by Jeff Wheeler
“How can I repay you for your help?” Maia said, still struggling with the relief she felt finding all had been arranged as he had said. The stable was clean and orderly, with tack and harnesses hanging from pegs on the walls. Barrels of provisions were stored beneath them. It was well kept.
“Will you give me your name?” he asked.
She stared up at him, at this handsome, mysterious man. He was a wretched, yet he had overcome the disadvantages of that class. She longed to know how. Her banishment had made her feel as she imagined a wretched would. Except she knew her Family. She had believed for many years that no one would ever want a princess who had been banished. Her father had made it very clear she would never marry.
She shook her head no, not daring to trust him further, or even to trust herself.
“Someday, my lady,” he said, his piercing blue eyes drawing her in. He smiled broadly. “Someday you will trust me.”
CHAPTER NINE
Whitsunday
Maia, the fire is burning low. Attend to it.” Lady Deorwynn’s voice caught Maia midstride as she was heading to the cupboard for porcelain cups. She quickly finished that duty and then went over to the hearth to tend to the dying fire.
As Maia knelt on the flagstones, the pain in her stomach grew. It was almost unbearable, and it took all her will not to moan. She closed her eyes, feeling beads of sweat on her brow, and clutched her abdomen. She tried to breathe through the pain, hoping the air would not whistle from her mouth and draw unwelcome attention.
“Please, Maia, you are so lazy. I told you to tend the fire, yet you do nothing but sit there and stare at it. Is it stubbornness, I wonder? You think I will fetch a servant instead? Really, child. So lazy.”
Maia clenched her teeth and reached for a poker hanging from a nearby peg. She stabbed the chalk-gray coals, mixing them around before stirring up the winking embers. Half hidden in the soot, the Leering glowered at her from the stone wall deep inside the hearth. It was a small one with a wicked grin full of torture; it seemed to be smiling because it enjoyed her pain. It was a hideous Leering.
She stared into its eyes as she set a log from the pile beside the fire into the nest of coals. Bending close, she started to blow on the embers, creating puffs of ash. The sounds of sizzles and crackles popped in her ears and the log started to smoke. As she worked, her loathing of Lady Deorwynn seethed inside of her, a force so strong she dared label it hatred. The woman had usurped her mother’s place in her father’s heart . . . leaving no room for any others. While her daughters were pampered and spoiled as princesses of the realm, Maia’s position continued to worsen.
The Leering’s eyes started to glow.
Maia stared at the eyes in amazement. Twin pinpricks of red-hot heat stared at her from the soot. The Leering was responding to her emotions. Though Maia had learned long ago to act calm when she was feeling anything but, she knew that the Leering had somehow sensed her buried feelings, that it had awoken because of them.
She stared at the half smile, half grimace on the Leering’s mouth and leaned back from the hearth.
Burn.
The thought flittered through her mind. Had it even come from her? Fire roared from the hearth instantly, sending out billowing white tongues of flame. She scuttled back in fear and also a gust of excitement. The entire mouth of the hearth was ablaze.
“For certes, Maia, I told you to revive the fire, not burn down the castle! How many logs did you feed into it?” Lady Deorwynn’s voice was outraged. Maia stood, staring with wonder at her creation, startled by the immensity of the flames. She had caused that. She had used a Leering with no more effort than it would take to blow a feather.
Maia rubbed her arms, ignoring the plain coarse wool. It was not quite a peasant’s dress, but it was certainly nothing like the gowns she had worn all her life. Servants were never to outshine their betters.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the door burst open, and Lady Deorwynn’s daughters rushed inside. Murer and Jolecia—the banes of Maia’s heart. Murer’s gown was the finer of the two, of course, decorated with elegant colors slashing through the sleeves and trim and a fancy pattern, and she was literally dripping with necklaces and jewels. Her hair was blond, like her mother’s, only curlier, and pinned up with gems and the like. She had a beautiful smile that was full of teasing, and a razor tongue that could leave someone’s feelings in shreds. Her sister, Jolecia, had straight hair, also blond, and she mimicked everything her sister did, though with less success, and was constantly jealous and petulant as a result.
