Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [17]
"Moirin."
"What do they say?" I asked.
"Will you not look at me?" Cillian's voice was plaintive. I turned over and met his gaze, so close our noses nearly touched. "Little frog." He brushed a dusting of pollen from my hair. "What are you frightened of?"
"I don't know," I said honestly.
"D'Angeline." His voice was steady. "That's what they say, since you're asking after it."
"He was," I murmured.
"Who?"
I shook my head. "A priest. I don't know."
Cillian sat upright. "Well, then, there's a start. A priest, eh? A priest of what?"
In my mind, the bright lady smiled gently upon me, warming my heart and setting my stomach to fluttering. "I don't know."
"Do you want to know?"
I did and I didn't. "Mayhap."
"All right." Cillian eyed me speculatively. "There are texts in the library on the history and culture of Terre d'Ange. None, I fear, translated into Alban. But I've begun studying D'Angeline and Caerdicci in preparation for entering the Academy. I could try to translate for you if you wished to learn more."
I was confused. "What do you mean?"
"They're not writ in your tongue nor one you would recognize," he said patiently. "I could try to teach you as I learn it."
"Teach me?"
"To speak your father's tongue."
"How so?" I was still baffled. "Are people not the same everywhere? Why should my father's tongue differ from my own?"
"It does," Cillian assured me.
"Stone and sea!" I blew out my breath, exasperated by the very notion of it. "What a piece of confusion. Why would people do such a thing?"
He shrugged. "Would you learn?"
"Aye," I said slowly. "I would."
* * *
CHAPTER SIX
"Naamah," I breathed. "Naamah," Cillian agreed, his finger hovering over the page.
Our gazes met in triumph. It had taken a year for him to gain proficiency in the D'Angeline tongue and teach it to me. A year to find the right text, and for me to draw painstaking details from my recalcitrant mother. She glanced over our shoulders at the illustration of a priest in red robes, bestowing a careless remark on us.
"Oh, aye. That bears a likeness."
Cillian rolled his eyes. I giggled.
Naamah—desire. The bright lady had a name.
I studied the page. I studied all the pages. I mouthed the D'Angeline words to myself. Here was the tale my mother had sketched for me long ago, told in full.
Elua—Blessed Elua. First and foremost of their gods. All the rest had followed him. Fallen from Heaven, fallen from the skies. They gave up their immortal heritage for him. Why? I traced his likeness. Born of the earth, nurtured there. Conceived of the blood of a lone deity's mortal son and the tears of his mortal beloved, essences that mingled in the soil. Claimed by neither earth nor sky, stone nor sea.
He wandered.
The others left Heaven and followed him.
I didn't understand it; I couldn't. It was too strange, too foreign. I couldn't grasp the tales. Were they gods or servants? Was Elua their diadh-anam?. My mother had said he wasn't. But if not, what was he?
Why did they follow him?
When he hungered, Naamah lay down with strangers to get coin that he might eat. And then they came to Terre d'Ange, where the people welcomed them with open arms. There they stayed and got many children until the lonely god relented and invited Elua and his Companions back to Heaven. But he refused, and went to a different place instead, and all his Companions went with him.
I looked at the illustrations again. One of them showed a priest in brown robes pouring out an offering of grain at the feet of a statue. The statue was of a man holding a seedling in the palm of his hand.
"Anael," I said aloud.
"Anael, also called the Star of Love and the Good Steward,'" Cillian read. "'He gave unto them many gifts of husbandry, and taught them to grow good things and care for the land.' What's he to do with anything?"
"I don't know," I murmured. I'd never told him about that small bit of magic I could do. "If my father was a priest of Naamah, do you reckon he's descended from her line?"
Cillian shrugged. "Mayhap. After so many