by Jeff Wheeler
“Few spiders, my lord. Mostly ants. We cannot seem to rid ourselves of the menaces. Would there were a Leering that would banish them.” He seemed to realize the blunder of his poor choice of words. “My apologies, we were discussing the sanctuary privileges of Muirwood Abbey.”
“Yes, we were, Chancellor Morton. You are a scholar of no small reputation, and you have said that I cannot compel a maston to leave the sanctuary by force.”
“Yes, that is what I was expressing. The charters of the abbey clearly—”
“The charters were granted by a king. Why, then, cannot they be revoked by one? Hmmm? I know the charters. I know the tradition. But I am King of Comoros. My word is law in this land.”
“To a point, Your Grace,” Morton said delicately. “Were you not anointed king at Muirwood as a child? Who put the anointing oil on you as king? Was it not an Aldermaston? If you were given your authority under the auspices of Muirwood, you cannot then revoke a privilege given by the very hand that ordained you.” He leaned forward, gesturing to emphasize the absurdity of the idea.
“What if I had been anointed king at Augustin Abbey?” her father said angrily. “Is it because the deed was done at Muirwood?”
“It could have even been Billerbeck,” Morton replied. “All the abbeys in Comoros pay homage to Muirwood and Muirwood pays homage to Tintern where the High Seer sits.”
“Pry-Ree,” the king said with a sneer in his voice. “We used to rule that kingdom . . . long ago. It sickens me that they are the least of the kingdoms, yet they have authority over their betters. That the High Seer can block my divorce based on maston custom.”
“You agreed to that custom when you chose to marry the queen—”
“She is not my queen!” her father thundered, pounding his fist on the table. “You must watch your tongue, Chancellor!” His eyes burned with fury, and Maia saw the chancellor’s expression tighten like a walnut shell. He took the brunt of it quietly. Her father’s anger continued to fester. “I am no more her husband than that iron poker by the fire is my wife. I would that she were dead.” Maia’s heart shriveled with blackness upon hearing the words. She sat as still as a mouse, not daring to remove her hand from his. His words were like shards of glass crunching under boots. “Yet it begins with a thought,” he said in low, strangled words. “I will have this divorce, Chancellor. You must find a way.”
His face paled. “My lord—” he paused, swallowing. “There is no legal way to compel it.”
“I am not faithful to our marriage vows,” her father snapped. “By all that is right and just, she should divorce me.” He slapped the table, less violently this time, and grumbled under his breath. “Find a way, Morton. Put all your thought into this. I would not have my authority undermined by an Aldermaston in a sniveling kingdom less than half the size of our own, full of giant trees and . . . and . . . spoiled grapes. Tintern has authority over Muirwood. I think not. Oh, I think not. It should be Muirwood that compels the others.”
“As Your Majesty knows, the Aldermastons of Tintern have always been those chosen as the High Seer since the return of the mastons. They are the strongest in the Medium.”
“I care not for the history lesson, tutor,” her father said with a sting. “I do not wish my realm to be governed by the whims of Tintern Abbey. I am a king-maston by law, yet I cannot command those who live in the abbeys, who are said to be outside of the king’s tax. Well, the cost of rebuilding abbeys chokes my income. How many people live under the shadow of an abbey to avoid paying taxes? Hmmm? Look at Augustin. To see its decadence and splendor, you would think the abbey had hardly been damaged before the Scourging. It was pride that felled our kingdoms. It was the love of treasure within the abbeys themselves.”
Maia shrank from her father at those words and hid her hands in her lap, trying not to tremble.
One of the other men from the table stood, planting his palms down on the table. “If Your Majesty seeks an example of pride, then look no farther than your own mirror.”
Maia stared at the grizzled man. He was older than her father, much older. His dark hair was well silvered and his angry, brooding look surprised her. She had rarely heard him speak since coming to court. He was the Earl of Forshee, an earldom that was as far from the throne of Comoros as one could get.
Maia saw the tendons on her father’s hand harden like cords.
