by Jeff Wheeler
Maia reached out and touched his shoulder. “I will.”
“That said, I must have freedom to ride, to explore, to wander off. I give you that same freedom. I will not control you. Not that I could! All I ask is that you offer me the same troth and do not bind me to pastures or plows or pillows. I must be free.”
Maia put her hands in her lap. “I do not have any problem with that. Though I do like to ride as well. I also like to hawk and hunt and practice archery.”
“And wander across deadly mountains,” he said, smiling wryly. “I envy your adventures. I would welcome your companionship. We are bound together in so many ways, Maia. Your name. My blood.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you that I read the tome of the Earl of Dieyre. He was a powerful man and a great soldier and swordsman. I have a Gift for making war, I think. My mind is always devising new tactics and stratagems. The one thing he failed to achieve in his life was winning the hand of his true love. Marciana was your namesake. Do you not feel that some . . . tug of destiny has drawn us both together? I am the descendent of the Earl of Dieyre. You are a descendent, albeit in a bit of a twisted fashion, of Marciana Price.” He looked at her earnestly. “Now I must ask you one more favor.”
Maia was not sure what to say. “What is it?”
He looked down at the floor. The vessel was rocking more violently now. There was a sudden dip and Maia felt herself flung out of the chair. They collided together, which startled them both, and Maia flushed with embarrassment. Once the initial surprise had passed, she started laughing, and he joined her.
“The sea is powerful,” Collier said, touching her waist to help her sit.
Maia found her seat again, still laughing at their forced embrace. She put a hand over her heart, feeling dizzy.
“I am almost afraid to tell you now,” Collier said, smiling. He reached out and took her shoulder, putting his hand on the brand. His touch sent feelings of blackness shooting through her heart. Her mind began to fog. Dizziness. Disorientation. Her heart sank and internally she screamed, No, not now! Not now!
“Collier,” she whispered, panting and trying to shrug his hand away, but he would not release her. His grip was firm, and she felt his touch draw out the creature inside her.
“Just one more thing, please. I must tell you. Maia, in all the tomes I have read about the Myriad Ones and the Dochte Mandar and the hetaera, even my ancestor’s tome, there is one thing they all agree on. One trait.” His grip on her shoulder tightened and she felt the mark burning, as if it had been set on fire. Fear and sickness battled in her stomach. She saw the edges of her vision begin to close, as if she were sinking into a dark hole. She clung on to the precipice of blackness.
No! No! Maia shrieked inside her mind. You cannot hurt him! You cannot have him! He is mine! He is my husband!
“What is it?” Collier asked. “You grow pale. Are you sick?”
Please no! Please not now! No!
She felt the power roil through her.
“Maia, do not betray me. Forget my other promises. I should have asked for this one first, but I was too afraid. The hetaera always betray those they love. Do not love me then. I could not bear it if you betrayed me . . .”
Maia heard his words in a garbled slur. Finally she managed to fling his hand off her burning shoulder, but it was too late. She was losing herself, slipping away bit by bit. Her mind was tumbling, like a cask falling down a hill after being jostled loose from a wagon. She could feel a sense of glee in her heart, a savage delight in seeing Collier so vulnerable.
With a last burst of energy, she clutched the front of his tunic, seized him violently, and pulled him close. His eyes were wide with frenzied fear.
“You must hit me. Now! Strike me hard, knock me unconscious. Bind and gag me. Please, Collier! I cannot hold her off. I beg you!”
“Her?” he whispered, trying to pull away from her. “Why would I—?”
“Please!” she said desperately. A powerful hand gripped her awareness and pried her mind loose from her body.
He is mine. The voice in her mind was exultant.
No! I banish you! You cannot have him!
You cannot banish me. You are my daughter. Be still, little mouse. My will must be fulfilled.
“Please,” Maia groaned, her face twisting with anguish.
Blackness filled her.
