Naamah's Blessing

“Why ever not?” Balthasar inquired lightly.



Marc gave him a startled look. “Because… because… Gods, man!” He gestured at me. “Everything!”



“Ah, yes.” Balthasar tapped one elegant forefinger against his lower lip. “Because one of her ancestors did somewhat terrible, once. Therefore, all of his descendants should be held in suspicion, eh?”



Once again, Marc flushed—more deeply this time. “We’re not speaking of House Shahrizai, Balthasar!”



“No.” The other settled a surprisingly grave gaze on me. “We are speaking of Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn, whose folk have been reviled worse than House Shahrizai for the past hundred years and more. And yet, as I do recall, one of her first public acts in Terre d’Ange involved saving a man’s life. Lord Luchese, was it not?” he asked me.



I nodded. “I believe so. I did not know the fellow.”



“Then there was your leg, if I am not mistaken, Marc,” Balthasar continued in a judicious tone. “And after that… oh! There was the hunting party. You weren’t there for that, were you?”



“What hunting party?” Marc de Thibideau demanded.



Balthasar Shahrizai smiled, enjoying himself. “The one where Thierry was thrown from his horse and nearly bitten by a viper. So he would have been, if Moirin had not lifted her bow, the rustic ill-hewn bow we had all mocked, and pinned the deadly creature to earth with a single well-placed arrow.” He mimed the act, hissing between his teeth. “Just like that!”



“I had not heard that story,” Bao commented.



“Oh…” I shrugged. “Viper bites are not always fatal.”



“Forgive me, my lady,” Marc said to me. “I don’t mean to insult you. It’s just that the role is a significant one, meant to be awarded to a peer of the realm capable of wielding political influence at need.”



“Moirin has the King’s favor,” Balthasar observed. “You don’t consider that political influence?”



Their argument was beginning to draw a crowd, and the process of rumor and hearsay was already under way. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.



“No.” Marc de Thibideau lowered his voice. “No, I don’t, and you know why! He’s ceded the right to political power. He’s a figurehead, nothing more.”



Balthasar glanced around. “You don’t want to have this conversation here, Marc.”



“You’re right, I don’t.” He swept his stake from the table, shoving the coins in a purse. “In fact, I wish I weren’t having it at all.” He shot me an apologetic look. “Again, it’s nothing personal, Moirin. It’s just that there’s a great deal you don’t understand about politics.”



Balthasar watched him go. “He really should have disobeyed his father and sailed with Prince Thierry,” he said in a mild tone. “He’s been out of sorts ever since. Lady Moirin, Messire Bao, would you care to walk with me in the garden? I’d have a further word with you if you’re willing.”



Although I’d never been particularly fond of Balthasar Shahrizai, his unexpected support had surprised me. I glanced at Bao, who nodded. “Yes, of course.”



It was chilly enough outdoors that no one else was taking in the Palace gardens. The gnarled branches of trees in the decorative orchard were barren of leaves, the trees dreaming of spring to come. Here and there were banks of late-blooming autumn flowers like chrysanthemums, but most of the flowerbeds were covered with mulch. Even the greensward looked listless. Only the evergreens were bright and lively, the brisk sap crackling in their veins; the tall cypresses standing like sentinels in a line, the pine trees shaped like umbrellas.



We strolled along a promenade dotted here and there with marble benches meant for enjoying the view.



“D’Angelines do love a scandal,” Balthasar said presently. “And you do seem to enjoy providing them, Moirin.”



“The King is aware that his choice will be controversial,” I said. “He reckoned it worth the risk.”



“As did you?”



“She’s Jehanne’s daughter,” I said simply.



He blew on his fingers to warm them. “Beastly cold! So you and his majesty made a choice of the heart rather than the head.”



“Is that not the D’Angeline way?” Bao inquired with deceptive innocence.



Balthasar gave him an astute glance. “Ideally, yes. In practice, love and politics often make bad bedfellows.”



“There have been great political love-matches in the history of Terre d’Ange,” I said.



