by Jeff Wheeler
Maia stared at Richard again, her stomach dropping to her feet. “My grandmother went to Mon?” she asked. His report matched what Simon had last told her.
Except Simon was now dead.
Richard’s frown was severe. “Perhaps . . . she did not make it to Mon safely,” he said softly in her ear.
Maia felt a sense of deep dread inside of her. She knew her grandmother. Sabine would have sent word right away—she would have warned Maia of the Dochte Mandar’s decree. Sabine sought to rally the kingdoms to help Comoros defend itself against the armada. She was a natural target for the Victus.
Maia stared at Prince Oderick and then at his chancellor. “You have been tricked, my lords. There is no cure for the hetaera’s curse. It was bound by irrevocare sigil. When the prince . . . kissed me, I felt it invoke the Leering. He will become very sick.” Maia’s heart anguished for the man. “Oderick, if you leave, you will only infect others. If you return to your kingdom, you could be the very means of destroying it.” Maia shook her head in frustration. “The Victus sent you here to die,” she said angrily.
Chancellor Vorstad’s eyes widened until nearly all the whites were showing. He took an involuntary step away from the prince, his lips quivering with horror.
“I cannot let you leave,” Maia said, staring at the prince. “Think of the deaths you would cause. The plague strikes quick and hard. By tomorrow, you will learn for yourself that my words are true.” She reached out and touched the prince’s arm. “I am sorry. I would have prevented this if I could have.”
The prince stared at her, his face miserable. Then he shook his head. “I am not your hustage,” he said. He tried to smile, but his mouth could not work that way. “I am still your guest. You are right, my lady. I must not infect the others.” He turned to the chancellor. “Ven it is clear that my death is close, you must return to Hautland. You must abolish the Dochte Mandar from Hautland. I order this, Chancellor. In my father’s name. I order this.”
It was after dark and most of the castle had gone to bed. Maia walked with Richard toward the chancellor’s tower, where her aging friend would yet spend a few more hours reading correspondence that had arrived in the middle of the crisis. Richard walked with a slight limp, one hand on his hip as if it pained him, but he never said a word about his suffering.
Maia’s heart felt as if it had been trampled on. “How do we fight such cunning?” Maia said as they walked slowly, passing the Leerings that illuminated the way. “First Simon. Then Oderick. Now my grandmother,” she said, her stomach clenching with dread. “I fear for Dahomey next.”
Richard sighed deeply, his exhaustion evident in his voice. “The role of the High Seer is crucial. If they kill her, then a convocation must be called. A new High Seer will be chosen from amongst the Aldermastons. That process takes . . . months.” He breathed out sharply. “The war will be over before then.” He gave her a grave look as they walked. “When the Naestors come, they will come quickly, and they will come with fire. We must gather all our people together, Maia. We must congregate them into a place where they can be defended.”
“No town is large enough,” Maia said. “No castle could fit everyone.”
Richard shook his head. “A castle could only defend us from battering rams and catapults. What they are attacking is more than carved stone. They are attacking our very belief, our faith in the Medium. They are attacking our minds.” He bowed his head low as they continued to walk. “I have felt the stirrings of the Medium growing,” he said softly. “Aldermaston Wyrich has felt this as well. This brooding of the Medium.”
He cocked his head at her.
“We must gather at Muirwood now,” Maia answered. The words came to her the moment before she said them, and the gush of warmth in her heart and the spark of light in her mind told her they were true.
“Yes,” Richard said, nodding. “The abbey will shield us from the Naestors. You know the legend of the Tor, do you not?”
“I know it well. An Aldermaston dropped the hill on a marauding band of Naestors that had invaded the shores of that Hundred.”
Richard looked troubled. “What is lesser known is that a village was massacred first. The Naestors plundered it, killing every man, woman, and child.”
“A Void,” Maia said darkly.
“Maia, the word means empty, unfulfilled. A garden can be rendered void. So can a contract between two merchants. It is as if the contract was never there in the first place. What I do not know, Maia, is how many lives will be lost before the Medium is stirred to defend us.”
She swallowed, feeling a bottomless pit in her stomach as she thought of her people—the poor, the powerless, the refugees from Assinica. All of them would need to keep faith in the Medium.
“I believe it will,” Maia said, putting her arm around his shoulder and giving him a small hug. “The Medium drove our ancestors away to flee the Scourge. It has brought us back together again to defy those who seek to enslave us. I agree with you . . . there will be a toll of blood to be paid. That has always been the case.” They reached the door arch leading to his tower. Several guards were posted there. “What I fear, Richard, is not that the Medium will not defend us. What I fear is what it will do to our enemies.” She shook her head uneasily. “It is not their fault that they are so bloodthirsty and vicious. This is the way they have been taught since their infancy. I would turn them to our side, if I could.”
He gave her a somber look. “You are kind and wise. I only wish more were like you.”
Maia smiled and then turned to face the guards. “See that he is kept safe,” she instructed. With her hand on his shoulder, she looked into his eyes. “I could not bear it if I lost you. May the Medium protect and guide you, Richard.”
“And you, my queen,” he responded, his eyes moist and tender.