Cruix Abbey has fallen. The Naestors have assembled a fleet of ships, an armada in one of the ports of Hautland, a city that will be built in the image of what Dochte Abbey was in my day, a city on an island. What you must understand, great-granddaughter, is that the fleet has not been assembled to wage war on the kingdoms. The Naestors have learned about the land the Cruciger orb led us to—the land of Assinica. They have been spying on it and preparing to invade and destroy the mastons who were left behind. You see, not all the mastons returned to the seven kingdoms. A host remained behind to perpetuate the abbeys and sire the new kingdom we built to create a land of refuge, peace, and safety. By the time you read this in my tome, the mastons of Assinica will have forgotten the ways of war. They are peaceful and harmless and they will be enslaved and butchered by the Naestors if they are given their way. Ereshkigal will have her revenge. When your forefathers returned to Pry-Ree, Comoros, and Dahomey, they were to rebuild the abbeys and fulfill the Covenant of Muirwood. In order to fulfill it, the rites of the Apse Veil must be restored in Muirwood, and from there, to all the other abbeys. Because there have been no fully functioning abbeys in your realm for several generations, none of my progeny are strong enough in the Medium to cross the Apse Veil. Your generation will not have the ability. But look to your granddaughter. Look to save her when she comes to kill you.
—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Kishion
The bed was soft, the brazier shimmered with heat, and Maia felt strong enough to sit. The shift beneath the servant’s gown was soaked with sweat and her hair felt sticky against her scalp. She looked down at the gray-green sleeve and examined the fabric of the cuff, her eyes coming in and out of focus. Her memories were jumbled. It felt like a dream. Was it one?
It was the noise of boot steps marching up the stairs to the attic that had started the dream. This is a memory. This is not real. Maia felt foggy, disoriented. She moved off the bed and went to the door, listening. It sounded like multiple men were approaching and their heavy footfalls shook the walls. Fear twisted in her stomach and she wrung her hands as she watched the door. There was a firm rap and then it opened. She wanted to wake up. She had to wake up. Something was happening. Something she could not control. She felt like a withered leaf blown into a stream, carried along by the current.
A grizzled soldier wearing the tunic of the king’s guard stood in the doorway, his jaw lined with a salty beard. “Beg your pardon, my lady. I am Rawlt. I was sent this morn by river from the palace with orders to escort you there.”
Maia blinked at him, aware of how disheveled she looked. “I do not recognize you,” she said warily. Wake up!
Rawlt shrugged. “I showed Lady Shilton the orders bearing the king’s seal. Come with me.”
She rubbed her arm. “What should I bring with me?” She heard her voice repeating the words she had said long ago. This was like being stuck in a play, on a stage full of actors.
“Just your person, my lady. I have a boat ready for us. Come along.”
“Can I brush my hair, at least? It is early.”
He frowned at her, but she ignored him and hurried to comb the tangles out of her hair. The motion brought sparks of another memory. A young man, combing her hair with such gentleness. She felt his hands smoothing through her tresses. Who was he? She did not know, but she felt an urgent need to protect him. The dread and worry that seeped around the edges of her consciousness like sticky honey was baffling.
Why did she have a memory of a man touching her hair, anyway? It was her ladies-in-waiting who combed her hair. No, she had no ladies-in-waiting anymore. She was a bastard. She was banished from court.
“Are you done?” Rawlt said impatiently, then coughed into his hand.
Maia realized she had frozen. Was that part of her memory? What was real and what not? She began combing through her hair again, trying to tease out the tangles. The sky was still black outside. It was very early.
The dream carried her along, though she never lost the awareness that it was a dream. In the past, the dreams had subsumed her completely, but now part of her knew something was amiss. A nagging feeling told her she was in danger in the waking world, that someone she cared about would be hurt if she did not awaken, yet she could not shake herself from the fog.
She finished combing through her hair and then followed the soldier and his retinue down the steps. At the bottom, Lady Shilton stood waiting, wearing a nightrobe and holding a candelabra. There was a gaunt, worried look on her face. As Maia entered the hall, Lady Shilton nodded to the soldier.
