Naamah's Blessing

Perigord raised an inquiring hand. “Is it permitted to inspect the tree, your highness? I do not mean to be contentious, but…” She gave a delicate shrug. “Lady Moirin and her husband have collaborated with Eglantine House to show us clever illusions before. One wishes to be sure.”
    Thierry beckoned to her. “Of course.”
    The Marquise and several other peers came forward to inspect the tree to their satisfaction, riffling through the leaves and poking their fingers into the soil to make sure nothing was hidden there, one lord even going so far as to pluck an unripe fruit and gouge it with his thumbnail, making a face as he sucked the sour juices. At last, they were forced to own that the tree was nothing more than it seemed.
    I stroked its leaves. “His highness spoke an untruth unwittingly,” I announced. “It is the gift of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself that allows me to open pathways others cannot, but the path onto which this opens is a gift of my father’s bloodline.” Finding him in the audience, I met his eyes and smiled. “I have seen them in my thoughts since I was small. The gods of Terre d’Ange. Always and ever, Naamah, the bright lady. And Anael the Good Steward, the man with a seedling cupped in his palm. Desire and fruition, the things that sustain life and love.”
    Summoning the twilight, I blew softly over the tree.
    It grew several inches, stretching its slender trunk, extending its leaves. The bright green globes nestled in its branches swelled, their rinds turning slowly from green to vibrant orange as they ripened.
    A soft sigh ran through the salon. Now they believed.
    Thierry bowed to me. “Thank you, Moirin.”
    The remainder of the tale was told without theatrics; the tale ofour return, the losses suffered along the way. Magic and wonder gave way to politics, intrigue, and trade-rights, augmented by the presence of Eyahue and Temilotzin, representing the interests of Emperor Achcuatli.
    As soon as discretion permitted, Bao and I made a polite escape, and paid another visit to Desirée.
    The day before Thierry’s coronation, Bao had scheduled an appointment with Lianne Tremaine to tell the King’s Poet the whole truth of what had transpired in the Temple of the Ancestors in Qusqu.
    Since he wished to go alone, I spent the day with my father, walking the streets of the City of Elua with him, marveling once more at the simple, easy grace he dispensed with his mere presence, offering his benediction to any who asked for it.
    Bao was late returning to our house, and silent and introspective when he did. The shadows were thick around him that evening.
    “Do you wish to speak of it?” I asked him.
    He shook his head. “No.”
    Trusting to my instincts, I let him be. We slept side by side in the great bed in the master chamber without touching, beneath the high rafters where an iron hook had once dangled from a great chain.
    I awoke to wind and rain.
    Sleep-addled, for a moment I thought myself back in the Temple of the Ancestors with Focalor’s storm raging through the doorway I had opened. But no; it was a warm wind, and a benign spring tempest that spilled through the unlatched tall doors opening onto a courtyard outside the master bedchamber. Feeling at the sheets beside me, I found them cool. I wrapped a silk dressing-robe around myself and went to peer through the doors.
    Beneath the restless flickers of lightning in the sky above me, I could make out the figure of Bao, sitting cross-legged and still on the terrace, clad only in a pair of loose drawstring breeches, his hands resting on his knees palm-upward in the downpour.
    I went to him.
    Pelting rain soaked my thin robe, plastering it to my body. I pushed the wet hair out of my eyes. Bao tilted his head and peered up at me as I sank to sit opposite him, raindrops clinging to his lashes. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to wake you. You don’t need to be here, Moirin.”
    I breathed the first of the Five Styles, settling my hands on my knees. “Aye, I do.”
    Overhead, blue-white lightning crackled, illuminating the looming rain-clouds, thunderous and dark and towering.
    I breathed and waited.
    “It was warm,” Bao whispered at length, lifting his hands to the cleansing rain, letting it run down his arms. “Cusi’s blood. Hot and thick. Alive. I didn’t expect it to be so… warm.” He shuddered. “I can’t help remembering. And the knife was so very, very dull. I did my best. I tried to make it swift, as swift