The Banished of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  “You must not,” she said, shaking her head.

  He scowled, frustrated by her refusal. “Very well. Then give me one boon at least.”

  She sighed. “I will not tell you my name,” she answered stubbornly.

  He shook his head, his expression serious, his tone intimate. “Not that, lass. Just give me one thing.”

  She felt conflicted and anguished. Where was Jon Tayt? A prickle of uneasiness sent her body into a panic. “And what is that?”

  “A dance,” he said, extending his hand to her. “If you must go tonight, then give me this memory to take with me. Please, my lady. Dance with me.”

  In my day, the Dochte Mandar had a saying, which I believe has survived centuries in their tomes: Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of your opponent’s fate. The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.

  —Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Surrounded

  It was not the maypole dance, for there was not a maypole in the common room. It was a ring dance, like the ones they did at court, and the mix of sounds from the lute, flutes, coronets, and box bells sent a giddiness through the air that only added to Maia’s nerves. His hand was warm and calloused and full of strength.

  Maia was much shorter than Feint Collier, and she had to look up to see his face. His smile told her that he was pleased with himself for having finally claimed her. She steeled herself against that smile, wanting the tune to be over with so she could escape into the night. There was a dreadful apprehension in her stomach, but it was mingled with the flutterings of dancing for the first time since she had come of age.

  “You have me to yourself at last,” Maia said to Collier as they twirled around the slow-moving circle. “What do you have to say?”

  “I was hoping to enjoy the moment a bit longer before ruining it with words.”

  “Are you such a poor speaker then?”

  He shook his head. “I love conversation. It is only that with you, certain topics are clearly forbidden. Such as your name.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “So is your origin. Your Dahomeyjan is flawless, but you are not from this land. You certainly have a gift with languages.”

  She cocked her head at him. “A curious word to use, Master Collier.”

  “I used it deliberately.”

  “You said you are not a maston,” she said to him, dropping her voice lower. “Yet you use such words and even quote from the tomes.”

  “I am not a maston. Are you?”

  Maia felt the probing nature of the question. She shook her head.

  “I thought not,” he said with a subtle nod. “My father was, yet he sired a wretched and would not claim me. I do not think well of mastons.”

  They separated and went down the line, exchanging partners three times before meeting up again. The time they spent apart passed in a blur. His hand grazed hers. So warm. His deep blue eyes were inquisitive.

  “I have another question for you, my lady,” he said, gazing down at her with a half smile.

  “I will answer it if I can.”

  They twisted and went the other way as the circle reversed its order. Her feet felt light and easy—the dance was slow enough that it was not difficult to keep up with the changes.

  “You are traveling with a kishion. Is he a threat to you, or a protector?”

  A shiver of cold shot through Maia’s stomach. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Come, my lady. He has a dark look. I sense you are in danger with him. Even now, he is watching us too keenly. Will he try to kill you if you leave with me?”

  Maia looked at him in surprise. “I am not leaving with you.”

  “That came out wrong. Let me try again. It is difficult talking with a murderer staring at you so intently.”

  “Staring at me?”

  “No, at me! I know you do not trust me, but you trusted me enough for this dance. Thank you. What I want to know is if you can dismiss him. Did you hire him for protection or did another?”

  Maia swallowed, needing to choose her words carefully. “I am with him by choice, Master Collier. If you tried to take me from here by force, he would hurt you . . . not me.”

  A proud little smile twitched on his mouth. “He could try. How good can such a man be to have earned so many scars?”

  Maia looked at him in concern. “Do not provoke him, I beg you. He has seen twice as many winters as you or I.”

  “I do not intend to, my lady. I fear more for your safety than my own.”

  “Very generous. But we must depart this evening. When Jon Tayt returns, we will go. Thank you for the horses.”

  “It is my pleasure to help you,” he said, dipping his head graciously. “Where are you bound?”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “Another forbidden question. Let me try again. Do you play any instruments? You keep staring longingly at the minstrels.”

  “I love music.”

  “Ah, I would love to hear you play!” He nearly crowed with delight.

  “Another time perhaps,” Maia said, shaking her head.

  “Then you concede there is a chance we may meet again?” he quipped. “That restores my faith.”

  “That is not what I meant,” she said, trying not to quash his feelings.

  “You injure me again, my lady,” he said with a sigh. “You will not say where you are from. You will not tell me where you are bound. How will I find you to hear you play?”

  She bit her lip, enjoying his teasing banter—probably too much. She needed to keep her thoughts clear. He was trying to trick her into revealing too much.

  “If the Medium wills it, it will happen,” she said softly.

  He frowned at that.

  The song came to an end, and she dropped in a curtsy as he delivered a stiff bow. There was no sign of Jon Tayt and she cursed the hunter’s name under her breath.

  “One more dance,” Feint Collier said. “Your guide has not returned. Favor me with one more dance.”

  She looked at him, at the strange mixture of emotions on his face. He seemed almost alarmed, his blue eyes brooding with unsaid words. “Please. Just one more.”