“I wondered when you would first find your voice, Forshee,” her father said angrily.
He was a powerful lord of the realm and he had five sons. Two of whom were already married by irrevocare sigil, leaving three as valuable prizes. Maia knew Murer had been vigilantly pressuring her mother to marry one of them.
“I came to court at your command, Your Majesty,” Forshee said darkly. “I did not seek a seat on your Privy Council. I will accept nothing for my service to you. In return, I give you my most candid advice, and it is up to you whether to accept it or not. You speak like a spoiled child who does not get his way. You are not the highest law of this land, Your Grace. The Medium is. Do you even wear the chaen, my lord? I see you have stripped away the other vestiges of your beliefs. Your selfish thoughts will ruin this kingdom.”
Everyone was silent, staring at the ancient earl with shock and, Maia could see, a touch of relief. Someone was risking himself enough to speak up to her father. Maia knew the earl had a bold reputation for being fearless and strict. But always fair. He was a descendent of the Price Family, a cousin to hers.
“Well,” her father said icily. “You have said quite enough, have you not, my lord Forshee.”
“There is more,” he replied sternly, “but you are not man enough to hear it.”
“Do not hold back,” her father said, his eyes narrowing coldly. “By all means, vent your spleen if it helps.”
“As you wish. I fought alongside your lord father,” Forshee said with dignity. “I fought alongside him during the Dark Wars. He was a man of integrity. A man of prowess. A maston.” His voice fell lower. “He would be ashamed if he had lived to see you now.”
Maia’s throat constricted. She stared at the earl, then at her father, watching his neck muscles bulge. His shoulders jittered with repressed anger. “Is . . . that . . . all, Forshee?”
The earl nodded and seated himself at the table, looking at the king as if he were no more significant than a moth.
Her father pushed against the armrests of his chair and rose, bringing himself to his full height. Even his legs trembled with rage. “I had sought to make an alliance between our Families, Forshee. I know my stepdaughter Murer fancies one of your sons. But I cannot bear the thought of enduring your sanctimoniousness during holidays and such occasions. I brought you to my Privy Council because I value your wisdom, your excellence as a soldier and warrior, and the strength your Family brings to this realm. Your service has been undisputedly a value to the throne.” He clenched his fists and planted them on the table. “I know that you do not approve of me, Forshee. I could see it in your eyes before you said a word, and it disgusts me. You have five strapping lads. And you leave them five farthings apiece for your insolence and your treasonous tongue. I would not let any of the daughters of my realm marry into such proud and conceited stock as yours. Away from my sight! You displease me, my lord earl. And you will suffer for it.”
The Earl of Forshee rose again, his expression calm and untroubled. He dipped his head in salute and walked purposefully to the doors of the solar and left. Maia stared at her father, at the dangerous glint in his eyes.
He turned to Chancellor Morton. “Draw up orders to arrest Forshee before he leaves the castle. He will be bedding down in Pent Tower tonight.”
“My lord?” Morton said, aghast.
“His five sons will also pay the price for his insolence,” her father continued. “Summon them all to court. If any defy the summons, arrest them. I want to gather them together for a little r
eunion. Maybe a few dark days in a dungeon will lance the boils that afflict their spleens. Now, Morton. Now! Draw up the papers now.”
“Y-yes, my lord,” the chancellor said, his face pale.
Maia saw her father’s jaw trembling. He began to pace near his chair. “When you have finished the arrest order, I wish you to decree all efforts to rebuild the abbeys to cease forthwith. No more stone to be quarried. No more oxen to carry them. No more roads to be repaired. We will halt the work for a season and show traitors like Forshee there is a price to be paid.” He paused, realizing the play on words. “A Price. Yes, there will be a Price to be paid.”
He chuckled to himself and then turned to face his Privy Council, his knuckles pressing against the tabletop. “Does anyone else wish to speak?”
The shocked silence thrummed in the room.
