by Jeff Wheeler
“So when our ancestors returned from the distant shores to reclaim the lands, they learned that Dieyre had been the last man alive in the kingdoms. Most of my Family were strong in the Medium. My father was particularly devout as a maston. But I lost my faith, you might say, in Paeiz.”
Maia looked at him in curiosity. She smelled the cup first, tasted it, and made sure it was just water.
“As you know, all the various kingdoms continue to fight and wage war on each other. There was a land dispute between Dahomey and Paeiz. With so much of my kingdom still cursed, arable land is precious. What began as a border skirmish turned into a full-out war. My father summoned the army and went north and clashed with the Paeizian forces. It was a humiliating defeat, Maia. You know of it?”
“Yes, I learned of it when I was settling land disputes with Pry-Ree. War is wasteful.”
“We may agree to disagree on that point. My father was captured and humiliated by the Paeizians. In order to secure his release, he had to give them his two sons as hostages. My brother, whom you met earlier this evening pretending to be me, and I were sent to live at an abbey in Paeiz and receive our maston training there. To be honest, I spent more time finding ways to slip away from the abbey than I did learning to read and engrave. I was always discovered and fetched back, mind you, but I learned a few things that cannot be taught in tomes.” He removed the steaming meat skewers from the pot and set them down on a tray shared between them. She studied his hands, the small nicks and scars showed he was used to work and had been in many fights. It made her wonder how his hands had been so abused, especially since she now knew he had never been a wretched.
“Thank you,” she said, taking one of the skewers and eating the meat from it.
He waved her off as if it did not matter at all. “I met the king’s collier in Paeiz, who was often sent to the abbey to report on my brother and me.”
“What abbey?” she pressed.
“Antimo,” he answered, smiling. “Full of vineyards and orchards. It is a beautiful place. The king’s collier would come and go as he pleased. He was excellent at Paeizian fencing and started to train me when I was but ten.”
“You have studied for many years then,” Maia said, impressed.
“Yes, I was more disposed to weapons than tomes. And wine. I have very discriminating tastes, you will learn. I know that cider is a popular drink in Comoros. I like it, but apples are not the best fruit.” He took a bite from a meaty skewer and paused to savor it. “So my brother and I spent our formative years away from my father’s court. I was envious of my mentor’s freedom and wished that I could escape the drudgery of the abbey as he did, riding across the kingdom delivering messages and reports to and from his king. Before I even became king, I created the idea of Feint Collier. When I finally returned home, I would steal away from my lessons at the castle and ride long and hard and visit every corner of my father’s realm. That is how I met men like Jon Tayt and many others, who know me by my disguise rather than my true rank.” He tipped his wine goblet toward her. “So you see, that is another reason I pitied you, Maia. My imprisonment was the result of defeat. My father had no choice but to use his sons as hostages. He did all he could to raise the ransom to secure our release, and it took many years. Your father, on the other hand, imprisoned you himself. Did you not ever think of escaping?”
Maia sighed. The comfortable warmth of the fur rug and the savory food was distracting her from her objective. She was still angry at him for his blatant deception, but she could now see that trickery was part of his personality, part of his heritage even. She wanted to learn more about him, for it was impossible to tell how much of his reputation as the Mark was true, and how much had been his own invention. And she could not deny the little wriggling fish of jealousy in the pit of her stomach. He dared to do things she would never dream of doing. Loyalty was her duty. Not just to her father, but to her people.
“We are very different,” she said after taking a quick sip from her drink. “You always sought to escape Antimo Abbey. You wanted to be free. What I desired above all else was to be sent to an abbey. I want to learn from the tomes.”
“Done,” he said, winking at her. “In my realm, it will not be forbidden.”
“You would defy the Dochte Mandar?” she asked challengingly.
“I defy everyone, including you.” He sat up and brushed his hands together. “I hunger to humble Paeiz. Dahomey is too weak to do it, but with Comoros, I will prevail. I think Pry-Ree will be wise enough to submit to us without an invasion. They are the smallest kingdom, and we do owe them something for saving us all. One by one, chit by chit, mark by mark, crown by crown. I am deeply ambitious, Maia.”
“I can see that,” she agreed. “What you ask me to do is called treason, though, in my kingdom. My father declared me illegitimate.”
“And I will make him repent his words and actions,” Collier answered. “Just as my father was humiliated by the King of Paeiz, I will humble your father. I am gathering my strength to invade Comoros, Maia. One of the terms of surrender I was willing to accept was you. You are his heir, whether he admits it or not.”
She shook her head. “How can I betray my own people?”
“How can you stand by a father who tossed aside his lawful marriage and banished his wife and his daughter?” He leaned forward eagerly. “What else do you wish to know of your husband to be?”
She stared into his eyes. “How can I trust anything you have told me?” she asked, sighing. “Nearly every word you have spoken to me has been a lie.”
“Lies are the spices that garnish a dish. They do not change a fowl into a fish. They only season them.”
She shook her head, not convinced. “A pretty saying, my lord, but it does little to ease my apprehension.”
“What do you fear?” he pressed.
