Naamah's Curse (Moirin's Trilogy #2)

Naamah's Curse (Moirin's Trilogy #2) Page 49

As we worked our way downward, spruces and cedars gave way to more exotic flora, plants and trees I’d only seen growing in the glass pavilion in Terre d’Ange: poinsettias, oleander, towering ferns. There were forests of rhododendrons growing taller than I ever imagined they could. When they were in bloom, it must be a spectacular sight. Even on the verge of winter, the sense of lush greenery was overwhelming after the stark rigors of the mountains. There were unfamiliar gnarled trees with roots that crawled like great serpents above the ground, trees with thoughts as slow and ancient as any I’d encountered save Elua’s Oak.

Birds with bright plumage flashed amid the branches, and agile little monkeys with ancient wise-man’s faces chattered at us.

After so long in the heights, the kingdom of Bhaktipur seemed like a fairy-tale place, a charming city nestled in a green valley. I gazed around in wonder as we entered the narrow, bustling streets. Here and there, cows wandered untended, seemingly free to roam the city. The architecture was a mix of pagoda-style buildings familiar from Ch’in, and domes, arches, and minarets I guessed was a more traditional Bhodistani style. Folk clad in brightly colored garb made way for our caravan as we pushed through the crowded streets. We arrived at midday, and it was warm enough that I was sweltering in my thick woolen Tufani attire.

In a square, Manil Datar called a halt. “Here, our path divides, Moirin,” he said, pointing south toward the far end of the valley where the mountain range rose anew. “We are continuing onward. You…..” He gestured around, smiling with grim satisfaction. “You are in Bhaktipur. The debt between us is finished.”

And that was that.

Sanjiv accepted my thanks with a shy smile, ducking his head and glancing at me sidelong. “Take care of your horses, Lady Dakini.”

“I will,” I promised.

No one else acknowledged me. Manil Datar gave the order to continue, and the caravan began filing through the city, bound for the far reaches of the Abode of the Gods.

Except for Sanjiv, I wasn’t sorry to see them go; and yet once more I found myself alone and friendless in a strange place, this time with my head aching and fever addling my wits. I fingered the purse of coin that Dorje had given me, hoping it was enough to purchase lodgings as he had promised.

All I had to do was find them. Belatedly, I realized that my limited Bhodistani vocabulary did not include a word for an inn.

Dismounting, I addressed the first person to smile at me, a slender young woman carrying a live chicken under one arm. “Hello,” I said politely. “Do you know where is a place and food for money?”

She nodded cheerfully and gave me directions in a dialect that differed slightly from the tongue Manil Datar had taught me. I echoed them back to her haltingly, while she nodded encouragingly.

When I had finished, she touched my face with slim fingers, her expression wondering. “You come from where?”

I pointed westward. “Far, very far. Many seas.”

It seemed to impress her. For my part, I was grateful to find the folk in Bhaktipur friendly and helpful, and my first encounter a productive one. I hoped it boded well for my time here. Right now, all I wanted to do was find the inn she had described, stable my mounts, then wash weeks of travel-dirt from my skin, fall into a bed, and sleep for days.

Alas, either the young woman had misunderstood my question, or I’d misunderstood her directions. When I followed the course she had indicated along the narrow, winding streets, I found myself before a building that was unmistakably a temple of some sort—and outside the temple doors, a trio of men assaulting a young girl in rough-spun clothing.

Even as I approached, they dragged her away from the temple, thrusting her roughly against a low wall. She cried out in fear and pain, dropping a rag bundle from which a tattered bunch of dried marigolds spilled, scattering gold and saffron petals. No one else on the street did anything to intervene.

A cold anger rose in me.

I unslung my bow without thinking, nocking an arrow. The swift motion made my head swim, and when I shook it in an effort to clear it, I made it worse. “Let her go!” I called in a tight, fierce voice.

Turning, the men backed away from the girl and raised their hands. The girl dropped to a squat, tears on her cheeks, and attempted to gather the fallen flowers.

“You do not understand,” one of the men said in a sullen tone. “She tried to enter the temple.”

There was a ringing in my head like the sound of bells, and I had to concentrate not to see two of him. “So?”

