by Jeff Wheeler
“A fine kettle of fish!” Jon Tayt shouted, wiping his face. His voice was rising nervously. He looked back and hissed his breath. He sheathed his throwing axe and brought his bow out, already strung, and adjusted the quiver bag so it was within easy reach.
Maia stared up at the mountain, watching crumbles of ice and snow come barreling down as the soldiers from above raced downward at them. Small clods of snow tumbled against her legs. She turned her gaze to the soldiers below. It was like a hunting party, complete with hounds, and they were the prey.
She reached down and took a hunk of snow in her frozen palm. She stared at it, taking in the way the sunlight winked off the crystal edges. The approaching soldiers were speaking in a guttural language, full of coughing sounds and unfamiliar inflections. She had never learned the Hautlander tongue, though she recognized its rough speech. The snow crystals in her hand triggered a realization. Snow melted. Snow became water. Water was from storms. Storms were under the control of her power. She was the master of storms.
She felt the kystrel’s magic flare. Even though it was not touching her skin, her chest burned with heat. Her mind went black with implacable power and vengeful triumph. She would not be hunted. Not her, not by these petulant mongrels. The look of fear in Jon Tayt’s eyes told her that her own eyes were glowing silver.
“No, Maia! No! Fight it off!”
He grabbed her arm to pull her after him, but the power flamed to life inside her like a thousand candles, burning away the chill and the frost. She was warm again. She was fire itself. She could feel Jon Tayt’s panic bubbling inside him like a kettle, so she snatched away his fear, crushing it like a tinder flame.
Already she could feel the web of the Dochte Mandar. They were responding to her use of the magic and they were rushing at her to tamp and bind her. When they got close enough, they would knit their wills together to forge a cage to block her access to the Medium’s power. Maia smiled deliciously. She turned back to the mountain and raised her arms to the sky, her fingers hooked and quivering with strain. Then she brought her elbows in, pumped her fists down and hunched over.
A rippling shock shook the mountain.
The jolt sent everyone except for her crashing to the ground. There was a sound, a sloughing sound, a breath puffed from a giant’s mouth. And then the snow began to tumble from the mountain, breaking loose in huge boulders of ice and slush. It came as a wave, a massive slide of tumbling snow that barreled down at them.
She and Jon Tayt and Argus started down the mountainside at a run.
Cries of terror sounded from the men below as well as the men above. The rumble of the avalanche was deafening. Her gray skirts were thick with snow and wet and heavy around her legs, but power and strength flooded her, banishing her weariness. She was plowing the way now, and Jon Tayt and the dog were following in her path. Strange—the snow was parting for her. Fissures of ice crackled and split, shearing away and carving a path down the mountain. They were rushing as fast as they could, a monstrous wave of ice coming hard behind them. The soldiers in pursuit from above were trampled by it, buried alive by the crushing weight of snow.
Down below, the horses were going wild with terror and the soldiers fled into the cover of the trees to escape the coming devastation.
Maia struggled to reclaim her mind. She had lost control of it with a single action, and she struggled to wrench it back. She was still aware, still seeing the scene unfold, but it was as if she were tagging along beside herself. Detached, similar to how she’d felt in the Aldermaston’s chamber. She dreaded harming anyone else.
“Too far!” Jon Tayt warned, one hand gripping Argus’s leather collar.
The snow roared behind them. The trees were just ahead and men cowered behind the trunks, some trying desperately to climb the laden branches to get to higher ground. It was hopeless. The avalanche billowed like a storm cloud forming over the sea as it came down. It rose higher and higher until it towered over the trees and over all the specks of rock and men.
The sound as it rushed up behind her was monstrous, more terrible than the Fear Liath. They were almost to the trees when the plume of white death caught up to them. Jon Tayt grabbed for her arm, but he was pulled away from her, snatched up by the icy flood. The massive cloud picked her up too, smothering her with thick flakes of snow. It carried her down into the trees, where the wall of white blanketed the entire woods.