She paused before leaving. “A question. Have you been shielding me from certain reports? There used to be stories each day about horrific acts people had done to one another. I have not heard of any recently, but I wonder if it is because you have kept the stories to yourself.”
He looked at her sadly, his eyes weighed down with sorrow. And she had her answer in his silence.
“Will you return to Muirwood tonight?” he asked her.
Maia nodded. “Have Doctor Bend summoned to examine the prince tomorrow.”
“It will be done.”
She turned to leave and watched the two guardsmen escort Richard up the tower steps. She had made arrangements for his increased protection with Captain Carew earlier in the day. But the comfort it provided was illusory. If a kishion were determined to kill him, only the Medium could save him. She had to trust in that. As she walked away, she heard the boots trailing behind her, and when she glanced back, she saw two more guardsmen were following her at a respectful distance.
She thought wearily about the events of the day, feeling exhausted, but also restless. So the mere act of touching her lips was enough to invoke the hetaera’s Leering. It was not just in the intent. She cupped her mouth, overcome with horror by the thought of what would become of Oderick after his fatal mistake. He had not been driven by logic and reason to seek an alliance with her. His very heart had been tampered and toyed with by their shared enemies. His emotions had been cruelly manipulated. What he had believed to be the Medium truly was not. She knew what it was like to be so deceived, to be so surrounded by lies it was impossible to discern the truth. She walked steadily, heading toward the corridor that would lead her to Claredon Abbey. She wanted to counsel with Aldermaston Wyrich. Perhaps one of the healers from Assinica would know a way to ease the prince’s suffering. Besides, she needed to tell him all that had happened that day. He was probably still awake, awaiting her arrival. He usually did that to offer his encouragement and counsel.
The castle was quiet and still, and the empty click of the guards’ boots and her scuffing shoes were the only sounds that pierced the night. As she turned the corner, they encountered several other patr
olling guards who nodded to her as they passed.
“Good evening, my lady,” one of them offered.
She smiled wearily and continued onward. As she turned the final corner, she began to feel almost unbearably fatigued. Two guards stood at the end, blocking the passage.
When they were halfway down the hall, the Leerings extinguished, plunging her into blackness.
An instant sense of dread and fear crawled into her heart. She invoked the Leerings and felt something heavy pressing against them, blocking her power.
Down the corridor, a set of silver eyes began to glow in the dark, and Maia’s heart quailed.
She heard the noise of boots coming from both behind and in front of her.
“My lady?” one of her guards said worriedly.
“Call for help—” Maia started to say, and suddenly her tongue was swollen in her mouth, her words choked off. She felt as if a hand were squeezing her throat, but it was no physical hand.
The glowing eyes approached faster, and she began to make out a face. A somewhat handsome face, with brownish-gray hair and a close-cropped beard. She recognized him immediately.
Corriveaux.
She panted, struggling for air. The guards continued to approach from behind, and suddenly a wave of panic and terror blasted from the man’s kystrel, knifing through her—and the men behind her. Maia felt her knees buckle, and she dropped to the floor, still struggling to breathe. Her shoulder burned giddily in response to the kystrel’s magic. She felt a sense of triumph and delight that clearly was not hers.
One of her guards was trying to speak, perhaps to yell for help, but his voice was strangled and small. He could not utter any words of warning. Both men behind her collapsed and began gibbering in fear.
Maia could almost feel the abbey beyond her enemy, a mute witness to her struggle.
“You have become too predictable,” Corriveaux said smugly, drawing nearer. The man in the shadows behind him was a brute. They were clearly in this together. Both wore tunics stolen from her guardsmen. She remembered how the Victus liked to impersonate authority. She fought against the surge of panic and fear that engulfed her like drowning waters. She tried to sit up and force her thoughts to obey her.
“But always you flee to the abbeys. When will you learn that they are not a haven for you? A kystrel has more power than a maston could . . . more power than even an abbey. You know that. I saw what you did at Cruix. I admired your . . . handiwork. Did you really think stone walls could protect you from me?” The sheen of light from his eyes revealed the stark lines of his face as he moved toward her.
Maia thought of her grandmother. She thought of their walks in Muirwood. She had many more positive memories to draw on now. She had her friendship with Suzenne. Her tender relationship with Richard Syon, which she cherished. There was Jon Tayt, the faithful hound Argus. Her love for Collier. She summoned the memories, and with them came power. The Leerings in the hall began to glow once more, and Maia pushed herself up, wrapping herself in the warm feelings like they were a cloak to protect her from the cold.
Corriveaux frowned when the Leerings began to glow, and she felt his will slam down on her like a steel bar.
“You challenge me still?” he said, fury smoldering in his voice. “When you wore your kystrel, you were almost a match for me. But even a maston must yield to a stronger power,” he said. “Kishion, kill her.”
The man next to him, the brute, moved forward, and a dagger appeared in his hand.
Maia gritted her teeth and pulled on the power of the Leerings, trying to make them flare too bright to see. She felt the weight of Corriveaux’s will crushing down on her, but she was managing to slowly lift it. The Leerings grew brighter still, their eyes glowing with molten heat. The corridor began to shine.