The man gestured aggressively toward the girl, who flinched. “She is nobody! An untouchable!”

I focused on him, training the arrow. “I do not care. Let her go!”

The sound of ringing bells grew louder. Gazing past me, the men’s expressions changed. All three of them bowed their heads, pressed their palms together, and touched their fingers to their brows. The girl pressed her forehead to the ground.

“So! What is this trouble that passes here?” asked a new voice, a woman’s voice, musical and lilting.

Nudging my mount with my knees, I turned slightly and beheld the Rani of Bhaktipur emerging from a palanquin. I knew at a glance it could not have been anyone else. A coterie of guards surrounded her. She was draped in an intricate garment of bright orange silk embroidered with bands of gold, vivid against her warm amber skin. There was an ornament of gold filigree twined in her black hair, a sparkling jewel hanging on her smooth forehead. Bangles jingled on her wrists, and anklets with tiny bells rang as she stepped forth onto a strip of silk cloth that two of her guards laid on the street so that her bare feet might not be sullied.

Meeting my gaze, she raised her brows in surprise, and smiled with remarkable sweetness—and I fell a little bit in love with her.

It wasn’t only that she was beautiful, although she was. Though she was younger than I had expected, having been a widow for eleven years, there was a sense of profound gravity and kindness that radiated from her. She stood poised on the street, her hands clasped before her in an unfamiliar gesture, two middle fingers steepled. It was oddly calming.

“This one, highness,” the man who had spoken to me pointed at the girl, squatting with her arms wrapped around her knees, head bowed over the marigolds in her lap. “This nobody sought to enter the temple.”

“Is that true, little one?” the Rani asked in her musical voice. “You may speak.”

The girl nodded without looking up. “My mother is very sick. I thought…..”

She didn’t finish the sentence. “You wanted to make an offering for her,” the Rani said gently.

The girl nodded again.

I sneezed violently, barely managing to ease my drawn bowstring in time. The Rani’s dark, lustrous gaze flicked back to me, another smile curving her full lips. “And what do you say, young goddess?”

“I do not know what the girl did, highness,” I said honestly. “But these men were hurting her.”

“So.” The Rani’s graceful hands shifted into a different pose, middle fingers yet steepled, index fingers and thumbs bent to form the shape of a heart. She stood in thought, and all of us waited patiently for her to speak. “You know you must not enter the temple, little one,” she said at length to the girl. “Each of us must obey our own kharma, and it is as true for me as it is for you. But tell me, what is your mother’s name?”

“Varnu,” the girl whispered.

“Varnu.” The Rani repeated it. “I will see that an offering is made for your mother, Varnu. Is it well?”

“Yes, great highness!” The girl looked up with a dazzling smile, then bowed her head three times, touching it to the ground. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Leaping to her feet, she dashed away down the street, scattering dried marigold petals in her wake.

“Highness—” one of the men began in a protesting voice.

She unclasped her hands and raised one, palm outward. It silenced him. “Do I need to remind you of honor? You have a duty to the less fortunate, and it is not to offer violence and harm, no.” She shook her head. “Never.”

Humbled, he looked down, as did his fellows. “Yes, highness. Please, forgive us.”

“Very well.” The Rani lowered her hand. “Go, and be grateful that you were prevented from doing harm.”

They went, looking for all the world chastened and grateful to be spared the consequences of their own actions. I thought it was a rare gift to be able to move men’s hearts with such grace and dignity.

The Rani beckoned to one of her guards and spoke to him in a low tone. I caught the word Varnu, the girl’s mother’s name. The man bowed and touched his steepled fingers to his brow, then hurried off to do her bidding.

“So, young goddess.” She turned her attention back to me, curiosity and a spark of lively humor in her gaze, a smile hovering on her lips. “Who are you, where do you come from, and what in the world are you doing here?”

I smiled back at her. “It is a long story, highness. I am Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn. And if you are the Rani of Bhaktipur, also known as the Lady of Rats, I am here looking for you.”

