by Jeff Wheeler
Pink turned to orange, and suddenly the dawn was there, radiant and dazzling. The Bearden Muir was far away now, and the lush woods and groves were glorious in the bright morning light. The beautiful sight gave Maia some small happiness—this land of hers was gorgeous—and she cherished it, despite—or perhaps because of—the danger she was in. Her cheek had been pressed against the kishion’s muscled back, and she lifted up and turned back, holding tight to keep herself steady. The road behind them stretched down for miles, a clear and easy view.
It was then she caught sight of the lone horseman riding toward them at a full gallop. He was far in the distance, but she saw a small speck of dark hair, and could make out the man’s approximate size and build. He rode as if on fire. The sound of the hooves had only just started to reach them, and the kishion quickly glanced back, his eyes narrowing with anger.
It was Collier. Maia was certain of it. Where was Jon Tayt? Where were her guardsmen? And she realized with a private smile that none of them had been able to keep up with Collier. Only he had managed to close a distance of hours. Her heart thrilled in excitement.
Just then, they crested the hill, and Maia saw Bridgestow appear before them, waving the banners of Comoros. Once more, she was the little girl whose father had sent her away at his chancellor’s behest to begin her tutoring as the future queen. There was a garrison there. There were soldiers who would obey her commands. But how could she escape the kishion?
“Pray he does not catch us before we reach our destination,” the kishion said in a threatening tone.
“Where are we going?”
“There is an inn on the outskirts of town. I have a room for us.”
A feeling of revulsion and wariness seeped inside her at his words.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Queen of Dahomey
The inn was called the Battleaxes and was in the village of Wraxell, just south of Bridgestow. It was a large, stone building with a steep, multileveled roof. Part of the outer walls were made of brick and stone—the rest, timbers and plaster. There were easily five or six chimneys, and the inn was divided into several wings, reminding her of the Gables, the place where she and Collier had first danced.
Many wagons and carts were parked in the field near the inn, and there was a good deal of commotion as the teams prepared for the trek to Muirwood.
After the stableboy took their nearly collapsed horse to the paddock for tending, they were led to their room—a generous space with a tub, a broad bed, and several large chests that were stacked haphazardly through the chamber. The room had a door facing the back side of the structure, with easy access to the road and the yard.
The kishion stared out the window at the yard and then headed over to one of the chests and opened it. He drew out a servant’s gown that Maia immediately recognized. She had just seen a similar gown on Maeg . . . it was the uniform given to the servants of Lady Shilton’s household.
“What is this about?” she demanded, not bothering to conceal her anger.
“Change into this,” he said, handing her the gown and motioning to the changing screen. “There is food on the table. We will eat before we go. Now change, quickly!”
Having ignored her question, he returned to his spot at the window, parting the curtain slightly to gaze outside. He went to the table, where the innkeeper had set out some repast for them, and grabbed a dark baked roll and nearly growled as he devoured it. When he noticed she had not moved yet, he turned back to the window.
“If you need help changing, I am glad to oblige you.”
She clutched the gown to her bosom and hurried behind the changing screen. Her heart still thudded in her chest, but she quickly obeyed, hurrying to undo the lacings by herself. The room had a brazier, and it was not cold, but she found herself shivering as she pulled off the gown and dressed in the hated costume of Lady Shilton’s household. She did up the lacings, determined not to ask him for anything ever again.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked over the screen.
“Where the Medium bids me,” he answered mockingly.
She clenched her jaw in frustration. “Answer me truly. You dragged me from Muirwood to Bridgestow. Why?”
“Because this is where the ships are,” he said flatly. He growled something under his breath. “Have you finished yet? I feel a pressing urgency to go.”
“I am done,” she said, coming around the screen. She clutched the other gown to her chest, not certain what to do with it. It felt oddly familiar to be wearing the servant’s gown again. He looked away from the slit in the curtain to stare at her, his expression betraying just a hint of emotion. There was a longing in his gaze that made her experience a queer feeling of pity.
“Eat,” he said, gesturing to the tray on the table—there was bread, Muirwood apples, and two cups. She was ravenous, having missed her dinner, and felt her stomach growl unbidden at the mere sight of the food. She tore into a hunk of bread and it tasted delightful and plain, a commoner’s food. She quickly devoured it, then took a gulp from one of the glasses and tasted cider. It was sweet and slightly pungent and she put it down quickly, the flavor coursing over her tongue.
