by Jeff Wheeler
He walked back to where she stood. “Let me show you again. Hold the haft here,” he said, gesturing with one of the weapons. “Feel the weight of it. I sharpen these blades every other day so they will stick when they hit. No use carrying a dull axe. They can even deflect a sword, like so.” He demonstrated a parry with one of the axes and then swept the other toward her neck, slowing the blow as it came near her. “Always carry three or four. It does not take long to yank one loose from a dead man and throw it again.”
“You are dangerous,” Maia said. Though his choice of words made her wince, his abilities were impressive.
“There is a right way to throw an axe. Some people think it is like throwing a dagger. Very different. The kishion can show you that skill. My expertise is with the bow and the axe. I would rather drop a man at thirty paces. He cannot cut you with his sword if he is already dead, you see.”
“Truly,” Maia agreed.
“Hold it so, as I showed you.” He stood behind her, rotating her so that she took a solid stance facing the maypole stump. In Maia’s mind, she imagined children dancing around the maypole, the ribbons slowly twisting and sheathing the dark wood with an interplay of color. There was dancing and fun, laughter and clapping. She could almost hear the music from her first maypole dance at fourteen, the sound of the lutes and pipes. Round and round they had danced—the noble Family dressed in bright colors fringed with fur, the servants and lower classes dressed in plainer garb, but sharing equally in the enjoyment of the occasion.
All except her. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself . . . her fourteen-year-old self . . . standing to the side, hungry to participate. Begging the Medium with her thoughts for one young man of the bunch, even a lowly butcher boy, to muster the courage to ask her to dance. The music swelled in her mind, the clapping growing louder. Laughter and cheers filled the night sky, bright with torch fire and the honeyed smell of treats.
Lady Deorwynn had been right, though. No one had dared anger the king by asking Maia to dance. Not one offer had been made.
Maia hefted the axe and hurled it at the maypole. It stuck on the first attempt.
“Humph,” Jon Tayt said gruffly. “A few more. You certainly do not lack the strength.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Earl of Dieyre
They sheltered at midday in a grove of aspen near a clear brook to rest and water their mounts and eat from the provisions in the saddlebags. The kishion had left them so he could scout the area for safety. As Maia pulled out a wrapped loaf of bread, a bit of color caught her eye in the bottom of the saddlebag. There, nestled amidst a cluster of three pears, she discovered a flower. She reached inside the bag and withdrew a small white lily. It was tiny but beautiful, and it had been left—quite deliberately—in her saddlebag.
A slight flush rose in her cheeks as she cupped it in her hand and stared at the six elegant petals. Feint Collier had left her this flower. It was a trifle, really—just a small gesture, and yet it touched her deeply. She sighed and then hid the flower again. She stood for a moment, trying to understand the mixed feelings that were stirring in her heart. She did not trust them. She did not trust him. Still, it was a thoughtful gesture and a small spot of brightness in a path drenched in shadows.
“Do you hear that?” Jon Tayt said, rising suddenly from the crouched position he had affected to drink from the brook. He wiped his mouth and beard and walked to the edge of the grove. After a few moments, Maia heard it as well. She had no doubt the kishion would have already heard the sounds. A rider.
Judging by the sound, the horse was at a full gallop, and sure enough, they could soon see a lathered mount plunging down the road. It came from the direction they were headed, riding hard and fast for Roc-Adamour. Maia stayed hidden in the fringe of trees, but she saw the colors of the rider’s tunic and his black felt hat. It was a royal horseman. Not Collier—the rider was too short, and she had not seen him wearing anyone’s livery the previous night.
The rider passed their position and was gone in moments, leaving a trail of settling dust.
“Not a royal scout,” Jon Tayt said, scratching his throat below his pointed beard. “A messenger. He could break his neck and the horse’s legs riding that fast. A pity for the horse. What an idiot.”
“He wore the king’s colors,” Maia pointed out.
