by Jeff Wheeler
“You must go,” she said, struggling to fit her hands through the sleeves. The impatience to be gone was frightening.
“You are not going to Dahomey,” he said angrily. “What was this dream? Tell me.”
Maia repressed the urge to scream at him and the gown in frustration. “It was not a dream, it was a vision. I was in a ship . . . no . . . I could see a ship heading to Dahomey. My stepsister was there.”
“Murer,” said the kishion knowingly.
Maia finished putting her arms in the sleeves, only to belatedly realize that the gown laced up in the back. She did the first of the lower strings, but she knew she could not finish it herself. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment; it galled her to her core to have to ask him for assistance.
She straightened the skirts and pulled the strings as tight as she could manage. Gritting her teeth, she rested her head on the wooden frame of the changing screen.
“Can you . . . help me?” she asked in a small, defeated voice.
He had a quiet step, and she barely heard his boots on the floor, but he approached the screen.
“What is it?” he asked.
Maia sighed, smothering her pride, and stepped around so he could see her. “I cannot do the lacings . . . by myself,” she said. “I should have chosen another dress, but I was not thinking.”
He gave her a curious look. “For a moment, I thought you had discovered a tick and needed me to fetch a hot needle.” A low smile came to his mouth as he brought up their shared memory of the cursed shores. He shrugged as if it were no matter to help a queen with her gown and quickly cinched up the lacings and tied the string off deftly.
“So Murer is headed to Dahomey,” he said.
“I have to warn my husband,” Maia said, fidgeting.
“But he is not your husband,” he reminded her. “You fear his faithlessness so much? I am not surprised,” he added with a chuckle.
“I do not fear his faithfulness,” she said, perhaps too hotly. “But Murer is a hetaera . . . or nearly one. And she has my kystrel. That is why I connected with her so easily. It was like I was inside her mind.”
The kishion frowned. “Was she aware of you?”
Maia nodded, folding her arms over her chest to quell the heaving of her stomach.
“Then there is likely a trap waiting for you,” the kishion said. “They are luring you away.”
Maia stared at him, not wanting to believe what he said, but seeing the truth in it.
“You doubt me,” he said, snorting. “I am no Victus, Maia. But I have worked for them long enough. What does a fisherman use? Not just a hook. He uses bait. Corriveaux tried to murder you in person. Now that you have not complied with his will, he wants you out of the way. If he cannot come to you, then he will make you come to him.”
“But I can travel through the Apse Veil,” Maia said, growing angrier by the moment.
“And do you not suppose that they are watching the abbeys on that side as well?” He folded his arms and gave her an imperious look.
“I must at least send him a message,” Maia conceded, “with someone I can trust.”
The kishion nodded. “I knew you would think of it once you had calmed down. Good lass.”
She was about to storm to the door, but he caught her sleeve.
“Brush your hair first. You are a queen.”
There was so much to do that Maia did not have time to eat. The lord mayor announced the evacuation of Comoros that morning, and the plans they had formed over these last weeks were put in place immediately. The city would be abandoned quarter by quarter—those closest to the river first, followed by those on the outskirts. The city watch roamed the streets and manned the gates, helping the carts and wagons as they began to trundle toward Mendenhall castle, leagues away, where the citizens of Muirwood Hundred would be gathering before trekking into the Bearden Muir.
Sempringfall Abbey still stood, but reports had streamed in throughout the night confirming that Billerbeck had been razed and the armada had arrived. There was still no word from Dodd or his army. The Naestors had brought both horses and foot soldiers, and they had pillaged Forshee, driving the inhabitants from their homes in fear and terror. Refugees were arriving in hordes from the north, heading toward safer ground. Word had been sent to Augustin and Ceaster Abbeys in the south and west, warning them that the invasion had begun. Fishing boats were being used to ferry people from Caspur Hundred to Winterrowd, where they would walk on foot to Muirwood. The Earl of Caspur had sent word that his army stood ready for Maia’s orders. Should he come to the capital and help with the evacuation? Or defend the southern borders should the second attack arrive as predicted?
