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

by Jacqueline Carey

  In an hour or so, the princess returned from wherever her thoughts had taken her. “Tell me, Moirin of the Maghuin Dhonn. What is the punishment among your people for defying the Son of Heaven?”

  “We have no Emperor,” I said.

  She made an impatient gesture. “Your king, your ruler.”

  I shook my head. “The Maghuin Dhonn have no ruler.”

  Beneath the hem of her veil, Snow Tiger’s mouth fell open. “How do you live?” she asked in astonishment. “How?”

  “Oh…” I shrugged. “We are a solitary folk, preferring to live in the wilderness. If there is a thing to be decided, it will be discussed by the oldest and wisest among us. But I do not think that there have been any great decisions made in my lifetime,” I added. “We made a very bad choice a long time ago, and the Maghuin Dhonn Herself punished us for it.”

  She stirred. “The gifts you spoke of… that night. The ability to see the paths of the future, to change shape. Is that how you lost them?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “It must have been a very bad choice.”

  I thought of the green burial mound in Clunderry, the ring of standing stones in the forest. “It was. Would you hear the tale?” She nodded, so I told her the story of the D’Angeline prince and his Alban bride, binding magics, oaths made and broken, the babe who would have grown up to destroy us slain in the womb.

  Snow Tiger listened without a word, exhaling softly when I finished. “It is a terrible tale,” she mused. “And yet the magicians redeemed themselves in the end. The sacrifices they made saved their people.”

  I nodded. “That is why we remember them in grief and sorrow, and honor the bitter lesson that their history teaches us.”

  “Then I will try to do the same.” She cocked her head. “Master Lo Feng said you were descended from the royal blood of two lands. How can that be when your mother’s people have no ruler?”

  “Alba has a ruler.” I smiled. “It’s just that the Maghuin Dhonn don’t exactly acknowledge the Cruarch’s sovereignty over us. And since the time of Alais the Wise, the Cruarchs of Alba have been content to leave us alone.”

  “Then it is your father who is of royal blood?” The princess sounded perplexed. “The father you discovered in Terre d’Ange? I do recall you shouting at me about him.”

  I flushed, embarrassed at the memory. “No, no. My father is a Priest of Naamah.”

  She leaned back against the seat. “I am very confused.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady.”

  Snow Tiger dismissed my apology with a gesture. “You may as well explain it to me. We have a long journey, and…” She paused, her voice taking on a wistful tone. “Despite your peculiar accent, I find I like hearing your stories. No one has told me a story since I was a very small girl.”

  And so I told her tales for the remainder of the day’s journey, spinning out the complicated history of my ancestry, the tale of my parents’ unlikely encounter, my search to find my father in the City of Elua—although I left out the more uncanny details of my complicated relationship with Raphael de Mereliot and I did not explain how I came to be Queen Jehanne’s companion.

  Still, it was enough.

  She listened to it all with a sense of mortified wonder. “Are they all so licentious? D’Angelines?”

  “They do not reckon it so.” I rubbed my face beneath the veil, having talked myself hoarse. “Nor do I. Blessed Elua bade them to love, and they… we… do. I have felt Naamah’s blessing upon me. I do believe there is divine purpose in it, my lady.” Before she could reply, the carriage came to a halt. I peered out the window. It was dusk, true dusk, and we were in the rustic courtyard of the abandoned farmstead.

  Tortoise rapped on the carriage door, his homely face appearing in the window, expression uncertain. “Noble… ah, Lady Chan? We have arrived.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said to him. “Give us a moment.”

  Two more figures emerged from the farmstead’s main lodging, bearing paper lanterns that cast a warm glow—two of Bao’s stick-fighters who would not accompany us on the rest of the journey, but allies and hopeless romantics nonetheless.

  “Is she here?” one called. “Is the Noble Princess here?”

  “She’s here!” Ten Tigers Dai called in eager reply.

  “They should see me as I am,” Snow Tiger said decisively, untying the sash on the oversized green robe and shrugging out of it. “It is the daughter of the Son of Heaven they have agreed to aid, not this Lady Chan Song. Is it safe here?”

