Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [153]
“What about Prince Thierry and his men?” I asked.
The old pochteca shook his head. “He said nothing of them.”
The Quechua leader beckoned, then turned and began to climb a series of steps carved into the side of the mountain, his men falling in behind him. On the ridge, pools of ants awaited us.
Bao and I exchanged a glance. “I go first,” he said firmly, unslinging his staff. “No arguments.”
Swallowing hard, I nodded. “None here.”
Following the Quechua, we climbed the steps to the ridge, where the pool of ants parted for us, transforming itself into a divided stream. As we climbed the next set of stairs, ascending into the heights, twin rivulets of ants poured alongside us, following our progress. Although their presence unsettled me, I did my best to ignore them.
“Do you know this Lord Pachacuti?” I asked Eyahue.
“No.” He shrugged. “He’s new since last I was here. Some ambitious son of the Emperor, I reckon.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
Eyahue grunted. “The name means ‘Earth-Shaker.’ It was the name the first Emperor of Tawantinsuyo took for himself; the Sapa Inca, they call him.” He eyed the stream of ants with distaste. “The Quechua believe one worthy of the name comes every so often to reorder the world.”
“Oh.”
We reached the first hanging bridge. It swayed underfoot, jostled by the tread of the Quechua who preceded us. I reached out with both hands to steady myself on the thick cables woven of sisal, and flinched. They were crawling with ants.
Bao turned back. “Steady, Moirin,” he said in a calm voice. “You can do this. We’ve endured worse.”
I smiled gratefully at him. “We have, haven’t we?”
Fighting to maintain my balance, I averted my gaze from the green chasm yawning beneath us and kept it fixed on Bao’s back, comforted by his sure-footed tread. We crossed the bridge and continued. Upward and upward we climbed, passing terraces cut into the face of the mountain. Farmers labored beneath the hot sun, unperturbed by the sight of armored men and our entourage of ants.
At last we reached the palace, passing through tall wooden doors emblazoned with gold disks depicting the Quechua sun god.
Far from being deterred, the ants streamed through the doors alongside us. With the sounds of the jungle hushed by thick stone walls, I could hear them, a faint rustling sound that set my skin to crawling anew. No one we passed seemed to find it the least bit unusual, which unnerved me all the more.
Our reticent escorts led us to a vast hall where dozens of young women danced attendance on the figure seated on a throne before an elaborate wall hanging wrought of feathers, a figure clad in a robe of fine-combed red wool, a great collar of gold, and a flared gold headdress.
“Lord Pachacuti,” the lead guard announced. All of them knelt, touching their brows to the floor.
The ants flowed forward, clicking and rasping, forming a teeming black pool around the base of the throne. The maidservants moved out of their way with the grace of long practice. The man on the throne smiled, reaching into a basket and tossing a handful of leaves to the swarming mass of ants.
I caught my breath, my diadh-anam flaring.
From his throne, Raphael de Mereliot turned his smile on me; and it was a terrible smile, cold and hard and cruel. “Well met, Moirin,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
FIFTY-FOUR
There was a shocked silence in the throne room.
It was Denis de Toluard who broke it with a short, wondering laugh. “Raphael!” He unbuckled his helmet, running a hand through his damp hair. “Blessed Elua bugger me, I’m glad to see you!”
“Denis.” Raphael’s hard smile softened into ruefulness. “Would that I could say the same, old friend.”
“What do you mean?” Denis blinked at him, then glanced around. “Where’s his highness? Where are the others?”
“Safe.” Raphael rose from his throne. Despite his