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

by Jacqueline Carey

  My father smiled his lovely smile. “I find it unfamiliar. But I am eager to learn more if you are willing to suffer a novice’s presence.”

  Unexpectedly, my mentor chuckled and stroked his two-pointed beard. “Your path chose you long ago, Brother Phanuel. I do not think this humble scholar has much to teach you. But I would be honored by your presence.”

  My father inclined his head. “And I grateful for your forbearance.”

  There were only three mats. After a discussion fraught with insistence and demurral, my father accepted one, thanking Bao for his sacrifice. Bao shrugged and didn’t reply, but his face was softer than I’d ever seen it, except for a few unguarded moments when he looked at Master Lo Feng.

  I sat cross-legged on my mat, emulating Lo Feng. My father knelt on his, sitting effortlessly on his heels and tucking the folds of his robes beneath his legs. Bao stooped over the brazier and blew on the embers, making them flare to life, then retreated to keep watch over us.

  “So.” Master Lo Feng tucked his hands into his sleeves. “The Breath of Embers Glowing…”

  I listened.

  I breathed.

  Mostly, I stole glances at them. And it seemed to me that day that there were so many kinds of beauty in the world. They were all so very different, these three men from three generations. My father’s presence seemed to illuminate it.

  When it was over, Master Lo Feng chided me for my inattentiveness, but he did it nicely. And then he asked to have a few private words with my father.

  Bao and I withdrew to the far side of the courtyard and stood together in awkward silence. I tried to think of something to say, but between my lingering weariness and sudden happiness, my mind was a blank.

  “He’s nice,” Bao ventured at length in a grudging manner.

  I was just pleased that he’d deigned to speak to me. “He is, isn’t he? I liked him as soon as I met him.”

  He frowned. “You never met him before?”

  I shook my head. “Only a little while ago. I grew up in Alba with my mother.”

  “Huh.” He leaned on his staff and stared at the two men conversing.

  Well, it had been a promising start. “Where did you grow up?”

  Bao screwed up his face. “I do not know the word. People who do…” Unexpectedly, he tossed his staff high in the air and threw a standing somersault. He caught the staff on its descent, planted the butt, and vaulted into a flip, landing with the staff tucked neatly under one arm. “Like so.”

  “Stone and sea!” I clapped. “That’s wonderful!” He shrugged. “So you were born into a circus family?” I prompted him. “Performers? Acrobats and jugglers?”

  “Not born.” Bao’s face darkened. “Sold.”

  “Oh.” I felt like an idiot. Belatedly, I remembered that Lo Feng had said Bao was a child of violence. “I’m sorry. How old were you?”

  “Three.” He summoned a fierce, hard smile. “Fifteen when I run away.”

  “Is that when you met Master Lo Feng?”

  “No.” Bao eyed me. “Why you ask so many questions?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I just am.”

  At that moment, Master Lo Feng called us over. My father smiled and reached out his hand and I took it.

  “Strangely, I find all this breathing has given me an appetite,” he said. “Moirin, would you join me for an early dinner?”

  I smiled back at him. “I’d love to.”

  We dined at an inn in a part of the City known as Night’s Doorstep because it was at the base of the hill where the Houses of the Night Court resided. It encompassed the Tsingani quarter and the inn was owned by a Tsingano. It was called the Cockerel and it had a long and venerable history in the City. The owner was a tall, scowling fellow with an imposing mustache, but he broke into a wide grin at the sight of my father.

  “Brother Phanuel!” He beckoned with both hands. “Come, come. Always a table for you.”

  “Thank you, Stefan.” My father laid a hand on my shoulder. “This is my daughter, Moirin.”

  The Tsingano raised his fist to his mouth and bit his knuckle. “Such a beauty! Not born of any milk-white D’Angeline, either. Was her mother one of ours?”

  “I was born to the Maghuin Dhonn,” I said.

  His eyes widened and he took a step backward. “You’re the witch! The one they’re all talking about.”

  “She’s my daughter,” my father said mildly.

