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, and she fell forward, catching herself briefly on her hands, her hair trailing in her own blood.

Blood spilled over the top stair; more blood than it seemed one small body should hold. It poured into channels etched into the carvings behind the gallery of the ancestors, limning them in scarlet.

There was shouting and pandemonium in the temple, the Quechua jostling and shoving and yelling amongst themselves, Raphael attempting in vain to regain control of the situation.

It was old Iniquill’s voice that rose above the fray, high and fierce and quavering. “Let the ancestors speak!” she cried, pointing. “It is as the great Mamacoya foretold!”

The Quechua fell silent.

Atop the stairs, Cusi lay crumpled and still. Bao stood motionless, the knife yet in his blood-stained hand, his face yet hidden behind the sun god’s mask. Runnels of blood made their way through the carved channels, made their way toward the seated figures of the ancestors. Drop by drop, blood fell to darken their ancient cerements.

Bones creaking, the ancestors stirred.

I stared, as transfixed as everyone, my heart in my throat.

“No,” Raphael muttered frantically. “No, no, no! This is wrong, all wrong.” Pacing, he grabbed Prince Manco’s arm and pointed toward the head of the stairs. “Seize him! Seize the false priest!”

The prince hesitated.

Standing atop the stairs, Bao dropped the bronze knife and removed the high priest’s golden mask. Behind it, his face was streaked with tears, but his voice was steady. “There is no falsehood here save yours, Lord Pachacuti!” he called. “You are no god, only a man misguided. I have bridged the worlds between life and death, and today I pay the price for it.”

In the ancestors’ gallery, eight seated figures slowly began to rise, their brittle, blood-stained cerements crackling. Flowers spilled from their withered laps, desiccated fingers gripped bejeweled weapons. And still the blood continued to fall, drop by drop.

Abandoning Prince Manco, Raphael returned to pluck the Sapa Inca’s crown from the altar, placing it on his own head.

“It is done,” he said wildly. “So be it.” Lightning flared in his eyes as he rounded on me. “It is done! I rule in Tawantinsuyo; I, and I alone! I am worshipped here! Moirin, call your magic! Now!”

Trust me.

There was no time left to think.

Placing my faith in the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, in the words of my lady Jehanne, in the dead and the living and every god I knew, I obeyed.

I summoned the twilight.

“Focalor!” Raphael shouted, flinging his arms wide. “Come to me!”

In the temple, a doorway onto a raging maelstrom opened. The fallen spirit was there in inchoate form, answering the call of the spark of its essence that remained in Raphael de Mereliot. Raphael laughed aloud in triumph, and then stiffened. A thunderclap broke with a sound like boulders splitting and lightning-shot darkness poured through the doorway, poured into him, entering his open mouth. He cried aloud, his body convulsing in agony. Without a true sacrifice in his honor, he was not strong enough to contain it.

Mayhap he never would have been, but of a surety, he wasn’t now. The storm that was Focalor’s essence was consuming him.

And I felt the strength draining from me.

Bedecked with flowers, clad in finery, the ancestors continued their slow descent from the gallery, bony limbs clicking and creaking. The black tide of ants gathered and rallied, swarming them to no avail.

They could not stop the dead.

The tempest raged in the doorway, raged through Raphael’s mortal flesh. Half the folk in the temple cried aloud in fear, pushing their way toward the doorway; half gazed in dumbstruck awe at the awakened ancestors. Ignoring the futile onslaught of ants, the Quechua ancestral dead continued their inexorable assault, ancient faces blank beneath their wrappings, war-clubs raised by crumbling fingers, petals falling all around them.

It rained marigolds, garlands severed and petals shredded by the relentless mandibles of the ants. Yellow and orange and gold and bronze, the latter a deep hue like blood drying, like Cusi’s blood beginning to congeal on the stairway. I had fallen to my knees. Bits of cerement fell, and I caught glimpses of aged bone gleaming beneath tattered wrappings, bones gnawed in vain by Raphael’s unnatural army.

I could not turn back the dead, either. But the storm that held Focalor’s essence was another matter.

Lifting my head, I met Raphael’s eyes.

