The Banished of Muirwood
Page 5
“You have returned home during difficult times, Lady Maia,” the chancellor whispered to her. He was careful to pitch his voice low to prevent others from eavesdropping. “I am afraid you will soon learn of it, but let me prepare you as best I can.”
“What has happened?” Maia asked, her pulse starting to race. Nothing in the summons home that she’d received had alarmed her.
“Things happen by degrees, my lady. Such is the way of the world. Unpleasantness grows like mold on cheese. I fear that the extent of it will be startling to you. Relations between your parents have . . . deteriorated since you left for Bridgestow.”
“How so, Chancellor?”
“The castle is used to their arguments now, but it was quite shocking at first, especially when they turned on each other in the great hall. I persuaded them to refrain from arguing in public places, and they try to heed me. Child, their marriage is failing.”
Maia stopped in her tracks and stared up at the chancellor with wide eyes as sickness bloomed deep in her stomach. “What?” she whispered hoarsely.
The chancellor patted her arm and urged her to move on. Passersby had taken notice of her reaction, she realized, and the glances of sympathy she received told her they knew she was coming home to disaster.
“Come, Maia. Do not linger.”
Somehow she made her legs begin to move again. The swish of her skirts was distracting, even chafing, and she felt emotions bubbling up inside her like a kettle poised over too hot a fire.
“My parents were married by irrevocare sigil,” Maia whispered through half-clenched teeth.
“Yes, I am aware of the maston custom,” the chancellor said. “It makes this situation more painful, to be sure. Your parents have come to loathe each other. Your mother seeks to mend the rift, but your father will have none of it. He shames her publicly. His tongue is quite acid, I tell you. Steel your heart, child. You must prepare for this meeting. Do you still forswear weeping? Your father has often praised you for not weeping as other children do.”
Maia clenched her free hand into a fist, feeling the dark, terrible swirl of emotions settle in her gut. “I never cry in front of others, Chancellor. It is a sign of weakness. What will happen?”
“I have said more than I should. I wanted you to know before seeing your father. He is angry oftentimes. I know you love him. I know you will probably fear him. Stand firm, Maia. Steel your heart.”
“Thank you for warning me, Chancellor,” Maia replied, her throat thick. They mounted the steps to the solar together, moving side by side. She would have loved to run her hand over the cool stone edges of the walls; instead she clasped her stomach in an attempt to protect herself from the nausea that threatened to weaken her. Her throat was dry, but she mounted each step as if it did not take an uncommon strength of will. At the top, fragrant floor rushes awaited them, crunching under their boots with sweet scents as they trod over them toward the solar.
There was a woman in the hall ahead, pacing. As they drew closer, the woman’s head shot up to look at them. Maia recognized the woman, Lady Deorwynn of Chester Hundred. She had long golden hair, eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, and a charming smile. Maia was not quite as tall as her yet, but she recognized Lady Deorwynn as one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting. She had two daughters who were close to Maia’s age. Their names were Murer and Jolecia. Maia’s memory had always been exceptional, but she did not see either daughter nearby. Instead, there was a little boy half hidden by his mother’s skirts.
“Welcome back to Comoros, Lady Marciana,” said Lady Deorwynn sweetly. Something flashed in her eyes, a look so confusing that Maia could not, in her limited experience, interpret it. It was the look of someone who hated her but did so with a sumptuous smile. The woman flicked some of her golden hair over her shoulder and approached them, looking down her nose at Maia. “You have grown taller, I should think. My girls are taller, of course, but you do look handsome. I have always adored your eyes, Marciana. My Hundred, Chester, is so near the sea, and your eyes look like they were fashioned out of seawater. I am quite envious.” She reached out and pinched Maia’s chin, tilting her head one way and then another. The possessiveness of her touch was humiliating. Maia wanted to shove her hand away, but she felt a palpable threat coming from Lady Deorwynn’s eyes.
“Thank you, Lady Deorwynn,” Maia said.