He nibbled on a fistful of roasted nuts from his pocket as he watched her eat, his glance returning to the window at regular intervals.
“The King of Dahomey is coming for me,” Maia said. “I love him. Please . . . you must let me go.”
“What will he think when he finds us in a room together?” the kishion asked, giving her another sardonic look.
Maia swallowed, now even more parched, but the sudden fear that he had tampered with her drink kept her from taking another sip. She wiped the sticky juice from her lips.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
He gave her a sidelong look. “I am doing this for your good, Maia. The Victus will murder you and destroy your kingdom. Every last man, woman, and child. If I believed there were any possible way that you could succeed, then I would gladly step back. But I know you too well. You are too compassionate. You are too forgiving. The Victus will destroy you, and I cannot abide that! I cannot bear to lose you. So we are going on a little journey, you and I. We are going back to the lost abbey.”
She stared at him, thunderstruck. A stab of pain hit her abdomen, and she gripped the edge of a chair, feeling the needles begin to work.
The discomfort was . . . familiar.
“What have . . . you done?” she gasped as another wave of pain struck her bowels. She doubled over, feeling the waves of nausea and pain slash at her insides.
“You recognize the feeling?” he said with a smirk. “It is not the first time I have poisoned you with this particular drug.”
Her knees became unsteady. She felt pressure in her ears as the twists of agony spread and deepened. Her stomach heaved and everything she had eaten spilled back onto the floor as she fell to her hands and knees. Through the pain, through the ringing of her ears, she remembered this feeling. She had last felt this way in Lady Shilton’s attic, where she had been locked away for so long. Reliving the tortures of her past banishment made her tremble and shake, and her stomach clenched again, this time more violently.
Light from behind the curtains stabbed her eyes painfully as the kishion drew them open. The world was spinning in place.
“The poison will not kill you,” the kishion said with amusement. “It only makes you wish you were dead. It will stop you from escaping while I fetch the men who will bring us to our destination. I will not be gone long. And I have another drug that will render you unconscious for the voyage. You will be easier to handle trundled up in a box.”
He smirked at her as she lay on the floor near the puddle of vomit. Her body could not move and she convulsed uncontrollably. Twisting the handle of the back door, he opened it and stepped out into the yard beyond.
Find me, Collier, she begged in her mind.
Find me.
She did not know how long she convulsed and squirmed on the f
loor. Even though her stomach still clenched and roiled, she finally managed to drag herself up by gripping the chair’s legs. Her movements were slow and painful and—even though her stomach was empty—she slumped back down to retch several more times. Then she started again, moving herself inch by careful inch, trying to reach the window. The bright morning light stung her eyes.
She got one hand on the bed, one on the chair, and began to laboriously lift herself. There was a sudden shadow at the window, but before she could see who it was, it was gone.
Before she could process what she had seen, the door burst open and Collier appeared, sword in hand. Sweat streaked his face. His disguise was dusty and sweat stained, but he had never looked more beautiful to her. His teeth clenched with rage and fury as he stared into the room, searching for his enemy. Maia tried to speak, but her tongue was swollen in her mouth. She had never felt so thirsty.
She reached out her hand, feeling her legs strengthen at the sight of him. A smile of relief spread across her face. They had to hurry. They had to flee back to Muirwood. But together they could do it.
A shape loomed behind Collier. Before she could even utter a word of warning, his face twisted with agony. He jerked his sword arm back, attempting to strike the kishion’s jaw with his elbow, but instead he crumpled to the floor. The sight of the knife buried in his back, blood blooming on the fabric around it, made Maia gape in horror. Without so much as glancing at her, the kishion shut the door and drew another dagger as he approached the fallen man.
Collier twitched with the spasms of pain. He tried to drag himself away on his arms, his sword having tumbled to the ground when he collapsed.
“No!” Maia shrieked, amazed at the strength of her voice. Even though she was dizzy and weak, she managed to hobble and claw her way to Collier’s side. She knew all too well how damaging a knife to the back could be—she had heard of men who were crippled this way, who died from damage to their internal organs.
“You should have waited longer,” the kishion sneered down at his fallen victim. “You rode ahead of your help. I thought you would do something foolish like that. I counted on it.”
