Naamah's Blessing

resurrection of the Quechua ancestors, the near-summoning of Focalor. The others had seen only the aftermath.
    So it fell to me once more, and I told it as one might tell a vivid tale remembered from a poem.
    The stone temple, the stairway and the bronze knife, the gold-masked priest who wielded it.
    I did not tell them it was Bao.
    Blood spilling over the stair, running in the carved channels.
    Focalor manifesting in a storm raging in the doorway I opened onto the spirit world, and Raphael drowning in his essence.
    Ancient skeletons wrapped in cerements, stirring beneath feathers and flowers and fine-spun wool, descending from the gallery.
    The black river of ants swarming the ancestors in vain, rendered impotent in the face of death’s advance.
    I told them of how Raphael found the courage and the strength to release me from my oath before the end, freeing me to banish Focalor a second time and close the doorway onto the spirit world. And closing my eyes, I told them how the Quechua ancestors had descended on him, slowly, so slowly, slow and inexorable, their rag-wrapped skulls blank-faced and impersonal, shredded marigold petals falling all around them, ornamental war-clubs raised in their bony, crumbling hands.
    “I didn’t watch,” I said. “I couldn’t.”
    No one spoke.
    In the audience, I saw my father with tears streaking his face, and he was not alone in weeping. Beside me, Lianne Tremaine laid her pen down quietly.
    “It is the end of a tale that began with the Circle of Shalomon,” Prince Thierry said into the silence, fixing his gaze on me. “But it is not the end of
ours
. Still…” He gave a faint smile. “Although it is very nearly finished, I think mayhap it is enough for today. As you can see,we are here to continue the telling of it, and that is cause enough for gladness.” He rose. “My thanks for listening.”
    One by one, folk filed out of the salon, their faces somber and wondering. Thierry paused beside my chair to lay a hand on my shoulder, peering down at Lianne’s scribbled notes.
    “Well, King’s Poet? Did you record the account in full?” he asked her.
    “I did, your highness.” She stoppered her inkwell, then tapped her temple with one finger. “Pay no heed to my scratchings. Most of it is here. And believe me when I tell you I am very, very grateful for this opportunity.” Her voice took on a familiar note, wry and rueful, as she asked a question equally familiar to me. “May I ask how much of it was true?”
    “All of it,” Thierry and I said at the same time.
    “All save the parts left untold,” Bao said quietly, glancing at the poetess, who returned his regard with keen interest. “Another day, I will tell them to you. And you may decide whether or not they make for a tale fit for the poets to tell.”
    “Bao…” I whispered. “You needn’t do it.”
    He gave me a look, his dark eyes glinting. “One should not lie to poets, Moirin,” he said. “After all, that’s
their
job.”
    And despite everything, I had to laugh.

EIGHTY-THREE

    M atters in Terre d’Ange proceeded apace.
    A date was set for Prince Thierry’s official coronation, but before it was to take place, Parliament decreed that the issue of House Barthelme’s perfidy should be addressed in the court of law.
    I attended the trial and testified to what I knew, although I took no pleasure in it.
    For my father’s sake, I was grateful that Rogier Courcel, the Duc de Barthelme, was found innocent of any legal wrongdoing, guilty only of the naked opportunism of which Thierry had accused him.
    For Desirée’s sake, I was grateful that his younger son Aristide was found innocent and blameless in the whole affair. She seemed fond of the lad, and he of her.
    Claudine de Barthelme and her eldest son Tristan were another matter.
    They were found guilty of the charge of suborning treason. Influenced by a heartfelt plea from the young Dauphine, who harbored conflicted feelings for what had been her foster-family for a good two years, the court did not accord them the sentence of death they deserved, or even the lesser sentence of exile, but merely sentenced them to a stay of ten years in imprisonment and stripped them of their titles and holdings.
    The Duchese de Barthelme heard her sentence read aloud with unbowed pride, her chin held high.
    Her pretty young son Tristan looked stricken throughout, and I could not help but pity him a little.
    Only a little.
    I had not forgotten how skillfully he