“Mama, make her go,” said the little boy. He was barely visible from around the woman’s skirts, but she could see part of his face and . . . it made her blood run with ice.
“Do not fret, Edmon,” she replied, tousling his hair. “This is Lady Marciana returned from Pry-Ree. Our Hundred borders Pry-Ree as well. Is not she pretty?”
The little boy peered at Maia, his eyes wary and distrusting. Her throat caught at the sight of his little face. It was like staring at her father as a young boy. The shape of his nose, the same shade of sandy-brown hair. Even his eyes matched her father’s—and her own.
“How . . . old are you, little Edmon?” Maia managed, her voice faltering a little. She struggled to steel herself, willing her eyes to stay dry, her voice to harden.
He scowled at her, refusing to speak.
“The duckling is almost four,” Lady Deorwynn said, playing with his hair. Her eyes were filled with an unspoken challenge when they met Maia’s, as if she were daring her to speak what was so obvious. When she did not, she leaned over and kissed the boy lightly on the head. “He has a little brother as well,” she added like a knife thrust.
“The king is expecting to see his daughter,” Chancellor Walraven said disdainfully. “I would not like to keep him waiting.”
She gazed at the chancellor, her eyes flashing. “Of course. I would not wish to detain you. Welcome home, Marciana.” The words were innocuous, but there was venom on her breath.
Chancellor Walraven escorted her to the door of the solar. The thick oaken door had a multitude of carved squares on it, many of them offset with other squares—the maston symbols. Her heart lurched as she glanced back once at the little boy and his mother, both gazing at her with persecuting eyes.
When she entered the room, Maia saw her father pacing, hands clenched behind his back. She had always thought her father the most handsome man in all the world. He was fit and trim, with the body of a hunter and sportsman. He had the reputation of being an excellent swordsman, diplomat, and ruler. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he saw her, and a genuine smile lit his face, but there were smudges above his cheekbones, shadows that had not been there before, and a subtle fringe of gray lined the edges of his hair. He wore his hair cropped close, in the southern fashion. His smile was so handsome it melted her heart, but she could see that his delight was suffused with discomfort . . . suffering.
“Maia,” he breathed, throwing wide his arms.
She wanted to run to him, just as she had as a little girl. She wanted him to sweep her up, to soothe her with kisses and promises and dispel the awful dream that had suddenly plunged her soul into darkness.
The chancellor released her arm and she approached her father, dropping to a formal curtsy in front of him.
“What is this nonsense?” he asked, his eyes suddenly stern. “Maia, you are home! I am grateful to see you. I want your embrace, not formality. Come here!”
She choked down her feelings and came into his arms. There was a smell about him. Not the scent of cinnamon or some contrived odor. Just the smell of his skin, his breath, and she felt a surge of girlish emotions that threatened to ruin her composure. It almost made her forget her disgraced mother, and little Edmon who shared her father’s eyes. Almost.
“That is better,” he said, giving her a hearty squeeze. He held her away from him by the shoulders, gazing down at her with obvious pleasure. “You are quite beautiful, Maia, though must not all fathers think that about their daughters? Look at her, Walraven. She is a beauty.”
“S
“I know,” he replied, pinching her chin just as Lady Deorwynn had done. The gesture made her flinch. He gazed at her lovingly, but there was that bit of something in his gaze . . . it smelled of guilt and shame. “I commend your tailor. What fetching colors on you. I like the style. Though you have traveled for quite some time, you arrived here neat and clean. I respect that. Tell me, Maia, are you still as sober a child as you once were? The Pry-rians can be a giddy bunch. Their ways do not seem to have changed you. I see no marks of it anyway.”
“No, Father,” she replied humbly. “I am grateful to be home. Where is Mother? I thought I would find her here with you?”
She had struck a nerve and a blow at the same time, not realizing it until it was too late. Her father flinched noticeably. “Ah yes, well . . . there is all that.” He began to pace away from her, gathering his thoughts, sorting through his words as if trying to determine the best ones to use. “Your mother is no longer here.”