  A strong surge of warring emotions threatened to topple her control. She had enjoyed dancing and felt slightly light-headed at the thrill of it. Here was a handsome man giving her attention in such an obvious and flattering way. But she was conflicted by the strong feelings of unease brought on by the belief—nay, the knowledge—that his intentions were not as honorable as he proclaimed. He had purposely separated her from her companions more than once. Yet she was completely lost in this situation, having never been the pointed focus of a man’s attentions.

  She looked around the room, feeling it spin slightly around her. Where was Jon Tayt? They needed to leave, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Just one more,” she said, feeling a sensation of guilt even as she said it. The prickle of apprehension she felt about accepting his offer was reason enough to rebuff him, yet there was a swelling sense of rebellion inside her as well. She had been denied even the simplest of pleasures since coming of age. Her father had allowed her to attend his court for a time, but while she had been outwardly included in the royal social circle, no one had ever dared ask her to dance. Most of the time, men were afraid to even speak with her.

  “The newest dance at court is called the Volta,” he said. “Do you know it?”

  Maia looked at him and shook her head no. “I do not know the latest court dances.”

  “Then I will teach you,” he said with a bow. He turned to the musicians and spoke loudly. “Play a galliard, but at twice the usual tempo.” He began clapping his hands sharply. “T
hat will work.” The music twitched in the air, bringing with it a lively feel. The other dancers cleared away, which brought Maia and Collier to the attention of everyone in the room. The scrutiny made her wince inwardly, but it was too late to excuse herself without attracting even more notice.

  Collier did not give her a chance to escape the situation.

  “Side by side,” he said, taking her hands and bringing her next to him. “Gather around.” This last was addressed to the others. “Watch first, and then copy us. The Volta.” He began a series of intricate steps, similar to a Pry-rian expression she had seen before but never learned. It took her several tries, but then she discovered the complexity and unraveled it.

  “Well done,” he praised, bringing her forward and then backward, repeating the movements. “Now a broader circle.” He took her left hand in his and placed his right on the small of her back, guiding her around in a larger circle. Some of the other young dancers joined them, their faces beaming with the pleasure of learning a new court dance. Some were still struggling to do the footwork from the earlier part, but others were catching on.

  “You are a wonderful dancer, Master Collier,” she said.

  “Such things are necessary at court, but it helps to have an accomplished partner,” he replied, deflecting the praise. “This is not your first galliard, I think. Now for the twirl. Legs straight and push off my shoulders.” Suddenly his hands seized her by the waist and he lifted her high in front of him. She pressed her hands against his shoulders and pushed as he twirled her around before setting her back down lightly. “Two more . . . ready and lift!”

  She flew through the air again, her stomach gliding in her throat as he twirled her about a second time. It was exhilarating. And she heard several of the girls gasping with delight as their partners lifted them too.

  “Now for the third one,” Collier said, beaming at her as he raised her into the air again, causing her hair to fan out around her. She was too breathless to speak when he set her down.

  “Last part,” he said slyly, bringing up his elbow. He gestured for her to do the same and struck hers opposite with his. “Then back around again, the other way.” She mirrored his movements, their forearms blocking each other as they turned and danced. Then his arm was around her waist and he led her to finish the circle.

  She was flushed and giddy with pleasure by the end of it.

  “Again!” he shouted, clapping fiercely, sending a feeling of pure pleasure shooting through her.

  “My lady,” came a warning voice at her ear. It was Jon Tayt. She turned and saw the look in his eyes, a smoldering brew of anger and panic. Argus growled next to him, pale fur glistening in the torchlight. “The king’s men rode into town just now.”

  Her heart lurched. “We must go,” she said.

  “I thought the same,” he said through clenched teeth. “Then I found you dancing. We must make haste!”

  She did a half curtsy to Feint Collier. “Thank you, sir.”

  He stared at her intently, as if he could read through her if only he tried hard enough. “What concerns you? The soldiers? They will not care who is dancing.”

  “I must go,” she insisted. The kishion had joined them now, his face a mask of anger and menace.

  “The king’s camp is leagues away, if not more,” Collier replied, brushing it off. “There is no need to worry.”

  “We left the king’s horses in the stables as you advised,” Jon Tayt replied. “Someone will recognize the brand. We must go. Now!”

  “Take the south road then,” Collier said. “The riders come from the north. You remember the password in either case. Go.” He stared hard at Maia and then bowed. “Thank you, my lady. I will treasure the memory.”

  “Thank you, Master Collier,” she replied. The kishion handed her a pack and she slung it over her shoulder. They walked briskly to the rear doors of the inn, and the hunter opened them. She glanced back into the common room and saw Feint Collier standing there, arms folded, watching her leave. He had a hard look on his face. He nodded to her once.

  She nodded in farewell and stepped into the night.

  When the door shut behind her, Jon Tayt’s words were sharp and angry. “My lady Maia, you have been amazingly foolish. Ach,” he half growled, “another moment and we would have been trapped in there. At least twenty men rode into town wearing the king’s livery, swords, and hauberks. Soldiers, my lady. The army is nearer than Collier reckons.”