After counseling with her advisors, Maia had ordered Caspur to hold the south and slow any advancing army to buy time for the people of Comoros to flee. If Lady Shilton’s warning bore weight, it would be the most useful position for him . . . and it would help trump the Victus’s plan.
What surprised Maia was how many people were refusing to abandon the city. According to the lord mayor, at least two in ten households desired to remain behind and ride out the storm.
“They would rather linger here and die, Justin?” she asked him, shocked. She cast her eyes around the mostly empty council chamber, shaking her head in disbelief.
He tapped his goatee and pointed at her. “You would be surprised how many of them have never left the city before. They feel safe behind these walls, even though they know the walls cannot protect them from the Dochte Mandar. They just do not believe that the Dochte Mandar would murder them all. Some say you are fearmongering.”
“I cannot understand,” Maia said, shaking her head. She glanced at Suzenne and Jayn, who sat close to her, to see if they shared her incredulity. “We have been planning this for several months, Justin. Why are they balking now?”
“Some people will not believe in a danger unless they can see it with their own eyes. There are undisputed reports that the Naestors have arrived . . . in force.” He puffed out his breath. “I think our estimates of the size of their army may have been too hopeful. Tens of thousands have disembarked on the first day alone. They are coming ashore on canoes and skiffs. Some of our people want to trample each other to flee. My question for you is this, my lady—should we force everyone to leave? And what about the prisoners being held in the dungeon?”
Maia gave him an icy look. “Send them in barred wagons to the dungeon at Mendenhall castle. They will not be left to face Corriveaux’s questionable mercy, but they will not be freed. They have had second chances enough, and will face trial when this war is over.”
The door to the solar opened and Richard strode in with a tall man wearing a hooded cloak. The man was gangly and tall and unfamiliar, but his clothing was Dahomeyjan. Her pulse quickened.
“What do you think of those who will not leave, Jayn? Suzenne?” Maia asked, looking to her friends.
“Two in ten is significant,” Jayn said. “But can we truly force them to come? The Medium resists compulsion in any form. They cannot be persuaded to see reason, Lord Mayor?”
Justin threw up his hands. “It is a simple enough argument. If you remain in the city, you will die. We thrust out the Dochte Mandar, if you remember. I imagine they will not be friendly when they return on warships. I do not know how much more motivation I can offer them!”
Maia turned to glance at Suzenne.
It seemed as if they shared the same thought, for suddenly Suzenne quoted the maston proverb that had been running through Maia’s mind. “A gentle answer turns away wrath. Harsh words stir up anger.”
Maia smiled and nodded to Richard. “That is one of the Aldermaston’s favorite ones. I remember it well. Justin, you have done all you can. Continue to oversee the evacuation. This city must be deserted when the Naestors come. Suzenne, Jayn. Gather my handmaidens. Go out into the city and seek to persuade the families to leave. Especially the elderly and those with little children. If their parents will not leave, coax t
hem into letting us help their children escape. This would ease my burden greatly.”
Jayn and Suzenne both rose, holding hands to give each other strength. “We will go,” Jayn promised, and Maia loved her for it.
She had entrusted a message for Collier with Richard and begged him to send someone loyal and reliable to deliver the missive to her husband. She had not expected an answer so soon, as she knew Collier was likely riding with his army against Paeiz rather than waiting behind in Lisyeux. The man next to Richard was almost twice his height, a scarecrow of a man.
“Maia, this is De Vere from Lisyeux Abbey. He is the Aldermaston’s steward.”
The man lowered his hood, revealing a head of close-cropped hair that was pepper colored and well spotted with white. He was lean and long, his complexion weather-beaten, as if he had spent his entire life out of doors instead of inside an abbey.