“Good,” her father said contemptuously. He turned to Maia’s chair, the passion already beginning to cool in his eyes. “My dear, would you like a chance to visit Muirwood before the roads are closed?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vow
Yes.”
It was Maia’s own voice, her own mouth that said it. The sensation was like coming awake from a vivid dream, one that blurred like fog and syrup. Somehow she had fallen asleep in the king’s tent. Her memories were muddled and thick, and though in her mind’s eye she was staring at her father and answering his question, she realized ponderously that her memory was distorted. Her father had never asked her if she wished to go to Muirwood. He had never given her that option. The image of her father crumbled away, and she discovered another man standing before her, wearing the black cassock of the Dochte Mandar. He faced her direction, but his gaze shifted to someone next to her.
“Most illustrious prince,” the man said, his voice formal and speaking Dahomeyjan, “is it your will to fulfill the treaty of marriage concluded by your late father and the King of Comoros? And, as the Dochte Mandar has sanctioned this marriage, do you take Princess Marciana, who is here present, for your lawful wife?”
“Yes, I will,” said Collier.
The threads from her dream still billowed about her mind. She realized in the back of her mind that in front of her sat a wooden altar piece—a small one set near the brazier in the king’s tent. A stone Leering rested atop it, the face chipped and chiseled and blunted by hammer strokes, but still visible. Power emanated from it, and she realized she was kneeling in front of the altar, her arms resting on it. Collier’s arms were next to hers. Slowly, so slowly it felt as if she were turning a huge boulder by herself, she twisted her neck and saw Collier’s profile, his deep blue eyes gazing intently at the Dochte Mandar.
“You have declared your consent before me. May the Medium strengthen your consent and fill you both with pleasing Gifts. What we have joined hither, men must not divide.”
“Until death us depart,” Collier said, bowing his head.
“Even so,” said the Dochte Mandar amiably. “It is the tradition amongst the Dochte Mandar for the husband to kiss his wife after the vow, Your Majesty.”
Collier smirked. “Thank you for the recommendation, Trevor. Not at the present however.” He rose to his feet and then gripped Maia’s hand to pull her up. Her knees were shaking, and she steadied herself on the edge of the wooden altar.
“My lord brother, thank you for being witness. Thank you as well, Earl of Lachaulx. Are those birds? Is it dawn already?”
Maia’s mind whirled like a child’s top, and she felt as if she would kneel and retch. The tent spun faster and faster.
“Your wife is pale, brother.”
“Here, my lady, let me help you to a chair.” Collier took her arm and led her to his camp chair, the one she had seen him in before. What had happened to the night? It felt as if she had dozed for but a moment or two, not slept away the entire evening. Why could she not remember? It was like a great wind had kicked up a storm of dry leaves in her mind, veiling all her memories. She had hoped to forestall the marriage by pledging to marry him later, once her quest was complete.
“My liege, I will take my leave of you. Some of the men are rousing and preparing to ride.”
“Thank you, my lord earl. I will join you later. I would appreciate a moment alone with my wife.”
A few guffaws of laughter sounded, and Maia’s heart jolted with a spasm of dread. She cast her eyes around the pavilion as the other men departed from the tent flap in front. It spoke of her disorientation that she had not noticed them until they were leaving. The place looked different in the pale dawn—starker and less magical. The brazier only had a few licks of coals left inside, and the nearby tray of food had been reduced to crumbs.
Why could she not remember? In her last recollection, she was sitting with him on a bearskin rug. He had insisted on seeing . . . what? Her shoulder. He wanted to see her shoulder, to see if she had the hetaera’s brand. The pieces of memory clashed in her mind.
An image flashed in her memory. The brand of the double serpent.
She remembered.
Horror exploded in her heart. What, by Idumea’s hand, had she just done? She bore the mark of the hetaera on her shoulder. How had she not seen it before? It was obvious, yet she had no memory of how it had gotten there. Desperate for answers, she replayed her trip step by step. Nothing stood out, except . . .
