Naamah's Blessing - By Jacqueline Carey Page 0,225

declared a holiday for all! Today, let us remember who we are, and celebrate like D’Angelines!”

At last, as though permission had been granted, cheers arose, loud and deafening within the temple.

Desirée tugged at my hand, glancing up inquisitively at me. “Moirin, what is a progressus?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“A fête,” Bao said. “A travelling fête, young highness.”

So it was.

Caught up in my own affairs, I’d paid scant heed to the preparations for the coronation ceremony and its aftermath. As it transpired, Balthasar Shahrizai had arranged for a surprise of his own. Upon donning our stockings and shoes in the vestibule, we emerged from the temple to find that he and a score of our companions had slipped out ahead of us. They had worked in secret with Temilotzin and Eyahue to have a gilded palanquin with a feathered canopy constructed, and Jaguar Knight costumesmade for all of them, complete with dyed pelts, wooden shields, macahuitl clubs studded with shards of black glass, and tall feather headdresses.

Prince Thierry’s—King Thierry’s—grin broadened at the sight. “Do you actually intend me to ride in that thing, my lord Shahrizai?”

“Absolutely!” Balthasar’s white teeth flashed in an answering grin as he swept a low, courtly bow, his headdress wobbling. “You and the young Dauphine, your majesty. It will be my honor to serve as one of your bearers.”

Thierry laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve already carried me far enough, cousin,” he said softly.

Balthasar shrugged with careless grace. “What’s a few blocks farther?” He smiled at Desirée. “Would you like to ride in a Nahuatl palanquin, your highness?”

Her face glowed. “Oh, yes!”

So it was decided, and much to the delight of the crowds along the street and the peers pouring out of the temple, Thierry and his sister climbed into the palanquin. Raising his own genuine macahuitl, Temilotzin roared a sharp command in Nahuatl, and Balthasar and seven others manning the long, gilded poles hoisted them to their shoulders. The palanquin swayed, then steadied. Beneath the bright, iridescent canopy, Desirée loosed an irresistible peal of laughter, her eyes sparkling with joy.

It was a glorious day.

Oh, aye, there were shadows that would ever be with us. There was sorrow and loss and sacrifice, the memory of brittle bones wrapped in cerements and yellowing beneath garlands of flowers a reminder of death’s presence. There was the history of House Courcel, glorious and tragic.

But today was a new day, and a new beginning. The sun shone bright in the blue sky as we made our way through the streets of the City of Elua, trailing an ever-growing retinue of revelers.

Through the dense warrens of Night’s Doorstep, where innkeepers emerged to press tankards of ale and flagons of wine into our hands…

Up the long slope of Mont Nuit, where adepts of each of the Thirteen Houses came forth to join our train, and joie and brandy began to flow freely…

On the descent back into the city, our progress slowed to a near-halt, but no one cared. As we inched our way down, tumblers from Eglantine House staged impromptu performances, musicians played, and singers sang serenades. The palanquin-bearers feigned exhaustion, pretending to stagger, drawing giddy shrieks from Desirée and cheerful shouts of imprecation from the newly crowned King of Terre d’Ange as the palanquin lurched in an alarming fashion. Sharp-eyed bookmakers from Bryony House plied the crowd for wagers, giving odds on whether or not the bearers would cause an ignominious spill.

They didn’t, of course.

At last, we reached the foot of Mont Nuit once more, and made our way into Elua’s Square.

Long tables adorned with pristine white linens were arrayed around the base of Elua’s Oak, and a feast had been laid forth upon them.

I was hungry, but it could wait.

Descending from the carriage, I made my way to Elua’s Oak. Seven years ago, I had arrived in the City of Elua by stagecoach and paid homage to the ancient tree, leaning my brow against the rough bark and sensing its long, slow thoughts. Seven years ago, a street-urchin had stolen my purse. I had summoned the twilight and chased him, and Raphael de Mereliot’s carriage had run me down unseen in the street. Denis de Toluard had been with him that day. And later, it was Raphael who had presented me at Court, introducing me to my lady Jehanne and setting us on an unlikely path of love and redemption, a journey that would end far across the ocean in the distant fields of Terra Nova. I had travelled farther