“My lady,” the man said with a crooked bow and a thick accent. He had a gouty hip joint as he bent and winced. “I bring this from my master, the King of Dahomey. He gave it to me himself and requested that I entrust it to no hand other than your own. As you and I have never met, he bade me to ask you a password to confirm. He asked for the name of your favorite hound.” He gave her a pleasant smile and awaited her answer.
“Argus, who shared a name with a village in the mountains south of Roc-Adamour.” Maia replied softly in Dahomeyjan, smiling warmly at him.
The maston’s face crinkled into a delighted grin. “You do justice to my mother tongue, my lady,” he said jovially. “I heard that you did. You are our true queen, Lady Marciana. If you will have us.” He extended to her a small folded card, sealed with wax.
“Is this an answer to my warning?” Maia asked, taking it with trembling fingers. She could not believe Collier had responded so quickly.
“No, my lady,” De Vere answered. “I was with him this morning and saw him write with his own hand. What warning?”
Maia’s stomach wilted and she broke the seal. As she opened the paper, a tiny blue flower nearly tumbled out, and she caught it before it could flutter to the floor. It was a small flower with dainty blue stems.
My love please wait
Word reached me that the Dochte Mandar annulled our marriage and suitors from Hautland have come seeking your hand. I will not rage against fate or the Medium. I know you have longed for freedom. To marry who you choose by irrevocare sigil. I know you have always desired to marry a maston, and Prince Oderick is truly one. It is my belief that he is sincere. That the alliance with Hautland is real. Simon is dead. I do not trust the messages I am getting about you. Rumors that the Victus are preparing to wage war against all of us. It may last for years. Having Hautland as an ally would be a blessing. But please, my dearest love, please wait for me. Do not decide rashly. Do not promise yourself yet. Wait for me. I will come for you.
Ne-mou-blie
Ne-mou-blie
Ne-mou-blie
Her throat caught with anguish, and tears stung her eyes as she stared at the little flower in her palm.
Forget me not.
Forget me not.
Forget me not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Invasion
The fire Leerings burned so hot in the sickroom that sweat trickled down Maia’s forehead, back, and ribs. The days were a jumbled heap in her mind, difficult to sort out. She dipped a cloth in the warm water, sopped it, squeezed out some of the excess, and then gently patted Prince Oderick’s feverish skin. Despite the oven-like temperature in the sickroom, he shivered and convulsed. His lips were chapped and peeling. His skin looked sunken against his flesh. He was shriveling before her eyes, his throat and cheeks pocked with lesions. After six others attending him had fallen victim to the symptoms as well, there had been no other visitors. No one except for Maia.
Doctor Bend was terrified of coming down with the plague sores himself. No one knew how it was transmitted. Each victim suffered agonizing coughs that spewed spittle into the air. Then there was sweating and shaking and, earlier this morning, the prince had begun bleeding from his eyes. It was a grotesque suffering.
“I beg you . . . forgive . . .” the prince wheezed. His eyes were haunted, delirious.
“Forgive? Forgive what?” Maia asked, bathing the water-sodden cloth against his forehead.
His weak hand trembled and then touched her arm, as weak as a puppy. “Forgive . . . me. I was fooled . . . by the Victus.” He blinked, seized by a contortion of pain. “Hautland will revenge. My people . . . will know . . . you tended me. When I was sick.” He doubled over and coughed, moving away from her and hacking violently.
Maia’s heart ached to see him in this state. She did not fear the disease that ravaged those in the palace’s sickroom. Though she tended them all, she had a calm sense of assurance that she, as the originator of the illness, could not be harmed by it.
He lay panting after the cough, his breaths coming in deep rugged gasps. His jaw locked and he began to seize. And then suddenly, he was still, his final breath ebbing from him like a punctured water skin. Maia bit her lip as she watched him die. It was strange to see, almost as if his skin was sloughing something off. A part of him was gone. The wasted flesh remained behind, but something greater lingered in the air around her. She felt tears prick her eyes, not of sadness, but of relief.
An invisible hand seemed to rest on her shoulder as she closed her eyes, feeling her heart brim with emotions. A brightness illuminated the room.