“Mother!” Murer said with relish, “The Earl of Forshee just arrived! I am so grateful my new papa decided to visit Billerbeck for Whitsunday. The Earl of Forshee! He has several sons, and they are quite striking.”
The flames from the hearth had died down. Lady Deorwynn sat on a cushioned seat and picked up her needlework. “They may be handsome, but they despise my Family. They will not suit you, dearest.”
Murer approached her mother quickly. “But what if one of them fell in love with me? Might that not tame their Family’s hostility against us?”
“There are five brothers,” Jolecia said. “We can each have one.”
Lady Deorwynn clucked her tongue. “No, do not be simple. The Forshees have been loyal to Papa’s enemy.”
Maia bit her tongue. That was the word Lady Deorwynn used to describe Maia’s mother. With the fire now in full bloom, she went back to the porcelain cups and began serving the girls’ favorite drink, apple cider.
“I should not be ashamed to love a Forshee,” Murer said. “They are handsome, Mother. But I think you have someone else in mind for me?”
“Do you have a match for me as well?” Jolecia said, a slight whine in her voice.
Lady Deorwynn worked at the stitches studiously.
“Mother?” Murer pressed after a little silence, her voice eager.
“Why should you confine your aspirations to an earl, my daughter, when there are members of the Family abroad who are kings?” She said it in almost a playful way, but Maia could hear the deep ambition behind the words, like an echo in a well. “The King of Dahomey has two sons who are legitimate. The eldest is nearly your age, Murer.”
There was silence as daughter stared at mother, dumbstruck. “To be . . . Queen . . . of Dahomey? The cursed kingdom?”
Maia felt a prick of apprehension and envy, remembering that, at one time, she had been betrothed to the heir of Dahomey. She had always thought of the cursed shores with a degree of curiosity, and if things had turned out differently, she would have reigned over them one day. She stifled her resentful feelings.
“I would not wish that,” Jolecia said. “I should be frightened to live in Dahomey. Their Leerings are cursed!”
“They do have strange customs there, do they not?” Murer said. “You once lived there, Mother, and always ridiculed them. And the Family who was chosen to rule . . .” There was a pronounced note of distaste in her voice. “We all know about that heritage, do we not? I should think one of the Earl of Forshee’s sons would be infinitely preferable. I have been curling my hair for Whitsunday, as you can see.”
“She will not let me curl mine,” Jolecia murmured.
“I have heard the Forshees fancy that,” Murer went on. “But Dahomey . . . truly, Mother?”
Lady Deorwynn continued stitching, saying nothing.
Murer went to the tray where Maia had finished pouring the cups. “Thank you,” she said. Then her expression changed, as if she had only then recognized it was Maia who had served her and not one of the other girls. The look turned to disdain.
Holding the cup elegantly, she took a dainty sip and walked behind the couch. “Today is Whitsunday, Mother. Even the servants are allowed to dance around the maypole with their betters. Is Maia going to dance?”
A blush of hot shame shot through Maia’s cheeks at being
drawn into the girl’s devious web. She cursed Murer under her breath.
“Even the wretcheds are allowed,” Lady Deorwynn said musingly. “I suppose we cannot forbid it.” The needlework flashed like silver knives. “But really, who do you think will ask her to dance around the maypole? Even the local villagers here at Billerbeck Hundred know who she is.” She looked up from her work, flashing a malicious glance at Maia.
“I am not feeling well,” Maia said in a low voice. “I did not plan to attend.”
“Oh, but you must,” Lady Deorwynn said, setting down the needlework. “Why do you think Papa chose Billerbeck to celebrate Whitsunday? Why make such a long journey for the occasion?”
