Naamah's Blessing

Machasu let out her breath. “That was very clever, lady.”

I frowned. “A man is much bigger than a lizard. I cannot be sure it will work at the same proportions.”

She was silent a moment. “Then you must try it on me after all.”

“No.”

“Lady, the lives of my people are at stake.” Machasu did her best to make her voice firm this time. “I am no more afraid than Cusi to do my duty.”

“No,” I said again. “I do not dishonor your courage, Machasu. But we are a long way from Qusqu yet, and many things are uncertain. If it is necessary when the time comes, I will accept your offer.”

“It is true that many things are uncertain, lady. Because of that, you may not be able to choose the time.” Before I had any inkling of her intentions, Machasu picked up a thorn and dipped it into the mixture, jabbing the soft flesh of her inner elbow. A pin-prick of blood blossomed. “Better to know now.”

“Machasu, no!” I cried, too late.

She essayed a faint smile. “It is done.”

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as we waited together. The sun moved sluggishly above the courtyard. Beneath my gown, sweat trickled down my back. The lizard in his cage blinked and dozed. The ants foraged idly, eating leaves that had fallen.

I was on the verge of concluding that the proportion was ineffective on a human when Machasu began to shiver.

“Machasu?” I said urgently. “What passes?”

“I do not know,” she whispered. “I feel… weak. It is hard to move my arms. My legs, too.”

“Can you breathe?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Good, very good. Keep breathing, low and steady, and all will be well.” Praying it was true, I felt at the pulses in her wrist as Master Lo had taught me. For a short time, they raced and her skin was hot to the touch; and then her pulses dropped, and her skin grew cold beneath my fingertips.

Machasu’s eyes rolled back in her head, showing only the whites.

“Stupid girl!” I muttered, dashing away tears. “You did not need to take such a risk. Not here, not now.”

Limp, she made no response.

Her pulse continued to beat at an alarmingly slow rate. Laying a leaf atop her slack lips, I saw that it fluttered faintly. I cradled Machasu’s head in my lap and glared at the skittering ants in the courtyard. “Stay away!” I warned them fiercely. “Lest I stomp your queen to death!”

Although it seemed an eternity, it was no more than an hour before Machasu stirred, her eyes returning to their proper orbit. Her skin warmed, her pulse quickening and her breath deepening.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

She blinked.

I whispered a prayer of thanks to Eisheth, the D’Angeline goddess of healing. “I am very, very glad. You should not have done that, Machasu.”

Her breast heaved in a shallow cough. “But now you know, lady. It works. One part to three, aye?” One feeble hand rose, feeling at her throat. “It is only that it takes longer to work on humans.”

“Aye,” I murmured. “So it does.”

It took the better part of another hour before Machasu was strong enough to walk with my aid into our quarters. Slipping her arm from my shoulders, I lowered her to rest on her pallet in the antechamber, where she slept long and hard.

In the courtyard, I tidied away the evidence.

The white-boned carcasses of the lizards did not concern me. They were the ants’ rightful prey, and no one would question their deaths. But I was careful to measure out the amount of wurari poison in the stoppered jar, pouring it into the mixing bowl, which I had cleaned. I added three drops of chicha for every drop of poison. When it was done, I tipped it back into the earthenware jar, and shook it, shoving the wooden stopper in place, making it ready.

Lighting a taper, I sealed it with wax. I gathered several dozen more spiny thorns, wrapping them in a length of cloth. I stowed away both the jar of poison and my roll of thorns in the bottom of a satchel, and washed the mixing bowl one last time.

By the time I had finished, the sun was beginning to set. I checked on Machasu, and found her sleeping soundly. Her skin was damp and overly warm, but her breathing was reassuringly steady. I sat beside her for a time, breathing the Breath of Ocean’s Rolling Waves, stroking the hair back from her brow, thinking on how the courage of these Quechua women humbled me.

When the shadows began to gather in the corner of the chamber, I retreated to my own room. The ants made their nightly foray up the sisal rope, clustering in their customary ball.

Tomorrow, we marched to war.

All I could do was pray that it ended swiftly.