“You will obey me,” Corriveaux snarled. His eyes were like fires themselves, only cold and silver.
The edges of her vision began to unravel in black flakes. Maia slumped to the floor, unable to bear the strain. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears she could no longer hear the thud of the boots approaching her. She fell into the blackness.
The King of Dahomey is a cunning young man. He slips through his kingdom in a disguise—an identity he forged while a prisoner in Paeiz. He is known to us as Feint Collier. A feint is using trickery to mislead your opponent. By focusing Comoros on defending their capital, we misdirect them to our intended aim. If you destroy the pillar, the house will crash down on its own.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lady Shilton’s Manor
Maia dreamed of an abbey burning. She could smell the cinders in the air, feel the waves of fire dance across the stones. At first she thought it was Cruix Abbey, that this was a buried memory that had finally resurfaced. But this abbey was taller and broader—a formidable presence that blazed in the night sky as it went up in flames. She was awed to see it so consumed. A wicked sense of delight made her shudder.
Slowly the edges of the dream faded, and she became aware of a jostling motion. She was being carried. She wondered if the dream had merely changed and she was now back at Muirwood, trussed up in a canvas bag by the sheriff of Mendenhall. But this felt different. She experienced the sensation of being carried up steps. She could hear the hiss of torches and the soft clip of boots against stone; she could smell a musty, earthen odor. If this were a dream, it was an uncommonly vivid one.
Too weak to move or struggle, Maia drifted out of consciousness again and dreamed nothing at all.
She awoke facedown on a pallet.
Her eyes blinked open, her mind snared in a haze of fog. A scratchy wool blanket chafed her face. Stretching her limbs, she discovered she was not bound in ropes or chains. She pushed herself up and discovered the small rectangular pallet where she lay was inset on a series of bed beams and poles. Light streamed in from a tall, narrow window, the glass so thick and treated that it distorted the view outside.
Hearing a subtle cough, she turned her head and found her kishion sitting on a stool near the window, using gut thread to sew a knife wound on his upper arm. His shirt was stripped down past his waist, and his muscled back was riddled with scars. He jabbed a needle through his own skin without even a flinch and continued to work. A bluish paste was in a grist bowl next to him, and a pestle lay beside it on the windowsill.
Maia sat up, her heart shuddering as she tried to remember how she had gotten there. It was a small cell, sparsely furnished. There was a wooden bench with several trays containing vials and powders. An executioner’s axe hung on a peg on the wall near the only door.
When the kishion finished stitching the wound, he bit off the thread end with his teeth and then cleaned his hands on a rag. He turned and finally noticed her staring at him.
His cheekbone was puffy and bruised. His lip was split with an angry red slash, but the blood had already been mopped up. His nose was a little crooked, and one of his eyes was swollen.
Her heart reached out to him as she realized he had once again saved her life.
“Where is Corriveaux?” she asked, but it came out as a croak. She coughed and tried to swallow, earning a familiar mocking smile from her protector. He grabbed a leather flask from nearby and tossed it to her.
“Across the river by now,” the kishion said curtly. “I almost went after him and finished it, but I could not leave you there unprotected.” He quickly donned his shirt, stretching his wounded arm and wincing slightly.
Maia stared at him, her feelings conflicted. How many times had he saved her? She had tried to banish him, to rid him from her kingdom, but he was as elusive as smoke.
“Where . . . are we?” she asked, looking around the isolated chamber.
“A secret place.” He nodded to the door. “It is pretty thick. It would take a large axe to break that one down. I needed to bring you somewhere safe until you woke.” He gave her a pointed look. “Did you . . . dream?”
She knew what he
was asking her. During their journeys together, she had become possessed by the Myriad Ones at nightfall and would often do or say things she could not remember in the morning.
Maia could almost smell the burning stones of the abbey. “Yes,” she answered guiltily. “I did.”
He shrugged his unconcern and then fetched a bloodied rag to dab his split bottom lip. “I killed the kishion who was trying to murder you. I did not have time to move his bulk, so he bloodied up the corridor. My apologies for the mess.”
“An apology is hardly necessary,” she said. “Are we still on the castle grounds?” she persisted, seeking an answer.
He nodded subtly. “But nowhere your people will look. Lady Maia, the spiders are crawling all across the webs, and you do not even see them. The kishion I killed for you? He murdered your spymaster on Flax Street. They sent three others to kill me, you know. I have dealt with the first, but there are two more. If you stay here, they will murder you. You have no idea what is truly happening.”
Maia suppressed another shudder as she stared into the eyes of her menacing companion. The look she saw there frightened her . . . yet she knew she somehow had power over this man. “Then tell me,” she offered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Before I killed the first man who tried to murder me, I kept him alive and . . . gained some information from him. Corriveaux is intent on unleashing a Void on Comoros. You remember that little village in the mountains?”
“Argus,” she said, nodding curtly. Her heart panged her as she remembered the faithful boarhound from which the town had taken its name.
“He and the Victus plan on doing that and worse in Comoros. They wish to make it uninhabitable. Your people are going to die. All of them.”
Maia frowned, but she did not look away from him. “We will fight him.”
