Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [207]
He grimaced, seeing his failure reflected in my gaze. There was enough of him left to recognize me. It was too late for Cusi, too late to halt the dead. It was not too late to banish Focalor. I prayed Raphael would hear me, for if he did not, the fallen spirit would be loosed unfettered on the world, and I did not think even the dead could stand against it.
“Raphael,” I whispered. “Please…”
He shut his eyes, his throat straining as he fought to force the words out past the influx of Focalor’s essence. “Close the doorway, Moirin,” he gasped, his chest heaving. “I was wrong. I erred. Forgive me if you can. Just… do it.”
I did.
It took strength, a great deal of strength. But I was not the foolish young woman I had been so long ago. Gathering every ounce of resolve that I possessed, I rose from my knees and faced the maelstrom I had unleashed. I was a child of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, and no one’s useful tool. The memory of Her acceptance lent me strength. Although thunder crashed, lightning crackled, and the wind howled in protest, I poured myself into the effort. I beat Focalor’s essence back into the spirit world and closed the doorway, releasing the twilight at last with a sigh.
Shuffling across the temple floor on bony feet, the dead converged on Raphael, weapons raised. One by one, their weapons fell, bludgeoning him.
There was blood, darkness, and flowers.
And I shut my eyes.
I didn’t want to see the end.
SEVENTY-TWO
In the aftermath, there was silence, broken only by the sound of a thousand indrawn breaths.
I opened my eyes.
Raphael de Mereliot’s body lay sprawled on the floor of the temple. The crown of the Sapa Inca had fallen from his head, and blood clotted his tawny locks. The desiccated figures of the Quechua ancestors swayed around him. One by one, they dropped their weapons and crumpled into motionless heaps of rag-wrapped bones bedecked with gold, feathers, wool, and half-eaten garlands of flowers.
The ants fled, pouring through the temple door in an endless stream, joining throngs of their fellows in the streets. It was a considerable exodus.
Atop the stair, Bao stooped and gathered Cusi’s body tenderly in his arms. He supported her head as carefully as though she were a newborn babe, so the gash that had opened her throat didn’t gape. Everyone in the temple watched, silent and wordless. There were no words for what had transpired here.
Step by step, he descended. Cusi’s hair trailed over his arms. Despite the blood that stained her white garment, her face looked peaceful, a faint, impossible smile curving her lips. With tears of grief drying on his face, Bao laid her body on the altar, arranging her limbs with dignity.
“Now it is done,” he said quietly. “No more.”
I opened my mouth to agree, but it seemed the temple tilted sideways. I heard Bao’s voice calling my name—and then I knew no more.
I slept; and did not know how long I slept. I dreamed of doorways and blood and flowers, of darkness and storms. I dreamed of jungles and mountains and bones and maidens, and of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself lowering Her mighty head to breathe on me in approval.
I did not want to wake.
But in time, I did.
I awoke to sunlight and unfamiliar surroundings. I felt as empty and hollow as a scraped gourd. It took all the strength I had to drag myself to sit upright, and my diadh-anam guttered low in my breast.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside my pallet, Balthasar Shahrizai startled. “Moirin!” He ran his hands through his hair and yawned. “Forgive me, I fear I dozed for a minute.”
Alarm surged through me. “Where’s Bao?” I touched my chest, but my diadh-anam was so faint, I could not sense his. I feared that mayhap he had been punished for sacrilege—or worse, punished himself. “Is he—?”
“He’s fine,” Balthasar said in a soothing tone.