Naamah's Blessing

unfamiliar weight, his neck and shoulders tensing as he began the process of learning how to bear the burden of a lifetime.
    I could see the resolve settling into his bones.
    A soft sigh of gratitude and relief escaped from Desirée. Glancing down at her, I squeezed her hand.
    “Your majesty,” Elua’s priest murmured, bowing to him. All of us followed suit, bowing low.
    “Thank you,” Thierry said simply. “I will do my best to be worthy of this honor.” There were tears streaking his cheeks, and he let them fall unheeded. “Today is a day for remembering, and a day for rejoicing, too.” He summoned a grin, a hint of the feckless prince he had once been in it. “To that end, I’ve arranged for a
progressus
throughout the City of Elua, and declared a holiday for all! Today, let us remember who we are, and celebrate like D’Angelines!”
    At last, as though permission had been granted, cheers arose, loud and deafening within the temple.
    Desirée tugged at my hand, glancing up inquisitively at me. “Moirin, what is a
progressus
?”
    “I don’t know,” I admitted.
    “A fête,” Bao said. “A travelling fête, young highness.”
    So it was.
    Caught up in my own affairs, I’d paid scant heed to the preparations for the coronation ceremony and its aftermath. As it transpired, Balthasar Shahrizai had arranged for a surprise of his own. Upon donning our stockings and shoes in the vestibule, we emerged from the temple to find that he and a score of our companions had slipped out ahead of us. They had worked in secret with Temilotzin and Eyahue to have a gilded palanquin with a feathered canopy constructed, and Jaguar Knight costumesmade for all of them, complete with dyed pelts, wooden shields,
macahuitl
clubs studded with shards of black glass, and tall feather headdresses.
    Prince Thierry’s—King Thierry’s—grin broadened at the sight. “Do you actually intend me to ride in that thing, my lord Shahrizai?”
    “Absolutely!” Balthasar’s white teeth flashed in an answering grin as he swept a low, courtly bow, his headdress wobbling. “You and the young Dauphine, your majesty. It will be my honor to serve as one of your bearers.”
    Thierry laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve already carried me far enough, cousin,” he said softly.
    Balthasar shrugged with careless grace. “What’s a few blocks farther?” He smiled at Desirée. “Would you like to ride in a Nahuatl palanquin, your highness?”
    Her face glowed. “Oh, yes!”
    So it was decided, and much to the delight of the crowds along the street and the peers pouring out of the temple, Thierry and his sister climbed into the palanquin. Raising his own genuine
macahuitl
, Temilotzin roared a sharp command in Nahuatl, and Balthasar and seven others manning the long, gilded poles hoisted them to their shoulders. The palanquin swayed, then steadied. Beneath the bright, iridescent canopy, Desirée loosed an irresistible peal of laughter, her eyes sparkling with joy.
    It was a glorious day.
    Oh, aye, there were shadows that would ever be with us. There was sorrow and loss and sacrifice, the memory of brittle bones wrapped in cerements and yellowing beneath garlands of flowers a reminder of death’s presence. There was the history of House Courcel, glorious and tragic.
    But today was a new day, and a new beginning. The sun shone bright in the blue sky as we made our way through the streets of the City of Elua, trailing an ever-growing retinue of revelers.
    Through the dense warrens of Night’s Doorstep, where innkeepers emerged to press tankards of ale and flagons of wine into our hands…
    Up the long slope of Mont Nuit, where adepts of each of the Thirteen Houses came forth to join our train, and
joie
and brandy began to flow freely…
    On the descent back into the city, our progress slowed to a near-halt, but no one cared. As we inched our way down, tumblers from Eglantine House staged impromptu performances, musicians played, and singers sang serenades. The palanquin-bearers feigned exhaustion, pretending to stagger, drawing giddy shrieks from Desirée and cheerful shouts of imprecation from the newly crowned King of Terre d’Ange as the palanquin lurched in an alarming fashion. Sharp-eyed bookmakers from Bryony House plied the crowd for wagers, giving odds on whether or not the bearers would cause an ignominious spill.
    They didn’t, of course.
    At last, we reached the foot of Mont Nuit once more, and made our way into Elua’s