by Jeff Wheeler
“But what am I to wear?” she asked in horror.
“A servant’s livery,” Nicholas said with sadness. “I am sorry, Lady Maia. I will not be your chamberlain any longer. You are to report to Hadfeld immediately to assume your new station.”
Her eyes burned. “Did you see my father’s orders? Did you see them yourself, Nicholas? Or was Lady Deorwynn the one who issued the command?”
“I heard it spoken by the king himself,” he said, nodding, and stepped away as the men began to push into her room. Some carried crates and wooden boxes. Her dwelling was small, so it did not take them long. She stood there stunned, watching as the men stuffed away her clothing and packed all of her limited possessions. It was like watching the theft of her memories. She covered her mouth, horror-struck, as her chamber was ransacked.
How could her father treat her in such a way? She had not seen him lately, due to his travels and hunting trips, but what had persuaded him to finally disavow her as his trueborn daughter? Her stomach cramped painfully and she worried she would be sick on the floor rushes.
Crates and chests were strapped shut and hefted out of the chamber. The pillows and tasseled blankets were stripped away. Soon she was staring at an empty room. One thought dominated all others: She had to see her father. She had to know if this was truly his will and not Lady Deorwynn’s manipulation. Had his heart been shut to her?
“Nicholas, you must help me,” she whispered.
“My lady, what can I do?” he said with anguish. “I am the king’s servant.”
“Yes, but can you deliver a message to him? Please, Nicholas!”
He shrugged helplessly. “It will not do any good, my lady.”
“Just tell him that I wish to see him. That I wish to plead my case to him.”
He fidgeted. “I will try. That is all that I can promise you. I am sorry, my lady. You deserve . . .” His voice trailed off. He did not trust himself to finish the sentiment.
A rough man walked up to her. “The gown too, lass. We were told to take it all.”
She stared at him. Though Nicholas had warned her, she was galled by this man’s effrontery. “You will take it from me by force?”
“If I must, lass. My orders are from the Lady Shilton. You are to appear before her in a servant’s smock. Off with the gown then.”
“No,” Maia countered. “I am the Princess of Comoros.”
Nicholas flinched. “My lady, that is in defiance of the king’s command.”
“You are the king’s bastard,” the man said with a smirk. “If you won’t give it over, then—”
He reached for her and she stepped hastily back. “Let me change, you villain! Unhand me!”
The kystrel grew warm against her skin as her heart simmered with fury. She had to calm herself. She fought against the surge of power billowing inside of her. If her eyes went silver, everyone would know. If they stripped the dress from her, they would see the kystrel around her neck, the small shadowstain on her chest beneath the chemise. If they saw that, she would be executed.
“Whatever your pleasure,” the man said dryly.
“Give her a moment of privacy!” Nicholas implored. “Please, can we be civil? Is someone fetching a servant’s gown? Ah, there it is. Bring it forward, man. Come on, hand it forth.” He clutched the fabric. It was gray with a hint of green. The collar and the sleeve edge had a design on it. That was the only finery to it. She stared at it, at the lack of color and fashion. Lady Deorwynn sought to complete her humiliation. Maia clenched her teeth and took the garment.
“Let me change,” she said stiffly. They relented and shut the door. Maia leaned back against it, battling the wrenching sensation in her stomach. She wanted to cry. Instead, she squeezed the fabric to her face, willing herself to be calm and steady. The gown smelled as stale and dusty as it looked.
Knowing these were not patient men, Maia quickly discarded her gown. Her mirror had been carried away already, so she could not even use it to change. She closed her eyes, struggling to master herself. There was a firm knock on the door.
“We have orders to present you straightaway!” came the rough man’s voice.
Maia pulled on the servant’s dress. It was too short, exposing too much of her ankles and wrists. It was tight across her chest. There were lacings in the back that she could not reach. But it covered the medallion and the shadowstain. She opened the door.
“Nicholas, can you help me?” she pleaded.
