Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [136]
Despite my fatigue and aching muscles, I found it exhilarating.
The rest of our company did not.
Almost to a man, they found the jungle ominous and frightening. Only Eyahue seemed inured to it, selecting the best place to sling his hammock and nap while the rest of us endeavored to make camp and prepare a meal.
With thirty-odd folk in our company, it was necessary to spread out and venture some distance into the jungle to find sufficient sites for our hammocks. A full half the men elected to forgo them, clearing spaces on the rocky shore and wrapping themselves in cloaks.
I had to own, when night fell, even I was uneasy. Beneath the canopy of the jungle, the darkness was absolute. Creatures that slept during the day came alive under the cover of darkness, and the night was filled with sounds—small sounds like the incessant whine of insects, and other, more menacing sounds.
Thanks to my sojourn in the palace gardens in Tenochtitlan, I recognized the deep, coughing roar of a jaguar.
“Moirin?” Bao whispered from his nearby hammock.
“Aye?”
“It’s going to be all right,” he said with an assurance I knew he didn’t feel. “We’re going to be fine.”
Grateful for the lie, I returned it. “I know.”
In the morning, those who had chosen to sleep on the ground regretted their decision, waking to find themselves stiff and bruised from sleeping on the stony shore, and bitten by an array of insects that hadn’t troubled those of us in hammocks. Denis de Toluard in particular scratched himself furiously, his nose twitching all the while.
“Gods, man!” Balthasar, who had slept in a hammock and looked reasonably well rested, eyed him. “What ails you? Have you got the palsy?”
“Ants,” Denis said briefly. “They’re everywhere.”
I winced, having forgotten. The fallen spirit Caim with his owl’s eyes and a bird’s nest in his antlers had taught the language of ants to all the members of the Circle of Shalomon save me—and it had proved nothing but a plague and a nuisance to them. It was the reason Lianne Tremaine, the former King’s Poet, lived in a tower chamber at Eglantine House. Given the terrain through which we’d already passed, the fact that Denis hadn’t evinced his discomfort until now was a testament to his will.
“Stone and sea! I’m so sorry, my lord,” I said to him with genuine remorse. “This must be the worst place in the world for you.”
Denis gave me a wry glance. “It’s no more than I deserve, Moirin. Raphael must have suffered the same.” He shrugged. “Mayhap it’s the gods’ way of allowing us to atone for our sins.”
Balthasar examined his fingernails. “As a scion of mighty Kushiel, I assure you, he does not use ants as an instrument of atonement.”
I ignored him, approaching Denis and laying one hand on his cheek. “My lord, you have atoned and more,” I said softly. “You have saved us twice over—once aboard the ship, and secondly when the Cloud People attacked us. Were it not for your warning, they would have slaughtered us in our sleep. I daresay the gods have forgiven you.”
His eyes brightened with emotion. “You truly think so?”
I nodded. “I do.”
Denis let out his breath and rubbed his twitching nose. “Let’s go find Thierry and the others,” he said with renewed resolve.
Once again, we launched our canoes, carrying them over the rocks, mindful of the brittle wood.
The first few days on the big river were days of sameness. The river unfurled before us like a broad, milky-green ribbon, leading us ever deeper and deeper into the depths of the jungle. We rode atop its breast in our canoes, paddling, ever paddling. Our arms and shoulders grew stronger, muscles toughening as we journeyed.
It rained almost every day, but not for long. We grew accustomed to ignoring the rain, bailing out our vessels as necessary, trusting that the rain would end. Sooner or later, the sun came out and steamed us dry. By day we paddled; by night, we made camp along the banks of the river, eating fruits and