than I’d ever seen it.
It should have reassured me, but it didn’t. All he knew was that Cusi and the men had been safely delivered to the temple last night. My stomach was in knots, and I felt ill. Ah gods! I’d taken so much on trust. Now it seemed the gods asked me to take a further leap of faith, and I didn’t even know in which direction.
“Moirin.” Raphael acknowledged me in a flat tone. “Are you prepared?”
“Aye, my lord,” I murmured, wishing it were true.
He gazed at the sea of copper-colored faces regarding him with superstitious awe, at the impassive figures of the ancestors, at the winding lines of ants. “Today will be a glorious day,” he said, more to himself than to me, drinking it all in. “Today will be a day that lives forever in history.”
I said nothing.
Raphael glanced at me. “You should be honored to witness it, Moirin. You should be honored that the gods have chosen you for this. But you have never, ever valued the gifts you have been given.”
I met his gaze. “And you have never, ever understood them, my lord. I was not put on this earth to serve your ambition.”
“You are mistaken,” he said simply. “Your presence here is proof.”
And then we spoke no more, for somewhere in the hidden chambers beyond the stairs at the rear of the temple, a drum began to beat. Silence settled over the Temple of the Ancestors. Even the restless ants stilled. The Quechua watched Raphael with fascination, awaiting the coronation of this second Lord Pachacuti the Earth-Shaker who had overturned the order of the world. Raphael fixed his own gaze at the apex of the stairs, awaiting the arrival of the head priest and the willing victim who was to be sacrificed on the altar before him, the terrible, worshipful offering he believed would give him the power to contain the fallen spirit Focalor.
Atop the stairs, Cusi appeared.
She stood alone for a moment, clad in a long shift of unadorned white wool, her black hair loose and gleaming over her shoulders, and ah, stone and sea, she looked so young! She gave a faint, tremulous smile, one cheek dimpling, and I knew that despite everything, she had to be afraid. Raphael stared hungrily at her, his breathing quickening.
I closed my eyes for the space of a few heartbeats.
When I opened them, the high priest had emerged to stand behind Cusi, and although his face was obscured by a gilded mask depicting the sun god and gold bands hid the tattoos on his forearms, I knew by the flare of my diadh-anam that it was Bao.
His head was averted, the hilt of the bronze knife clasped in his right hand. And I thought in a panic that this was wrong, all wrong. There was no way Bao could commit this dreadful deed, no way that he could take an innocent girl’s life in cold blood in the service of the unknown dead and foreign gods.
Even as Raphael began to frown, wondering why they did not descend the stairs in procession, a line of priests behind them, a cry of protest rose in my throat.
But before I could give voice to it, Cusi spoke. “Brothers and sisters!” she cried. “The hour of our need is upon us!”
Beneath the shadow of the ancestors’ gallery, the assembled Quechua turned, staring up at her in wonder.
Beside me, Raphael swore savagely, gripping my shoulder and shaking me. “What the hell trick is this, Moirin?”
I bit the inside of my cheek until it bled, wishing I could turn back time, wishing it were yesterday again and this was not happening.
Atop the stairs, Cusi sank to her knees. She lifted her chin, her pretty face luminous. Now that she had begun the invocation, there was no more fear in her. “Great ancestors, hear me!” she called, her voice clear and strong. “I call upon you to save us in our hour of need! In your names, I offer myself as willing sacrifice!”
“No!”
Raphael shouted the word, and I whispered it, but it was already too late. Bao’s hand trembled only slightly as he laid the bronze blade against Cusi’s slender throat. He did not hesitate. With one powerful slash, using all his strength to compensate for the dullness of the blade, he slit open the girl’s throat.
A river of blood spilled from Cusi’s throat, soaking the white wool of her garment and turning it crimson. Her eyes rolled up in her head,