“I noticed that. Collier said the army was north. We’re heading east. Maybe the rider is trying to catch up with Collier. Whatever the reason, we should get these steeds to Briec and be gone. From there, it is two days’ journey to the pass we need to take to cross into Mon.”
“The sooner we are out of Dahomey, the better,” Maia said determinedly.
“Was it the poisonous serpents, the flesh-eating ticks, or the endless gnats that most charmed you about this fair kingdom?” Jon Tayt said with a crooked smile. “Ach, I do miss Pry-Ree at times.”
She felt a whisper in her mind, a dark warning. You will all die because of this place. This is the land where death was born.
“Your face clouded over just now,” Jon Tayt said, his expression changing to one of concern. “What is it?”
She could not tell him about the whispers from the Medium. It had been a few days since she had last heard one. They seemed to come to her more frequently when danger was near. They warned her of it in advance, which was one of the reasons she had come to trust them. She had learned from studying the chancellor’s tome that the whisperings were often subtle and disguised as her own thoughts. Experience had taught her it was true.
“Just a memory,” she lied, patting his meaty shoulder fondly. “I was almost the queen of this realm, you know.”
He looked at her, surprised. “How so?”
“I was very young when the Mark was born, and my father negotiated a marriage alliance between our kingdoms. I started learning Dahomeyjan when I was two. I have always loved learning different languages. The marriage alliance was rejected long before I was banished. But I have never forgotten that my first husband was going to be the Mark.”
“You know the history of the Mark’s Family, do you not?” Jon Tayt said.
Maia smiled and walked back to Preslee, stroking her soft neck and wishing, against all hope, that somehow she could keep her. It was a foolish thought. The whim of the spoiled princess she had once been.
“It is a famous story, Jon Tayt. Yes, I know it.”
The kishion walked up. “I do not. Tell me.”
Maia was not surprised. The kishion were trained in fighting and murder, not history. She wiped the hair from her eyes and faced him, gripping the saddle pommel and preparing to mount.
“When the mastons left these shores before the Scourge, one of my ancestors, Lia Demont, made a prophecy of sorts about the Earl of Dieyre. She cursed him to survive the Scourge. She said that he would be the last man left in this land, and that he would live to see her words fulfilled. He was a noble from Comoros who fought in the civil wars that followed the Scourge, but he was also invested with a rank in Dahomey. He eventually married, though he always searched for Lia’s sister-in-law, Marciana Price, the one woman he truly loved. She had fled the shores with the mastons. Dieyre ultimately married a noblewoman from Dahomey, the Queen Dowager’s younger sister, thus inheriting even more lands in Dahomey. Because of his prowess on the battlefield, he continued to gain rank in both realms and eventually overthrew the King of Dahomey. Then he overthrew Comoros. One by one, the kingdoms fell, and Dieyre proclaimed himself emperor of all seven kingdoms.”
They both stared at her, listening to her words. As she spoke, she could almost hear the clash of blades. There were screams far distant, as if the very ground had gorged itself on too much blood. Maia shuddered, feeling sick.
“Say on,” Jon Tayt asked, his voice thick.
“The Scourge was raging by then, destroying the people with a terrible plague. Yet still Dieyre fought.
He was driven from his throne three times, and three times he returned with an army to reclaim it. It is believed that the final battle happened in Dahomey; it is said there was a mass slaughter that only he survived. He was nearly disfigured with scars and fainted from the loss of blood. Yet he survived, the last man, just as Lia had predicted he would. He wandered the kingdoms, searching in vain for another living soul. There were none. All had either perished by the sword or by the Scourge.”
A feeling of blackness swelled in her heart. It was a terrible story. One that had always afflicted her. What would it have been like, she had wondered, to be the last man on earth? To see the fulfillment of a maston prophecy that had proved unavoidable? She cringed at the memory, feeling sympathy for the lonely creature he must have been.
Maia swung up into the saddle, feeling the black history taint her mood. She stared down at the kishion and Jon Tayt. Both looked back at her with grave expressions, clearly wondering if there was more. There was.