  I peered out the window again. “I think so, yes.”

  She set aside the veiled hat, closing her eyes tight and tying her crimson scarf over them. “Then let me meet my unlikely heroes.”

  They cheered boisterously when she exited the carriage—cheered, and then fell silent and knelt in awe. I did not blame them. Slender and upright, crimson-robed and blindfolded, her scabbard clenched in her right fist, the princess was a picture from a story.

  I hoped it would be a happy story.

  I watched the men’s rapt faces as they fell in love with her, one by one.

  “Gentlemen.” The princess inclined her head to them, the trailing ends of her blindfold swaying. “I am in your debt,” she said simply. “And all I can say is thank you.”

  They cheered again.

  “Moirin.” She reached out with her free hand. “Forgive me, but the terrain is unfamiliar.”

  I settled her hand on my sleeve. “I am here.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Bao and Master Lo were late in arriving.

  It was an anxious, uncomfortable time. Everyone was restless and uneasy. The stick-fighters remained awestruck by Snow Tiger’s presence, rendered tongue-tied and uncertain, stumbling over themselves.

  Despite her regal demeanor, the princess was nervous. I daresay the men couldn’t tell, but I’d come to know her well enough that I could; and too, I could sense the restlessness it engendered in the dragon.

  Soon? he asked me for the tenth time.

  “Soon,” I assured him, hoping it was true. What in the name of all the gods we would do if Master Lo and Bao didn’t arrive, I couldn’t say. The prospect filled me with quiet dread. I did my best to contain it, but as the hours wore onward, I was hard-pressed to maintain a semblance of calm. When at last the door opened to admit them, a cry of relief escaped me.

  Beneath the broad brim of a woven straw hat, Bao’s eyes gleamed. “Did you think we would not come?”

  “I was afraid,” I admitted.

  He slid one arm around my waist, stroking my hair with his other hand. I pressed my face against his neck, inhaling the faint forge and metal scent of his skin. “I would not let that happen, Moirin.”

  It was as close as Bao had ever come to a declaration of love. My heart leapt unexpectedly and I glanced up at him. He gave me a faint, wry smile I very much wanted to kiss.

  “He does not like that.” The princess’ voice was stiff. I turned to see her on her feet, her blindfolded face turned toward us. The dragon roiled unhappily inside her. “Not at all.”

  “Noble Princess—” Bao released me and began to kneel.

  “No.” She put out one hand. “Do not address me so. I ask only that you restrain yourselves.” A little shudder ran though her. “I do not mean to impose on you, but it will make it easier for all of us if you do not disturb him.”

  “They shall, my lady.” Master Lo Feng removed the rough-spun garment he wore over his scholar’s robes. He gave Bao and me a warning glance, then swept the room with it to include the other fighters. “All of them shall. We leave this place as monks on the Path of Dharma, sworn to celibacy. From this moment forward, you will view no woman as an object of desire, but as treasured sisters to revere. Is that clear?”

  The men mumbled agreement, a couple of them blushing to hear such words spoken in the presence of the princess.

  The dragon settled.

  “Very good.” Master Lo folded his hands in his slee
ves. “It is late. I fear we were unavoidably delayed, but all is well.”

  “The innkeeper’s wife had many ailments she wished to discuss with Master Lo,” Bao murmured to me. “Many, many ailments. It was a long time before we were able to escape her attention and don our disguises.”

  “Is my father searching for me?” Snow Tiger asked hesitantly.

  “His men follow the trail Bao and I laid for them,” Master Lo confirmed. “In the morning, I suspect they will broaden their search. If you would heed my counsel, my lady, I suggest all of us take a few hours of sleep and depart before dawn.”

  She nodded. “So be it.”

  The farmstead was a simple, rustic place with only one bedchamber. The princess and I retired to it. Bao appointed himself to guard the door, dozing before it, staff held loosely in his hands. I made myself a pallet of blankets on the floor at the foot of the bed, waiting and watching out of the corner of my eye as the princess paced the room, paused, then tugged decisively at the sash of her crimson robes, undoing jeweled buttons.

