Without acknowledging me, the Nahuatl warrior strode forward and shouldered Manco out of the way, thrusting the point of his blade into the fellow’s chest and shoving it home.
Sighing, he died.
The coppery-sweet scent of blood hung in the air, thick and cloying. The black tide of ants advanced and retreated, mandibles clicking.
“Yes,” Raphael mused aloud. “I think you’ve earned the right, my little darlings, and these men have forfeited theirs. Go ahead.” In a trice, the tide surged forward and poured over the fallen bodies of the slain, covering them in a living carpet as the ants began to feast.
Still on one knee, Prince Thierry retched.
“I am sorry that this was necessary,” Raphael said apologetically. “But I fear it was. You understand, don’t you?”
No one answered him.
I made myself meet his gaze. “Aye, my lord. Your point is clear.”
Raphael smiled at me. “I am glad.”
SIXTY-FIVE
Three days later, word came.
The Sapa Inca discredited the tales the runners had carried of a living god in Vilcabamba with the power to command a black river of death. He had no intention of entertaining the notion of surrender.
We were going to war.
The fields were plundered in preparation, every ripe tuber, vegetable, or fruit harvested. The trees in the sacred orchard were stripped bare. Flocks of fowl were slaughtered, their meat dried and smoked. Thousands of baskets were woven for the transporting of goods.
The Maidens of the Sun took part in the latter task, and I did my best to assist them, since it afforded a chance to further our plans.
Ocllo shared her knowledge of the Temple of the Ancestors with me, having visited it many times as a young woman in Qusqu before she was sent to Vilcabamba to teach the maidens there.
“Here is where the ancestors sit,” she said, sketching on the floor of the Temple of the Sun with a charred stick. “They face the altar before which Lord Pachacuti will be declared the Sapa Inca.”
I glanced at Cusi, her deft hands weaving palm fronds, her face tranquil. “The altar where…?”
Ocllo shook her head. “The prophecy says it is to be done in a high place in the temple.” She drew a jagged stairway between the seated figures of the ancestors. “Here is where the high priest would enter with the sacrifice from a hidden chamber.” She tapped the top of the stairway. “So I think it is here. It is the highest place.”
“A high place, yes,” Cusi agreed calmly.
I studied the drawing. “How do we get Bao into the hidden chamber? And what is to keep Lord Pachacuti from ordering him killed the minute he shows his face?”
“The first thing, I do not know,” Ocllo admitted. “It will not be easy. But the twice-born does not need to show his face.” She pointed at the sun disk on the far wall of the temple. “The high priest wears a golden mask with the image of Inti.”
I sighed. “So we’ll need that, too.”
“Yes.” Ocllo looked troubled. “But you must not harm the high priest, or any of the priests.”
“Can you persuade them to aid us?” I asked.
“I do not think so,” she said reluctantly. “The Maidens of the Sun have kept Mamacoya’s secret too well, for too long. I do not think the priests will believe us now. They are jealous of their power. And I am afraid if I ask, they will betray us.”
“Well.” I studied the drawing some more, my mind working futilely. “We’ll just have to think of something.”
On the heels of Thierry’s failed plot and my own useless attempt to convince Prince Manco of his folly, Raphael had at last abandoned his policy of lenience toward me, and forbidden me further contact with anyone but the Maidens of the Sun.
“Your crude machinations no longer amuse me, Moirin,” he informed me. “I have too many other concerns. You’ll see your husband and your companions on the road with the other porters. For now, you’ll stay where my handmaids can keep an eye on you.”
Since there was no point in antagonizing him, I merely inclined my head in acknowledgment, taking what comfort I could in the knowledge that Raphael’s faith in the loyalty of his handmaids was misplaced.
And Raphael could order me all he liked, but at least in this, he could not compel me. During the small hours of the night, I simply summoned the twilight and slipped out across the fields once more.
Sensing my approach, Bao was waiting for me, and Prince Thierry with him. I drew them into the twilight, and we took counsel in the field.
“Moirin.” Thierry’s face looked haunted. “I can but beg your forgiveness. I cost Michel and Jean-Robert their lives, and nearly cost the rest of us ours as well.”