He nodded. “So there have. And each and every one of them has been accompanied by controversy. If you would hear my counsel, I will tell you this. Many members of the Great Houses will be angered by this appointment, having hoped the honor would fall to one of their own.”



“I am not a fool, my lord,” I said dryly. “The Lord Minister hinted at as much yesterday.”



“So you know your potential enemies,” Balthasar said shrewdly. “But do you know who your potential allies are?”



I shook my head. “To be sure, I didn’t expect you to be one.”



At that, he laughed. “We Shahrizai often surprise! From time to time, it is in a good way.”



“I like this fellow,” Bao remarked to me.



“You would,” I commented.



Balthasar smiled sideways at both of us. “The priesthoods,” he said, ticking off the point on his fingers. “And by extension, the Servants of Naamah. They will always err on the side of love. If you gain their support, it will fire the imagination of the commonfolk, who will raise their voices on your behalf. Your father’s a Priest of Naamah, that will help. Have you any ties to the Night Court?”



“No—” I remembered Lianne Tremaine’s calling card. “Ah, well. Mayhap.”



“Eglantine House,” Bao supplied helpfully.



“The poetess?”



I nodded.



“Good, very good.” Balthasar blew on his fingers again, then shivered and wrapped his fur-lined cloak around him. “Never underestimate the power of a poet, even a disgraced one. After all, Anafiel Delaunay’s verses were banned once upon a time. Use whatever resources are available to you, Moirin.”



“Why are you aiding me?” I asked him.



“I’m not sure,” he said in a thoughtful manner. “Except that we do share one thing in common.”



“Reviled ancestors?”



“Yes.” He touched my cheek briefly with cold, cold fingertips. “I wish you luck, Moirin.”



With that, he took his leave of us.



“So!” Bao put his arm over my shoulders and breathed the Breath of Embers Glowing, generating heat throughout his body. Fire had always been the element he favored most. I leaned in to his strength and warmth. “Eglantine House?”



“Aye,” I agreed. “Eglantine House.”



TEN



Eglantine House.



It sat midway upon the slope of Mont Nuit, where the Thirteen Houses of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, commonly known as the Night Court, was situated. I had only ever visited one of them before—Cereus House, oldest of the thirteen, renowned for celebrating the ephemeral nature of beauty.



It was where Jehanne had been born and raised, trained to become the foremost courtesan of her age—and also where she had first seduced me. It was an elegant, gracious place.



Eglantine House was different, very different. There they celebrated artistic genius in all its forms, and even the architecture itself reflected the nature of the House. It was an exuberant mixture of styles, with soaring arches and cunningly wrought turrets, built with stone of subtly contrasting hues that somehow managed to achieve a pleasing and harmonious whole.



A handsome young adept with red-gold hair and a dancer’s slim muscles opened the door. The sound of music spilled out, and somewhere a lone woman’s voice rose above it in an exquisite cadence.



The adept took one look at us, and grinned. “Lady Moirin mac Fainche, and Messire… Bao, is it?”



I smiled at the welcome. “It is.”



“Come in, come in!” He gave us both the kiss of greeting, ushering us inside. “Welcome to Eglantine House! How may we delight you today? Song? Poetry? Tumbling?”



“Tumbling?” Bao looked interested.



“Oh, yes!” The adept nodded enthusiastically. “The finest acrobats in Terre d’Ange are trained here. Are you an afficionado?”



“Ah…”



“Are you fond of it,” I clarified for Bao’s sake, adding to the young fellow, “Bao was trained as an acrobat.”



“In Ch’in?” The adept widened his hazel eyes.



“It was a long time ago,” Bao said in an offhand manner. “But we are not here to see tumbling. We are here to see the lady poetess.”



“Oh.” He seemed disappointed. “I will send for Mademoiselle Tremaine, of course.” He beckoned, and two charming attendants who couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen hurried over. “Wine for our guests, and a summons to Mademoiselle Tremaine.”



“I would not mind seeing the tumblers,” Bao said to me. “Later, of course.”



I shrugged. “Why not?”