The rough man snatched her fallen gown from the floor with a grunt and stuffed it under his arm.
Nicholas frowned and nodded, and he helped tie up the lacings in the back with clumsy fingers. Maia felt humiliated and angry, but she kept control of her expression. When he was done, she thanked him.
She stared at her room one last time, missing it already and feeling strange and uncomfortable in her new dress. Nicholas escorted her down the stairs to the bailey, where the men had assembled to escort her to Hadfeld. She recognized one of them as the new Earl of Forshee—Kord Schuyler. The previous one had been stripped of his title and sent to Pent Tower with all of his sons, save one. He had been given the title for one simple reason. He fawned over her father and did whatever he was asked to do. She would get no sympathy from him.
The new Earl of Forshee was a large man with a hooked nose and iron-gray hair. As he stooped from the saddle and looked at her without compassion, he smiled. “Are you ready to pay your respects to Princess Murer, Lady Maia?” he asked condescendingly, his mouth twitching with a smile.
She stared up at him, her eyes like daggers. “I know of no other princess in Comoros except for myself. The daughters of Lady Deorwynn have no claim on such title.”
He looked delighted. “Well, we shall see how long your stubbornness lasts, lass. We shall see.”
Maia’s life at Hadfeld was intolerable.
Though her title was a lady-in-waiting, she was given the most horrible room in the manor house, a dormer room in the attic with a cracked window that let in the cold and no brazier for warmth. Lady Shilton refused to give her a gown that fit her better, so her wardrobe was limited to the one ill-fitting garment that had been tossed to her in her old bedroom. She discovered immediately that Lady Shilton had been ordered by her daughter, Lady Deorwynn, to humiliate Maia routinely. Her illegitimate station was rubbed in her face at every meal, at every encounter. She watched with resentment as Murer had Maia’s clothes altered and enhanced, having gems and jewels sewn into the bodice and trimming. The new princess treated Maia with disdain and ordered her about the manor, forcing her to do arduous chores meant to demean her.
The cold, chafing environment crushed Maia’s spirits, and she found herself frequently ill, with a persistent cough nagging in her throat. She knew no one at the manor cared for her. The other servants stayed away from her for fear of having their own work increased if they were caught assisting her or associating with her in any way.
Maia wondered if even the wretcheds at the abbeys were treated with more dignity. Her treatment during mealtimes was so horrible that she took to eating as much as she could during breakfast. Later, she would claim she was too ill to eat, and ask for bread and milk to be brought to her in the attic. This happened for several weeks until Lady Deorwynn heard of it. Thereafter she was forced to take all her meals in the hall, where her tormenters could continue to rail against her.
Maia refused to acknowledge her new station, however. She realized that her situation was an attempt to force her mother, who was still at Muirwood, to divorce her father. She was a game piece now in their rivalry, and no matter how much her father may have cared about her, she knew he would use her to achieve his ends. That he would stoop so low wounded her.
However, Maia did not use her title out loud, for when she did, Lady Shilton would immediately strike her face. Several stinging slaps had proved the point, so Maia re
fused to speak of it, but she also refused to deny her station, despite the others’ constant wheedling.
Part of Maia recognized that she was dreaming, that she had already lived through those miserable days in Lady Shilton’s manor. But she could not wake up. It felt as if she were on a small boat on a lazy river, being carried along its current. The dream was like a prison, forcing her to stay unconscious no matter how she tried to rouse herself, sucking her back into the nightmare of her time with the vicious Lady Deorwynn and her children.
The river of her dream seemed to speed up, and Maia recognized the moment it was leading to: her father’s visit to Hadfeld. After learning of it, she had wandered the manor with giddy excitement. If her father could only see her suffering, she knew his heart would soften, and he would summon her back to court. Her servant’s dress was torn and soot stained. They would not offer her a replacement or even a second gown, so she was forced to huddle beneath a blanket in only a shift after she washed it and it hung drying. She would do that at night, after the other servants had gone to bed, so she could use a fire Leering to dry it more quickly. If only her father could see her, he would end the cruel punishment aimed at his true wife, Maia’s mother.