“You said if I married you, you would let me go. Why would you do that? You said you would not consummate the marriage because you believe I am a hetaera. What if I am not? Besides, your plan gives me plenty to fear—such an act would be considered treason in any kingdom.”
He snorted. “You are trying to save your kingdom. Or at least, that is what you pretend. Your father sent you to my kingdom to find a cure for the Myriad Ones. The only cure is to allow the Dochte Mandar back into the realm. He is too stubborn to realize that. But truly, Maia, does this not all hinge on whether or not you are lying to me? I want to believe your stories, but they do not align with common sense. You have admitted going to the lost abbey. Prove you are not a hetaera. Or I will force you to reveal yourself by wearing your kystrel. As I have said, I would prefer for you to be willing. But you will wed me before the sun rises. Dieyre waited too long for his Marciana. I will not make the same mistake.”
Maia tried to settle her breathing. Involuntarily, she started to tremble.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
She was not. She was terrified. She hoped enough time had passed to give the kishion an opportunity to escape and for Jon Tayt to put some distance between himself and the camp. “So you seek to marry me regardless? Even if I am not a hetaera?”
“Truly, I do,” he said. “The political advantage exists regardless. Surely you realize that.”
“Yes,” she said. Why could she not stop trembling? She was suddenly so very tired. Weariness and exhaustion plundered her strength. She had been in flight for so long; her muscles ached with fatigue. The supper in her stomach was pleasant.
“Are you all right?” he asked, looking concerned.
“I am weary, that is all,” she said.
“I know I have said it before, but you are not what I expected,” he said, giving her a probing look. “Not at all. I had truly expected you would be more . . . willing. It almost seems as if you have a conscience.”
She stared at him and smiled sadly. “I do.”
He took another gulp
from his cup. “Very well. Time to lay aside the games. Prove your words through actions. I spared your servants, though little they deserved it.”
Maia nodded. “Let me prove my innocence.” A horrible, guilty feeling swelled inside her breast, though she little understood it. The Medium will guide you, she assured herself. It had led her to the north road. It had led her to this man’s tent. She had to trust it. She had to trust the path she was on.
Maia began to unfasten the lacings on her bodice, loosening them enough to expose her shoulders. It mortified her, for the first few strings exposed the curving tattoos that had climbed up her chest—a mark she normally went to great lengths to hide. Her fingers shook and she struggled to compose herself, for she was blushing furiously, embarrassed for his guarded eyes to stare at her so fixedly.
“The kystrel leaves a taint on the skin, as I said,” she explained as she worked loose the weave. “Even the Dochte Mandar have it. It is a consequence of using the magic.”
“I know,” he said, his eyes still studying her.
Maia felt her breath quickening. He was staring at her hungrily now. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she knew she should hurry and finish the deed so she could cover herself again. Clumsily, she undid a few more lacings, just enough—and then pulled the fabric away from her shoulder.
His eyes widened.
The feeling in the pavilion changed palpably. It was a dark feeling. She felt something stir inside her blood, radiating like a furnace of power. Maia felt a whisper through the shadows.
She jerked the fabric back up, covering her bare shoulder. Inexpressible horror jolted through her. She had seen it as clearly as he had.
The brand on her shoulder.
The two serpents.
Why do children fear the night? Just as dark is the absence of light, and despair is the absence of hope, so these symbols exist between day and night. I have seen in my life that the manifestations of the Medium are strongest when the souls of mankind are awake, their thoughts aroused and vigilant. When darkness comes, so come the Unborn. A friend from my early days at Muirwood liked to quote The Hodoeporicon, “Retire to thy bed early, that ye may not be weary; arise early, that your bodies and minds may be invigorated.”
—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Privy Council
As the voices began to rise, sizzling with heat, Maia looked up from the parchment map, her ears instinctively drawn to her father’s words. She loved being in her father’s solar, for here she had access to maps, globes, quills, ink, and even little books, which she was forbidden to peruse outside his presence. That Lady Deorwynn was arguing with the king in front of several members of his Privy Council, seated at a nearby table, surprised her. She was normally more circumspect. And the uncomfortable looks on their faces showed they wished they were anywhere else at the moment. The chancellor’s mouth was actually gaping open with shock.
“I do not want her at court any longer,” Lady Deorwynn said scathingly. “My daughters should not have to befriend and comfort someone who has been banished. You may as well isolate us all in Pent Tower!”
“If my lady would like me to accommodate that request,” her father said, his voice hot enough to sear, “it can be arranged!”
“Send Marciana away!”
“And where would you have me send my daughter?”
Maia’s stomach roiled with disquiet at the argument, which sent tendrils of nausea through her. Her ulcers had only grown worse after trouble had broken out across the kingdom, and the physicians could do nothing for her.
“Kenningford,” Lady Deorwynn snapped. “I can think of a dozen other suitable places. Send her away from court, my lord. I beg you. She is given far too many privileges for one of her station.”
Maia noticed the Earl of Forshee scowling, but it was hard for her to tear her eyes from the main players in the argument.
“Privileges?” her father snorted. “You amuse me. I learned that you forbade the servants from lighting her brazier in the mornings. She was suffering from chills.”
