Kushiel 03 - [Moirin 01] - Naamah's Kiss

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Magic?” I asked innocently.

  He peered into my face. “What would you know of it?” he asked, then thought better of it. “Come to think on it, I’d rather not know.” His hands moved briskly, peeling away the gorgeous fabric. “The reputation of your people precedes you.”

  “Oh?” I stepped out of the gown. “Truth be told, we’re quite a peaceable folk.”

  Benoit folded the gown and snorted.

  “’Tis true,” I protested. “In the annals of history there is no record of the Maghuin Dhonn going to war, no matter how many times Alba has been invaded. Other follies were committed, yes. Believe me, we are painfully aware of them to this day. But I would ask you not to judge my people based on the actions of one or two of our ancestors.”

  “You may have a point.” He folded away the bronze gown and extended one of fine-spun russet wool worked with intricate trim. “Try this. It’s suitable for daywear or even travel, and is based on a very old design created by the atelier’s founder, Favrielle nó Eglantine herself.”

  It flowed gracefully.

  “And this.” A deep green satin with a heart-shaped neckline. Benoit knelt and tacked a few loose, temporary stitches to improve the fit.

  In the mirror, I tilted my head this way and that. “If you’re so wary of the Maghuin Dhonn, why did you accept this commission?”

  He winced. “Must you keep saying that name aloud?”

  “It’s not bad luck!” I said in exasperation. “That’s just a silly superstition put about a thousand years ago when Cinhil Ru claimed the Maghuin Dhonn had slain their own diadh-anam. It was never true. They know better in Alba these days, even if we are not well loved. They’ve known better since Alais de la Courcel restored the truce between our folk. Even Caroline nó Bryony wasn’t afraid to say it, and she’s the one commended me to you.”

  “All right, child!” Benoit raised his hands. “I didn’t intend to give offense. And I accepted the commission because the couturieres of Atelier Favrielle relish a challenge more than we fear ought else.”

  “Even bear-witches?” I asked.

  His mouth twisted. “So it seems. Truth be told, you’re not a particularly fearful specimen, young and naïve as you are.”

  I thought about Cillian’s death. “Not so naïve, I fear.”

  Benoit Vallon studied my face. “Not in the ways of life, mayhap, but the D’Angeline Court is another matter. Have you given thought to my advice?”

  “I have,” I admitted.

  He eased the green dress from my shoulders. “But you mean to stay.”

  “Yes.”

  “Elua have mercy.” Benoit put the dress away. “Are all of the Mag—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Are all of your people this stubborn?”

  I laughed. “You ought to meet my mother.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be back in a day’s time for the final fitting. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  By the eve of my debut, the bronze gown was finished and I had two perfectly suitable dresses for daywear, three pairs of shoes, and a variety of undergarments. My calluses had been softened and smoothed, my nails neatly trimmed and buffed to a shine. The ragged ends of my hair had been trimmed and Benoit had taught me three different ways to style it. There was still some tenderness around my ribs, but the lump at the back of my skull was gone altogether and I hadn’t felt sick or disoriented for days.

  “I mean to go to the Temple of Naamah today,” I informed Raphael at the breakfast table.

  He hesitated. “Wouldn’t you rather wait until after your debut?”

  “No.” I slathered a piece of bread with peach preserves. “You would rather I wait until after my debut. Mayhap you have lost sight of the fact that I did not come to Terre d’Ange so that you might surprise and dazzle the Court with your exotic protégée. I came to find my father. And wherever he may be, I’d sooner he learned of my existence before the entire City does.”

  Raphael smiled. “Protégée, is it?”

  I shrugged. “Is that not the right word?”

  “No, I reckon it’s as good as any. Your vocabulary is surprisingly good, and your accent is improving daily.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I took a bite of jam-smeared bread. “And you are changing the subject. I wasn’t asking, Raphael. Unless you mean to imprison me, I’m going. With your assistance, I’ll go discreetly by carriage. Without it, I’ll go on foot.”

  “No doubt asking directions all the way,” he said wryly.