“You see, Emperor Dieyre—as he called himself—was the last man . . . until the Naestors came. They first discovered the ruins of Comoros and Pry-Ree. They sent ship after ship, investigating the ruined kingdoms. These were longboats, not the large sailing ships that the mastons left on. Eventually, they found Dieyre, ruling in the ruins of a desolate castle in Hautland. He was old by then. He lived among them for only nine months before he died. It was he who taught them to read the tomes they plundered. Some were maston tomes that had been secreted away. Some were tomes from the Dochte Mandar. In a way, the Naestors blended the two, learning how to control the Medium in proper ways through use of the kystrels. The Dochte Mandar among us now are not the same as the ones who lived during the days of the Scourging, though they kept the name.”
“By Cheshu,” Jon Tayt said in a small voice. “That is quite a tale, is it not? How much of it is true, I wonder?”
“Even the mastons believe it is true, Jon Tayt. When they returned, they found the Naestors inhabiting their lands. Many could speak the ancient languages, or at least well enough to communicate.” Maia stroked Preslee’s mane. “But Dieyre had left a prophecy of his own before he died. He told the Naestors that a woman with a child of his seed had gone with the mastons. He named that child’s posterity as his heir, the heirs of his empire.”
“By the Blood,” the kishion swore softly. “The greedy Mark is his kin?”
Maia nodded. “Do you understand why I must flee Dahomey as quickly as I can? If the Mark captures me, he will claim my birthright as the king’s daughter to win another kingdom for himself. The Mark wishes to rule all the kingdoms, as Dieyre once did. I have just told you what happened when one man tried to do that.”
“Everyone perished,” Jon Tayt said flatly.
They reached the town of Briec well before sunset, having ridden hard for the remainder of the day. The town was fenced in by a low, crumbled wall that would not have repulsed an army of any size. Jon Tayt explained how the towns farther north were all heavily fortified and had seen battles throughout the years as the various kingdoms plundered one another.
The town was not large enough to have its own abbey or castle, but the main inn served as the largest and most distinctive structure in town. There were at least six gabled roofs in the same style she had seen in Roc-Adamour, except the main building looked like six of the long, narrow Roc-Adamour buildings smashed together into one. Each gabled roof had a different style and size, and several jutted out at odd angles. A large central chimney rose above all the roofs and vented a cloud of smoke. The stables were adjoined to the inn, and they found a stable boy ready to take their mounts from them.
The interior of the inn had an enormous common room with trestle tables and a single fire. It was full of travelers with packs, staves, and heavy boots, who had stopped to share drinks and rest from their various journeys. The room was warm and lively, and a set of musicians were tuning their instruments near a small stage at the far side of the room. Maia stared longingly at the troupe, eager to hear them play. Several of the inn patrons waved at her and her fellow travelers, acknowledging them cheerily. Some glanced more than once at Maia, and she regretted not raising her cowl before entering.
“How long should we stay?” she asked Jon Tayt.
“I will walk about the village a bit to gather news,” he replied, nodding at a fellow who seemed to recognize him. “With the Mark’s army so near, it may not be wise to stay the night. Get some food and drink for supper. I will be back soon. Try not to draw attention to yourself.”
Maia nodded and headed toward an uninhabited table in the shadows, trailed by the kishion. A server brought over a tray of meat and bread and oil with herbs to start, collected a few coins from them, and then returned later with a cruse of oil and a pot of bubbling cheese and another filled with steaming broth. Maia was now familiar with the custom and began to skewer pieces of meat and set them in the pots to cook. The kishion was not one for conversation, so they silently dunked the bread into the cheese and ate.
The musicians began to strike up some music, an airy tune. Some of the younger patrons began clearing away the trestle tables to form a space to dance. It seemed like this was the place that many of the young in town came to enjoy themselves. They began some of the popular dances that Maia had learned as a child, and soon the floor was thrumming with reverberations from their shoes and boots, and the music filling the hall was joined by ardent clapping. The feeling was lively and fresh, and it reminded her of some of the court parties her father was famous for. He was a lively dancer himself, and Maia had always enjoyed it.
