Naamah's Blessing

Bao spun the wheel. “Huh.”



“Does messire desire a demonstration?” the steward inquired with perfect equanimity, beckoning to the younger of the two maidservants. She stepped forward willingly.



“No!” Bao backed away from the wheel. “No, messire does not.” He eyed me uncertainly. “Does he?”



“No.” I reached out to halt the wheel’s spinning. “I think not.”



The steward Guillaume inclined his head. “Shall I have these items removed, madame?”



“No.” I gazed at the weathered wood and the leather manacles, wondering who had worn them and what pleasures they had found in it. “Let them stay for now. It is a part of the house’s history.”



“As you will.”



There was one item I did ask to have removed—an iron hook that hung on a chain from the highest rafter of the master bedchamber. What it had been used for, I could not even begin to guess, but I felt better for having it gone.



After that, Bao and I settled quite comfortably into our new lodgings. As expected, the news of House Shahrizai’s patronage caused ripples in the City of Elua; but overall the tide of fortune continued to turn in our favor.



First and foremost came a message of support from the Cruarch of Alba.



I had never met Faolan mab Sibeal, the Cruarch of Alba. But he had a name for being a strong, just ruler; and he was a kinsman, a descendant of Alais the Wise. His message was brief but succinct, thanking and congratulating King Daniel for making a choice that acknowledged the shared heritage and long-standing history that lay between Alba and Terre d’Ange.



“How?” I asked when I heard the news, glad but bewildered. “I thought the Straits were impassable in the winter!”



“They are for ships.” Bao’s eyes glinted. “But Naamah’s temples use doves to carry messages. You didn’t know?”



I shook my head. “I did not.”



“They say at Eglantine House that the monarchs of both realms have tried to duplicate the feat,” Bao offered. “Without success. The doves fly only for priests of Naamah’s Order.”



My father confirmed it when I met with him the following day.



“Oh, yes,” he said. “ ’Tis an art honed over the centuries. We thought the Cruarch ought to know.”



He looked tired to me, more tired than he ought. “We?” I asked.



“Naamah’s Order, yes.” My father gave me a faint smile. There were dark smudges beneath his green, green eyes. “I had the honor of playing a part in the decision.”



“That must not have sat well with his grace the Royal Minister,” I said softly.



My father didn’t deny it. “My lord Rogier is… concerned… that the orders of the priesthood have involved themselves in politics. First Eisheth’s Order, and now Naamah’s.” He knuckled his eyes and yawned. “But we discussed it into the small hours of the night, and I believe he understands that this is a courtesy we felt compelled to extend to the Cruarch, not some nefarious plot to undermine his influence.”



I touched his crimson sleeve. “I’m sorry. I never meant to put you in an awkward situation.”



His gaze cleared. “Nor did you, Moirin. It’s nothing, I promise.” He changed the subject. “So tell me, how are the plans for Eglantine House’s spectacle progressing? Everyone in the City is perishing of curiosity.”



I laughed. “I’ve no idea. Bao’s taken to being almighty secretive about the entire thing. All I know is that he’s consulting with the master of props to devise somewhat he claims has never been seen in Terre d’Ange. And if Bao’s boasting, like as not he’ll make good on his claim.”



My father smiled. “I rather like that young man.”



“He rather likes you,” I said. “I think you may have been the first D’Angeline he did like. I certainly wasn’t.”



He laughed, too. “Well, he’s more than changed his mind on that score. You’ve done well together, the two of you.” His expression turned serious. “I’m very proud of the way you’ve dealt with this business, Moirin. You’ve handled it with grace and thoughtfulness.”



I kissed his cheek. “Thank you. It means a good deal to me to know you think so.”



“I do,” he affirmed.



Plans continued apace, secretive and otherwise.



Benoit Vallon summoned Bao and me to Atelier Favrielle for a fitting. Like all his work, the wardrobe he had created for Bao was elegant in its simplicity: close-fitting black breeches that tucked into boots, and creamy white shirts that lay open at the neck, with a bare minimum of ruffle at the cuff. He’d sewn the black-and-white magpie square onto the back of a black velvet coat that fell to knee-length, also fitted, but loose enough to permit freedom of movement. It looked D’Angeline, but it spoke of Ch’in, too.