Maia felt a jab of pain in her ribs. “I see.” She swallowed.
He let out a pent-up breath. “It would be best to get this said and done.” He turned and looked at her sternly again, his eyes narrowing coldly. “I have banished your mother.”
Maia flinched, but said nothing. Her cheeks were flaming.
“Where is she?” she asked in a kitten of a voice. She had to repeat herself even to be heard.
“Muirwood, I think,” her father said dismissively. “It is in an out-of-the-way Hundred full of bogs and swamps. I have heard nothing but trouble about the ruins and the slow process of rebuilding. That abbey will never be done, I fear. But that is neither here nor there, Maia. Your mother is banished. I am seeking to have our marriage annulled.” He looked at her pointedly. “For that to happen, Maia, I must banish you as well.”
Her heart rumbled inside her chest. She stared at her father as if he were a stranger. “Why?” she asked, her voice threatening to betray her. “Have I not pleased you, Father?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “No! It is nothing like that, Maia. No, no, that could not be further from the truth. I care for you, and I always shall. You are precious to me. But you cannot be my heir. I will not allow my kingdom to become a principality to another. There are many wolves prowling for you, Maia. Many would-be suitors who would love to claim your hand and my throne. No! I will not allow it. We are chief among the kingdoms. We have the most ancient noble blood, the strongest Families. But I am not growing any younger, Maia, and your mother could not carry another child to term, no matter how many vigils I kept. Something about your birthing . . . damaged her. I cannot allow a daughter to claim my throne. The Naestors would invade and overrun us if they knew a woman was to inherit.” His tone was turning uglier by the moment. His face twisted with rage. “I cannot show them a hint of weakness. Even Chancellor Walraven agrees that a woman cannot inherit Comoros without drawing all of our enemies to our shores. I must have a son. A warrior who can defend us when I am too old.”
In her mind, Maia thought of the timid little boy hiding in his mother’s skirts.
Maia’s tongue finally loosened, the strain of the situation too much to bear in silence. She stared at him in shock and disappointment. “How can you do this, Father?” she said with outrage. “You are a maston! You married Mother by irrevocare sigil. It cannot be broken! You cannot just banish her. She is a noblewoman in her own right, by her own rank. She is of the ruling Family!”
His face twisted with unsuppressed rage, and he strode up to her quickly. “Do not speak to me thus!” he spit at her. “You are my child and you owe me your allegiance and your obedience. You need not fling my oaths in my face. I know what I am doing. It is the only way to preserve our kingdom. You are a child. You cannot understand the ways of men and women.”
“I may be young, but this is wrong, Father! Surely you realize that. What offense have we committed to earn such a punishment? Is it just? A wife may be put away for adultery, but surely it is you who have—”
The look of rage on his face brought blind terror into her mind. He struck her across the mouth, a stinging slap that silenced her words and rocked her backward. “You will be silent!” he threatened her, his voice wavering with emotion. “You watch your tongue and guard your speech. I will not listen to such talk from my own flesh and blood. Be still!” He loomed over her, and Maia felt the stinging pain on her cheek and the flavor of blood in her mouth. Her knees trembled so hard she was afraid she would crumple onto the floor, but she held firm. She stared up at her father with loathing, her eyes dry.
His eyes were on fire with fury. One of his fingers jabbed at her nose. “Let me be very clear, Daughter. You are henceforth banished from my household. You are no longer my natural child. I have forsaken my maston oaths and no longer wear the chaen. I say it clearly so that there can be no misunderstanding between us. I do not believe in the benevolence of the Medium. It is real, I know that. But it is cruel and vicious too.” He spread his arms wide, as if daring her to contradict him. “But you will say nothing of this to anyone else. For the preservation of this kingdom, for the sake of the people, I will pretend as though I am faithful to the order. I will not persecute mastons or halt the rebuilding of the abbeys. I will fulfill my duty to complete them and reinstate the full rites. But I cannot remain bound to your mother, whom I hate with every bit of loathing and rancor you can possibly imagine. I cannot bear to even look at her, which is why I have sent her far away.”