“Lady Shilton?” Maia asked worriedly, hoping for more of an explanation.
“Your father summoned you in the middle of the night,” Lady Shilton said. “He has ordered for me to pretend you are still here, but . . . I think you are leaving us.”
Maia just looked at her, too surprised to say anything.
Lady Shilton bit her bottom lip. “I hope, Lady Maia, that you have enjoyed the privileges of late. The archery. The boat rides.” She swallowed, her expression very sallow and nervous. She was almost cowering. “I . . . hope you . . .” She stopped, unable to speak.
“What is it?” Maia pressed in concern. “Am I to be sent to Pent Tower?” She had an ugly vision of a headsman’s axe and felt as if a shadow had fallen over her shoulders.
“No!” Lady Shilton said soothingly. “I think . . . well, your father will want to tell you himself. Go, child. Go at once. Remember me . . . with mercy.” She shuddered and motioned for Rawlt to follow her. The three of them walked to the rear of the house, the wet grass soaking Maia’s slippers. The anxiety in her stomach was almost unbearable.
Moored alongside the river was a small skiff that could have belonged to any local fisherman. Seven soldiers had joined her and Rawlt and a ninth man was waiting at the skiff. As they approached by moonlight, she saw that there were no torches.
“Good-bye, Lady Maia,” Lady Shilton said ominously. She headed back to the manor house without a backward look and Maia followed the escort to the ship.
The man at the tiller was standing, a sturdy-looking fellow wearing dark, rugged clothing. His hands were clenched around a long mooring pole and he was leaning forward to watch them approach. When she was close enough for the moonlight to reveal his face, she saw a bluff chin, chiseled features, and a countenance etched with nicks and scars. Part of one ear was missing beneath the thatch of dark unruly hair. His eyes were light, piercing in intensity, and they were regarding her with a knowing look. Part of his mouth quirked, as if he were chuckling to himself about something.
It was the kishion.
She recognized him instantly and her heart lurched with memories. They were like cobwebs spun around one another in her mind. In the tangled skein, it was almost impossible to discern where one started and another ended. He was her protector. He would escort her to the cursed shores of Dahomey.
This has already happened! Maia wanted to shriek out loud, but her tongue was swollen and she was helpless against the tide of time that drew her ever onward. Someone she cared for was in danger. She fought against the current that continued to move her through the memory, but was helpless to stop it. She sat down on the low wooden bench and the soldiers filled in around her, protecting her on each side and in front and behind.
“Shove off,” Rawlt said.
The kishion obeyed, using the pole to push away from the pier. Oars were slid into place quickly and the men began to row. With so many men on board, the vessel rode very low in the river, and water slopped against the side of the hull.
Maia glanced over her shoulder, looking at the kishion in the back of the skiff. She was afraid of him. She remembered that fear, but it was different now . . . her feelings were allayed by all the experiences they had shared. He gazed at her, his expression a subtle blend of defiance and cruelty. Memories of all that had happened since that long-ago boat ride wove in and out, meshing with the sounds of slapping water, the dip and churn of the oarsmen.
Stars glittered in the dark sky above her.
Her senses blurred and she felt a queasy sort of feeling. Then she blinked and found herself on a different skiff. Looking down at her lap, she saw cloth of gold that shimmered like honey. She had rings on her fingers. She lifted her hand and felt the jeweled necklace around her neck, where the kystrel used to lay. Turning her head, she discovered that the soldiers had been replaced with men in black cassocks with silver eyes and gaunt determined faces. When she peered over her shoulder, she saw Corriveaux at the tiller, not the kishion. He was staring at her, his expression haughty with triumph, his eyes burned with lust and silver fire.
Maia felt something jolt and jostle her seat. The skiff had struck a dock post. The memories were merged somehow—she felt trapped between both worlds simultaneously.