Maia was shrouded in snow, facedown. Everything was white. That dark part of her gloried in her power, in the unstoppable force of destruction she had unleashed against the men who sought to tame her. The weight of the snow over her was comfortable, like a blanket. She was perfectly calm and experienced an unnatural serenity. The quelling of noise was absolute.
She did not know how long she had lain there, still as a corpse, when the crunch of hooves broke the quiet.
Then there was a voice, a guttural voice, calling out. She heard the slump of a body landing in the snow and the noise of approaching boots. Her hand was sticking out of the snow. A gloved hand grasped it and she felt her body being tugged loose of the womb of snow.
“Gottsveld! Ich naida strumpf! Gotts! Gottsveld!”
Maia lifted her head, the snow dropping from her face in clumps. A man stood above her, gripping her hand and arm and pulling her up. He was short, his hair a brownish gray that belied his age, which was perhaps thirty. His eyes were blue. He wore a fur cloak, but she could see a prince’s tunic beneath it, embroidered with gems and golden thread. His boots were high and rimmed with fur. A hunting horn and a sword dangled from his thick belt.
His eyes were serious as he looked down at her and he seemed anxious to help. But then he saw her face, saw that she was a woman, saw that she was their prey. She read his thoughts as splotches of blood staining the snow, clear and distinct and dirty.
He had not realized who he was saving from the avalanche until that moment. He was alone, his comrades helping to rescue the others.
Maia tightened her grip on his hand, her eyes burning into his. She felt his fear. It was syrupy and delicious. His mouth widened in shock, his pupils enlarging.
She flooded his heart with love and pity. Every hope, every longing, every desire in his heart she blew on like tender coals and ignited. His will shriveled before the heat of hers. And though Maia did not know the Hautlander tongue, the Myriad One did. It flowed from her lips with savage sweetness.
“Och denor, mien frenz. Vala Rostick. Vala Rostick.”
You saved my life, dear friend. Take me to Rostick.
Take me to Rostick.
As you have seen, there is a portion of my tome that has a binding sigil on it. I have bound this information so that it may not be spoken of or revealed before it is time. To do so early will thwart the Covenant of Muirwood. But there will be a sign to indicate when the binding sigil may be opened. If it is opened too early, the maston order will be destroyed and the world with it. Cruix Abbey will burn. This is the sign that the hetaera have returned. The Queen of Comoros will be poisoned. This is the sign that the Covenant may fail. Be watchful.
—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Poisoned
A firm pounding thudded on the attic room door. Maia’s temples throbbed with pain and the incessant noise made her ears and jaw ache. Her body felt swollen and shards of pain shot through her bowels. She tried to sit up on the bed, but fell weakly back down.
The door handle jiggled and Lady Shilton entered, her face flushed with fury. She had gray streaks through her hair, which had only increased in number in the eighteen months Maia had been living in her accursed manor. She had been beautiful once, but her beauty was distorted by the angry crinkles around her eyes, which she constantly attempted to smooth and hide with powders and ointments.
“Still abed,” Lady Shilton uttered with loathing. “You will not eat your meals
here, Maia. We fought this battle before and I will not give quarter. You heard the bell ringing. Come downstairs at once!”
“I am ill,” Maia said miserably, gripping her stomach. “I do not want anything to eat.”
“This is just another one of your provocations,” the lady sneered. “You will come downstairs. Now!”
Maia shook her head. “Please. Just let me rest. I am unwell.”
“You were well enough last night. The bell rang. You will come!”
“No,” Maia said weakly, shaking her head. “I cannot.” Her stomach doubled with sharp cramps. All night, she had felt them coming on.
“And I say that you will!” Lady Shilton marched into the tiny attic room and seized hold of Maia’s arm. Her fingers dug deeply into the skin, her nails biting hard. Maia winced and struggled to pull away.
“Please, Lady Shilton!” Maia begged. “Not like this.”