  “Of course.” Stefan didn’t quite meet his eyes. “There is a fine dish of stuffed cabbages if you and your daughter are hungry, Brother Phanuel.”

  “That would be very pleasant, thank you.”

  Although I would have enjoyed it more if the innkeeper weren’t looking askance at me, the food was simple and hearty and good, and we washed it down with tankards of foaming ale.

  “So.” My father pushed his empty plate away. “Master Lo Feng is concerned about you. He says you’ve been engaged in some secret business with Raphael de Mereliot that… how did he put it? Drains your vital chi.”

  I toyed with my last bite. “I’m fine.”

  “Moirin.”

  We may have known each other only a short time, but that was a parent’s voice to be sure. I sighed. “I promised not to speak of it. But it’s all right. It’s over. I won’t be doing it anymore.”

  He leveled a stern green, green gaze at me. “You promise?”

  “Yes! I promise.”

  “Do I need to speak to Lord de Mereliot?”

  “No!” I laid one hand on my chest. “I’m trying to follow my diadhanam. But whatever it requires, I don’t think that was it.” Unless it had aught to do with the topaz jewel lodged in my thoughts, anyway.

  “All right.” My father relaxed. “So everything else passes well? I trust that Jehanne’s not bedeviled you beyond bearing since you’re still keeping company with de Mereliot. You’ve managed to avoid further entanglements on that front?”

  “Ahh…” I remembered seeing a pair of letters addressed to me and stamped with the crest of House Courcel on the receiving tray at the townhouse. I’d hurried out without bothering to open them. “Well. Almost.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Prince Thierry has been courting me,” I admitted. “I may have, um, encouraged him more than I intended.”

  My father closed his eyes. “You bedded the Dauphin?”

  “Only once!”

  His shoulders shook. He wiped one hand over his face and got himself under control. When he opened his eyes, they were bright with a mixture of mirth and rue. “Moirin… Elua have mercy!”

  “It was only once,” I repeated.

  My father shook his head. “One thing’s for sure. Whatever else you may be, you’re Naamah’s child and no mistake.”

  FORTY

  My father stayed in the City for a whole month.

  It was the nicest time I’d had since I came there. The scholarly members of the Circle had retreated into their arcane research. In the absence of activity, the rumors faded as the gossipmongers of Terre d’Ange moved on to the next topic.

  My strength returned, drip by drip.

  To be sure, there were setbacks. Raphael concentrated on his work as a physician. A few times, he asked my aid, but only in times of dire need. That, I couldn’t begrudge. Together, we saved the life of a woman in childbirth—the young Marquise d’Ilon. She’d begun bleeding heavily during labor.

  We staunched the bloodflow, Raphael and I.

  There were times when I thought I did love him, and that was one of them. When he placed the squalling babe in the grateful young mother’s arms and grinned at me through his exhaustion, hair plastered to his brow. He’d attended her while she labored for hours before he sent for me, knowing the toll it would take to aid him.

  There were times when I didn’t.

  There was Jehanne—always Jehanne. The three of us existed in an uneasy truce. The C
ity thrived on discussing it. But it seemed for the moment that she tolerated me and was issuing no ultimatums.

  There was Thierry.

  He was stubborn and persistent, wooing me with a mix of patience and humor. And he was good company. During those times that Raphael was either attending the Queen or occupied with his duties, I accepted Thierry’s invitation to escort me to various functions.

  I attended the theater for the first time with him.

  I heard my first harpsichord concert.

  These were wondrous and magical things to me, and Thierry reveled in sharing them with me. I liked that about him.

  I just didn’t love him.

  But for the most part, I kept up my lessons with Master Lo Feng and I spent as much time as I could with my father.

  He liked to walk the City and I liked to walk it with him. I loved seeing that mantle of grace that spread in his wake. He went to the richest and the poorest quarters. It made no difference to him. From time to time, bold strangers, men and women alike, would approach him, fingering the folds of his robes.

  “Will you invoke Naamah’s blessing for me, Brother?” they would ask.

  When he was with me, he always shook his head. “Today, I can give you only my own good wishes.”