  “No doubt,” I agreed.

  “Oh, fine.” Raphael tossed his linen napkin on the table. “I’ll take you; of course I’ll take you.”

  “I don’t mean to ruin your surprise,” I said apologetically. “But this is important to me.”

  “Of course it is.” He hoisted a cup of the bitter Jebean drink called kavah toward me in a toast. “I’m a right ass for not acknowledging it, Moirin, and you’re not ruining anything.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Raphael sipped his kavah and stretched out his long legs. “Naamah’s priests can keep secrets as well as anyone and better than most.” He eyed me. “What do you expect of him?”

  “My father?” I had no idea. When I’d set out, I’d hoped my father might be able to point me toward my destiny. Now I suspected it lay in the form of the intriguing, somewhat infuriating, and wholly desirable man across the table from me. “Nothing, I suppose. I want to know him, that’s all. What’s your father like?”

  “Dead,” he said briefly.

  “Oh.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, you couldn’t have known.” Raphael gave me a bleak smile. “I was young when it happened. A boating accident. It took my mother and father both.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “How old were you?”

  “Eleven.” He looked away, remembering.

  The space behind my eyes tingled with a strange pressure. I saw a freak storm blowing out of nowhere—a great wave, swamping the pleasure-boat as it returned from Eisheth’s sacred isle. Cries and shouting, guards thrashing in the water, stripping off their swords and boots. They were rallying to someone. A white hand sinking below the waves. Still, they rallied.

  One pair of arms around me, keeping me afloat. A ragged voice in my ear uttering encouragement.

  Only one.

  “You were there,” I whispered. “Your father tried to save you.”

  “Yes.” Raphael rose abruptly and walked away from the table. “He did save me. The effort cost him his life. How did you know?”

  I rubbed my temples. “I saw it.”

  He didn’t turn around. “More magic?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured. “There’s an old woman, Nemed, among us. She can breathe in your memories and swallow them. Once they’re gone, they’re lost forever. But only if you let her.”

  Raphael’s back was rigid. “Do you reckon she’d take mine?”

  I went to him and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressed my cheek between his shoulder blades. “Who were the guards trying to save?”

  “My mother.” He drew a long, shuddering breath. “The Lady of Marsilikos. Then, when they lost her, my sister. The heir. Her, they were able to save.”

  My sister the heir.

  The memory of Cillian’s voice made me shiver. “The eldest?”

  “No.” Raphael said softly. “She’s younger than me. Eleanore. Nine, when it happened. But Marsilikos was founded by Eisheth herself. From time out of mind, it has been ruled by a Lady. There are no male heirs.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I see.”

  He turned in my arms, hands rising to take my shoulders in a hard grip. “How did we get here?” His long lashes were damp with tears. “I’ve never talked to anyone about that day, not even Jehanne. Who are you to draw the very memories from my head?”

  “Myself.” There was a tremor in my voice. “I don’t know, Raph
ael. It’s never happened before. I’m sorry.”

  “No. No, don’t be.” He took another deep breath. “It’s all right. It’s only that it’s a bitter memory as well as a hurtful one. If just one of the guards had gone to help my father that day…” Raphael shook his head. “It’s not their fault. They had their orders. Still, I cannot help but wonder.”

  My heart ached for him. “Of course you can’t.”

  “Well.” He let go of my shoulders and dashed one hand across his eyes. “Today should be a joyous one for you, Moirin. I’m sorry to cast an unexpected pall over it.”

  “You’re helping me find my father,” I said. “Mayhap we might do it in your own father’s memory.”

  Raphael nodded. “That’s a kind thought. Thank you.”

  In the carriage, he was quiet and withdrawn. I left him to his thoughts, not wanting to trouble him further. Although I would have liked to gaze on the City, I kept the curtains closed and instead pondered the mystery of what had transpired between us, wondering if I were on my way to acquiring Nemed’s gift. Raphael’s memories had been so clear, so vivid. I could feel the boat pitching on its side and the shock of the cold water, its weight dragging at my sodden clothing. Salt in my mouth, terror and disbelief in my heart.