“The problem with you is that you were spoiled too much as a child. You are obstinate, headstrong, and defiant. You defy your lord father and he is the King of Comoros!” Her voice rose shrilly. “You defy my daughter when she has done nothing but—”
“She does nothing without the intent of humiliating and torturing me,” Maia said angrily, fighting against the grip on her arm. “I have not seen my mother in over six years, madame. Have you even gone a day without seeing your daughter?”
It earned her a slap, a stinging one, but the pain was nothing compared to that of her ravaging insides.
“Let me go,” Maia moaned, jerking her arm, but Lady Shilton was strong enough to muscle her up from the bed.
“I say you will come and you will come! You will obey me, you rude, thoughtless child! Why should I endure this? You are proud and vindictive. Now come! If I must drag you screeching all the way down the steps, by Idumea’s hand, I will!”
Maia slumped to the floor, feeling nausea sweep over her. She hung her head, tears pricking her eyes, but she would not let them fall. She bottled up her hate and her rage, comforted by the knowledge that she could use the power of the kystrel to flay Lady Shilton’s emotions like a fishmonger with a blade. But she dared not. Owing to the violence of her emotions, she would not be able to maintain control if she attempted such a thing. And she knew what the cost of revealing herself might be.
“Please,” Maia begged, gripping Lady Shilton’s sleeve. “Please just let me rest.”
“Why must you be so obstinate?” Lady Shilton shouted.
Maia succumbed to her mortification. Despite the pain gnawing in her middle, she rose from the floor. She was nearly as tall as Lady Shilton now, though much more fragile and frail since she had been forbidden to exercise and was still not allowed to walk the grounds. The window of her room had been nailed shut since her last escape, though the crooked piece of broken glass had not been mended.
“Because I have but one gown,” Maia said, defeated and ashamed. With Lady Shilton still clinging to her arm, Maia turned her body and showed the back of her skirt, which was black and stained with blood from her flux. “It came on during the night. I was going to wash it after the servants were abed. Please, Lady Shilton.” She stared hard into her eyes. “Do not make me come downstairs.”
Lady Shilton seemed to see her for the first time. The quivering rage in her lip slowly stilled. The exasperation and violence in her eyes cooled. She was a wicked woman, hurtful and cruel, but she was still a mother deep in her heart. A grandmother too.
“So . . . so often you feign illness,” Lady Shilton muttered, the heat gone from her voice.
“I know,” Maia said softly. “Would you not if you wore rags and lived up here?”
“It is no more than you deserve,” Lady Shilton said, her voice betraying her with a hint of compassion. “You are a bastard.”
Maia stood up as straight as she could. “I am a princess.”
A feeling swept into the room. It was powerful, so powerful that it made Maia’s voice tremble as she uttered the words. It was a truth spoken. Not the defiant tantrum of a disavowed daughter. It was pure, soul-searing truth.
Lady Shilton quailed in front of the young woman in the tattered bloody dress and released her grip. She took an involuntary step backward. A curious feeling coursed through Maia’s veins then. It was a form of power. The truth was a form of power. Was it the Medium? It felt like it.
Maia smoothed her skirts. She had grown a little since being given the servant’s gown, and now the hem did not even reach her ankles. Many of the seams had split and torn and she had been forced to beg for thread and needles to stitch them herself. The split at her elbow had not been fixed yet and Lady Shilton’s tugging at her arm had ripped it even more. The fabric was threadbare in places. Maia felt self-conscious, but she stood erect and proud, a king’s daughter in her heart, though no longer in title.
“I . . . I will not . . . make you come down,” Lady Shilton said, retreating toward the door. “Your flux came on last night?”
Maia nodded and rubbed her temples, which throbbed painfully with her pulse. “I am not hungry. Truly.”
Lady Shilton slipped out the door and shut it behind her. Maia sat on the edge of the bed, weariness sapping her, but she had won something. It was a small victory, but she treasured those the most. Exhausted, she lay back down on the bed and stared at the hole in the window, watching the gray sky and hearing the wind whistle across the eaves.