“Farewell, Prince Oderick,” she whispered through her tears. “Until we meet again . . . in Idumea.”
She felt a trembling feeling of warmth and appreciation glide across her shoulders. Who he was . . . the essence of his being . . . was not lying still and crumpled on the bed—she knew it. It was like staring at a rumpled shirt on the floor—evidence of the man who had worn it, but not of the man himself.
Thank you, my lady. The thought-whisper was so faint, she almost missed it.
Drenched with sweat, Maia rose and extinguished the blazing Leerings all at once with a final thought. She dropped the cloth near the dish and then walked to a wash basin near the door and rinsed her hands with lye. She lingered a moment, realizing with a mixture of pathos and horror that the others so infected would likely die that day as well.
Then she opened the door and walked out. The corridor was heavily guarded, preventing passersby from straying near the sick and dying men. Maia found Richard, his gray hair askew, conferring with the Hautlander chancellor. Both men looked at her with imploring eyes. She nodded to them.
“The prince is dead,” she said softly. A hush fell over those crowding the hall.
Captain Carew strode up to her. “Your Majesty, you must abandon the city. The armada could be here any moment. You must go!” he said, his voice burning with impatience.
“Walk with me,” Maia said, heading toward her personal chambers, where she could change.
Richard and the Hautlander chancellor followed as well, and the crowd parted for them to pass.
“How many are left in the city?” Maia asked, keeping a brisk pace.
“One in ten,” Richard answered. “Your ladies persuaded half of those who refused. They are still out there trying. I think they should be summoned back to the palace.”
Maia nodded her head. “Absolutely. Have them evacuate through the Apse Veil to Muirwood immediately. Tell them I will meet them at the abbey.”
Richard gave her a confused look. “You are not coming with us through the Veil?”
Maia shook her head. “I will not abandon the people while they trek across the kingdom to safety. I must lead them to Muirwood. Richard, I want you to make sure Aldermaston Wyrich sends supplies, carts, horses . . . anything he can muster to help us.”
She saw Jon Tayt approaching out of the corner of her eye. “The first ships have been spotted,” he shouted. His eyes had a wild look about them.
Richard took her arm. “The palace is near the river. They will lan
d here first. You must leave!”
She looked at Captain Carew. “Ready my horse!”
He looked at her as if she were crazed. “My lady, the road is no place for a queen right now. The people are desperate. They—”
“They need to see me, Captain,” Maia said firmly. “I have slept in the woods many times. Jon Tayt has already agreed to see me to Muirwood safely. Get my horse ready.”
“Already done,” Jon Tayt said with a smirk, closing the gap between them. “I would trust no other to do it right, by Cheshu. We leave through Ludgate. The guards will hold that gate until the very end, then retreat after us, forming a defense for the refugees when the Naestors attack.”
“You are utterly foolish,” the captain said with a snarl. “You could be in Muirwood within the hour!”
She put her hand on his arm. “And leave my people to be slaughtered?” She looked then at Richard. “Has Joanna evacuated Augustin and Doviur?”
“Yes,” he answered. “She shut the abbey and sealed it from within. I received word she arrived in Muirwood this morning.”
Maia smiled with relief. “Tell her I look forward to greeting her. We should arrive at Muirwood in two days’ time.” She looked around. “Where is Justin?”
“Leading the evacuation. He has not slept in two days,” Richard answered with admiration.
Maia turned to look at the Hautlander chancellor. “My lord, you are coming with us to Muirwood?”
“I am, my lady,” he said, wiping perspiration from his forehead. “My ship is sailing around to Bridgestow. If it makes it, then we will depart from there for Hautland. I fear treachery on the seas if the armada has formed a blockade. I have an able captain, my lady. I have sent a messenger through the Apse Veil to Viegg with a warning and orders to summon soldiers to help fight the Naestors. It will take time, but we will assist you. You have treated our prince with the greatest courtesy and compassion. It will not be forgotten.”
