The Banished of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  The wolves tormented the Fear Liath until it whirled and struck, bringing its savage claws around and impaling one wolf after another. Its teeth tore into their ranks, but their numbers were astonishing—whenever one fell, another filled the gap, howling and barking and snarling.

  Maia could not believe the sight unfolding before her, but there was Argus, dragging the kishion through the snow, away from the fray and toward them. Jon Tayt huffed forward and hefted the man over his shoulder as if the kishion were a wounded stag, then barreled away from the scene like a man intent on preserving his life. Maia rose from the crushed snow and ran after them, witness to the ferocity of the battle between the creatures of the forest and the Fear Liath. As she ran down the trail, trying not to stumble, she saw another pack coming in to reinforce the first, then another. The howling filled the night sky, and she realized that she had summoned them to her aid with the kystrel’s magic.

  She remembered Walraven’s study again—the avalanche of mice and rats. The ability to bend another creature to your will—even unto death—was a terrible power. It was an awesome power. The wolves and bats had known no thought other than to do her bidding.

  A huge roar sounded behind her. It was the roar of a predator whose prey had escaped it.

  When Colvin first taught me about kystrels, he admitted he would have ripped one from my neck had he discovered it to be the source of my power. I still remember the fear in his voice as he described their powers to me. When a hetaera has given hers to a man to use, she becomes even more deadly. There is power unleashed when the emotions of a man and a woman mingle as one. Her influence can continue to grow undetected. I give you this as a sign that the hetaera have returned. The abbeys will begin to burn. So it was in my day.

  —Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Cruix Abbey

  Maia knelt on the hard flat rock and slit part of her cloak with a dagger. Jon Tayt worked feverishly to dress the kishion’s wounds, blood staining his thick fingers. The kishion writhed and groaned, but he did not struggle against the ministrations, not even when the hunter produced a stubby needle to puncture his skin. He was given an arrow to clamp between his teeth, which he did, grunting with agony as the wound in his ribs was knit closed. Maia felt her cheeks drain of blood, but she could not take her eyes off the man. How she admired him for enduring the hardship of pain with such courage.

  “Ach, it is deep,” Jon Tayt muttered darkly. “A few more stitches. Maia, hold his legs down!”

  They were still in the mountains, but they had not stopped their flight until they were far from the Fear Liath’s lair. The scene in front of Maia was such a strange contrast—the sun shone brightly in the morning sky and birds flitted around harmlessly; the view from the rocky bluff where the kishion lay thrashing was dazzling. Jon Tayt worked with brutal efficiency, knowing how to apply pressure to ease the bleeding and how to suture the wounds with gut and needle.

  Maia held down the kishion’s legs at his knees, but he fell still. She glanced up at his face, fearing he was dead, and saw that he had only lost consciousness. His chest rose and fell fitfully.

  “Thank Idumea,” Jon Tayt growled. “Oblivion is the best remedy for pain. Did you see how deep the creature’s teeth gashed him? Ach.” He leaned back on his ankles, wiping his dripping nose on his forearm. “What he needs is a healer, Maia. This wound will infect, I have no doubt it will.”

  “But will he live?” she asked, coming around and pushing two fingers against the throbbing at his throat.

  “Who can say? Death comes for us all. Took a nasty gash on his arm. Let me try some woad on that to help stop the bleeding. Grab some from my pack. It’s in a leather pouch the size of my hand, stained blue at the mouth.”

  Jon Tayt continued to work on closing and bandaging the wound in the kishion’s side while Maia hunted through the pack until she found the woad. It had already been ground into powder, and she dipped her fingers into the bag and began smearing it on the claw wounds across his skin. The fabric around the cuts was stained with blood.

  “Should we bathe the wounds first?” Maia asked.

  “If we had a pond, yes. But he will die if we do not get him to a healer soon. He may die regardless.” He sighed deeply. “I have seen worse, by Cheshu, but not many. I once saw a lad who tripped and sliced his leg open to the bone. Lay the woad on thick, lass. There you go. Do not be stingy.”