“The Lady of Rats!” She laughed, a sound like bells chiming. “Yes, I suppose so. And you are looking for me?” Her hands shifted into a contemplative pose I’d seen in effigies of the Enlightened Ones, cupped before her, thumbs folded over one another. As her bright eyes studied me, I fought unsuccessfully to contain another sneeze, and wished that I didn’t feel quite so feverish, dirty, and miserable. “Well,” the Rani said in a thoughtful tone. “Then I suppose I’d better take you home with me, Moirin mac Fainche, yes?”

“Yes, please!” I agreed fervently.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Never, ever in my life had I been so glad to be ensconced in a man-made structure.

I followed the Rani’s palanquin to her palace in a daze, unable to believe my good fortune. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt that mayhap the gods were smiling on me after all.

Behind the high walls that warded it, the palace was a charming affair built in the Bhodistani style. Dismounting from her palanquin, the Rani gave orders that my horses were to be stabled and tended, and my belongings brought to a suite of rooms. Then she reached up to touch my brow with cool fingers.

“And for you, I think, a physician.” A little furrow formed between her gracefully arched brows. “Even goddesses take sick in mortal form.”

I smiled. “No goddess, highness. But if it is not too much to ask, I would like a bath first.”

She cocked her head, steepling her fingers in a thoughtful pose. “D’Angeline, yes?”

My eyes widened. Since leaving Vralia, I’d felt myself utterly isolated from my roots. “You know of D’Angelines?”

“Oh, yes!” The Rani laughed her chiming laugh. “Not here, no. But in Galanka, when I was a girl, yes.” Her eyes sparkled, and she patted my cheek. “You will have your bath, and I will have my physician. After, you will rest. Later you will tell me your story.”

I had my bath, and it was better than medicine. The Bhodistani did not believe in submerging themselves to bathe, but the Rani sent a pair of young attendants who ladled bucket after bucket of hot water over me, sluicing away weeks of accumulated dirt and dried sweat. They washed and scrubbed every inch of me with gentle thoroughness, and undertook the painstaking process of undoing the matted braids Dorje and Nyima’s daughters had plaited in my locks, easing the coral and turquoise beads out of my hair, and untangling every knotted strand before combing and washing it. The steam helped clear my head, and a profound sense of lassitude suffused my aching body. I thought about Luba scouring me with lye soap and cold water, chopping off my tangled hair with her shears, and murmured a prayer of gratitude to any gods who were listening.

Afterward, they rubbed warm, scented oil into my skin and gave me clean sleeping attire to wear: a pair of loose-fitting breeches and a long tunic of sheer white linen. When they had finished with me, the Rani came with her physician. She listened gravely as he examined me and prescribed a great deal of rest, and a diet of fresh fruits and grains, yoghurt, and spoonfuls of honey.

I was almost too tired to eat anything by the time he left, my eyelids heavy and drooping. Although I was feeling better than I had at my worst, I’d pushed myself so hard for so long, my mind, body, and spirit were utterly exhausted.

And it was such a vast and unspeakable relief to be taken care of, I could have wept.

“Eat, young goddess,” the Rani coaxed me. “A little honey if nothing else. Then you may sleep.”

I obeyed, and found that the honey coated and soothed my sore throat. “You are very kind, highness.”

She smiled in such a way that her cheeks dimpled. “I am very curious.” She laid her hand on my brow. “Better, I think. Now sleep and heal, so I may hear your story.”

Feeling as though I were falling down a long, dark well, I caught her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, my lady.”

“D’Angeline, indeed.” There was a note of amusement in her voice. She stroked my cheek. “Sleep, young one. You are safe here.”

You are safe here.

The words followed me down into the darkness, followed me into my dreams, a lifeline promising me safe harbor. I dreamed the journey across the Abode of the Gods over and over again, reliving the endless trek, Manil Datar’s unsmiling eyes, the feel of his phallus throbbing in my hand as the point of his dagger probed a tender spot below my ear, the enduring suspicion and hostility of the caravan. I dreamed of rockslides and avalanches, paths crumbling beneath my mount’s hooves, of buffeting winds and unrelenting snowfall. Mountain peaks rising above the mist, the treacherous labyrinth that meandered down the slopes of Kurugiri.