Since leaving the lost abbey, her dreams had been particularly vivid. She had thought it was the Medium’s will for her to relive parts of her past when she fell asleep at night, that the memories were being sent to assist her in some way. Suddenly it seemed as if the answer were altogether different. For days now, she had not been her true self at night.
Oh no, she thought miserably. What have I done!
Had her experience in the lost abbey enabled one of the Myriad Ones to take possession of her body as she slept? Had she returned to the hetaera’s Leering later, unwittingly, and received the brand? After visiting the dark pool within the lost abbey, she had lost consciousness for a time. It could have happened.
“I am sorry I do not have a ring to give you yet,” Collier said. “But in fairness, you did already receive one from my father. Do you recall it?”
Maia’s thoughts scattered, collected, and then scattered again. She trembled in the chair as if she had been struck by a fever. She hoped she would not vomit. “It was a silver ring,” she whispered, trying to quell the panic. “With a large diamond.”
He smiled. “The very one. Too small for your finger now. Maybe your smallest one.” He reached out and took her hand, caressing her smallest finger with his thumb. “I was not there, of course, being nothing but a babe myself. But there were two emissaries present—Chancellor Walraven and Aldermaston Bonnivet—as well as both of our fathers. When Bonnivet gave you the ring, or so he told me later, you said to him, ‘Are you the Prince of Dahomey? If you are, I wish to kiss you.’ I find that sentiment deliciously ironic now.”
Maia stared into his eyes, feeling lost and abandoned. Her last memory was exposing the brand on her shoulder. Something had smothered her mind in that moment, a presence thick as oil, making her black out. She obviously had not passed out. What had she agreed to beyond the marriage?
“What is it?” he asked her, dropping to one knee by her chair.
“My thoughts are a bit wild at the moment,” she answered truthfully. “Forgive me if I am unwell.”
He patted her arm and then rose. “Wine would only make you sick. Some water then?” She nodded briskly, and he went to fill her cup again. She had married him. In front of witnesses as well. What could she say to repudiate her actions? If she revealed that she was a hetaera, she would be murdered for certain. Was there a way she could be freed from the curse? There had to be! The maston lore spoke of the hetaera. She needed to find an Aldermaston.
Muirwood.
She shivered violently at the thought and gratefully acce
pted the cup brimming with water and gulped it down.
“Easy, lass. Do not drown yourself in it,” he teased.
The enormity of her situation spread a cloak of shadows across her mind. Had she been corrupted by Walraven as a child? Had his guidance and care been a means to an end? But how could that be? Her father was the one who had sent her to Dahomey. Walraven fell in disgrace, losing his title and his lands before his untimely death. But he had given her his kystrel, wrapped in a note. At the time, she had taken it as a sign of his unshakable faith in her, but could there have been a darker purpose? Was the kystrel’s magic irrevocably linked with the hetaera’s power? Where could truth be found amidst so many shadows?
Truth is knowledge. You must seek the High Seer. She knows the truth.
Maia shuddered in response to the whispers that would send her still to Naess. Was it even the Medium that spoke to her? How could she know whether to trust that inner voice? After all, it had sent her here. It had sent her on the north road. She pressed her fingers to her lips, stifling a sudden compulsion to weep. No, she could not! She did not cry like other girls. She did not surrender her will to her emotions. Maia pulled her feelings tight, wrestling against them. A small hiccup bubbled up. Her lips. She felt their shape against her fingertips.
Her lips could kill a man.
Help me, she thought desperately. Mother, help me! I am lost.
She had to make it to an abbey. The closest she could find. Only an Aldermaston’s power could save her now.
She looked up at Collier. His expression was so enigmatic. He was studying her closely, watching the whirl and shift of emotions in her eyes. He said nothing, only stared.
“What is wrong, Maia?” he whispered, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Your countenance has changed . . . again. Do you seek your . . . your mother?”
“My lord!” shouted a voice from outside the tent. “Riders! It is the Dochte Mandar from Roc-Adamour!”
A grim look played on Collier’s face. He stood and began pacing. “Delay them.”
