Naamah's Blessing

“It’s… undignified.”



“She’s not yet four years old,” I murmured.



He drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “This is how you would mark a solemn occasion?”



“A joyous occasion,” I reminded him.



Daniel shook his head, dubious. “Moirin—”



“My lord.” I leaned forward, nervous sweat prickling my skin. Mayhap I had boasted too quickly of my ability to deliver a royal invitation. “Believe me, I take my oath very, very seriously. If you know aught of the history of the Maghuin Dhonn, you must know we do not swear oaths lightly or in vain.”



“ ’Tis not a question of doubting your oath, Moirin,” the King said. “ ’Tis a question of propriety.”



“Eglantine House is mindful of the need for propriety.” I breathed slowly and evenly to settle my nerves. “And Bao is teaching them Ch’in tumbling arts based on strength and grace.”



“He is?” He sounded startled. “I thought he was Master Lo’s apprentice, not a tumbler.”



“Bao has been many things.” My hands fell into a reassuring mudra. “My lord, I am not sure your choice can provoke any more controversy than it has. I have been advised that at such times, it is the Priests and Servants of Naamah and the commonfolk who will side with love’s cause. That is who I seek to woo, who I seek to charm with this gesture.”



Daniel de la Courcel’s brow furrowed. “I did not realize there was such considered thought behind the notion,” he admitted. “And there is merit to the idea of a performance celebrating your accomplishments in Ch’in.”



With an effort, I kept my voice serene. “Will you countenance the performance, my lord?”



He picked up a piece of stationery emblazoned with the insignia of House Courcel. “With reservations, yes. I suppose I must trust you, having made my choice.”



I watched him dip a pen in ink and write. “It is not too late to change your mind, my lord.”



“My heart tells me I have chosen rightly.” His pen skated across the page. “And… mayhap you are right, too. This should be a joyous occasion.” Pausing, the King glanced at me, making an effort to smile through the deep wells of sorrow in his eyes. “Jehanne wouldn’t have hesitated to hire the tumblers of Eglantine House for such an occasion, would she? She would have delighted in the scandal it provoked.”



“Aye, she would,” I said softly.



“So be it.” He inked the royal seal and stamped the page. “I will have the invitation sent forthwith.”



Relief flooded me. If the King had refused, my standing with the Night Court would surely have fallen. “My thanks, your majesty.”



“You are welcome.” Daniel wiped the seal with a clean cloth. “I fear… I fear my grief has been an anchor weighing down the entire realm. It is good to be reminded that there is cause for joy in the world.”



Reaching across the desk, I laid my hand over his. “I know.”



He squeezed my hand in reply. “I daresay you do.”



Dismissed from the King’s presence, I made my way through the Palace to the nursery, where Bao was concluding his second lesson with the young princess. I made it a point to meet the gaze of everyone I passed, smiling pleasantly and inclining my head in greeting. Some smiled broadly and openly in response—most notably the vast array of Palace servants and guards.



The response from peers was mixed.



Some smiled with mask-like politeness; some did not. A few offered genuine smiles.



Some looked away, snubbing me pointedly.



It had taken only a day for the news to spread throughout the City of Elua and for the City to become divided over it. A part of me yearned to flee from the scrutiny, back to the Alban wilderness of my childhood, or even the wide-open expanses of the Tatar steppe. To the valley kingdom of Bhaktipur, where my golden lady, the Rani Amrita, ruled with a gentle hand, presiding over an adoring populace.



None of these things were possible; and there was a child’s happiness at stake.



Jehanne’s daughter.



In the nursery, I greeted her brightly. “So, dear heart! Did you and Bao study well today?”



“Moirin!” Desirée flung herself toward me, and I scooped her into my arms, hoisting her onto one hip. “Yes, we did.”



“They did,” her tutor agreed.



The senior nursemaid Nathalie Simon gave a huff of disapproval.



I ignored her, inhaling the scent of the child’s hair. She smelled of lavender soap and innocence. “Well done.”



Bao rose from his cross-legged pose. “Did his majesty approve?”