Maia used to know her father’s thinking. In the past, she would have been able to answer the question accurately. Now she did not understand her father.
“I do not know,” Maia said softly. “Likely it is the farthest abbey from Muirwood.”
Lady Deorwynn rose, her eyes flashing with anger. “You have a wicked tongue.”
Maia stared at her coldly, saying nothing.
“You must learn humility, child. That is the way of the Medium, is it not? So proud in your heart still. Well, only through suffering do we learn, as the Aldermastons and the Dochte Mandar teach us. You have much to learn.” It sounded like a threat.
“If she does not wish to attend the maypole dance, Mother, we should not force her,” Murer said. “Whether she dances or not, there will be shame enough.”
“Papa wishes her to be seen by the Forshees,” Lady Deorwynn explained patiently. “To show them that she is well, that she is treated with kindness and compassion. She is not a prisoner in Pent Tower, as the rumors say. So you see, Maia, even if you are unwell, you must attend. No one will dance with you anyway. You are a thing to be pitied.”
“I will attend if Father wishes it,” Maia said dispassionately. She never called him Papa.
Her heart ached, but she did not let it show on her face. As the sisters began talking about gowns and garlands, she silently left the solar. She pressed one hand to her abdomen, trying to push down the pain and ill humor. Since her banishment, her strength had flagged and she had been sick quite often. She suffered from ulcers in her stomach, according to the healers, which they treated with herbs and tinctures. Nothing worked. She had even sent for the Aldermaston of Claredon for a Gift of healing. Any maston could call upon the Medium for a Gifting to aid another person. The Aldermaston had tried unsuccessfully. Sadly, he had explained it was the Medium’s will that she suffer from her ailments.
Maia passed through the common room, which was crowded with servants preparing for the Whitsunday feast that would be held prior to the festival. She was grateful for the commotion, for it would help prevent others from noticing her. Even though Maia could no longer wear elegant gowns, even though she was forced to wear the gowns of the servants, she still earned sympathetic glances from visitors. From their pained looks, she knew that while they silently disagreed with her father’s decision to banish his wife, they would not speak up for her if it meant defying him.
This was her first Whitsunday since coming of age. For many years, she had imagined what it would be like. This was the one day when there were no longer any divisions by rank. Even the lowliest were permitted to attend the feast. Boys and girls were allowed to dance around the maypole together, holding hands as they spun around the tall pole festooned with flowers and ribbons. A princess could dance with a lowly shepherd boy. When a girl and boy turned fourteen, they were finally allowed to participate. It was a custom that had been passed down through the centuries. As Whitsunday approached, the girls would fret constantly about who would ask them to dance. The boys, on the other hand, would steel their courage and ask for dances they would otherwise never dare request. There was powerful symbolism in the ritual, she realized, and she had attended the festivals throughout her childhood. At her request, her father had taught her the dance when she was six. She had even seen her parents dance around the maypole together, and the memories were like clutching knives to her bosom. The pain in her stomach worsened, as it always did when she thought about the time before, and she knew she had to quiet her mind.
But how could she not remember? She had not seen her mother in years. This Whitsunday, her mother was in Muirwood Abbey, moored in some swamp-infested land full of gnats and bogs that no one cared enough to visit because it was still being erected. It was the most ancient abbey of the realm, yet other abbeys had been completed sooner. Why was that? Perhaps because the destruction had been more severe. It was said that only the Aldermaston’s kitchen had survived intact.
Maia imagined her mother in that kitchen. Alone. Grief stricken. Ailing. Maia had heard that her mother’s health was in jeopardy. Her father had sent the finest healers to treat her, for he did not want the suspicion of murder to tarnish his reputation further. What pained her more than anything about this Whitsunday was that she had begged Father to send her to Muirwood for the occasion. She had asked him to send half of his army, if necessary, to ensure she returned. Her father had laughed in her face and said that he could not trust half his army because they might be sympathetic enough to her mother’s plight to rise up in rebellion against him.