  Maia worked quickly, covering the wounds on the kishion’s shoulder. In short order, the makeshift bandages were applied to keep the tender areas away from the elements. She was exhausted and drained, but grateful that Jon Tayt had been there with her. His knowledge had been invaluable.

  “How far to Cruix Abbey?” she asked him.

  “Two more days at a slower pace. If he could walk, we might get there faster. But even if he does, it will hobble the journey. We have left a trail a blind man could see, so we best hope the bloody Dochte Mandar still think you are with the king. The abbey is the fastest way to find a healer. I know a prince in Mon who would help us, but his castle is farther north.”

  “How do we carry him?” Maia asked, brushing her stained hands on her cloak.

  The hunter snorted. “We?” He hefted the kishion up on his shoulder. “Argus!” he clicked his tongue and the dog padded up next to him.

  A small fire crackled, warming Maia’s hands. She fed it with small chips of wood. Jon Tayt had built it in the hollow of some stones to help prevent the light from revealing them. Argus was huddled next to her, pressing against her leg, muzzle buried in his paws. He stared dolefully at the flames. Jon Tayt leaned against a nearby tree, his beard drooping against his chest, the low rumble of snores coming from him regularly. She heard the woodland insects of the night clicking and clacking in the dark, lulling her to sleep, but she struggled against their call. They all needed to rest, but Maia could not let herself fall asleep. Only two more days, she repeated again and again in her mind.

  After a while, another noise joined the chorus of the night—the chattering of the kishion’s teeth. Her own cloak had joined his, both of them tucked up to his neck, and he was so near the fire it threatened to singe him. She stared at the kishion’s sweat-drenched skin, feeling a terrible premonition that he was battling his own death in his sleep. It was strange to watch him sleep. She wondered how many times he had watched her. As if he had been roused by her thoughts, his eyes suddenly opened and he struggled against the clutch of the cloaks.

  “Be still,” she murmured, placing her hand on his chest.

  He squinted and glanced wildly around the darkness before returning his gaze to her, his expression softening into relief.

  “Good,” he mumbled, blinking fast now. “I dreamed I was buried in an ossuary. Still alive.” He shuddered again. “Nightfall?”

  “Yes,” she replied, gazing down at his face. He had walked part of the way that day, but his legs were weak, and the pain from his wounds was so intense it had made him black out again.

  “It does not hurt,” he mumbled. “I can go on.”

  “Let Tayt sleep a moment longer,” she said, patting him. “Rest a bit. I will keep watch.”

  He looked her sternly in the eye. “You look weary.”

  She gave him a shallow smile. “You look injured.”

  He grimaced at the comment and adjusted his bulk slightly. Convulsions rocked through him again.

  “You should leave me,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am slowing your escape.”

  She smirked. “I think you know me well enough by now,” she said, “to know that I will not do that.”

  “You should, though,” he said simply. “If you have ever longed to escape me, now is your chance. I am helpless.”

  “I do not repay loyalty with dross,” she answered.

  A look crossed his face. It was as inscrutable as most of his expr
essions were, but it was almost as if he were surprised by her words. He chuckled darkly, causing an agonizing coughing fit. His body shuddered with his injuries. “Never make me laugh, lass,” he said in a half-strangled voice. “It is a torture. I am not loyal to you. I was paid well.”

  She brought up her knees and rested her forearms on them, then rested her head on her arms and looked at him. “We are well past the obligations of duty, kishion. I saved your life last night. Just as you have saved mine countless times.”

  “If you were wise,” he said with a stifled groan, “you would abandon me right here. Right now. I do not deserve pity. Yours especially.”

  “Perhaps not, but I give it to you anyway. I am grateful we have a moment to talk. There are questions I must ask you.”

  His chest heaved and sagged, but his icy gray-blue eyes did not shy from hers. He said nothing, though she could tell he dreaded her questions.

