Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [199]
“I fear you’re right,” I murmured.
Temilotzin nodded. “I will pray for you.”
Taking my leave of him, I made my way to the Temple of the Ancestors. Outside the edifice, there were vendors selling flowers. Many of them were unfamiliar to me, but I was pleased to see garlands of orange and gold marigolds. It seemed a hopeful omen, reminding me of the field I’d caused to blossom in Bhaktipur.
Whether through careless magnanimity or simple carelessness, save for my bow and quiver, Raphael had not taken my personal possessions from me. The value of those few items I had to trade was vastly in excess of the value of the flowers, but there was no point in being stingy at such a time.
The Quechua vendor stared in disbelief when I asked to trade a gold armband that had been one of Emperor Achcuatli’s gifts for his stock of marigold garlands, but he swiftly agreed before the foolish foreign woman could change her mind. He and his assistant helped me carry them into the temple.
My chest tightened again as I entered the place in which Cusi intended to offer up her life.
It was an imposing, somber space. On one wall was the familiar sun-disk emblem depicting the god Inti. Before it stood an altar on which the headdress of the Sapa Inca rested, waiting for Raphael to lay claim to it. But it was the other end of the temple that made my breath catch in my throat.
The preserved remains of eight previous Quechua emperors were seated in a gallery. The bodies themselves were tightly wrapped in dingy cerements that clung to their ancient bones, the flesh beneath long since wasted away, but they had been lovingly dressed in fine garments of brightly dyed wool and adorned with gold jewelry and head-pieces, feather mantles laid over their shoulders. War-clubs inlaid with precious stones rested in the crooks of their arms, and flowers were heaped at their feet, in their laps, around their necks.
It was terrible… and strangely beautiful.
There were other Quechua making offerings, although not as many as I might have expected. I wondered if it was because the Sapa Inca Yupanqui had not yet been embalmed and joined the ranks of the ancestors, or because Lord Pachacuti the Earth-Shaker had overturned the order of their world.
Following their lead, I gathered an armload of garlands and ascended the stairway that bisected the gallery. I could not help but avert my gaze from the apex of the stairs, the highest place in the temple. If all went according to plan, that was where it was to be done.
Instead, I made myself gaze at the faces of the ancestors themselves as I turned into the gallery. They were sunken and featureless beneath their wrappings, but for all of that, they possessed a strange dignity. The walls behind them were carved with elaborate depictions of Quechua deities.
One by one, I greeted the ancestors, laying garlands around their necks, piling them in their laps.
“Forgive me, my lords,” I whispered. “I am one who has brought this scourge to your people. Although I have no right to ask, I beg you to aid them in their time of need. For their sake, and the sake of the world.”
Over and over, I repeated my offering and my prayer until my arms were empty.
The dead kept their silence.
SEVENTY
A day; one day.
Ah, gods! It passed all too swiftly. By the time I had finished making my offerings to the ancestors, the sun was already low on the horizon.
I hastened back to the women’s Temple of the Sun, seeking out Ocllo. “I fear I cannot pass the night here, my lady,” I apologized breathlessly to her. “There is a thing I must do that requires time I do not have to explain. But I have done everything Iniquill asked of me, and I will be in the temple on the morrow. Is all in readiness?”
Ocllo frowned at me. “The chicha is brewed,