  She swallowed her words and followed them into the night, but she soon noticed they were going east, not south.

  “He said the south road—”

  “Aye, and because he said it, I will not take it. I warned you from the first not to trust him.”

  “He has helped us so far, Jon Tayt.” She felt herself bristling with defensiveness.

  “He is the king’s man,” replied the hunter. “The Mark does not suffer traitors, and would not even make an exception for his half brother. I was picking up supplies and keeping an ear open for news when I learned he was here, which alarmed me. He clearly followed us. He is marking our trail to make it easier for the king’s hunters to capture us. Take the south road. By Cheshu!”

  She did not tell him about the flower in her saddlebag. She suspected Feint Collier was offering his assistance for another reason altogether, and it flattered her. But Jon Tayt was wise to be so distrusting. She respected him even more for it.

  “I was only waiting for you to return,” she answered, trying to keep the peevishness from her voice. “I knew we needed to leave.”

  He snorted and spat. “I had taken you for a sensible woman. A rare thing to find, I can tell you that. But I presume you lost your head when the music started, as most women do.” He grumbled to himself. “By Cheshu, dancing with the king’s collier.”

  Still, Maia did not regret it. Could not regret it, even if he were right about the nature of Collier’s attentions. The panic she had felt began to subside as the stars twinkled into view in the dark sky above them. In truth, she wished she could have stayed back at the inn, enjoying the cheese and broth. She would have danced all night had she been allowed. All of the years she had practiced and learned the steps were not wasted. She would remember this night, this taste of a life that had been taken from her.

  Take the north road.

  The whisper in her mind startled her. A sliver of silver moon emerged from the tips of the pine trees at the edge of the town. As she stared at it, her heart burned with emotion from the dance at the inn. She wanted to see Collier again, but that would be foolish. Suddenly, a throb of warning touched her mind and the kystrel started to burn. She stopped walking and clutched her chest, feeling the heat emanating from the amulet.

  “What is it?” the kishion asked, noticing her hesitation immediately.

  She stared at him, not sure what to say.

  “Lady Maia?” Jon Tayt asked with concern.

  She grimaced, feeling again the pulse of warmth and warning in her heart. “We must take the north road,” she announced.

  Jon Tayt stared at her in stupefaction.

  “That puts us on the path to the king’s army,” the kishion said.

  “I know,” she said, shaking her head. “I . . . I cannot explain it. I feel that we need to go that way. Urgently.”

  Jon Tayt scratched his neck and winced. “That does not sound right, my lady.”

  “I know it does not. It goes against common sense. We were walking and I—” She sighed. “The north road.”

  Jon Tayt looked at the kishion and then back at her. “It is the last place they would look or suspect we would go.”

  The kishion frowned. “You have not directed us like this since the Leerings. It is the Medium?”

  Maia nodded.

  Jon Tayt threw up his hands. “It goes against all wisdom and common sense. Why not? What do you say, A
rgus?”

  The boarhound barked once.

  Maia knelt in front of him and stroked his fur.

  “We will be surrounded by the king’s army in moments,” Jon Tayt said. “I want to state that now in case you decide after we are captured that it was a bad idea.”

  She straightened and looked him in the eye. “Trusting these feelings, as rarely as they come, has kept us alive so far. I do not know what lies ahead. But I trust it.”

  They had not traveled far down the north road before they were surrounded by riders.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Treason

  The sunlight came slanting through the windows of the chancellor’s tower and glimmered off the polished aurichalcum of the tome on Maia’s lap. She loved tomes—loved the meticulous engravings so gently and delicately inscribed. Not only was a tome a thing of polished beauty, but it revealed the beauty of the writer’s mind. Each tome was filled with the wisdom of the ages, scrawled by hand and etched into the metal pages to be preserved for centuries. You could learn about a man from his thoughts, from what he found important. Some learners chose to fill their tomes with extensive translations of one man’s thoughts . . . an Aldermaston’s, perhaps, or one of the founders of the Dochte Mandar. The tome in her hand was a mixture of both, for Chancellor Walraven always strived to stretch the boundaries of what he knew.

  She looked up from the sheaf of aurichalcum, pressing her warm hand against its cool metal. She was sick with worry, her insides clenching and twisting with the dread of anticipated news. Her entire future hinged on the outcome of the trial, as did that of her father’s kingdom.

  To help ease the agonizing wait, she had sought refuge in the chancellor’s tower and tried to calm her nerves by reading his tranquil words.

  The chancellor had explained the situation to her in great detail before leaving for Muirwood Abbey. When Maia had learned he was bound for that abbey, she had begged him to bring word to her mother. Though he was, as always, sympathetic to her cause, he had refused, as he could not accommodate her without compromising his relationship with her father. It had been obvious from his distraught and haggard visage that the immensity of the problem weighed on him like stones. She had asked him in a whisper to explain the situation fully, to trust her to be discreet and never betray him.