Balthasar rose and poured a cup of water from an earthenware jug, handing it to me. “Bao was at your side most of the time, sick with worry. I finally convinced him to let me take over for a spell a few hours ago that he might sleep.”
I had to use both hands to hold the cup steady, but the water tasted good. Until I drank it, I hadn’t realized how parched my throat was, or how empty my belly. I drained the cup, and Balthasar refilled it. “So.” Glancing around, I determined we were in a chamber in the palace. I even saw my yew-wood bow and battered quiver propped in a corner. “I take it we’re not in disgrace?”
“No.” Balthasar perched on the edge of my pallet, holding the jug at the ready while I drank. “We are the honored guests of the Sapa Inca Huayna.”
“Huayna?” I repeated.
“The eldest son of the Sapa Inca Yupanqui,” he clarified. “He was coronated two days ago. We’re not in disgrace, Moirin. We’re heroes. There was some confusion for a time, but the Maidens of the Sun explained everything. In light of what happened, the priests had no choice but to forgive us.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Would that I’d witnessed the scene in the temple! The aftermath alone was terrible and wondrous beyond belief.”
I held out my cup, and Balthasar refilled it obligingly. “Is all well now?” I asked, uncertain. “As well as can be?”
He hesitated.
My empty belly rumbled in complaint. I drank more water, pressing my fist against my belly. “Forgive me, I’m famished. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I fear you’ve touched on it.” Balthasar’s face was grave. “The black river is gone, but it left precious little in its wake. Raphael’s commands kept their appetite in check.”
“The Quechua folk?” I whispered. “But I saw the ants flee the temple!”
He shook his head. “Not the Quechua. After Raphael’s death, his ants didn’t deign to take on large prey. But they stripped the fields, and devoured all manner of small livestock. They ravaged the land, Moirin.” His lips tightened. “I daresay everything between Qusqu and Vilcabamba is a wasteland.”
I felt sick. “The Quechua have stores…”
“Not enough,” Balthasar said simply. “We raided all that lie to the north on our march here. The new Sapa Inca has sent out runners to the south ordering the storehouses emptied, and he’s called for the slaughter of pack-animals. No one thinks it will be enough to prevent starvation on a considerable scale. And for a surety, there are not enough stores to supply our return journey.”
I could have wept at the futility of it all, but at that moment, Bao entered the chamber, the familiar length of his bamboo staff once more strapped across his back. Both my heart and my diadh-anam flared as his dark gaze met mine. With no memory of having risen, I found myself in his arms, my face pressed against his shoulder as he held me close.
“Balthasar told you, didn’t he?” Bao murmured. “I saw it in your face.”
I nodded against his shoulder.
“Moirin.” He stroked my hair. “The high priestesses Iniquill and Ocllo have an idea you may be able to help.”
A profound wave of weariness sapped me. “Oh, Bao!” I laughed in despair. “Do they imagine I can quicken the crops of an entire city?”
“The crops would need to be planted anew,” he said. “And yes.”
“No.” Pulling away from him, I shook my head. Thinking on the leagues and leagues of stripped and barren fields that would need to be replanted, the thousands upon thousands of plants that would need to be quickened from mere seeds, the enormity of the task seemed daunting and impossible. Never, ever had I even entertained the thought of attempting somewhat on that scale. Hot tears burned my eyes. “It’s too much! It was difficult enough to coax a single field of marigolds to bloom out of season in Bhaktipur, and I wasn’t drained to the dregs as I am now! Stone and sea, there’s not enough left of me! I cannot do it.”
Bao was silent. The shadow of Cusi’s death lay behind his eyes. He had done the unthinkable.
I’d thought that banishing Focalor and closing the doorway was the hardest task I faced; but I was wrong.
That was merely reparation for my own folly.
Trust me.
I had been spared the loss of my diadh-anam for a reason. The gift of life, Iniquill had called it. The Maidens of the Sun had wagered on my