SIXTY-SEVEN

If I had thought our caravan that departed from Tenochtitlan all those months ago was an unlikely one, it was nothing to the procession that set forth from Vilcabamba.

It took hours simply to exit from the jungle fasthold, our company winding down the terraced steps and crossing the narrow, swaying bridges, forced to walk no more than two abreast, the hand-ropes on either side blackened by a stream of ants. The armored warriors under the ostensible command of Prince Manco led the way, steel glinting green in the sunlight that filtered through the canopy. Behind them marched a thousand more warriors in traditional Quechua gear, quilted cotton armor and wooden shields, wooden clubs with stone or bronze heads.

Raphael de Mereliot, Lord Pachacuti, was carried behind the army on a splendid litter. Mayhap in other circumstances he would be reviled for taking a position of safety, but Lord Pachacuti was a special case. He commanded the black river itself, an army more terrifying than any human one.

A dozen of Raphael’s favorite handmaids from the Temple of the Sun marched behind him with Cusi among them, along with Ocllo to supervise them and a bevy of servants to help them attend to his every need.

On Raphael’s order, I marched alongside them. Behind us was an endless line of porters and servants carrying supplies in woven baskets lashed to their backs, our D’Angeline company somewhere among them, lost in the throng. I would have worried, but I could sense Bao’s diadh-anam.

Once we cleared the gorges surrounding Vilcabamba, the road widened and our pace quickened. The ants spread out through the adjacent foliage in a carpet of living blackness, scavenging as they went, seemingly tireless.

I could not help but wonder at the cost to the environs. Raphael was using the ants to unnatural ends. The highlands that lay many leagues before us were not their natural habitat, and I feared they might lay waste to it. And what of the jungle that we would leave behind us? The ants played a vital role in maintaining the balance of nature. Whatever damage their enslavement had already done would be magnified ten-fold in their utter absence as their natural prey was left to multiply unchecked.

But I supposed such concerns were beneath Lord Pachacuti on his quest for godhood.

Our first days during the long march to Qusqu were uneventful, unless one considered the logistics of managing such an undertaking to be of interest. The road followed a river that ran eastward from the highlands. We camped in a long train, foot-weary servants shuttling back and forth to tend to the needs of men and ants alike. There were tents for Prince Manco and Lord Pachacuti, and one for the Maidens of the Sun. I was glad of the latter for I worried about Machasu, who had a lingering fever from the effects of the wurari, but after three days, it passed.

Everyone else slept in the open, taking their chances with the elements.

On the first night, I ventured to visit Raphael’s tent and upon being granted admittance, I asked his permission to seek out Bao, reminding him that he had told me I might see them on the road.

“I did, didn’t I?” Raphael was in good spirits and well rested, being the only one among us who had not walked for leagues. He had Cusi in attendance on him, and Bao’s bamboo staff in his hand, twirling it inexpertly.

I eyed him. “Did you bring that just to torment me?”

He laughed, nodding toward a corner of the tent where my yew-wood bow and quiver were propped. “No. I brought those to torment you.” He tucked Bao’s staff under his arm. “This I brought in case I need to remind your Ch’in husband that he is powerless here. I find his stubborn refusal to show a proper degree of fear quite vexing.”

“You would not be the first to find Bao vexing,” I said. “May I see him?”

Raphael shrugged. “I suppose so. You haven’t forgotten your oath to me, have you, Moirin?”

I wished I could, for that bedamned oath preyed on my mind. “No, my lord. Believe me, I have not forgotten. You know full well that the Maghuin Dhonn cannot afford to take such things lightly.”

“Good.” He waved me away. “Go.”

I inclined my head. Cusi caught my eye as I straightened, giving me the hint of a sweet, trusting smile that made my heart ache for her all over again. Ah, gods! She was young, so young.

Following the urging of my diadh-anam, I located Bao and the others half a league down the road. He rose to embrace me, his cheek pressed against my hair. “Was Eyahue able to aid you?” he whispered into my ear.

“Aye,” I murmured in reply. “He was. It seems we have the means to incapacitate the priests for an hour’s time without harming them. But I fear it will not be an easy feat to accomplish.”