“Up with you, lass,” Rawlt growled, seizing her arm with a strong hand. The boat swayed as she was led toward the pier, where two soldiers wearing her father’s livery stood waiting. The soldiers hoisted her up from the boat and onto the pier. Looking up, she saw Pent Tower rising above her. Torches hung from some of the walls, painting the stones with orange shadows. The smell of burning pitch stung her nose.
She stared up at the castle. It had been years since she had been there. Years since she had seen her father. He had summoned her in the middle of the night to send her to find the lost abbey in Dahomey. She had already lived this! She was prey to some vicious spider who could spin out her memories and tangle her in them.
Yes, this was a memory, she reminded herself. When she was asleep, when the Myriad One took over, she dreamed of the past. This moment was not that far in the past however. Not long after, she had boarded a ship with Captain Rawlt and the kishion—the Blessing of Burntisland. She could remember the look of the ship. It had sailed that very morning as soon as the tide came in.
They started walking down the pier toward the castle.
Again, Maia’s vision blurred. Now, she saw that she was on a different dock. It appeared to be morning, yet there was no sun. The sky was a pall of shadows and low-hanging clouds. The city that lay before her was small and squat, a fishing village. The dwellings were all made of timber, not stone. But what caught her gaze was the monolithic mountain that rose like a king behind the city, with cliffs so high that the clouds scudded against them. Only a small flat reef and a few rolling hills were lower down—the cliffs were massive and jagged and they reminded her of a giant, forbidding Leering. A Leering bigger than a city.
She was under the sway of the Myriad One and only barely conscious of her reality, but she knew this was Naess, where the Dochte Mandar ruled omnipotently. She knew it deep down, beneath the webs that confounded and confused her. The craggy mountain loomed over the city, a bier stone. It made her cower with fear to see how tiny the homes and fortresses were beneath it.
Then she noticed the light. She wondered how she could see the city so well with the sun hidden away. As the Dochte Mandar escorted her off the boat and led her down the pier, she noticed that the streets were full of cracked Leerings, giving off the colors of dawn. It was only the light from the Leerings that made it seem like daytime. The differences of this place fascinated her, even through the thrall of the Myriad One. The air was cool and frosty and the people were bundled up for it in fur-lined vests and fur caps. The men wore boots with pointed toes that curled up. The women’s hair
was braided on each side, and they were only seen accompanied by men. There were carts and stands, trading and selling. The Dochte Mandar guided her past it all.
Maia blinked and found herself in the dream again. A soldier led her through the postern door of Pent Tower. The halls were illuminated with torches, and rushes crackled under her feet as she trod on them. The memory was sticky and clinging, and it masked the sights and sounds of Naess. She struggled to free herself. Wake up! Wake up! The current bubbled and crested, carrying her along effortlessly. She struggled to swim against the current of memory, to break loose of the clinging webs.
I am myself! I am me! Let me go!
Part of her vision wavered, and she could feel a sense of annoyance. But she was not strong enough to burst the bonds that entrapped her mind. They were walking toward the solar, her father’s favorite chamber. For her, it had become a room of painful memories. She squeezed her hands into fists and glanced back. The kishion was shadowing the soldiers who escorted her, and his icy-cold gray-blue eyes gazed at her with ruthless intensity.
“Here we are,” Rawlt said, stopping in front of the solar door. He bowed to her. “Your father waits for you within.”
She did not want to see her father. He had caused so much suffering in her life, so much anguish. Yet her heart still hoped that he would soften toward her.
She remembered what happened next all too well, but she watched it unfold in the queer way of dreams. He was pacing in the solar when she arrived, agitated.
“Maia,” he breathed with true warmth, and opened his arms to her. She ran to him, overjoyed by his embrace, by the still-familiar smell of him. She had been unprepared for the damage the years of absence had done to him. He was thicker around the middle, his hair more silver, his gaze more careworn and concerned. His left eye twitched uncontrollably. He kissed her head and squeezed her hard, crushing her ribs. “Look at you. Look at you!” He held her apart, holding her by the shoulders.