  How did one swallow such a thing?

  I had no idea.

  Somewhat to my surprise, the Temple of Naamah dedicated to star-crossed lovers was in a humble part of the City. It was a graceful little building of white marble set like a pearl in the midst of inelegant wooden residences. I remarked on it to Raphael.

  “Oh, yes.” He roused himself. “You don’t know the story behind it?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll like it.” He smiled at me. “I’ll tell you on the ride home.”

  There was a woman in the adjacent building stringing laundry on a ramshackle balcony. She barely spared us a glance.

  “This is the Tsingani quarter,” Raphael said in my ear as we approached the door to the temple. “They don’t gossip outside their own circles.”

  “Lucky for you,” I remarked.

  “Moirin.” On the doorstep, he halted and gave me a serious look. “You don’t have to go through with the plans I’ve made for you. The debut, I mean. My surprise. You’re free to do whatever you like. You don’t have to indulge me.”

  I laid my hand on his chest. “Will it please you?”

  Raphael covered my hand with his. “That’s not important.”

  “Strangely, I find that it is.” I smiled ruefully. “All right. Will her majesty the Queen shriek and snatch at my hair in a fit of jealous rage?”

  He laughed. “No. Most assuredly not.”

  I squeezed his hand against me. “Then I’ve naught to fear and I may as well please you, since I’m in your debt.”

  The door to the temple had a knocker in the shape of a plump dove nestled on a perch. Raphael raised it and rapped sharply. My heart leapt into my throat. I wondered if I would recognize my father if he came to the door. Oengus’ long-ago words echoed in my memory. Milky-white skin and green, green eyes.

  I wondered what I’d say to him.

  I wished my mother were here.

  “Do you seek sanctuary?” It was a woman clad in crimson robes who opened the door. She had a lovely face that was aging beautifully, honey-gold hair fading with grey. Warm, hazel eyes. “In Naamah’s name, be welcome here.”

  Raphael bowed. “My lady priestess—”

  “Oh!” Her hands flew up to press her cheeks. She ignored him and gazed at me, her eyes wide. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you? All the way from the far side of Alba?”

  “I have,” I agreed.

  “You’re Phanuel’s daughter. He said you might come one day.” The priestess laughed with delight. “Oh, please!” She gave me the kiss of greeting with unabashed warmth. “Come in, come in!”

  My head spun. “He knows? You expected me?”

  “No and yes.” She clasped my hands in hers. “Come inside, won’t you? We need to speak.” She cast a sidelong glance at Raphael, her eyes sparkling. “You, too, my lord de Mereliot.”

  He bowed.

  Inside the Temple of Naamah, we were served honeycakes and hot tea sweetened with milk and honey. Once proper introductions were made, I learned that the priestess’ name was Noémie d’Etoile. To my disappointment, I also learned that my father was not present in the City at this time.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Wandering,” she said. “Phanuel’s never been one to stay in one place for any length of time. But he’ll be back in a month’s time or so.” She smiled. “Sooner if he hears word of your appearance.” She shook a scolding finger at Raphael. “You’ve been keeping secrets, my lord.”

  “Ah, but think what a delightful surprise it will make,” he said, unperturbed.

  “Is there no way to contact him?” I asked.

  Noémie shook her head. “Not when he’s wandering afield. He goes where whim takes him. Namarre or L’Agnace, usually.”

  “L’Agnace,” I mused. “Anael’s province?”

  “Indeed.” She nodded. “Phanuel’s mother was of Naamah’s line, a very old and pure one. But by all accounts, his father was a L’Agnacite farm boy.” She misread the look on my face. “There’s no shame in it, child. No matter what the peers of the realm would have you believe, the blood of Elua and his Companions runs just as true in farmers and herders and cheese-makers as it does the peerage.”

  “Betimes more so,” Raphael agreed.

  “It’s not that,” I murmured. “It’s just that I’ve seen him, too. Anael, the Good Steward.”