I nodded. “He did.”



“We should ask her highness before we proceed,” he said gravely. “My lady Desirée, you understand that Moirin will take a sacred oath to protect you?”



“Yes, Bao.” She squirmed impatiently in my arms, and I set her down. “That means you will, too. Doesn’t it?”



“It does.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Would you like to have tumblers at the ceremony?” Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he turned a flip. “Performing tricks?”



Her blue-grey eyes grew wide. “Oh, yes!”



“It will be a very serious occasion,” Bao cautioned her. “Mayhap a bit frightening. Tell me, highness. Do you fear loud noises? Thunder?”



Desirée looked indignant. “I am not a baby!”



“Do you fear… dragons?” Dropping to a squat and hunkering on his thighs, Bao glared at her and uttered a menacing roar. “There may be dragons there.”



She let loose a peal of screaming laughter, the sound high and piercing enough that I winced. The tutor Aimée Girard glanced at me in sympathy as Bao and the young princess roared at one another.



“Fly me, Bao!” Desirée extended her arms to him. “Fly me like a dragon!”



He obliged, plucking her up under the arms and tossing her skyward, catching her effortlessly.



I daresay her shrieks of delight rattled the rafters of the Palace. “Bao…”



“Enough.” The word fell like a hammer. The senior nursemaid drew herself up with dignity. “It is clear to me that his majesty is deranged with grief, to allow such persons to attend his daughter,” she said grimly. “For that, I am sorry. But I will not be party to it. As of this moment, I resign my post.” Her gimlet gaze settled on me. “I daresay my days were numbered anyway.”



I made no reply, letting her sweep out of the chamber.



In the silence, Bao lowered the princess to her feet.



Aimée Girard sighed.



“Who will take care of me if Nurse is gone?” Desirée asked in a plaintive voice, promptly bursting into wailing tears of abandonment.



Bao shot me a helpless look.



“Hush, dear heart.” I sank to the floor on my knees, taking her into my arms again. “You have Paulette still, and we will find a new nurse.”



It was to no avail. She wriggled out of my embrace and hurled herself into a full-blown tantrum, red-faced and squalling, beating her fists and heels on the floor and sobbing for her nurse. The harried junior nursemaid, Paulette, tried in vain to comfort her.



“You see how it is, my lady,” she said to me, weariness and defeat in her tone. “Madame Nathalie was stern with the child, but I fear she needs a firm hand.”



I shook my head. “It’s not her fault. Bao overexcited her, and all children find sudden change to be upsetting.” I remembered Jehanne hurling things around my chamber and weeping in a fit of temper. “She’s too far gone for comforting. Ignore her, and it will pass.”



It wasn’t long before the storm passed, sobs abating to sniffles. Like her mother, Desirée was contrite in the aftermath of anger. “I’m sorry, Moirin,” she whispered while I wiped her tear-stained face with a kerchief. “Will Nurse come back now?”



“No, I don’t think so.”



“Because I was bad?” Her earnest eyes were the hue of rain-washed lilacs.



“No!” I stroked her hair. “No, dear heart. It’s not your fault at all.” I chose my words carefully, mindful that she was a precocious child, but a very young one, too. I wanted to be truthful with her, but I didn’t want to teach her acrimony, either. “It’s frightening when things change all of a sudden, isn’t it?”



She nodded.



“Well, it is the same for grown-ups. We’re scared, too. Change can be a good thing, a happy thing. But sometimes when we’re scared, we don’t wait long enough to find out.” I handed her the kerchief. “Here, blow your nose.”



She obeyed. “Why was Nurse scared?”



“Because you are growing older, and there have been changes in your life, which means changes in her life, too.”



“She didn’t want Bao to study with me,” Desirée said. “She didn’t like him. Or you.”



“Perceptive child,” the tutor Aimée murmured.



I silenced her with a look. “Now, that’s not true. Nurse didn’t wait long enough to know for sure if she liked us or not. That’s why it’s important to be patient. Sometimes we think we know things about people that turn out to be all wrong. Did I tell you about the winter I spent with the Tatars?”