  “What’s the difference?” I asked him the first time it happened.

  My father smiled at me sidelong.

  I understood. “Oh.”

  I thought a lot about that—the act of love as a benediction, a physical manifestation of divine grace.

  It was a lovely notion.

  It was a very D’Angeline notion.

  And it was something I yearned for. I understood it in the marrow of my bones. It was the source of the infinite brilliance behind the bright lady’s smile. And there was passion and compassion and glory and wonder in it. And there was nothing in it that brought sorrow to the magnificent gaze of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself.

  One day, I thought, I would know it.

  I learned the last of the Five Styles of Breathing—the Breath of Wind’s Sigh. For this, Master Lo Feng held the lesson in a bell tower at the Academy. Its arched windows were open to the winter winds. Bao spread our mats on the narrow walkway. A great bronze bell hovered above our heads, the pull-rope dangling into the tower’s void.

  Gusts flickered through the open tower. It was cold, and I breathed the Breath of Embers Glowing until I was warm enough to concentrate.

  “Feel the wind.” Master Lo Feng inhaled deeply through his nose. “Draw it into you. Up and up and up.” He tapped the space between his eyes. “Here.”

  I breathed.

  Up and up and up.

  I felt very sharp and keen, my thoughts focused.

  “Let it go.”

  I let it go.

  Another tap. “Take it back.”

  I took it back.

  Like everything Master Lo Feng had taught me, it was the same and different all at once. I breathed in and out. The wintry wind played over my skin, tugged at the folds of my cloak. The space behind my eyes expanded and contracted. I felt weightless and airy, as though I could leap from the tower, take wing and soar.

  It was a good month.

  It came to an end when another set of troubled lovers came to the temple to ask for aid—a pair of young Azzallese noblemen who had sworn an eternal lovers’ oath in defiance of both their families. In turn, their families had disinherited them.

  “I don’t care about wealth or estates,” the older of the two said fiercely, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. He had coal-black hair and an imperious manner. “But I’m a scion of House Trevalion. I want my name back.”

  “Armande…” the other said soothingly. “Be nice. He’s trying to help.”

  My father spoke to them at length in private and agreed to speak to the families.

  I wished he weren’t leaving again so soon. “Do you have to go? A little humility might do that prickly fellow good.”

  He laughed. “Azza’s line doesn’t humble easily. And yes, I have to go. It’s in keeping with my vows and the tradition of this temple.”

  “Why don’t their families want them together?” I asked. “Is it a matter of status?”

  “No, but it’s a matter of inheritance,” he said. “Their families expect them to carry on their bloodlines one day. The oath they’ve sworn binds them to each other alone until death parts them.” He smiled at me. “Young men can be extreme in their passions. Nine times out of ten, it mellows with age. They change their minds when they begin thinking about heirs of their own.”

  “But not always,” I said.

  “No,” my father agreed. “And if they don’t, it means Elua’s hand truly joined them. Either way, I’m sure I can convince the families to relent for now.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  He cocked his head at me. “Would you like to come with me?”

  My heart leapt—and my diadh-anam flickered, dimming. “I can’t,” I said sadly. “I don’t think I’m meant to.”

  My father shook his head. “You and your destiny.”

  “It’s very inconvenient,” I said.

  He kissed my forehead. “I’ll be back before the Longest Night. Do you think you might manage to stay out of trouble until then?”

  “I’ll try,” I promised.

  Things changed once my father was gone. Exactly why, I couldn’t have said; it wasn’t as though he did anything specific to ease life’s travails. But his presence was a balm in my life, oil spread over troubled waters. Once he was gone, the stormclouds gathered and the waters roiled.

  First, I quarrelled with Thierry.

  It was entirely by accident that I overheard him in the Hall of Games, bantering with Marc de Thibideau—whose broken leg was quite well healed—and Balthasar Shahrizai over a dice table. For once, I wasn’t eavesdropping. We’d made an appointment. I’d just misgauged the time and arrived early.