When the horses arrived at Hadfeld, Maia found a window and watched, her excitement exploding inside her chest. But she was quickly snatched away by a groomsman and swept up to her room in the attic. The door was locked to keep her inside. She had pounded on the wood until her hands were bloody, furious that she would not be able to see her father during his visit. She paced the room, ears straining for footfalls on the steps. Surely he would summon her. Why else would he have come to Hadfeld?
The afternoon waned, and she was about to give up hope when she heard boots marching up to the attic. Her heart began to pound with excitement. She waited at one side of the room as the door was unlocked. Two men entered, but she only recognized one of them. One of her visitors was handsome and wore a soldier’s uniform with her father’s crest and a sword belted to his waist. One of her father’s knights—Carew. The other wore a nobleman’s finery and the stole of the chancellor’s office around his neck.
She curtsied formally, despite her ragged dress.
“Ah, Lady Marciana,” the chancellor said. “This is Captain Carew. I am Crabwell. Do you know of me?”
“You are the king’s new chancellor?” she asked.
He nodded discreetly. “I served under Chancellor Walraven as a scribe. He always spoke highly of you. He said you had great intelligence. A natural gift for languages.” He switched his tongue to Dahomeyjan. “Is that still true?”
“It is, my lord,” she responded in kind, changing her inflection.
“Wonderful,” he said flatly. His eyes were dark and brooding. He looked nothing like Walraven, save for silver in his hair. He was broad around the shoulders, though not very tall. He tugged at one of his gloves. “I understand from Lady Shilton that you stubbornly cling to your past title as princess, refusing to acknowledge the Act of Inheritance.”
Maia stared at him, feeling her hope turn to ash. She sighed wearily, feeling her shoulder slope. “Lord Chancellor, who gave you your title?”
“The king. Your lord father,” he answered crisply.
“And if my father wishes it, could he remove the chancellorship from you as he has with your predecessors?”
“Naturally,” he responded. “He is the king. Which is why, by the Act of Inheritance—”
She cut him off. “My title was not given to me by the king,” she said firmly. “It is not a title that can be stripped away by an act. I am the Princess of Comoros because my mother is the Queen of Comoros and my father is the King of Comoros. They were anointed such by an Aldermaston.” She shook her head gravely. “How can I submit to an act unless it comes from that same authority?”
The guardsman smirked at Maia’s little speech and gave her an approving nod.
The chancellor eyed her shrewdly. “So what you are saying, Lady Maia, the king’s daughter, is that you will renounce your title if an Aldermaston proclaims it so?” His smile was mocking. “I think that can be arranged. Very well, I bid you good day. Captain Carew, let us depart with the king’s retinue.”
“Please!” Maia said, grabbing his sleeve. He looked down at her unwashed hand with disgust. “May I see my father and kiss his hand? I will not even speak to him. I wish only to see him.”
Chancellor Crabwell shook off her grip. “Lady Maia, the king’s daughter, that is entirely under your control. Should you wish to be reinstated to court immediately—today—all you must do is renounce your title. It is only your extreme stubbornness that prevents this.”
“Did my lord father say this?” she asked him with a hard edge in her voice.
“Indeed he did. Good day, Lady Maia, the king’s daughter.”
He nodded to Captain Carew and they both turned and left. The door was locked behind them. Maia stared at the peeling paint, her heart heavy and weary. As she listened to the boots thudding down the steps from the attic, she realized that her father would soon depart without even attempting to see her. She bit her lip, determination burning in her heart. He would see how far his daughter had been reduced. It was unthinkable for him to leave without at least acknowledging what he had done to her. She hurried to the window and thrust it open. A fragment of glass wobbled out and fell.
