Naamah's Blessing

Blessed Elua, and gave us garlands of dried anemone flowers for our offering.
    The ground was cold and hard beneath our bare feet, the autumn grass damp and yellow. Blessed Elua’s marble effigy towered atop an altar beneath the open sky, flanked by four roofless pillars and oak trees almost as ancient as Elua’s Oak in the square of the City.
    The statue of Elua smiled down upon us, one hand extended in offering, the other cupped to reveal the mark of the wound he had inflicted upon himself in reply to the One God’s messenger.
    My grandfather’s Heaven is bloodless, and I am not
.
    Without thinking, I summoned the twilight for the first time in many weeks, drawing it deep into my lungs and breathing it out, spinning it around Bao and myself like a cloak.
    Bao uttered a startled sound.
    In the soft, muted hues of the twilight, Elua’s effigy glimmered, shadows in the creases of his smile. I laid my garland of dried flowerson the altar, and stooped to press my lips to Elua’s marble foot. In my heart, I thanked him for the many gifts of love that had graced my life.
    And ah, gods! I
had
been blessed.
    From the stalwart love of my mother in Alba to the discovery of my father in Terre d’Ange; from Cillian’s youthful ardor and friendship to the mercurial affections of my lady Jehanne, whose daughter I would vow to protect on the morrow. Noble Master Lo Feng. My proud, reserved princess, Snow Tiger; my treasured friend, the celestial dragon whose spirit she had harbored within her mortal flesh. My sweet boy Aleksei, and my golden, laughing Rani Amrita. All the myriad folk I’d met along the way who had shown me kindness and generosity.
    Bao.
    He, too, laid his garland on the altar. Our eyes met in the twilight. “I am grateful for the gift of you, Moirin.”
    I nodded. “And I, you.”
    Beneath the twilit shadow of Elua’s effigy, Bao kissed me, the shared spark of our
diadh-anam
entwining.
    I wound my arms around his neck and returned his kiss; and I prayed with all my heart that Blessed Elua would be as kind and gracious to the young princess Desirée as he had been to me.
    Elua smiled.

TWENTY

    T he oath-swearing ceremony was a solemn affair, as it should be.
    It took place in the throne room of the Palace. There was not the large crowd that would be present later at the royal theater for the celebratory performance, but there were still some thirty or forty peers in attendance, including the royal minister, Rogier Courcel, Duc de Barthelme.
    For a mercy, none dared show disapproval in the King’s presence, although I knew full well many of them felt it. Duc Rogier wore a look of studied neutrality that spoke volumes, and I could sense tension between him and my father, who couldn’t conceal his pride.
    I breathed slowly and deeply to settle my nerves, holding Desirée’s hand in mine. Earlier, she had been high-strung and excited, but the solemnity of the occasion had made an impression on her, and she was behaving herself impeccably.
    His majesty greeted his young daughter with quiet dignity, doing his best to mask the pain the sight of her caused him. Clad in a white satin gown, her fair hair caught in a gilded mesh net studded with pearls, Desirée looked more than ever like a miniature version of Jehanne.
    I stood beside her as the senior priest from the Temple of Elua gave an invocation, citing the bonds of love and loyalty in which the tradition was rooted.
    “The gods in their wisdom answer our prayers as they see fit, notas we ask.” The priest fixed me with a deep-set gaze. “Love and courage are often found in unlikely places, and there is no nation on earth that knows this better than Terre d’Ange, no nation better suited to honor this truth. Moirin mac Fainche, is it your will to accept this duty offered you today?”
    “It is,” I said in a firm tone.
    The priest inclined his head. “May Elua’s blessing be on your undertaking.”
    King Daniel beckoned for Desirée and me to approach the throne, summoning his daughter to the dais beside him, while I stood before them. Together they made an achingly poignant picture: the dark, melancholy King with lines of sorrow etched on his face, his gossamer-pale daughter with hair like spun moonlight. A soft sigh went around the room. Whether they agreed with the King’s choice or not, no one could fail to be moved by the sight.
    “Moirin mac Fainche,” the King said in his deep, resonant voice. “Do you pledge yourself this day to be