    “No!”
    Raphael shouted the word, and I whispered it, but it was already too late. Bao’s hand trembled only slightly as he laid the bronze blade against Cusi’s slender throat. He did not hesitate. With one powerful slash, using all his strength to compensate for the dullness of the blade, he slit open the girl’s throat.
    A river of blood spilled from Cusi’s throat, soaking the white wool of her garment and turning it crimson. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she fell forward, catching herself briefly on her hands, her hair trailing in her own blood.
    Blood spilled over the top stair; more blood than it seemed one small body should hold. It poured into channels etched into the carvings behind the gallery of the ancestors, limning them in scarlet.
    There was shouting and pandemonium in the temple, the Quechua jostling and shoving and yelling amongst themselves, Raphael attempting in vain to regain control of the situation.
    It was old Iniquill’s voice that rose above the fray, high and fierce and quavering. “Let the ancestors speak!” she cried, pointing. “It is as the great Mamacoya foretold!”
    The Quechua fell silent.
    Atop the stairs, Cusi lay crumpled and still. Bao stood motionless, the knife yet in his blood-stained hand, his face yet hidden behind the sun god’s mask. Runnels of blood made their way through the carvedchannels, made their way toward the seated figures of the ancestors. Drop by drop, blood fell to darken their ancient cerements.
    Bones creaking, the ancestors stirred.
    I stared, as transfixed as everyone, my heart in my throat.
    “No,” Raphael muttered frantically. “No, no, no! This is wrong, all wrong.” Pacing, he grabbed Prince Manco’s arm and pointed toward the head of the stairs. “Seize him! Seize the false priest!”
    The prince hesitated.
    Standing atop the stairs, Bao dropped the bronze knife and removed the high priest’s golden mask. Behind it, his face was streaked with tears, but his voice was steady. “There is no falsehood here save yours, Lord Pachacuti!” he called. “You are no god, only a man misguided. I have bridged the worlds between life and death, and today I pay the price for it.”
    In the ancestors’ gallery, eight seated figures slowly began to rise, their brittle, blood-stained cerements crackling. Flowers spilled from their withered laps, desiccated fingers gripped bejeweled weapons. And still the blood continued to fall, drop by drop.
    Abandoning Prince Manco, Raphael returned to pluck the
Sapa Inca’s
crown from the altar, placing it on his own head.
    “It is done,” he said wildly. “So be it.” Lightning flared in his eyes as he rounded on me. “It is
done
! I rule in Tawantinsuyo; I, and I alone! I am worshipped here! Moirin, call your magic! Now!”
    Trust me
.
    There was no time left to think.
    Placing my faith in the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, in the words of my lady Jehanne, in the dead and the living and every god I knew, I obeyed.
    I summoned the twilight.
    “Focalor!”
Raphael shouted, flinging his arms wide. “Come to me!”
    In the temple, a doorway onto a raging maelstrom opened. The fallen spirit was there in inchoate form, answering the call of the spark of its essence that remained in Raphael de Mereliot. Raphael laughedaloud in triumph, and then stiffened. A thunderclap broke with a sound like boulders splitting and lightning-shot darkness poured through the doorway, poured into him, entering his open mouth. He cried aloud, his body convulsing in agony. Without a true sacrifice in his honor, he was not strong enough to contain it.
    Mayhap he never would have been, but of a surety, he wasn’t now. The storm that was Focalor’s essence was consuming him.
    And I felt the strength draining from