Maia climbed out of the dormer window and carefully pulled herself onto the roof. Doves hooted and fluttered away from her as she carefully trod up to the spine of the roof and came down the other side, toward another gabled window. She could hear the nickering of horses and carriages from the host assembled in the courtyard below. Flags and pennants whipped in the wind, and she felt her hair streaming across her face. She had not been outside for months, as the Shiltons would not allow her to walk the gardens or enter the streets for any reason. She had been starving for sunlight.
As she reached the far end of the roof, she caught sight of a small terraced ledge just below her that connected to the master bedroom. The terrace overlooked the courtyard. She crouched on the edge of the roof, feeling several loose shingles beneath her feet, and scooted to the edge. There was her father, striding across the courtyard with Crabwell and Carew in tow, deep in discussions with them both. Maia almost lost her courage, but she did not quail. She jumped off the edge of the roof onto the terrace edge just below. Her legs jolted with the impact and the sound attracted attention.
“On the roof!”
“Look, someone jumped!”
“My lord, be careful!”
Maia made it to her feet and went to the edge of the terrace, staring down. “Father!” she cried out.
He stared up at her, wearing ostentatious robes and finery, his hat plumed with several enormous feathers. He stared up at the terrace, and she saw his look of shock at seeing her up there, her dress threadbare and torn, her hair disheveled and filthy.
Maia sank to her knees, bowing her head and clenching her fingers together in a mute appeal.
There were gasps of shock and surprise. Her eyes bored into his.
“Please, Father,” she whispered. “Please do not let me stay here. It is killing me.”
He looked up at her, his expression twisting with sorrow. He bowed to her once, touching his velvet feathered cap. Then he mounted his stallion and rode away, not looking back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wayfarer
Maia awoke from the deep slumber slowly, feeling the warmth of sunlight on the crook of her back and hearing the warbling of birds. It was an effort to open her eyes, and when she did, her surroundings were unfamiliar. There was another sound she heard, a soft scraping noise, like a bird scratching a trunk with its beak. Her head throbbed dully as she pushed herself up, twigs and brush poking her breast.
“Ah, she awakens. It is noon and she revives. Sangrion.”
Maia sta
rted, for the voice came from behind her and she did not recognize it. She looked over her shoulder and found a man sitting cross-legged in the brush, his back against a large pine. He wore a dirty cloak over a dirty frayed tunic and worn leather sandals. His hair was thick and dark with spikes of white through it. He had intense dark eyes that were regarding her with an inscrutable look.
“Good noon, sister,” he said, his accent heavy and thick.
Maia blinked at him, feeling a sudden jolt of fear. She did not know him, yet he knew her . . . or at least something about her. The fringe of silver at his throat—a chaen shirt—marked him as a maston, and a tome lay open on his lap. He bore a stylus in his left hand, and she could see from the aurichalcum shavings that he had been engraving. That was the scratching noise she had heard.
“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely. Her throat was so thick she could hardly speak.
He chuckled and wiped the shavings away from the tome. “I am a wayfarer. A wanderer. I travel the kingdoms writing the history of the people. This is Mon. It is my country.”
Maia’s uneasiness clotted inside her like blood. “You are a maston.”
“Aye, sister.” He looked down at the tome and touched the stylus to continue writing. The little scratching noise sounded again.
Maia could feel a threat bubbling inside her. Anger seethed like a stewpot, though she did not know why. She sat up and looked around. Her rucksack was nearby. The small movement revealed the stiffness and soreness of her muscles.
“And you, sister, are a hetaera,” he said, still scriving, without looking up.
She stared at him in dread and fear. She felt the power of the kystrel begin to hiss in her heart. She did not want to hurt him. “I must go,” Maia said worriedly.
“Stay,” he said curtly. “I have not delivered my message.”
“Message?” Maia asked. Something told her to be afraid of this man. That he would harm her if she stayed. She did not trust the impulse, but she wanted to bolt into the trees as fast as she could.