She shook her head.



I spun a tale of that long winter; how I had ventured into Tatar territory believing them to be a ferocious and dangerous folk; how I had avoided them until a blizzard drove me to seek sanctuary among them; how I found them to be kind and generous, defying all my expectations. I described the felt huts called gers, the warm, salty tea we drank, the layers and layers of thick clothing we wore, the numbers and rhyming game the children taught me.



Worn out by her tantrum, Desirée fell asleep in my lap, listening to the sound of my voice. Her tutor took the opportunity to steal quietly from the nursery with a hushed promise to return on the morrow.



“You’ve a knack with the child,” Paulette said softly. “Do you want me to take her? I daresay she’ll nap for a time.”



“Aye, my thanks.” Rising, I shifted my burden into her arms.



Clinging to her nursemaid, Desirée roused sleepily. “Bao?” she asked. “Where were you when Moirin was with the Tatars?”



“Oh…” He met my eyes. “Well, you might say I was hiding, young highness. A big change, a very big change, happened in my life. I was scared, and I ran away from it. But in the end, I learned it was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I would not be here if it hadn’t.”



“I’m glad you are, even if Nurse doesn’t like you. I do.” She hesitated. “Can I still have tumblers?”



“Oh, yes!” Bao grinned. “I will make sure of it.”



THIRTEEN



As one might expect, the City of Elua was also divided over the matter of Eglantine House’s invitation to perform at the ceremony, which was scheduled to take place in a month’s time.



The announcement was made in the grand salon of Eglantine House in the evening of the day the invitation was received, and it was accompanied by Lianne Tremaine declaiming a poem she had composed for the occasion.



By the next day, the poem was on everyone’s lips.



The former King’s Poet hadn’t held back. The poem lauded the King’s decision as a return to the true origins of the Montrèvan Oath, the oath that Anafiel Delaunay had sworn to his beloved, Rolande de la Courcel, to protect his infant daughter Ysandre. Lianne Tremaine made the bold claim that this was the first time in generations that the honor had been bestowed in keeping with the spirit of that oath, making much of my having returned from great tribulation to accept the role.



“Thus was the sorrowful spirit of the lamented Queen at long last appeased/For knowing her eldritch lover would stand guard over the child, her grieving heart was eased,” Lianne quoted with a shudder. “Dreadful pap, but I had to work quickly. ’Tis the sentiment that matters. Does it meet your needs?”



I’d gone to pay her a visit while Bao had his morning’s lesson with Desirée. “It’s… a bit excessive,” I said carefully.



“Poetry glories in excess,” she said. “When it’s not extolling the virtues of austerity. Do you think I went too far in comparing you to Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève? After all, you did say you loved Jehanne.”



“Aye,” I murmured. “But I left her.”



Lianne cocked her head. “Why did you leave?”



Long ago, before I’d known about the Circle of Shalomon, I had tried to explain my diadh-anam and the prompting of destiny to Lianne Tremaine, who was still the King’s Poet at the time. Unlike most D’Angelines, she had at least some familiarity with the notion from her extensive reading. Now I reminded her of that conversation, telling her how the same prompting had driven me to Ch’in. She listened quietly, seeming to understand it better than most. “Jehanne knew,” I said when I was done. “She always knew I would leave. It’s just that neither of us thought it would be so soon. If I had been able to stay longer…” I couldn’t finish the thought. “When I told her, she said it was as well she was an adept of Cereus House, and taught to revere the transience of beauty, for this had been a fleeting and precious thing.” My eyes stung. “And when I left… when I left, I asked her how one could find beauty in somewhat that hurt so much.”



“What did she say?” Lianne asked quietly.



I rubbed my eyes. “Jehanne said that it would always be like this. That I would always be young and beautiful in her memory, and she in mine. That I would never grow resentful, never be tempted to betray her. That she would never grow restless and fickle, and seek to replace me.” I smiled through my tears. “So you see, not exactly the sentiments of a great and terrible love affair.”