“Why should a servant trudge all the way to the tower for her?” Lady Deorwynn countered. “A little hard work would warm her up!”
“I will not send her away, madame. I am deaf to the idea.”
Maia glanced at Lady Deorwynn’s daughters. They were quietly sewing in the far corner of the room, their postures perfect, and their expressions indifferent to the storm raging around them. But Maia knew they were listening to every word, and she had no doubt the words would be used as barbs to torment her later.
Lady Deorwynn knelt by the high-back chair, her hands touching the king’s jeweled surcoat. “I beg you! I cannot tolerate her. The looks she gives me. They would curdle milk, I tell you. She is insolent, lazy, and stubborn.”
“Say no more.”
“I must! You shame me by allowing her to stay at court. I am mocked because of her presence. The sneers and quips are intolerable! I beg you, my lord. Send her away!”
Maia swallowed, setting down the map she had been studying of the various kingdoms. She had been tracing the borders of Dahomey with her finger when the argument became loud enough for all to hear. She had only visited Pry-Ree, and though she knew it was unlikely to happen, she longed to see all the realms. She took any chance she could to speak with ambassadors from the other kingdoms, to learn little bits about their ways and manners. Being sent to a distant manor house far from her father and mother, where she would be isolated from everything that interested her and everyone who cared for her, would be a terrible fate. She had long wished to join her mother’s exile at Muirwood, but that was impossible. Her father’s heart was flint.
He stared down at Lady Deorwynn coldly. “Mayhap if you treated Maia more civilly, there would be less gossip and fewer sneers! She is my daughter, and I will not exile her from court. She has been obedient to my orders, patiently suffering her disinheritance and your mistreatment of her. By the Blood, woman, if you treated her with a bit of compassion, there would be none of this rancor in my house!”
Lady Deorwynn came to her feet with startled fury. Her eyes blazed with rage; her jaw quivered with emotion. “How dare you!” she said through clenched teeth.
“How dare I? She is my daughter, not yours. If you treated her with a morsel of dignity . . . but I see that is beyond you. You care only for your own flesh and blood.”
Lady Deorwynn trembled with rage. “I treat her,” she said venomously, “with all the dignity she deserves considering her rank, which you, my lord, gave to her. What shall I hear next, that you plan to marry her to the Prince of Hautland? A banished daughter? You mock me, my lord, you mock me!”
“I have problems enough to vex me,” the king said curtly. “Why do you add to my griefs? Out! Out!” He flung his arm wide, nearly hitting her. “Give me peace, woman.”
Lady Deorwynn retreated, subtly, beyond his reach. She gave a deep curtsy, but her face was full of anger and anguish. “As you bid me, my lord,” she snarled. Then, sweeping up her skirts, she turned and stalked away from the solar chamber, snapping her fingers twice as she went. Her daughters bowed their heads, sighed, swept up their needlework, and followed in her wake.
Maia felt a throb of triumph at how her father had defended her in front of Lady Deorwynn. But Maia knew the woman’s games, knew that she would make her father suffer for the humiliation. Though they bickered often, their fights never lasted long, and words shared on a pillow seemed to tamp the flames of anger that often blazed between them.
Her father knuckled his eyes, his head stooped and downcast. Seated quietly near him, mute, were several members of his Privy Council. They watched him wrestle with his emotions, wisely saying nothing.
He rubbed his beard and exhaled deeply from his nose, staring off into the distance. He fidgeted one of his ruby rings with his lips, toying wit
h it, smoldering. In the past, Chancellor Walraven had always been there to dispel his more violent emotions. She felt the kystrel beneath her bodice grow warm in response to her thoughts, so she chased them away. Many members of the Privy Council were mastons. What would they think of the king’s banished daughter if her eyes suddenly started glowing silver?
Her father had always been an emotional man, easily swayed by his feelings. He could be all sunlight and warmth one moment, with easy smiles and a teasing tongue; and in the next, he could be as hard and violent as a whip, his words lashing out with stinging barbs. The Dochte Mandar had helped regulate his mercurial sways. But now that Walraven was dead and the other Dochte Mandar had been exiled from the realm, her father had more trouble than ever achieving equanimity.
His head turned and he looked at her, startling her.
A grieved smile twisted his mouth, and he beckoned for her to approach him. His summons surprised her, but she promptly obeyed, setting aside the map to come to his side. Her coarse woolen skirt rustled as she knelt by his chair. He cupped her cheek with his palm.
“I would have you near me, Maia,” he said softly. “You . . . comfort me.”
Her heart skidded with pleasure and she gave him a rare smile in return, saying nothing. He motioned to a chair from the table. “Sit by me. We discuss grievous matters.” There were flecks of gold in his hair still, but she was surprised, being so near him, by how much silver was already there.
She pulled the chair up next to him and sat down, resting her hand against his. The rings on his fingers were jagged and rough, but the skin beneath hers was warm.
Chancellor Morton was frowning at her, not certain how to proceed after the embarrassment of the interruption.
“Say on, Morton,” her father commanded. “Ignore the trifling arguments between my lady and myself. I daresay if I eavesdropped in your household, I would find cobwebs in the corners of your manor house as well.”