“Lady Maia!”
She whirled at the sound of the voice. She was just about to leave the common room for the stairwell when she spied Chancellor Walraven waving to her.
She brightened and approached him.
“I was going to the library,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”
“I would. I thought I might not see you until the festival this evening. How long have you been in Billerbeck Hundred?”
“A fortnight already,” Walraven said, smiling at her. He led the way up the stairs to the upper floor of another part of the castle and entered the library. The floor rushes smelled of mint. Everything had been freshly changed in anticipation of the king’s arrival.
It was midafternoon, but the light from the windows was still bright. Maia went to the glass and stared outside. She could see all the way to the village green, where the maypole stood proudly erect. A small crowd had gathered around it already. Another pang went through Maia’s stomach, and she clutched it with one hand.
“Your bowels still ail you?” the chancellor asked at her shoulder.
She nodded, seeing his reflection in the glass, his wild gray hair askew.
“I personally think it is because they make you wear those drab gray gowns,” he said with a hint of teasing. “It is the color of storm clouds. Not light puffy ones, but the dark thunderheads. They say it might rain this evening. The weather can be unpredictable in this Hundred.”
“Why did Father choose Billerbeck for the Whitsunday celebration?” She pressed her fingers against the glass, feeling the subtle ripples on its surface.
“You are a wise girl,” he replied meekly. “Why do you think?”
“I do not know him anymore,” she replied flatly, bitterly.
“You know him better than you are willing to admit. He is no longer the man you have fond memories of, child, though part of his old self still exists. I see it now and then. Let me teach you to tease out the answers you desire. That is the way of queens.” He folded his arms. “What does your father desire the most?”
“A divorce from my mother.”
“He married her according to the maston customs, though.”
“Yes, he did, by irrevocare sigil,” Maia said, staring at the billowing ribbons hanging off the maypole. Someone had tied or tacked the ends to the wood, yet still the ribbons twitched as if they longed to fly free.
“According to the maston rites, the irrevocare sigil is permanent. However, it is only in force if both husband and wife honor the oath. The maston tomes list certain special situations that would give rise for the dissolution of the irrevocare sigil.”
“If one of the sp
ouses is unfaithful.” Her heart was black with dark thoughts. As you were, Father.
“Yes. Unfaithfulness is grounds for dissolution. Your father knew this and has given your mother the opportunity to break the marriage. But she has not. She refuses.”
“So, instead, he divorced her according to the customs of the Dochte Mandar,” Maia said. “There are multiple grounds for divorce in your creed.”
“There are. It is a much more . . . flexible . . . state in our culture. The trouble is that the king was not married according to the customs of the Dochte Mandar. His marriage to Lady Deorwynn is lawful in the eyes of some and unlawful in the eyes of others. It is a tangled web, to be sure. Much like that maypole yonder.”
“A web he has inflicted on himself,” Maia said with a throb in her voice. She swallowed.
“Why, then, are we at Billerbeck Abbey?”
Maia thought long and hard. “Lady Deorwynn says it is to show people that I am still alive.”
“She is a fool. If your father were to harm you, the kingdom would revolt. Many see you as his only legitimate heir.”
“My mother will not start a rebellion,” Maia said. “Neither will I. Nothing but destruction and war can follow when a kingdom fights itself. Our history is full of it. War always draws out the Myriad Ones. Is that not what the tomes say?”
“Yes. A tragic tale, to be sure. I have read the tomes. Your father sent me here to discuss the divorce with the Aldermaston of Billerbeck. To seek his input and his wisdom. To learn if there is anything in the tomes, in any tome, to justify a man putting away his wife, except for adultery.”
Maia turned and looked at him in surprise.
“What did you find?” she asked, her eyes gleaming.
“There was one reference,” the chancellor said, staring out the window. “But it does not help your father’s case. I knew it would not, but alas, we must obey our king’s wishes.”