“You took a bold risk, your highness,” I said softly. “Had it paid off, I would have been begging your forgiveness.”
“It’s just…” He passed his hands blindly over his face. “This scheme, this business of blood sacrifice and an ancient wives’ tale…” His voice broke. “How can you ask us to trust to such madness?”
I took a deep breath. “I’ve no good answer for you, my lord. Nothing is sure. I have made mistakes before. But I set out across the sea to find you because Jehanne came to me in a dream to tell me that you were alive and I needed to fetch you back—and it was true. And it was Jehanne who told me that winning the trust of the Quechua women was the key to defeating Raphael.”
“You put a great deal of trust in dreams,” he murmured.
“These dreams, aye,” I said. “And if the dead may guide me, how can I not believe the Quechuas’ ancestors may aid their own folk?”
Thierry looked away. “It is a great deal to ask.”
Bao laid a hand on his shoulder. “I find purpose in it, your highness,” he said. “It gives meaning to my own death.”
Thierry gave him a stricken look, eyes glimmering in the twilight. “How can you think our salvation lies in killing an innocent girl in cold blood? It’s monstrous!”
“I do not think it is our salvation,” Bao said somberly. “I believe it is theirs. There are two tales being played out here, your highness, two destinies converging—the destiny of Terre d’Ange and the destiny of Terra Nova. The Quechua have a right to choose their own, and the maid Cusi has chosen hers.”
“You believe this?”Bao nodded. “I do.”
The prince was quiet for a long moment. “Raphael spoke truly the other day,” he said at length. “Mad though he may be, he was right. I yearned to restore House Courcel to greatness with this adventure, and I nearly succumbed to despair knowing I had failed so horribly. But glory is not always found where it is sought. Raphael taught me a bitter, bitter lesson. My father is dead, and the throne of Terre d’Ange is occupied by a usurping regent. I need to begin thinking like a King, not a would-be adventurer and hero.” His gaze rested on me. “When a bedraggled courtesan and a renegade Cassiline Brother stumbled out of the Skaldic wilderness with a wild tale of intrigue, betrayal, and mystic portents on their lips, the great Ysandre de la Courcel did not discount them,” he said slowly. “She heeded their warning, and gave them whatever aid she could to accomplish an impossible task.”
I held my breath, watching Thierry come to a decision.
“So be it,” he said in a firm voice. “I will do no less. Moirin, your visions have guided you truly thus far. I will trust that the gods have sent you, and put my faith in them. Whatever I may do to aid you, I will do.”
My eyes stung. “Thank you, my lord. I will try to be worthy of it.”
Thierry smiled wryly, turning his empty hands palm upward. “I fear it is a hollow gesture. I have little aid to give.”
“You’ve your wits,” I said. “I’ve need of good counsel. In Qusqu, we must find a way for Bao to take the place of the high priest in the Temple of the Ancestors. And we must do so without harming any of the priesthood.”
“Is there aught with which you might drug them?” Thierry suggested promptly. “In the tales of yore, Phèdre nó Delaunay used a tincture of opium to drug the men of Dar˘sanga.”
I blinked at his swift reply. “No, not that I know of… but if such a thing exists here, I know who would know it.”
“Eyahue,” Bao said.
I nodded. “Exactly.”
Thierry frowned. “Are you sure you can trust those Nahuatl? The big warrior obeyed Raphael without a moment’s hesitation.”
“It is their way,” I said. “Temilotzin knew your men were doomed, your highness. He granted a swift death to one, and the mercy blow to the other when I begged him.”
“Through great hardship, Eyahue and Temilotzin have shown great loyalty,” Bao added. “I trust them as much as any man in our company.”
After a pause, Thierry nodded. “I take you at your word. What, then, of the coming war? Is there no way to avert it?”
“I fear not,” I said soberly. “It is not only Raphael who hungers for it. You saw Prince Manco in the throne-hall. He is a bloodthirsty idiot eager to see his own father overthrown. The men of Vilcabamba are eager for this war.”