“I like it,” Bao said decisively, examining himself in the mirror and adjusting his cuffs. “I like it very much. Moirin?”



“You look splendid,” I assured him.



He preened. “I do, don’t I?”



For me, the couturier had created a series of gowns in deep jewel-toned hues: emerald, ruby, amethyst. He had used the sari fabric as subtle accents to complement the gowns, hints of their ornate richness revealed in the borders and linings. I had to own, it was a clever usage, though I was glad I’d kept a few back.



“This is what you will wear to the oath-swearing ceremony, my lady,” Benoit announced, a gown of pale gold brocade fabric over his arm.



It was the piece on which he had used the square of embroidered bamboo, cutting it apart and reassembling it as a high collar that framed my face. The green and gold silk harmonized surprisingly well with the gold brocade.



“Very nice.” Benoit fussed with the collar. “You see the effect it creates? As though you are rising from a bamboo grove like some… some exotic young goddess.” He scowled uncertainly at my reflection. “Are you angry that I did not keep the square intact?”



It was the first time I’d ever heard him sound nervous. “No, Messire Vallon,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”



His scowl vanished. “Ah, good! My thought was to use both pieces in a symbolic manner.” He laid one hand on Bao’s shoulder. “The magpie square represents the love of your distant mother, spread across your shoulders like a protective cloak. And this…” He traced the line of my bamboo-embroidered collar. “This represents the embrace of your distant sister, placing her arms around your neck.”



My breath caught in my throat as I thought of Bao’s mother and sister; so far away, so briefly met. It was unlikely we’d ever see them again. “Oh, that’s lovely! Thank you, Messire Vallon.”



Bao nodded, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Very lovely. Thank you for honoring them.”



Benoit Vallon’s scowl returned. “Oh, now! If you want to thank me, you’ll grant me an invitation to the ceremony.” He gave a loud sniff. “I’d rather not have to take my chances on the lottery like the common rabble.”



I smiled at him. “I will see that an invitation is delivered on the morrow, Messire Vallon.”



He gave another resounding sniff. “Good.”



NINETEEN



Aweek before the oath-swearing ceremony, a lottery was held for the commonfolk of the City. By the excitement it generated, I daresay it was one of the better ideas Lianne Tremaine had given me.



The royal theater in which the ceremony and ensuing celebratory spectacle was to take place had seats for two hundred, with standing room for another fifty or so. While the seats were reserved for peers of the realm, King Daniel had agreed that invitations for the standing spaces should be allotted to ordinary folk and determined by lottery.



One had gone to Benoit Vallon. No doubt he would have preferred a seat in one of the boxes, but my influence extended only so far.



Forty-nine would be drawn from a great urn in Elua’s Square.



Notices had been posted on broadsheets about the City. The day dawned bright and cold, cold enough that one’s breath frosted the air, but the cold did nothing to deter D’Angelines eager for a spectacle. By mid-day when the lots were to be drawn, Elua’s Square was filled with a throng of people.



Young Princess Desirée had begged to be allowed to attend, but the King had refused, citing the difficulty of protecting a small child amidst a crowd. Gazing at the throng, I had to agree.



“This is fun, isn’t it?” Beneath the leafless crown of Elua’s Oak where a dais had been erected, Bao nudged me. He cut a striking figure in his black-and-white magpie coat.



I smiled. “Aye, it is.”



Tradesmen, shopkeepers, and housewives called out good-natured pleas for a chance at the lottery, promising all manner of extravagant bribes. The squadron of royal guardsmen dispatched to maintain order attempted to shout them down in an equally good-natured manner, keeping rough track of who had arrived first, thus deserving the first crack at the lottery.



The urn itself was a massive thing, dark blue enamel etched in silver with the swan insignia of House Courcel. It rested in a stand atop the dais, canted toward the crowd. It had a narrow opening, but its large, rounded belly contained some five hundred porcelain tiles stamped with the royal seal, forty-nine of which were gilded and could be presented to admit the bearer to the ceremony.