  “Will you be truthful?” she asked him softly.

  He continued to gaze at her, then nodded once. It was the best she was going to get from him.

  “Did my father . . . did he hire you to kill me?” She needed to know.

  His eyes were hard stones. His jaw quivered with the chills and suppressed emotion. “Yes.”

  Maia closed her eyes, feeling weariness and pain. “I thought so.”

  “Only if you were caught. If you were abducted by the Dahomeyjans or the Dochte Mandar, I was ordered to kill you lest you fall into their hands and be used against him.”

  She opened her eyes again, feeling the sweet temptation of sleep. She rubbed her forearms with her chin. “Thank you for answering truthfully.”

  “I have told you before, Maia. I do not deserve your pity. I still have no qualms about killing you if the need arises.”

  “I imagine one cannot be a kishion if one has too many qualms,” she said. She looked him firmly in the eye. “There may come a day when you are called upon to fulfill your duty.” She paused. “Perhaps I will even be the one who asks you to do it.”

  He looked at her with confusion.

  She stared down into the fire and began stroking Argus’s head. “Something happened to me at the lost abbey. Something I had not expected. Do you remember when I came out of the tunnels? You were fighting off the wolves.”

  “I remember,” he said.

  “One of the soldiers tried to strangle me and I unloosed the magic of the kystrel. I fell unconscious. I do not know how long it lasted, but I fear it was quite a while. When I awoke, you were watching over me and had already tended your wounds.” She stared at the fire. “When I am asleep . . . I am not myself. Am I?”

  The fire crackled and snapped, sending off a plume of fiery sparks.

  He was quiet for several moments, though he still shivered fitfully. Finally, his words came out as a whisper. “It is at night when I fear you the most.”

  “Why is that?” she asked, continuing to stroke the boarhound.

  He was cautious in his answer. “I have seen you rise in your sleep. Your eyes are open, but you do not respond to anyone. At first I thought you were sleepwalking, but it is different. You mumble in your sleep in many languages. Mostly gibberish to me. You walk the camp, gazing around as if everything is strange to you. Even your walk is different. You examine your arms as if they are not yours. You stare at the sky and smile . . . in a dangerous way. The Dochte Mandar teach that we, each of us, is reborn from a past life. Seems to be some color of truth in that when I see the changes that come over you at night. In truth, you frighten me more than the Fear Liath.”

  The sleepiness fled from Maia’s eyes. She knew about the Dochte Mandar’s preoccupation with past lives. She had read about it in their tomes. They believed souls were endlessly born and reborn. A king in the past could become a peasant in the future. But more interesting, at least to her, was the fact that their doctrine was a corruption of the legends of the Myriad Ones—spirit creatures who so longed for a body, they would take any form they could get, even an animal’s. She rested her cheek against her arm again and said nothing more to the man her father had sent to kill her.

  The mountains were vast and endless. Had Maia not been so utterly exhausted, she would have relished the climbing and descents. Jon Tayt had pointed out to her the vast variety of plant life and vegetation that existed on the high mountain trail. There were occasional majestic waterfalls that poured never-ending cascades down jagged bluffs. The trees were dark green and towering, but they could not overtake the size and stone of the peaks.

  Maia and Jon Tayt helped the kishion walk, each of them taking one of his arms around their necks to bolster him up. When he grew too weary or sick to walk, they dragged him. His skin was flushed with fever, the wounds oozed putrid smells, and ghastly coloring showed how much his body was ravaged by his injuries.