Maia awoke to the sound of someone mounting the attic steps. She turned her neck and was surprised when Lady Shilton entered again, more solemnly than she had earlier in the day. She was carrying several things—a tray with a washing basin and a half loaf of dark bread, dripping with melted butter. It made Maia’s mouth water just to look at it. Beneath the tray was a bundle of gray-green cloth.
“I have some rags as well,” Lady Shilton said. “I thought you might want to wash.” Maia noticed the small kettle on the tray as Lady Shilton set it down. “The water is still warm.”
Maia stared at her in shock. The woman had never, not once, shown her a kindness. She could hardly believe it.
“Thank you,” Maia said, a tremor in her voice.
Lady Shilton lifted the tray and then unfolded the bundle of fabric. It was a servant’s gown, one from Lady Shilton’s own household. It was what her ladies-in-waiting wore. Maia had fancied the roping on the sleeves and the back of the gown, which cinched the fabric tight. It had always looked elegant and simple. It was a servant’s garb, not a lady’s, but anything was better than the rags she had worn.
“I thought you might want to . . . borrow . . . a gown while the other one . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her lips pursed sourly, her cheek muscle twitching. “Just give me . . . yours.” She swallowed. “I will burn it.” She sniffed and waved her hand impatiently. “Come, child. Off with it. I will burn it.”
Maia was not sure she could trust her. She was afraid of trusting anyone. That she should find a little sympathy from this hard, stern woman—it truly surprised her. Besides, she dared not remove her gown and expose the kystrel or the shadowstain on her breast. “I would rather keep it, Lady Shilton,” Maia said demurely. “For washing days.”
“It is no matter to me what you do with it.” She sniffed again, handing over the bundle. “I called for my apothecary, Mikael Healer. He is a good man, trained in Billerbeck Abbey, and he will bring you some remedies.”
Again, Maia was astonished. “Thank you.”
Lady Shilton looked at her with something resembling sympathy, then fled the attic again without another word. Maia took hold of the crust and ate ravenously. It was Lady Shilton’s bread, not servant’s fare. There were little black seeds in the dough and Maia tasted a hint of lemon and spice. It was wonderful. She devoured it.
After washing herself with the rags and warm water, she held out the new gown and stared at it adoringly. She had always loved her wardrobe and could
not believe how majestic the simple gown looked to her now. Being forced to watch Murer strut around in her royal gowns had made Maia sick with envy at first, but that feeling had faded since her imprisonment in Lady Shilton’s manor, replaced with desperation for something else to wear except for the one ragged dress.
Maia put on the gown and wished, for once, that her small room could spare a mirror. The sleeves were smooth and warm and the gown stretched all the way down and covered her frayed felt slippers. With a brush, she knew she could almost pass for a normal person and not the household drudge.
There was a little flush of warmth in her heart as she smoothed the gown over her body, feeling the cut of it, the shape of it. It felt . . . good.
More steps.
Having eaten every last crumb of bread, Maia quickly drank some water to parch her thirst. She heard voices in the stairwell, a man’s voice intertwined with Lady Shilton’s, and then the door opened.
“. . . come sooner, but some ruffian smashed into me on the street, knocking my cap off, and I dropped everything. The rudeness! I am grateful my leather bag is so sturdy, Lady Shilton. All the vials and stoppers are safe. If he had cracked my pestle, I would have asked the guard to hang the man!”
“It is well enough, Mikael. There she is. This is the king’s daughter, Lady Maia. This is Mikael, Healer from Billerbeck.”
He was a big-boned man in his early forties with a wide girth and balding reddish-brown hair. “Very well to meet you, Lady Maia,” he said, squinting down at her.
She bowed her head respectfully and curtsied, wondering if Lady Shilton had given her the dress so this man would not know how poorly she was treated. It was a cynical thought and she squashed it.