The kishion snorted, brooding over a cup of wine.
Hoping to glean some information, Maia asked one of the serving girls if she could see the innkeeper, whom Collier had identified as Clem Pryke. The girl nodded and left to fetch her master. Moments later a man came up to the table, furiously wiping a tankard with a rag. “Welcome to the Gables,” he said. “We do not have any rooms free, but you are welcome to enjoy a meal and dance with us, lass.”
“You have no rooms available?” Maia asked curiously, surprised they were already so full.
“The king’s army is nearby, and I have been asked to hold rooms in case. I am sorry, my lady.”
“And what if the king’s men do not come?” asked a familiar voice.
Maia had not seen him approach, but she instantly recognized Feint Collier’s voice, and it startled her. He put his arm around the innkeeper’s shoulder, emphasizing the difference in their heights.
“You know as well as I do, Master Collier, that I am paid for the rooms whether they are used or no. Had a sack of coins left with me earlier this day, in fact. Was not expecting you for several days. You are early.”
“A change in my plans,” he replied with a broad smile that seemed to be directed at Maia. “If the rooms are to sit empty unless the king’s men arrive, may not she be loaned one? Let her have a room, Clem. She can have mine. I would just as soon sleep in the stables. You know that.”
Maia felt a flush of pleasure, which she stifled immediately, and shook her head. “We will not be staying. I was only asking out of curiosity. The Gables is a lovely inn, Master Pryke.”
Feint Collier clapped the innkeeper on the back. “When my lady commands, I must obey. You have a good stable lad, Clem. He knows how to treat a horse. Here is an extra crown for him. Who are the musicians? Where do they hail from?”
“From Pinnowe,” the innkeeper said. “Good music always draws in a crowd. Best to you all.” He gave them a warm smile and a nod, then left.
As soon as the innkeeper faded into the crowd, Feint Collier’s expression changed, turning deadly serious. “The village in the mountains was massacred,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
Maia felt a jolt of queasiness. “It was Corriveaux,” she whispered. “He was traveling with soldiers who wore the king’s uniform.”
R
aw fury flooded his gaze. “When the king hears of this . . .” he said. “I swear they have gone too far. Many souls escaped in the dark and fled to Roc-Adamour. They said it was the Dochte Mandar who did it. Like in olden times. They came from across the mountains, from the cursed lands. They were chasing someone.” He looked at her pointedly.
“This you already know,” Maia said. Her stomach felt like a hive of ants. “Why are you here?”
“Maybe I wanted to see you again,” he answered quietly, “before you disappear forever.”
Maia swallowed, her insides buzzing. “I must disappear,” she whispered. “No one who is near me will be safe. We must go.” The kishion scooted his chair back and rose, his eyes full of malice as he gazed at the intruder at the table.
Collier shook his head. “I have thrown them off your trail,” he said. “They are searching Roc-Adamour still, looking from house to house and stopping every person attempting to leave. They believe you are still there.” He gave her a coaxing smile. “I bought you time, my lady. No need to flee.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “But we are not safe here either.”
“Sit,” Collier said, swinging his head to the kishion. “Finish your meal at the least. You can have my room. It is as I said, I will sleep in the stables or here in the common room on the floor.”
Maia shook her head. “You have already done too much,” she said. “We returned the horses as promised, but you cannot help us without endangering yourself. Even now, you are taking a great risk.”
“I know,” he answered with a smile. “I cannot help it, I was born to wager the odds. I want to help you.”
Maia wished Jon Tayt would return quickly. She wanted to leave. She wanted to bed down in the forest, away from the music and the cheese and the warmth—away from this handsome man who had left a flower in her saddlebag. Collier made her wistful for something she knew that she could never have. At least not while her father governed her life.