Maia’s eyes widened with defiance. “Very well, then send me to my mother,” she demanded. “If I am to be banished, I would go to her. To Muirwood.”
Her father shook his head. “Oh no, I dare not let you go. Even if your eyes continue to accuse me. You are far too valuable a prize for my enemies. Those who pursue your mother’s interests will be disinherited, and their lands will be forfeited. But anyone seeking to abduct and control you will be guilty of treason. You will stay here in Comoros.” His look was grave and stony. “You are banished here, Maia. To Pent Tower.”
“May I see my mother first?” Maia whispered, her throat too tight to speak.
“In time. Perhaps. If you are faithful to me. Now trouble me no more, child, until I call for you. Chancellor—escort her to the tower prepared for her.”
This you must always remember. The hunter is patient. The prey is careless. These are wise words from the man who trained me to survive many hardships.
—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER SIX
The King’s Collier
As Maia regained consciousness, she was first aware of a strange new smell—a peculiar scent that clung to her clothes, her hair, even her skin. She struggled to open her eyes, and it was so dark she wondered for a moment if she had been blindfolded. Light stabbed her eyes from slits on her right and she twisted to try and determine the source. The boarhound, Argus, was resting against her back, its coarse fur a source of heat and warmth. The dog lifted its head when she moved and gave an exaggerated yawn, as if scolding her for sleeping so long.
“Awake. Finally.”
It was Jon Tayt’s voice, gruff in the shadows. She had not seen him there, but her eyes picked him out as they adjusted to the dimness. Her muscles were sluggish to respond when she struggled to move. She would not have felt any more spent had she swum upstream against a river. Still, she was aware enough to discern that she was in a small stone cave, and to hear the wind keening outside. There was no sign of the kishion, and that concerned her.
Maia sat up and grazed her head against the ceiling of the cave. As she did so, she realized she had been sleeping on a strange pallet. Instead of straw, the ground was covered in strange green leaves dusted with fuzz. It was the source of the peculiar smell.
“What is this?” Maia asked, bringing one of the crushed leaves to her nose. It reminded her of mint, but it was different somehow.
“I call it mule’s ear,” the hunter replied. “See the shape? It grows wild up here on this side of the mountain. Good for bedding down on.”
A low growl sounded in Argus’s throat.
“Bah, be quiet,” the hunter scolded. He sat against the rock wall of the cave, a throwing axe cradled in his lap. “Old dog.”
Maia reached down and stroked the hound’s neck, gently caressing its pelt. It looked back at her, its tongue lolling from its mouth.
“I do not want you spoiling my hound now, my lady,” he said, a wry smile in his voice. “I would cut off the hand of any man besides me who tried to tame him, but since you are not a man, I will leave your hand intact.” Jon Tayt’s boot edged out to nudge the dog’s flank. “He guarded you all night, even when you were thrashing. Bad dreams?”
Maia blinked, awash in the memories. This was the second vivid dream of her childhood she had experienced recently. It felt almost as if the Medium were trying to communicate something to her while she slept. Not only were the dreams vivid, but they were part of the series of events that had led to her quest. Her heart was on fire with the emotions of the past—feelings she struggled to bury. What was she supposed to learn from revisiting her old memories?
“Hmmm? Bad dreams?” she replied evasively. “Some, I suppose. Did I fidget, truly?”
The hunter nodded. “A little frightening to watch. I thought you might be chilled, but you were sweating. Then, when I started to worry it was a fever, you cooled down. You are a riddle, Lady Maia.” His voice became very serious. “Why you are traveling with a kishion?” The emphasis on the word showed his distaste. “I don’t need to ask why the Dochte Mandar are hunting you, the medallion you wear and your silver eyes are answer enough. Ach, what trouble brings you to Dahomey?”
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