Loosening his arms, Bao kissed me. “In our lives, what is?”

I smiled ruefully. “Precious little. Is all well with you?”

Bao nodded. “I do believe your missing prince has come into his own, Moirin. If we survive this, he’ll make a fine ruler.”

For a mercy, it appeared to be true. The mood in the D’Angeline contingent was calm and resolved. There were no more factions between them. Since his decision, Prince Thierry seemed to have matured into his role as a King in exile, taking on a mantle of authority that he had not possessed before.

It heartened me to see it.

I prayed it was not too late.

On the fourth day of our march, we passed our first settlement, a small fishing village along the banks of the river.

The villagers stared, for which I could not blame them. They stared at the vanguard of men marching in bright, shining armor; they stared at the Quechua in traditional gear who followed. They stared at Raphael in his feather-canopied litter, and the stoic bearers who carried it. Most of all, they stared fearfully at the black tide of ants that accompanied us.

So it went.

Jungle gave way to lowland plains. The ants scoured the earth, augmenting their diet with aught they could devour. Despite the vast supplies our porters carried, it was not enough, never enough. Storehouses along the way, meant to protect the folk of Tawantinsuyo from starvation, were raided and emptied.

Days passed; and then weeks. The swift chasquis running relays might be able to make the journey in mere days, but our plodding caravan could not.

Rumor ran ahead of us, carrying the bitter truth. The chasquis sent forth from Vilcabamba had spoken truly.

Lord Pachacuti the Earth-Shaker and his black river of death were a reality.

Our first pitched battle came in the foothills of the mountain range in which the capital of Qusqu was located. Determined to test his opponent, the Sapa Inca Yupanqui had sent several thousand of his best warriors to make a stand in a low, flat valley. They outnumbered us three-fold or better.

It was no contest.

I saw it from a distance, on the slope of the hill that led into the valley. The Sapa Inca’s men were arrayed in a line across the far end of the valley. Raphael called for a halt. Keeping the ants in reserve, he sent forth a herald, a barrel-chested fellow with a deep, booming voice. The herald strode down the hill and within earshot of our opponents.

“The Divine Lord Pachacuti offers you mercy!” he cried. “All who wish to join him are welcome! Lay down your weapons, and they will be returned to you in exchange for your loyalty!”

The Sapa Inca’s men roared in refusal, beating their wooden shields with the butt-ends of their clubs.

The herald repeated the offer once more, and once more, it was refused. He returned to our company, and our warriors parted ranks so that Raphael’s litter might be brought to the forefront of their lines.

The litter was lowered, and Raphael stepped forth from it. He wore a long red tunic of fine wool, a great collar of gold, and a flared golden headdress atop his tawny mane. As much as I had come to loathe him, I had to own that he cut a stunning figure. Standing atop the hillside, he raised one hand, then lowered it in an abrupt gesture.

From behind our lines, the black river moved forward, trickling between men and gathering to form a vast tide that poured down the hillside, blanketing the valley.

It was a sight to make anyone’s skin crawl. I daresay the Sapa Inca’s men were brave enough, for they held their line until the black river was almost upon them, but the ants in mass were too uncanny, too terrifying. The men broke ranks and began to flee, stumbling over one another in the chaos.

Those who fell were instantly engulfed, writhing and screaming; and at that, I had to look away.

With a slight smile of satisfaction, Raphael issued a silent command for the ants to withdraw and divide. The black river parted in obedience, forming a wide swath and going still. Now our human army marched down the hillside into the swath, the herald shouting out his offer for a third time.

A few of the Sapa Inca’s men fought nonetheless, war-clubs clanging futilely on the steel armor of the warriors in our vanguard; and mayhap a third of their number staged a successful retreat into the foothills, having outrun the fearsome tide.

But the majority heeded the herald’s offer, flinging down their weapons and raising their hands in an age-old gesture of surrender.

We made camp in the valley. The surrendered weapons were gathered and stacked in a pile, returned one by one as each of their owners came forward to swear loyalty to Raphael de Mereliot, Lord Pachacuti. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">