  “My lady, would you like me to assist—”

  “No.” Her tone was curt. “I have long since grown accustomed to attending to my own needs.”

  “I am here to serve you,” I said diplomatically. “For whatever reason your gods and mine decree.”

  “I know.” Her voice softened. The bed creaked as she climbed into it, pulling the linens to her chin. “Forgive me. You meant it as a kindness. I do not mean to seem ungrateful. It’s just that this is all so very, very strange to me. I find it hard to imagine myself doing such a thing. And yet here I am.”

  “I know,” I echoed. If she had been anyone else, I would have gone to her, offered the simple comfort of a warm, living presence. But she was a princess of Ch’in and the daughter of the Son of Heaven, and I’d already pressed my limit today by taking her hand in the carriage. Instead, I curled up in my bed of blankets, willing sleep to come.

  “Have you concluded that you love him?” Her voice drifted down from the darkness above me.

  “Bao?”

  “Who else?” There was a hint of amusement in it. “You may answer. The dragon sleeps.”

  “Oh…” I sighed into the night, reliving that unexpected moment that had made my heart leap with joy. “Mayhap. I don’t know. More, I think, than I reckoned. If I do, it’s nothing like the tales I’ve heard led me to expect.”

  She sighed, too. “I suspect nothing ever is.”

  “Your husband,” I said softly, daring a different kind of intimacy. “You spoke of him as someone you might have learned to love. Was that not as you expected?”

  For a long moment, Snow Tiger was silent, and I thought mayhap I had overstepped my bounds. “I expected my father to choose a warrior,” she said at length, her voice almost inaudible. “Jiang Jian was a scholar and a poet, happier with an ink-brush in his hand than a sword. We met several times with attendants present before we wed. To my surprise, I liked him very much. He was kind, polite, and respectful. We spoke of our favorite poems. His intellect challenged me. His passion pleased and inspired me.”

  “Was he handsome?” I asked. It was a shallow question, but I did not think it would displease her.

  “Yes,” she whispered in the darkness. “He had the kindest, gentlest eyes, like one who has lived many lives. Perhaps Master Lo Feng looked thusly as a young man. I think… I think that because Jiang Jian had a gentle spirit, my father thought him weak. A husband I could control. And… perhaps that is also why his own father valued him so lightly. But I did not find him weak. Not at all. I thought he had a keen mind and a calm, quiet strength of his own. And on our wedding night, before what happened…” She was silent for another long moment. “I think we would have been well matched in many ways.”

  The spectre of her memory arose—the blood-soaked bed, torn flesh, and dismembered limbs. I swallowed hard. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “I know.” Snow Tiger stirred. “Moirin, I do not think I can speak of this any longer.”

  “Aye, my lady,” I murmured. “Forgive me for troubling your thoughts. It is late. Let us try to sleep.”

  Despite everything, we did.

  I awoke in the small hours of the morning to a faint scratching at the door and opened it to find Bao looking oddly apologetic, a pair of shears in his hand. In the primary chamber of the farmstead, the transformation of the men of our company into Dharma monks had begun. Already, they had donned the loose, undyed jackets and trousers of a travelling order. Now they turned their attention to their hair. I saw Ten Tigers Dai wince with visible dismay as his braid of glossy black hair was severed at a single chop.

  “It’s Master Lo,” Bao said sheepishly. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Will you?”

  I glanced at our mentor. “Master?”

  He sat serenely in his coarse, homespun clothing. “Bao is being foolish. Appearance is no measure of a man. I would be pleased if you would do the honors, Moirin.”

  “Aye, Master.” It did feel like a kind of sacrilege. I knelt behind him, taking his tidy braid of silver-white hair in one hand, the shears in the other. Swallowing hard, I snipped it off.

  Master Lo chuckled. “I feel strangely liberated.”

  I cut his hair as close as I could with the shears, trimmed away his elegant white beard, averting my gaze as I did so. He bore it patiently. Bao handed me a jar of salve and a keen-edged razor with a lacquered handle. Carefully and fearfully, I shaved Master Lo’s head and chin until he was as bald as an egg.