  “Seen him?” His voice sharpened.

  “Only in my thoughts,” I hastened to add. “Not like—” I cut my words short, not wanting to talk about the Maghuin Dhonn Herself. It was too private. “I saw them first when I was little, before I had names for them. Naamah and Anael. I called her the bright lady. He was the man with the seedling.” Noémie was gazing at me with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. I cleared my throat. “You said was.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Was,” I repeated. “When you spoke of Phanuel’s mother and father, you said was. Do I have no surviving grandparents?”

  “Ah.” Her face softened. “As to his mother, I fear not. She died of a wasting illness some seven or eight years ago. As to his father… Phanuel never knew his name. His mother kept no record of it.” She touched my arm. “It’s not unusual for those of us who serve Naamah to be drawn by whim thusly when the time comes. I haven’t felt it myself, but those who have say they feel her hand in it.”

  “As he was to my mother.”

  “Yes.” Noémie nodded again. “A strange and powerful calling. He always thought a child might result from it.”

  “Did he say why?” I asked.

  “No.” She spread her hands. “Only that there must be some purpose in it. That’s why we’ve half expected you all these years.”

  Raphael eyed me. “Destiny.”

  “Aye, but what and why?” I said in frustration. “Stone and sea! This is a confounding business.”

  “Moirin, would you behold your great-great-grandmother?” Noémie asked unexpectedly. “I don’t reckon you’ll find any answers, but it might please you nonetheless.”

  It occurred to me that I knew nothing of D’Angeline burial rites. “She’s… here?”

  “No and yes.” She rose, smiling, and took my hand. “Come.”

  I let Noémie lead me into the temple proper, Raphael trailing behind us. Beneath a modest dome with an opening at its center, a marble effigy of Naamah stood on a marble plinth. Her head was bowed, hair falling to curtain one side of her face. What was visible of her expression was filled with compassion and tenderness. In her cupped hands, she held a pair of doves nestled side by side.

  I gazed at her. “I don’t understand.”

  Noémie’s hands descended lightly on my shoulders. “Phanuel’s great-g
randmother, your great-great-grandmother, posed for the likeness. Her name was Amarante, and she was the first royal companion. This temple was built for her.”

  Raphael was silent.

  I looked longer. Sunlight streamed down from the aperture above. The white marble glowed, nearly translucent where it was carved fine. Naamah’s effigy regarded her love-birds with infinite gentleness.

  My great-great-grandmother.

  Shivers ran over my skin. For the first time since I’d set foot on D’Angeline soil, I understood in my bones that I was one of them. A child of the Maghuin Dhonn, aye—but D’Angeline, too. Somewhere, my father wandered. He was a descendant of an old line. My great-great-grandmother was real, as real as Alais the Wise. She had existed. She had posed for this sculptor. I had a heritage here that stretched into the past.

  “Oh,” I said softly. “I see.”

  “Do you?” Noémie d’Etoile whispered in my ear.

  Doves fluttered.

  “Yes,” I said. “I do.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  On our return journey, the carriage remained curtained and stifling. Raphael sat at apparent ease across from me, telling me the tale of how this particular Temple of Naamah came to be situated in the Tsingani quarter.

  It was a charming tale.

  I didn’t care.

  The bright lady’s gift, Naamah’s gift, was coiling around me and through me, heating my blood. I let it roam freely. When the carriage jolted to a temporary halt, I let it pitch me across the space between us, landing me in his lap.

  Raphael’s eyes gleamed. “Moirin…”

  “Shut up,” I whispered, sinking my hands into his tawny hair.

  I kissed him.

  He was a man, and mortal. He kissed me back, his mouth and tongue urgent, his hands hard around my hips, radiating warmth. One hand descended, shoving up my skirts, pushing at my fine new under-garments, moving them out of the way. I fumbled at the buttons on his breeches.

  And then…

  Horses’ hooves clopped. I clasped my hand around his erect phallus and fitted it to me with a sigh, pushing downward onto him.