In our different ways, we had loved and hated in equal measure, Raphael and I. Each other, Jehanne. My magic. Between his ambition and my youthful folly, we had left a trail of dead between us, beginning with poor, doomed Claire Fourcay and ending with my sweet, innocent handmaiden Cusi. Now he was drowning in Focalor’s essence; drowning, and unable to save himself.

He grimaced, seeing his failure reflected in my gaze. There was enough of him left to recognize me. It was too late for Cusi, too late to halt the dead. It was not too late to banish Focalor. I prayed Raphael would hear me, for if he did not, the fallen spirit would be loosed unfettered on the world, and I did not think even the dead could stand against it.

“Raphael,” I whispered. “Please…”

He shut his eyes, his throat straining as he fought to force the words out past the influx of Focalor’s essence. “Close the doorway, Moirin,” he gasped, his chest heaving. “I was wrong. I erred. Forgive me if you can. Just… do it.”

I did.

It took strength, a great deal of strength. But I was not the foolish young woman I had been so long ago. Gathering every ounce of resolve that I possessed, I rose from my knees and faced the maelstrom I had unleashed. I was a child of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, and no one’s useful tool. The memory of Her acceptance lent me strength. Although thunder crashed, lightning crackled, and the wind howled in protest, I poured myself into the effort. I beat Focalor’s essence back into the spirit world and closed the doorway, releasing the twilight at last with a sigh.

Shuffling across the temple floor on bony feet, the dead converged on Raphael, weapons raised. One by one, their weapons fell, bludgeoning him.

There was blood, darkness, and flowers.

And I shut my eyes.

I didn’t want to see the end.

SEVENTY-TWO

In the aftermath, there was silence, broken only by the sound of a thousand indrawn breaths.

I opened my eyes.

Raphael de Mereliot’s body lay sprawled on the floor of the temple. The crown of the Sapa Inca had fallen from his head, and blood clotted his tawny locks. The desiccated figures of the Quechua ancestors swayed around him. One by one, they dropped their weapons and crumpled into motionless heaps of rag-wrapped bones bedecked with gold, feathers, wool, and half-eaten garlands of flowers.

The ants fled, pouring through the temple door in an endless stream, joining throngs of their fellows in the streets. It was a considerable exodus.

Atop the stair, Bao stooped and gathered Cusi’s body tenderly in his arms. He supported her head as carefully as though she were a newborn babe, so the gash that had opened her throat didn’t gape. Everyone in the temple watched, silent and wordless. There were no words for what had transpired here.

Step by step, he descended. Cusi’s hair trailed over his arms. Despite the blood that stained her white garment, her face looked peaceful, a faint, impossible smile curving her lips. With tears of grief drying on his face, Bao laid her body on the altar, arranging her limbs with dignity.

“Now it is done,” he said quietly. “No more.”

I opened my mouth to agree, but it seemed the temple tilted sideways. I heard Bao’s voice calling my name—and then I knew no more.

I slept; and did not know how long I slept. I dreamed of doorways and blood and flowers, of darkness and storms. I dreamed of jungles and mountains and bones and maidens, and of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself lowering Her mighty head to breathe on me in approval.

I did not want to wake.

But in time, I did.

I awoke to sunlight and unfamiliar surroundings. I felt as empty and hollow as a scraped gourd. It took all the strength I had to drag myself to sit upright, and my diadh-anam guttered low in my breast.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside my pallet, Balthasar Shahrizai startled. “Moirin!” He ran his hands through his hair and yawned. “Forgive me, I fear I dozed for a minute.”

Alarm surged through me. “Where’s Bao?” I touched my chest, but my diadh-anam was so faint, I could not sense his. I feared that mayhap he had been punished for sacrilege—or worse, punished himself. “Is he—?”

“He’s fine,” Balthasar said in a soothing tone. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” Turning his head, he called into the next chamber. “Machasu! Lady Moirin awakes. Will you send for Messire Bao?”

Machasu peered around the door, her solemn expression lightening with relief at the sight of me. “It is true! I will summon the twice-born.”

I ran my hands over my face. “How long did I sleep?”

“Three days.” 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.