  “—passel of little witchling babes,” Balthasar was saying in a teasing tone. “Do you suppose she’d want to swaddle them in bearskins?”

  “Name of Elua, man!” Thierry laughed. They all laughed. “Have you lost your mind? Don’t be absurd. I’d never wed Moirin.”

  I froze.

  Marc de Thibideau saw me first. A flush of hot blood stained his fair cheeks. He’d begged me not to leave him a cripple, and I hadn’t. Balthasar Shahrizai raised his brows and fell silent.

  Thierry turned and stammered my name.

  “You know,” I said to him, “it’s not as though I had the slightest interest in wedding you. And yet to find you speaking so dismissively of the notion among your companions hurts nonetheless. I thought we were better friends.”

  I walked out.

  He let me go.

  And then there was the Circle of Shalomon.

  Denis de Toluard called for a meeting at his country estate. Insofar as such events had gone, this one at least began pleasantly. We had a lengthy and extensive meal with course after course, and a different wine served with each one. Member after member offered toasts to knowledge and their pursuit. Afterward, there was pungent cheese and perry brandy.

  “Moirin.” Denis leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Raphael said you promised to hear us out. Will you?”

  I glanced at Raphael. “I also said you would be wasting your breath. But I will keep my promise and listen.”

  Denis nodded at Claire Fourcay. “Go ahead.”

  Her eyes shone. “Orien and I have dug deep into the archives, and our thought is this: We aimed too low. We’ve been wasting our time summoning the lesser spirits. Of course they’ve played childish tricks on us. Of course they’ve done their best to fob us off with foolish gifts.” Her nose twitched and she rubbed it unthinking. “We need to cease wasting time. We need to summon one of the greater spirits.”

  “Who?” someone asked.

  “Focalor,” Orien de Legasse announced. “Focalor, who wields power over wind and sea.” He inclined his head
toward Balric Maitland, his spectacles flashing. “Of course, we’d depend on you to forge a silver chain capable of binding him twice over.”

  “Of course,” the silversmith agreed.

  There was a good deal more: arcane arguments backed up by citations of arcane texts as to why this time it would succeed, this time they had found the means to circumvent any trickery. When it was finished, they all looked at me.

  I stood. “I have listened. My answer is no.”

  “Moirin.” Raphael rose, his hands gripping my upper arms. Where he touched me, irresistible warmth suffused my skin. His grey eyes pleaded with me. Memories surfaced behind mine. Cold, cold water dragging at his clothes. A white hand sinking below the waves. A pair of strong arms keeping him afloat. His father’s ragged voice at his ear. Raphael’s gaze was insistent. “Please?”

  I closed my eyes and breathed. “No.”

  He was angry.

  They were all angry.

  Well and so, I was angry, too. Angry at them for using me, for blaming me when I refused to let myself be used. Angry at myself for agreeing to listen to them in the first place. I should have put my foot down earlier, but I’d been tired and vulnerable.

  “I’ll take my leave in the morning,” I said to Raphael when we returned to the townhouse late that night. “I’ll find lodgings elsewhere.”

  He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. “Let’s not make any decisions tonight. We’re both out of sorts. Sleep on it.”

  It was too late to argue. “We’ll talk on the morrow.”

  Raphael nodded and turned away, then turned back. “I don’t want you to go, Moirin.”

  “You never do. And yet…” I shrugged. “We’ll talk.”

  “All right.”

  The morning brought two things. The first was a letter from Prince Thierry, filled with apologies and self-recrimination. The tone was genuine and heartfelt, unlike his usual cheerful correspondence. Even the very words etched on the page looked as though he’d labored over them. He reminded me that I’d promised to attend a ball that Jehanne was hosting in three days’ time and begged me to send word that I’d keep my promise.

  I mulled it over and decided to forgive Thierry. He hadn’t meant to hurt me. He was young and had responded thoughtlessly to Balthasar Shahrizai’s teasing; and I’d already seen how well that one prodded at sore spots. And I hadn’t been entirely fair to Thierry myself. At the least, he deserved a second chance.