  When it was done, he looked immeasurably different. The same gentle wisdom shone in his dark eyes, but at a glance, I would never have recognized him.

  “My turn.” Bao sat cross-legged before me.

  I ran one hand over his thick, unruly mane, relishing the crisp texture of it. “Why do you wear it short?” I asked, curious. “Is it another piece of your supposed humility?”

  He shook his head. “Better for fighting. You can grab a man by his braid, yank him down. It’s stupid for a fighter to have long hair.”

  I set to work with the shears. “I see. Well, you’ll have none at all soon enough.” Bao shrugged, and I nearly cut him. “Hold still!”

  By the time I had finished shaving Bao’s head, the princess had awakened and emerged from the bedchamber of her own accord, clad in the modest green robes of Lady Chan Song, a strip of plain linen bound over her eyes. Her spine was taut and her head turned from side to side, blindly seeking. “Moirin?

  I stood. “Here, my lady. We do but complete the transformation of your escort into monks on the Path of Dharma, shaven heads and all.”

  She eased, favoring me with a rare smile. “How do they look?”

  I smiled in reply. “Surprisingly handsome.”

  At least in Bao’s case, it was true. He had a nicely shaped skull, neat ears pinned close to his head. The absence of hair set off his high, wide cheekbones and his sculpted jawline. If some of the others were not so fortunate, I held my tongue.

  “Master Lo Feng.” Snow Tiger inclined her head in his general direction. “Is there an altar as I requested?”

  “Yes, of course, my lady.” Master Lo rose smoothly, guiding her. A small, gilded statue of Sakyamuni had been placed in a niche in the wall, an even smaller statue of the goddess Guanyin beside him. “Would you offer a prayer?”

  “I would.”

  With his assistance, the princess lit a taper of incense and placed it in the brazier. Unaided, she knelt and bowed three times, pressing her brow to the floorboards, hands palm-upward in graceful supplication.

  A shiver ran over my skin.

  One by one, the others followed. The stick-fighters, Bao, Master Lo, all knelt without reservation. I was the last.

  I knelt, gazing upward.

  The statues looked inward.

  “Forgive me,” I whispered in Alban, in my mother tongue. “I am a stranger here, and foreign to your worship. I am a child of the Maghuin Dhonn. But I am doing the best that I may
to aid those in need. I beg you to have compassion and guide us on this journey.”

  There was no answer.

  They hear you, the dragon murmured.

  “Aye?”

  His presence coiled around me, warm and embracing. Always, he whispered. The gods do not always answer, but they are always listening.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  We set out on the road ere dawn.

  It was damp and chilly, the eastern sky a dull grey. Snow Tiger and I rode in the rustic carriage, Kang once more in the driver’s perch. Master Lo and the others walked on either side of the carriage, ghostly figures in the predawn darkness. The fighters’ staves had been adorned with banners from the fictitious House of Chan. Beyond that, they carried only begging bowls.

  Beside me, the princess shivered.

  “Are you cold, my lady?” I tucked a woolen blanket more firmly around her.

  “No.” Her voice was low. “It is only that I mislike leaving thusly.” She bowed her head, fidgeting with the sword she held across her lap. “It is dishonorable.”

  I thought about my reply. “Those men have staked their honor on this venture, my lady.” I nodded out the window at Tortoise and Dai. “Honor most of them never knew they possessed. Bao gave them a chance to be heroes and they seized it. You cannot see it, but their eyes shine when they look at you. For the first time in their lives, they attempt something noble and good. They are on a mission to rescue a princess and a dragon. Would you strip that honor from them?”

  Her fingers drummed on the lacquered scabbard. She angled her veiled head in my direction. “You do know that were circumstances otherwise, I could have you beaten for speaking to me thusly?” she inquired in a mild tone.

  I smiled, sensing no genuine malice in her threat. “Were circumstances otherwise, I would not be here,” I said calmly. “Which I think you know full well. And that does not make my words any less true.”