Naamah's Blessing

great ruler Terre d’Ange has known. Did you know they called her reign the Years of Joy?” His mouth twisted. “I wonder what they will call
mine
.”
    I said nothing.
    “You’re no courtier to feed me smooth lies,” he observed. “Nor a false friend to give me words of false comfort. I appreciate it.”
    “Your majesty—”
    King Daniel raised one hand to silence me. “I meant my words. Moirin, there’s a matter I wish to discuss with you in private. Come, we’ll speak in my study.”
    I inclined my head. “Of course, my lord.”
    As I followed him, I couldn’t help but hesitate in front of Jehanne’s portrait, newly hung since last I had visited the Hall of Portraits. The King paused, his expression pained. “That was done the first year of our marriage,” he said quietly. “She sat for it in the costume she wore for the Longest Night.”
    I gazed at it without speaking. It was beautiful, of course—it was Jehanne. The artist had done a good job of capturing the sparkle of her eyes, the translucence of her skin. Her pale hair was piled in a coronet, and she wore a high collar of delicate silver filigree from which diamonds spilled like droplets of ice, hundreds of scintillating points of light. Her wicked little smile looked like it belonged to a woman keeping a delightful secret—and knowing Jehanne, she probably was.
    “It’s very beautiful,” I murmured.
    Daniel turned away. “I know.”
    His study was as I remembered it, a warm, masculine room with a great deal of polished wood. It was tidier, though. There were nopapers cluttering his gleaming desk, as there had been in the Lord Minister’s study.
    At his majesty’s urging, I took one of the high-backed chairs before the fireplace. He stirred the coals with a poker. “You paid a second visit to the princess. I thought you would stay longer.”
    “She was at her studies,” I said. “Bao stayed. Unless you disapprove, he will learn to read alongside her.”
    The King looked startled. “He will?”
    “Unless you disapprove,” I repeated. “It is not that he cannot
read
,” I added. “The Ch’in use a very, very different form of writing.” The memory of my Ch’in princess Snow Tiger tracing characters on my bare skin with the end of her braid and laughing at my struggles came to me, and I cleared my throat. “It is actually quite difficult to learn.”
    “Ah… yes.” Daniel blinked. “I recall seeing Master Lo Feng’s poetry. Lovely, but incomprehensible. Tell me, Moirin… how do you find my daughter?”
    I met his gaze. “Much like her mother, my lord. Willful, with moods that switch like the wind. Charming, despite her temper. Clever and quick-witted.”
    “Is that all?”
    His gaze was steady. I drew a deep breath. “No, my lord. I find her lonely and neglected.”
    “Ah.”
    “Desirée is a tempestuous child,” I said. “But she
is
a child nonetheless. If you are asking, your majesty, I think she would be better served by nursemaids more inclined to patience and tolerance of a child’s foibles.” I frowned in thought. “I am not sure, yet, about her tutor. That is one of the reasons I suggested Bao stay and study with her. He will be able to provide a better gauge.”
    The King raised his brows. “Was that your true purpose in suggesting such an unorthodox arrangement, then?”
    I shrugged. “It was a convenient confluence of purposes.”
    “I see.”
    “Do I overstep my bounds, my lord?” I asked him honestly.
    “No more than I had hoped.” Daniel de la Courcel poked at the fire a second time, then settled into the chair opposite me, gazing into the shifting embers in the grate. “Moirin, do you know of the Montrèvan Oath?”
    I shook my head. “No, my lord.”
    He gave a faint smile. “It began when Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève… Have you heard of him?” I nodded. “Ah, good. When Anafiel Delaunay, for he was disinherited at the time, swore an oath to Rolande de la Courcel”—the King counted on his fingers—“my thrice-times great-grandfather… swore an oath to protect the interests of Rolande’s infant daughter Ysandre.”
    “I know the story,” I murmured.
    He nodded. “That oath was sworn in secret. But it formed the basis for a new tradition begun by Sidonie and Imriel de la Courcel, who openly invited their kinsman Barquiel L’Envers to be the oath-sworn protector of their firstborn child.”
    “Your grandmother Anielle?”
    “Even so.” Daniel de la Courcel sighed.