Naamah's Blessing by Jacqueline Carey Page A

during this interim. He has not abdicated the throne, nor has he given me authority over his private affairs.” His mouth twisted. “It would be different if he had seen fit to appoint…” He let the thought go unfinished, shrugging. “I fear that if I were to intervene in the matter, Parliament would rebel and declare I had overstepped my authority.”
    “Mayhap you should speak to the King about your concerns,” my father suggested.
    I blinked. “Me? Ah, gods! I’d rather not intrude further on his grief.”
    He regarded me somberly. “You may be the only person in the world who can do so with impunity, Moirin. I heard about this morning’s display.”
    “I’ll think on it.”
    “Do,” the Duc agreed, rising from his chair. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve a great deal to do, and I believe you’ve a letter to write.”
    “Oh, yes.” I rose, too. “Thank you again, my lord.”
    “Rogier,” he repeated with a pleasant smile. “When I’ve more time, I’ll ask you for the whole of your Vralian tale. Were you there, too?” he asked Bao.
    Bao stretched out his arms, contemplating the zig-zag tattoos that marked them. “No,” he said darkly. “I wish I had been. But no.”
    My father shuddered. “You’ll want to hear the whole of their tale someday,” he said to Rogier Courcel. “Trust me, it’s one to daunt the poets.”
    The Lord Minister of the realm inclined his head toward us. “I look forward to it.”
    With that, we were dismissed.
    Since there was no word from King Daniel, Bao and I returned tothe Temple of Naamah. This journey through the streets of the City of Elua was markedly different. Word of the King’s absolution and embrace of me had spread, and the gazes that followed us were more curious than suspicious. I felt all the more grateful for his generosity, and all the more uneasy at the notion of presuming to tell him how his daughter ought to be raised.
    “Why?” Bao asked when I voiced my reluctance. “Don’t you think he might be glad of it?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s just so terribly sad . I hate to add to his burden.”
    He shook his head. “If he’s a man, he will bear it. You heard him this morning. He knows he’s neglected the child. If you ask me, he was very nearly begging for your assistance.”
    “Do you think so?”
    Bao gave me one of his rare, utterly sincere smiles. “Yes, Moirin. I do. I think the King recognizes that you have a very, very large heart, and that he hopes you will make a place for his little stormcloud of a daughter in it.”
    “You, too,” I said. “You liked her, didn’t you?”
    “I did,” he admitted.
    At the temple, I begged paper, ink, and a pen of Noémie d’Etoile, who granted my request readily and showed me to the study, which was filled with texts dedicated to the arts of love and pleasure.
    There, I did my best to concentrate on writing a letter to my mother, while Bao perused the shelves and cubbies. Although he could not yet read the western alphabet, many of the volumes were illustrated. There were at least a dozen different versions of the Trois Milles Joies alone.
    “Have you ever read this?” Bao demanded.
    “Aye, I have.” With a twinge of sorrow, I remembered how Jehanne had sent a volume to me after our first liaison at Cereus House.
    “Look at this.” He showed me a print titled The Wheel-Barrow . “Have you ever tried it?”
    “No.”
    He studied it from all angles. “We should.”
    “Bao, I’m writing to my mother !”
    He flashed me an unapologetic grin. “All right, all right! Later, huh?”
    I plucked the tome from his hands. “Later, yes.”
    In the end, after long hours of agonizing, I made my letter a simple one. I wrote that I had returned to Terre d’Ange well and safe. I wrote that I had many adventures to tell, and that the Maghuin Dhonn Herself had done right in sending Her child so very, very far away. I wrote that I hoped to return to Alba in the spring, after