Naamah's Blessing

Unexpectedly, a dazzling smile lit her face. “Thank you. I had need of your gentle counsel one last time. But I think I am ready now.”
    It was my turn to be dismayed. “So soon?”
    “It is long past time.” Jehanne wound her soft, slender arms around my neck, gazing intently into my eyes. The intoxicating scent of her perfume mingled with the odor of fresh-turned soil and the green scent of thriving plants. “Be well,” she whispered against my lips. “Be happy. I wish you every joy, Moirin. Do not forget to tell Desirée that I loved her. Do not forget to tell your own plump babes and your reformed ruffian of a husband. He loves you very, very much, and that will see you through every darkness.”
    My eyes stung. “Jehanne—”
    “Naamah’s blessing on you, my beautiful girl.” She kissed me, her lips soft and tender, lingering; and I felt Naamah’s blessing break over us like a wave, like a warm, golden embrace, an enduring affirmation of the power of love and desire.
    I wrapped my arms around Jehanne, holding her close.
    For a moment, my lady Jehanne was
there
, warm and living and present in my arms. And then there was only empty sunlight sparkling in my embrace, the stalks of
maize
waving their blameless tassels.
    I awoke with a start.
    On the pallet beside me, Bao roused sleepily to prop himself on one elbow, reading my expression. “You dreamed of the White Queen?”
    I nodded. “She is gone now.”
    “I’m sorry.” His sympathy was sincere. “It must be hard to lose her twice.”
    “It was.” I found myself smiling through tears. “But it was time. As it is ours, too. Time to go home.”

SEVENTY-FIVE

    T here was one last matter to be dealt with ere we could depart the empire of Tawantinsuyo. Because he had worn the crown of the
Sapa Inca
, no matter how briefly, the Quechua had preserved Raphael de Mereliot’s body.
    “Whatever else is true, he commanded great magic,” the
Sapa Inca
Huayna said soberly. “There can be no place for him among our ancestors, but we did not wish to offend whatever gods he served. Do you wish to return him to your own temple?”
    “We are not lugging that maniac’s carcass across the entire continent of Terra Nova,” Balthasar muttered.
    Prince Thierry silenced him with a scowl, then turned to me. “Moirin, you understand these matters better than most. What are your thoughts?”
    I gazed at Raphael’s face. Even beneath the cerements, one could see that he had been a beautiful man. I thought of the fallen spirit Focalor forcing his essence into him, and of the spark of lightning that had lingered in Raphael’s eyes, haunting my thoughts for so many years. What if a spark lingered even now? Having seen the dead rise and walk, I did not wish to take any chances.
    “I would build a funeral pyre,” I said slowly. “Let the fire cleanse him and release any trace of the spirit that remains. Let his ashes be scattered to fertilize the fields.”
    “It seems a fitting end,” the
Sapa Inca
Huayna said in quiet approval.
    So it was done.
    The Quechua built a pine-wood pyre in the temple square. There, Raphael de Mereliot’s body was cremated, his cloth-wrapped limbs twisting and blackening in flames that burned so hot they were nearly invisible in the sunlight. Now and again, a burst of sparks rose into the sky.
    I thought of Focalor and wondered.
    Despite everything, I did not believe the fallen spirit was
evil
. It was a force of destruction that had been constrained for long centuries if the legends were true, and unleashed on the world, it would have wreaked havoc. So had the ants Raphael commanded done; and yet, within their rightful habitat, they had a role to play. Mayhap the fallen spirits had a role to play, too.
    If the spirit Marbas had not given me the gift of finding hidden things, my Ch’in princess would have drowned in the reflecting lake atop White Jade Mountain, the dragon would have ceased to be, and the weapons of the Divine Thunder would have been loosed on the world, altering it forever.
    Mayhap even my youthful folly had a purpose. The gods use their chosen hard, but reveal little to them.
    When the pyre had burned down to a few restless embers, the Quechua gathered the ashes in earthenware bowls, transporting them to the fields where they were distributed with care, churned into the soil to nourish it.
    I gazed at the waving rows of
maize
, praying silently that Raphael’s bitter, tormented heart would find healing.
    And