  When Maia finally saw the abbey, she was surprised at how small it was compared to the steep cliffs it was nestled amidst. The abbey had been built into the side of a cliff, only this cliff was infinitely taller and broader than the one supporting Roc-Adamour. A huge swath of evergreen trees nestled up against the lower reaches of the abbey, offering a colorful contrast to the steel-colored stone. Only a few scattered firs clung to the crags and seams of the mountain. The abbey was built along the bend of a ridge, and behind it, Maia could make out four other ridges. The mountain trail led beyond even that, and her mind filled with wonder at the distant sight. The abbey was four levels high, made of pale stone with gently sloping roofs and walls of varying heights. It was not a grand abbey like those she had seen in Comoros, but it was impressive—if only because the workers had needed to hammer rock so high up in the mountains to build it.

  Unfortunately, they had to hike down to hike up. At the floor of the canyon rested a tiny village set beside the river, impossible to avoid for any who traveled to the abbey. There were small outer buildings, one with a waterwheel that dipped into the river gorge. The locals spoke a blend of three languages, though mostly the tongue of Mon. Maia did not know that language, but she was able to communicate as though they were Dahomeyjan travelers, and the locals did not understand whether her dialect was true or not. They seemed surprised to have visitors from Dahomey, but not enough to probe into the circumstances.

  There was a healer in the village named Dom Silas, a wizened man with graying hair that had once been black, and he set to work on the kishion at once, clucking his tongue and chattering on in his native tongue. The hamlet was small, with only twenty or so structures. Dom Silas indicated that the kishion’s injuries were severe and that he would need time to know whether he could be cured. Jon Tayt had passable knowledge of his language.

  “I will stay with him,” Jon Tayt said. “Go to the Aldermaston and perform your errand.” He took another look at her. “You can barely stand, lass. Do you want to rest here first?”

  “I dare not,” Maia replied thickly, gripping his meaty shoulder before leaving the healer’s chamber.

  She started up the thin mountain trail leading to the abbey, excited and nervous simultaneously. What would she tell the Aldermaston? How much would she reveal about herself? Should she reveal her true identity as the daughter of the King of Comoros? Should she show him the taint of the tattoo shadows at the base of her neck? Should she show him her shoulder? She knew from her experience that the grounds of an abbey were a political entity unto themselves. A maston could seek the right of sanctuary there, but she was no maston, so that privilege was not hers to take. She hoped the Aldermaston would know her language, but she was prepared to communicate with him any way she could.

  As she climbed the mountain, her feet sore from the constant abuse, her stomach twisted with worry and dread. Most of all, she feared what this Aldermaston would say or do when he learned the truth about her. Would he be compassionate to her plight, or would he judge her? She was ashamed of what she had become, but she had not voluntar
ily chosen it. Her thoughts were so muddled from lack of sleep, she could barely arrange them. She staggered on the trail, trying to keep her boots from sliding off. Craning her neck up, she breathed deeply of the pine and the clean air.

  Her stomach coiled with queasiness.

  It was nearing dusk when she reached the abbey doors. She had not slept in three days, but despite all her fear and doubt, a sprig of hope lingered in her bosom. The Aldermaston would be able to help her. He could at least cast out the Myriad One. She wanted to sob with pent-up relief, her throat constricting. She pounded on the door before seeing the rope nearby and pulling it. Maia covered her mouth when an iron bell rang out in the dusk, feeling awkward and nervous and unsure of what to say.

  A pair of boots approached the door and jangled the keys in the lock.

  “Abrontay! Cenama majorni?” The man who opened the door had dark whiskers and snowy hair and looked like a porter. He was speaking a language she did not know, which she assumed was Mon.

  “Aldermaston,” Maia said, seeing the man did not wear the cassock of the order.

  “Cenama, mirabeau. Constalio ostig majorni. Vray. Vray!” His hand flitted at her dismissively.

  “Please,” Maia said, switching to Dahomeyjan. “I must see the Aldermaston!”

  The porter looked at her, confused. “Dahomish? I see. Are you maston? No? Only mastons can come at night. Show me a sign.”

  She stared at him in confusion for a moment, but he did not want to wait for her to respond. “Go back to the village, little girl. I said that wrong. Young woman. Go along. Go!” He waved her away again, his eyebrows wrinkling with disdain.