As the sun climbed toward its zenith, the crowd grew louder and louder; but it was a joyous sound, and I was glad of it.



There were a handful of others on the dais with us, including the Secretary of the Presence representing the King’s authority, and a priest or priestess representing each of the orders of Blessed Elua and his Companions. My father was there for Naamah’s Order, smiling with quiet pride. But it was Bao and I who were presiding over the event, and it was toward us that the eager, hopeful citizens directed their shouts and pleas.



A great cheer arose as distant bells sounded the hour. The Captain of the Royal Guard offered me a courtly bow. “Are you ready, my lady?”



“I am, my lord captain.” Raising my voice, I called, “Let the lottery begin!”



The crowd cheered again.



With a smile, the captain ushered the first aspirant forward. A burly fellow with a blacksmith’s knotted muscles stuck his meaty hand into the mouth of the urn, fishing around inside it. He had a difficult time drawing his clenched fist out, prompting laughter and cat-calls from the crowd.



“Maybe we need to send for some goose-grease, Moirin?” Bao suggested cheerfully.



“No, no! Not yet!” Easing his hand out of the aperture, the smith opened it to show us a white porcelain tile. “No luck today, eh?”



“I’m sorry, messire,” I offered with sympathy.



He lifted his wide shoulders in a shrug. “Still, it’s something to tell the grandchildren, eh? Thank you for the chance, lady,” he added. “Not many folk would have thought of it.”



“Nor did I,” I said honestly. As much as I would have liked to take credit for the notion, it seemed unworthy—especially with my father and assorted priests and priestesses in attendance. “I must confess, the idea was another’s.”



The smith laughed deep in his chest. “Ah, gods! It took a bear-witch to make an honest peer!” He thrust out one big hand. “I like you better for it, lady. You keep that young princess safe now, mind?”



I leaned down and clasped his hand, squeezing it warmly. “I swear I will do my utmost.”



The crowd liked that, too.



One by one they came to take their chances at the urn, escorted by the solicitous guardsmen. None of the first dozen had the good fortune to draw a gilded tile, but they bore their failures in good spirits. Many of them took the opportunity to beg blessings of one or more of the priests on the dais.



Many of them thanked me, too, waving aside any protestations on my part.



I had entered D’Angeline society as Raphael de Mereliot’s unlikely protégée, and I had left it as Jehanne de la Courcel’s unlikely companion. But that day, on the dais beneath Elua’s Oak, surrounded by ordinary citizens of the realm, was the first time I truly felt myself to be part of Terre d’Ange and its folk. When an elderly woman supported by a pair of strapping grandsons drew the first gilded tile and opened her trembling fist to show it to me, her eyes damp with gratitude, I cheered as loudly as anyone.



Bao whooped and did a careless handspring, pleasing the crowd further.



I laughed for sheer gladness.



So it went throughout the day. It took several hours. I commiserated and congratulated until the urn was empty, and the royal guardsmen had to disperse the lingering crowd.



My father embraced me. “That,” he said, “was exceedingly well done, daughter of mine.”



I gave him a tired smile. “Was it?”



“It was,” he said firmly.



Elua’s priestess stepped forward, clad in sky-blue robes. “You did well, Lady Moirin,” she affirmed. “Very well. Have you given thanks to the gods?”



I shook my head.



“You should.” She kissed my cheek. “Think on it.”



I prayed in my own way that day, laying my hands on the trunk of Elua’s Oak and communing with it.



Once again, I felt its age. It remembered. It had been planted by Blessed Elua himself long centuries ago when there was no City, only a tiny village in a river valley. Elua had held an acorn cupped in his hands, and his Companion Anael the Good Steward had blown on it, coaxing it to grow. Together, Elua and Anael had planted it here, and the City had grown around it.



My father was descended from Anael’s line as well as Naamah’s, and it seemed I had inherited that gift, sparked to life by the inherent magic of the Maghuin Dhonn.