“I can arrange a performance,” the adept said eagerly. “Or, or… Messire Bao, if you are interested, mayhap we could learn from one another. No one has ever seen a tumbler from Ch’in.” He sketched an apologetic bow. “I do not mean to presume, but it would be a pleasure. By the way, I am Antoine nó Eglantine, the Dowayne’s second. And if there is anything I may offer you to enhance your visit, please do not hesitate to inquire.”



“My thanks,” I said to him.



Antoine bowed again, more extravagantly. “Of course, my lady!”



One of the little attendants returned with two glasses of wine on a silver tray, offering them with a pretty curtsy.



“Terre d’Ange is more pleasant than I remembered it,” Bao remarked, sipping his wine.



“You are more pleasant, my magpie,” I informed him. “It took me weeks to coax a smile from you. All it took Balthasar Shahrizai was one flirtatious comment.”



Bao gave me a serene look. “Jealous?”



“A little,” I admitted.



He laughed.



We sat on a cushioned bench in the foyer, drinking our wine and listening to the lovely songs coming from a nearby salon. It wasn’t long before Lianne Tremaine appeared.



I stood without thinking.



She halted a few paces away, regarding me uncertainly. The last time we had seen each other, a woman had died—poor Claire Fourcay, enamored of Raphael de Mereliot. Focalor, Grand Duke of the Fallen, had inhaled her life’s essence and breathed it into my lungs, forcing me to remain alive to keep the doorway between our world and the spirit world open.



And then he had very nearly taken possession of Raphael, before Bao and Master Lo swept into the chamber, holding the fallen spirit at bay with a whirling staff, fire-powder, and mirrors, allowing me to thrust Focalor back into his world and close the door I had opened.



Lianne Tremaine looked as I remembered her, with light brown hair, topaz eyes, and sharp, intelligent features that put me in mind of a fox. But the uncertainty in her gaze was new.



“I wasn’t sure you’d see me,” she said in a low voice.



“Neither was I.”



She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling. “May we speak in private?”



I nodded. “I think it’s best.”



After being formally introduced to Bao, she escorted us to her chamber, a generous room at the top of one of the turrets. It had windows that looked out over the whole of Mont Nuit, autumn sunlight streaming in to illuminate the space. The walls were lined with shelves and cubbyholes, holding a small fortune in books and scrolls.



“Please, sit,” Lianne said. With a nervous gesture, she indicated a cozy arrangement of four upholstered chairs around a low table. “Shall I send for wine? Tea and pastries?”



I remembered that she had been the first formal visitor I had entertained in Terre d’Ange, when I had been a guest in Raphael’s home. Raphael’s maid had had to prompt me to offer the niceties of hospitality.



It seemed like a long, long time ago.



“Thank you, no,” I said politely.



The former King’s Poet twined her hands together before her. “Lady Moirin… words are my métier. I use them to puncture the inflated sensibilities of pompous souls who hold themselves in high regard. I use them to soothe the tender spirits of offended lovers. I use them to build edifices to raise up and celebrate the achievements of worthy heroes, past and present. I use them to charm, to cajole, to sway. But I confess, I do not know how to use my words to frame the apology you deserve.”



“Maybe you should stop trying so hard to make it sound pretty and just say it,” Bao suggested



A brief flare of irritation came and went in her eyes. “You’re right. I should.” Lianne Tremaine met my gaze. “I did wrong by you, Moirin, and I am sorry for it. Can you forgive me?”



“I’m not sure yet,” I said honestly.



She sighed, and took her seat. “I cannot fault you for it. Those of us in the Circle of Shalomon, we knew what we were doing was dangerous. We knew Raphael was putting undue pressure on you to aid us. We saw the terrible toll that the summonings took on you. And yet we persisted.”



“You were stupid,” Bao said bluntly.



Lianne spread her hands. “I do not argue the point, Messire Bao. But to come so close to succeeding in our long quest… it was more heady and intoxicating than joie on the Longest Night. Compulsion gripped us like madness, ever driving us to make just one more attempt, just one more.” She shook her head. “I do not seek to justify it, only to explain.”