Naamah's Blessing

once, repeating and discussing my father’s words.
    Belatedly, the adjudicator banged his gavel and called the proceedings to order. “My lords, my ladies!” He gave me a stony look. “Lady Moirin, your allotted time has come to an end. Have you any final words?”
    I did not think I could surpass my father’s comments. “No, messire. I do not.”
    The adjudicator banged his gavel again. “Then you are dismissed.”

TWENTY-SIX

    T he debate I had sparked in Parliament, fueled by my father’s words, raged on for two more days.
    In the end, it was closer than it might have been, but not close enough. When at last the two branches agreed to vote on the confirmation of Duc Rogier de Barthelme as the Regent of Terre d’Ange, almost a full third of the members voted against it.
    Almost.
    All fourteen members of the Low Council voted against it; and seventeen members of the High Council joined them. But it wasn’t enough. By a quorum of two-thirds of his peers, Rogier de Barthelme was appointed Regent.
    “You did your best,” Bao consoled me. “And your father was splendid.”
    I sighed. “Aye, but now we’ve a new dilemma.”
    Bao glanced westward. “Terra Nova?”
    I nodded. “It’s not as though there’s a ship on which we can book passage. I don’t have the first idea about how to get one to take us there. Do you?”
    “No,” he admitted. “But I know who does. And I think he will be very interested in what you have to say.”
    “Do you think he’ll believe it?” I asked. “Because apparently, my credibility is questionable.”
    Bao shrugged. “We can but try, Moirin.”
    Somewhat to my surprise, Balthasar Shahrizai
did
believe me. He heard me out as I told of Jehanne’s appearances in my dreams, and the last one in which she had revealed that Prince Thierry was alive. When I had finished, he paced our parlor like a captive panther, lean and restless, his blue-black braids swinging. “You’re sure?” he asked, echoing my question to Jehanne. “You’re
sure
?”
    My
diadh-anam
flared. “Quite sure, my lord.”
    “I know it may seem strange,” Bao added. “But I would willingly wager my life on it.”
    Balthasar paused and tapped his lips in thought. “Money’s no object,” he said absently. “House Shahrizai is swimming in it. I’ve no doubt I can persuade my great-aunt Celestine to back a second expedition, and I daresay there are others who would be willing to support it, especially on the rumor that Thierry lives. But it would require a letter of decree from our blasted Regent to authorize it.” He gave me a deep look. “I suspect it best if you stay far, far away from that process, Moirin.”
    I shuddered. “Gladly.”
    “We need more information,” he said in a decisive tone. “We need to talk to Denis de Toluard and find out everything he knows. What made him so certain that Thierry was dead? And if he’s not, what in the seven hells happened to him?”
    “Good questions,” Bao agreed, slinging his staff over his shoulder. “Let’s go find him.”
    As it happened, that was easier said than done. At Denis de Toluard’s townhouse, his steward informed us that his lordship had gone to Night’s Doorstep to drink himself into a stupor after the funeral, with strict orders that he was to be left to his own devices until he was good and ready to return.
    “But that was two days ago,” the steward added, a worried look on his face. “I’d be grateful if you’d find him and bring him back. I haven’t seen him in such a state since—” He gave me a sidelong glance and didn’t finish.
    I knew what he was thinking. Other than that day on the docks,the last time I’d seen Denis de Toluard was the day the Circle of Shalomon summoned Focalor, and Claire Fourcay had been killed.
    The steward wrung his hands. “Just bring him home safely, will you? I’d never forgive myself if he followed in his majesty’s footsteps.”
    “We’ll find him,” Balthasar promised.
    We spent the day searching every tavern and wineshop in Night’s Doorstep, where no one had seen Denis since the night before. At last, a worn-looking young woman in a threadbare gown, pretty enough to serve Naamah, but not pretty enough to serve in one of the Houses of the Night Court, told us that she’d seen him staggering toward the wharf around dawn.
    “I recognized him,” she said. “So I followed him for a time. I was afraid he might…” She hesitated.
    “Follow in his majesty’s