Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [160]
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.