SEVENTY-FIVE
There was one last matter to be dealt with ere we could depart the empire of Tawantinsuyo. Because he had worn the crown of the Sapa Inca, no matter how briefly, the Quechua had preserved Raphael de Mereliot’s body.
“Whatever else is true, he commanded great magic,” the Sapa Inca Huayna said soberly. “There can be no place for him among our ancestors, but we did not wish to offend whatever gods he served. Do you wish to return him to your own temple?”
“We are not lugging that maniac’s carcass across the entire continent of Terra Nova,” Balthasar muttered.
Prince Thierry silenced him with a scowl, then turned to me. “Moirin, you understand these matters better than most. What are your thoughts?”
I gazed at Raphael’s face. Even beneath the cerements, one could see that he had been a beautiful man. I thought of the fallen spirit Focalor forcing his essence into him, and of the spark of lightning that had lingered in Raphael’s eyes, haunting my thoughts for so many years. What if a spark lingered even now? Having seen the dead rise and walk, I did not wish to take any chances.
“I would build a funeral pyre,” I said slowly. “Let the fire cleanse him and release any trace of the spirit that remains. Let his ashes be scattered to fertilize the fields.”
“It seems a fitting end,” the Sapa Inca Huayna said in quiet approval.
So it was done.
The Quechua built a pine-wood pyre in the temple square. There, Raphael de Mereliot’s body was cremated, his cloth-wrapped limbs twisting and blackening in flames that burned so hot they were nearly invisible in the sunlight. Now and again, a burst of sparks rose into the sky.
I thought of Focalor and wondered.
Despite everything, I did not believe the fallen spirit was evil. It was a force of destruction that had been constrained for long centuries if the legends were true, and unleashed on the world, it would have wreaked havoc. So had the ants Raphael commanded done; and yet, within their rightful habitat, they had a role to play. Mayhap the fallen spirits had a role to play, too.
If the spirit Marbas had not given me the gift of finding hidden things, my Ch’in princess would have drowned in the reflecting lake atop White Jade Mountain, the dragon would have ceased to be, and the weapons of the Divine Thunder would have been loosed on the world, altering it forever.
Mayhap even my youthful folly had a purpose. The gods use their chosen hard, but reveal little to them.
When the pyre had burned down to a few restless embers, the Quechua gathered the ashes in earthenware bowls, transporting them to the fields where they were distributed with care, churned into the soil to nourish it.
I gazed at the waving rows of maize, praying silently that Raphael’s bitter, tormented heart would find healing.
And then there was nothing left to do but say our farewells. Our supplies were gathered, our caravan in readiness. The long journey awaited us.
It was time.
“Good-bye, my sister,” I whispered in Machasu’s ear as I hugged her. “Thank you for your strength and courage, and thank you for sharing your food with me when I needed it most.”
She gave an indignant sniff. “I did no such thing, lady!”
I smiled. “As you will.”
The high priestess Iniquill acknowledged me with a grave bow of her silver-haired head, and I returned it with dignity.
Ocllo surprised me by seizing me in a fierce embrace, pressing me to her stalwart bosom, then releasing me just as abruptly. “On behalf of the ancestors, I thank you,” she said in a formal tone. “And on behalf of my granddaughter…” Her voice broke. “Please thank the twice-born for making it swift and merciful.”
I stared at her. “Cusi was your granddaughter? You did not tell me!”
Tears glinted in her eyes, but did not fall. “No, I did not. But it is true. And young as she was, I do believe the gods chose wisely when they guided Lord Pachacuti’s hand in sending her to you.”
I kissed her lined cheek. “Her courage shames us all. I will never forget her, I promise.”
Ocllo blinked. “I should hope not.”
One day after Raphael’s cremation, we departed the city of Qusqu at dawn. Behind us, the slanting rays of the rising sun kindled the snowy mantles of the western mountains, turning them gold. The air was dry and crisp, and I breathed it deep into my lungs. I had my yew-wood bow and quiver slung over one shoulder, my battered satchel with a few wordly goods and a fair share of supplies over the other.
A long journey faced us. A long, long journey.
We would serve as our own porters. Every man among us, Prince Thierry included, carried a woven basket on his back, tump-lines of corded wool stretched across their brows. They carried baskets laden with stores, with samples and specimens, bits and pieces of gilded, jade-studded Quechua workmanship tucked amidst potatoes and maize, sacks of powdered cinchona bark, nuts and seeds from myriad plants, and the stores of herbs Eyahue had assiduously gathered.
Bao sighed, shifting his shoulders. His bamboo staff rode high atop his back, thrust through the handles of his basket.
“Home,” I reminded him.
He echoed the word, his voice wistful. “Home. I am not sure what it means, but I like the sound of it, Moirin.”
“So do I,” I murmured.