“The Lady of Rats!” She laughed, a sound like bells chiming. “Yes, I suppose so. And you are looking for me?” Her hands shifted into a contemplative pose I’d seen in effigies of the Enlightened Ones, cupped before her, thumbs folded over one another. As her bright eyes studied me, I fought unsuccessfully to contain another sneeze, and wished that I didn’t feel quite so feverish, dirty, and miserable. “Well,” the Rani said in a thoughtful tone. “Then I suppose I’d better take you home with me, Moirin mac Fainche, yes?”
“Yes, please!” I agreed fervently.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Never, ever in my life had I been so glad to be ensconced in a man-made structure.
I followed the Rani’s palanquin to her palace in a daze, unable to believe my good fortune. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt that mayhap the gods were smiling on me after all.
Behind the high walls that warded it, the palace was a charming affair built in the Bhodistani style. Dismounting from her palanquin, the Rani gave orders that my horses were to be stabled and tended, and my belongings brought to a suite of rooms. Then she reached up to touch my brow with cool fingers.
“And for you, I think, a physician.” A little furrow formed between her gracefully arched brows. “Even goddesses take sick in mortal form.”
I smiled. “No goddess, highness. But if it is not too much to ask, I would like a bath first.”
She cocked her head, steepling her fingers in a thoughtful pose. “D’Angeline, yes?”
My eyes widened. Since leaving Vralia, I’d felt myself utterly isolated from my roots. “You know of D’Angelines?”
“Oh, yes!” The Rani laughed her chiming laugh. “Not here, no. But in Galanka, when I was a girl, yes.” Her eyes sparkled, and she patted my cheek. “You will have your bath, and I will have my physician. After, you will rest. Later you will tell me your story.”
I had my bath, and it was better than medicine. The Bhodistani did not believe in submerging themselves to bathe, but the Rani sent a pair of young attendants who ladled bucket after bucket of hot water over me, sluicing away weeks of accumulated dirt and dried sweat. They washed and scrubbed every inch of me with gentle thoroughness, and undertook the painstaking process of undoing the matted braids Dorje and Nyima’s daughters had plaited in my locks, easing the coral and turquoise beads out of my hair, and untangling every knotted strand before combing and washing it. The steam helped clear my head, and a profound sense of lassitude suffused my aching body. I thought about Luba scouring me with lye soap and cold water, chopping off my tangled hair with her shears, and murmured a prayer of gratitude to any gods who were listening.
Afterward, they rubbed warm, scented oil into my skin and gave me clean sleeping attire to wear: a pair of loose-fitting breeches and a long tunic of sheer white linen. When they had finished with me, the Rani came with her physician. She listened gravely as he examined me and prescribed a great deal of rest, and a diet of fresh fruits and grains, yoghurt, and spoonfuls of honey.
I was almost too tired to eat anything by the time he left, my eyelids heavy and drooping. Although I was feeling better than I had at my worst, I’d pushed myself so hard for so long, my mind, body, and spirit were utterly exhausted.
And it was such a vast and unspeakable relief to be taken care of, I could have wept.
“Eat, young goddess,” the Rani coaxed me. “A little honey if nothing else. Then you may sleep.”
I obeyed, and found that the honey coated and soothed my sore throat. “You are very kind, highness.”
She smiled in such a way that her cheeks dimpled. “I am very curious.” She laid her hand on my brow. “Better, I think. Now sleep and heal, so I may hear your story.”
Feeling as though I were falling down a long, dark well, I caught her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, my lady.”
“D’Angeline, indeed.” There was a note of amusement in her voice. She stroked my cheek. “Sleep, young one. You are safe here.”
You are safe here.
The words followed me down into the darkness, followed me into my dreams, a lifeline promising me safe harbor. I dreamed the journey across the Abode of the Gods over and over again, reliving the endless trek, Manil Datar’s unsmiling eyes, the feel of his phallus throbbing in my hand as the point of his dagger probed a tender spot below my ear, the enduring suspicion and hostility of the caravan. I dreamed of rockslides and avalanches, paths crumbling beneath my mount’s hooves, of buffeting winds and unrelenting snowfall. Mountain peaks rising above the mist, the treacherous labyrinth that meandered down the slopes of Kurugiri.
Bao, trapped there.
The Spider Queen, Jagrati. In my dreams, she had a narrow face with elongated jaws, long, segmented limbs made of a chitinous substance, and her faceted eyes gleamed like black diamonds.
Her husband, the Falconer Tarik Khaga, watched in approval, his eyes set narrowly over a beaked nose.
I whimpered in my sleep.
You are safe here.
I saw the Rani in my dreams, placing herself between me and the Spider Queen and the Falconer, her face calm and her hands raised in a warding gesture.
I awoke, knew myself safe, and slept anew.
All in all, I slept for the better part of two days. I was sicker than I had realized, and my body needed to sweat out the last of the sickness. I was vaguely aware that the Rani’s attendants cared for me solicitously, sponging my fevered skin with cool water, changing my bed-linens, and dressing me in clean clothing.
On the third day, I awoke clear-headed and ravenous. Essaying an experimental cough, I found that my lungs were clear. Swallowing, I found that it did not hurt, but only made my empty stomach grumble.
I was better.
“Ah, good!” Rousing herself from a pile of cushions, the Rani of Bhaktipur clapped her hands together with girlish pleasure, her dark eyes sleepy. “You are hungry, yes?”
“Yes,” I admitted, touched by her presence. “You watched over me, highness? All this time?”
“Not all this time,” she said. “Only some of it. I think your dreams were troubled, were they not?” She made a gesture with her hands I could not interpret. “Now you will rise and dress, and we shall have a feast, eh? And you will tell me your story, Moirin mac Fainche.”
She left, and the young attendants returned to help me bathe anew and dress myself. I was glad of their assistance, for Bhodistani daytime attire was unexpectedly difficult. There was an undershirt and skirt of fine linen, and that I understood well enough, but the overgarment was an endless swathe of shimmering mustard-yellow and green silk that bewildered me. Giggling, the girls demonstrated the complicated process of wrapping, pleating, and draping the cloth, pinning it in place so that it hung gracefully.
When they were done, I felt more myself than I had since I’d left Shuntian. As a girl growing up in Alba, I’d had no use for finery, but that had changed in Terre d’Ange. I’d come to value opulence, and it was a pleasure to feel luxurious fabrics against my skin.
And, too, I was happy to see the Rani smile in appreciation when I was escorted into the dining room to join her.
“Ah, see!” she said lightly. “I have made you beautiful after the manner of my people. It suits you. I always wanted a daughter to dress.”
I raised my brows at her. “I do not think you are old enough to be my mother, highness.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “No.”
The Rani laughed, rising to the sound of bells tinkling around her ankles. “Well, then, we shall let Ravindra decide if he wishes for a sister, for I see him beyond the door.” She beckoned. “Come, my son, join us.”