“Yearning for greatness,” Thierry murmured. “Even as my own yearning set this tragedy in motion.”
I took his hands in mine. “It is not a tragedy yet, my lord. Let us pray that we may yet avert the worst.”
He squeezed my hands in reply. “I do.”
SIXTY-SIX
Since I was forbidden contact with anyone save the Maidens of the Sun, the following day, I sent Machasu to arrange for a clandestine meeting with Eyahue in the living quarters adjacent to the temple.
“Why do you want such a thing?” the old pochteca asked upon hearing my inquiry. “Do you think you can drug Lord Pachacuti and escape?” He waved one hand at my entourage of ants. “You cannot drug them.”
“I know,” I said. “Eyahue, at this point, the less you know, the safer you are. Only tell me, do you know of such an herb? Could you obtain it?”
He pursed his wrinkled lips. “There is one, but it is dangerous. Very dangerous. Wurari. It is the poison the blow-dart hunters use.”
“I don’t want to kill anyone!” I said in alarm.
“In very small amounts, it does not kill,” Eyahue said. “It only makes the victim unable to move for a time.” He shrugged. “But too much, and they cannot breathe—and I do not know the amounts.”
“You could try it on me, lady,” Machasu offered, her voice trembling a little. “I do not mind.”
I winced. “No. It’s too dangerous.”
“Or you could try it on small animals first,” Eyahue suggested pragmatically. “That is what the hunters do to be sure they have a killing dose.”
“A much better idea,” I said in relief. “Can you obtain it?”
He gave me a long, unreadable look. “Aye, I can. And I will do so now with no questions asked. But before you put it to its final use, I want to know what your purpose is. Do you swear to tell me?”
“I do.” I hugged him. “Thank you, Eyahue!”
He scowled at me. “Thank the Emperor Achcuatli for giving you such a wise guide!” His scowl turned into a leer. “You must have given him quite a night’s pleasure to inspire such generosity.”
Despite everything, I laughed. “You may be sure of it, old man.”
Eyahue was as good as his word. In a day’s time, a small earthenware jar sealed with wax and a wooden stopper was sent to me in care of the Maidens of the Sun. Machasu delivered it to my quarters, along with a brimming bowl of liquid made from fermented maize.
“Chicha,” she said in explanation. “The Maidens of the Sun brew it. It is drunk at all great celebrations.”
“So we are to mix the poison in it?” I sniffed at the bowl, then glanced at the half-dozen caged lizards that were to be the subject of our first experiments. “I am not sure they will drink it.”
Machasu shook her head. “It is not for drinking. The poison cannot be taken by mouth. It must go into the blood, as with a dart. Your guide said it would be better to weaken it with chicha than water.” She hesitated. “I fear you have only a day to try this, lady. Lord Pachacuti has given the order. Tomorrow we go.”
I pried at the wax sealing the stopper. “Then we’d best begin.”
It was a grim series of experiments we conducted in the courtyard under the interested gaze of my attendant ants. At my request, Machasu procured another bowl and a hollow reed while I gathered a handful of long, spiny thorns from one of the flowering plants.
First, I tested the wurari on one of the lizards. In its undiluted state, the poison was thick and syrupy. Dipping a thorn into the liquid, I pricked the lizard. Within a minute, the poor creature was dead, and I gave it to the ants.
After that, I used the hollow reed to measure out ten drops of poison into the mixing bowl. Drop by drop, I began adding chicha beer to dilute it, testing at every stage and scratching notations onto a flagstone with a sharp rock.
Silently, I blessed Master Lo for his attempts to teach me the rudiments of medicine. Although I’d not had an affinity for it, at least I understood the elemental techniques of mixing potions.
It took every last lizard we had, but after being pricked by a mixture of one measure poison to three measures of chicha, the final subject did not die. It crouched motionless on the flagstones, its scaled sides rising and falling almost imperceptibly while the restless ants circled in a stream, and Machasu and I watched intently, glancing at the sun to gauge the time. I reckoned an hour’s time had passed when the lizard began to stir once more, seemingly unharmed. I returned him to his cage, granting him a temporary reprieve.