Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [162]
Bao, trapped there.
The Spider Queen, Jagrati. In my dreams, she had a narrow face with elongated jaws, long, segmented limbs made of a chitinous substance, and her faceted eyes gleamed like black diamonds.
Her husband, the Falconer Tarik Khaga, watched in approval, his eyes set narrowly over a beaked nose.
I whimpered in my sleep.
You are safe here.
I saw the Rani in my dreams, placing herself between me and the Spider Queen and the Falconer, her face calm and her hands raised in a warding gesture.
I awoke, knew myself safe, and slept anew.
All in all, I slept for the better part of two days. I was sicker than I had realized, and my body needed to sweat out the last of the sickness. I was vaguely aware that the Rani’s attendants cared for me solicitously, sponging my fevered skin with cool water, changing my bed-linens, and dressing me in clean clothing.
On the third day, I awoke clear-headed and ravenous. Essaying an experimental cough, I found that my lungs were clear. Swallowing, I found that it did not hurt, but only made my empty stomach grumble.
I was better.
“Ah, good!” Rousing herself from a pile of cushions, the Rani of Bhaktipur clapped her hands together with girlish pleasure, her dark eyes sleepy. “You are hungry, yes?”
“Yes,” I admitted, touched by her presence. “You watched over me, highness? All this time?”
“Not all this time,” she said. “Only some of it. I think your dreams were troubled, were they not?” She made a gesture with her hands I could not interpret. “Now you will rise and dress, and we shall have a feast, eh? And you will tell me your story, Moirin mac Fainche.”
She left, and the young attendants returned to help me bathe anew and dress myself. I was glad of their assistance, for Bhodistani daytime attire was unexpectedly difficult. There was an undershirt and skirt of fine linen, and that I understood well enough, but the overgarment was an endless swathe of shimmering mustard-yellow and green silk that bewildered me. Giggling, the girls demonstrated the complicated process of wrapping, pleating, and draping the cloth, pinning it in place so that it hung gracefully.
When they were done, I felt more myself than I had since I’d left Shuntian. As a girl growing up in Alba, I’d had no use for finery, but that had changed in Terre d’Ange. I’d come to value opulence, and it was a pleasure to feel luxurious fabrics against my skin.
And, too, I was happy to see the Rani smile in appreciation when I was escorted into the dining room to join her.
“Ah, see!” she said lightly. “I have made you beautiful after the manner of my people. It suits you. I always wanted a daughter to dress.”
I raised my brows at her. “I do not think you are old enough to be my mother, highness.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “No.”
The Rani laughed, rising to the sound of bells tinkling around her ankles. “Well, then, we shall let Ravindra decide if he wishes for a sister, for I see him beyond the door.” She beckoned. “Come, my son, join us.”
A slender boy some ten years of age entered the room, clad in breeches and a long tunic of maroon trimmed with blue and gold. I hadn’t known there was a son, but I could see his mother’s gravity in him, unleavened by her gentle mirth. He stooped and laid his hands on the tops of her bare feet in greeting, which I later learned was a sign of respect the Bhodistani showed to their elders—although sons did not always honor their mothers thusly.
When he straightened, I pressed my palms together and bowed to him. “Well met, young highness.”
“Oh!” Ravindra gave me a long, startled look, then glanced at his mother. “Yes, I see.”
“Not a sister then, eh?” she said to me, her eyes dancing. “Come, come, sit. We have many hours to eat and talk.”
Dish after dish was brought to the table, and it was all I could do to pace myself and eat with decorum, famished as I was. There were the lentils and rice I’d eaten a great deal of in Manil Datar’s caravan, only seasoned with exquisite spices and served with cooked greens and many other vegetables. There was a spicy chicken