Maia’s eyes filled with tears as she witnessed the suffering of the man she loved. Her heart groaned and she seemed to be drowning inside a black lake, sinking ever deeper. Panic and despair slashed all her hopes.
“No, no!” she begged. “Do not kill him! Please! I will do anything! I will go anywhere, but do not kill him! Do not touch him!”
The kishion shook his head. “Oh, but he must die, Maia. I won’t have you pining over him. Your life here is over. You are not the queen anymore. You are banished from Comoros forever. And I am banished with you.”
She stared into the kishion’s face with a pleading look, her injured body filled with helpless rage and misery. Kneeling by Collier’s side, she clasped his face in her hands. “I am yours! I have always been yours! I am faithful to you. Please! Please survive!” she sobbed, shaking her head, tortured by the sight of the mingled pain and love in his eyes.
Collier reached up and tugged at his tunic front. She saw a glimmer of silver, saw the pattern on the fringe. It was a chaen, the kind a knight-maston would wear.
Her eyes widened with surprise and misery. She stared, transfixed, as he lifted his hand and showed her the pink burn mark on his palm. He had . . . he had made his oaths? The realization only twisted the shards deeper into her heart.
“I am a maston,” Collier whispered through his anguish. “Even now.”
Maia crumpled with tears and hugged his face to her bosom, sobbing until her tears ran into his hair.
“Then you will die a maston,” the kishion said coldly. Maia recognized the look of murder in his eyes, but she only held Collier closer.
“Maia,” Collier whispered faintly. “I . . . love you.”
She gazed down at his upturned face, his eyes strangely calm, as if he were no longer suffering. The bloodstain on the floor was spreading.
“You are the only man . . . I will ever love,” she whispered through her tears. “Even in death, they cannot separate us. I would have married you by irrevocare sigil. Forever!” Why? Oh, why! She thought the pain in her heart would kill her.
Collier hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pushed himself up with one arm, pulling her down with the other. He kissed her tenderly, a farewell kiss, a kiss of love. She felt the mark on her shoulder flare, followed by the same tingle she had felt on her lips after Oderick’s kiss.
She kissed Collier back, pouring all the ardor and love that devastated her heart into the caress. Then she cradled his face between her hands and smothered him with kisses—his lips, his nose, his eyes and cheeks. She wept as she kissed him, knowing he was already dying.
His strength gave out, and he slumped in her arms. She cradled his body, pressing her cheek against his, feeling the warmth of his skin. She mourned. Her heart had never felt so broken. Everything in her world was upside down. All was blackness and despair, a misery beyond enduring.
He blinked up at her, a small smile on his face as he lay listless. “My love,” he whispered. “My queen. I named you my heir. You are Queen . . . of Dahomey now.”
She tried to stifle her sobbing and could not. She kissed him again, but his lips did not respond this time.
The kishion shoved Collier onto his stomach with a boot and wrenched Maia to her feet. The knife still protruded from the back of her husband—her heart’s husband. The kishion reached down and yanked the blade out, wiping the blood smears on Collier’s tunic before resheathing it.
Maia covered her face with her hands. “Leave him!” she choked in fury.
“He is a dead man,” the kishion said flatly. “If my blade did not finish him, your kiss surely will.”
The Bearden Muir is a vicious swampland. They have demolished trees and made the road impassable. Archers plague us night and day. But my army is cutting a swath to the abbey. We have axes enough for the work. There have been several small battles on the flanks, but they are sending young men to do men’s work. We will show them no pity.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Cursed Shores
Maia awoke from a dreamless fog. Her eyelids were heavy and puffy from crying. Dizziness and nausea twisted her insides, but the sound of creaking timbers and the sway of the sea finally helped orient her and made her realize she was on board a ship. She tried to lift herself up, and found her wrists were lashed together with leather bonds. As she came more awake, the crushing weight of grief slammed against her once more.
The memory of Collier collapsing on the floor of the inn, his life blood seeping away, made it difficult to breathe.
She lifted herself up on the stuffed pallet, staring at nothing, just trying to get air into her lungs. The ship rocked and swayed, as if it were trying to comfort her, but she doubted she would ever be happy again. Her fingers tingled from the bonds at her wrists, and she lifted her heavy hands to try and smooth the clumps of hair from her face. She was weak from lack of food and drink. But that was nothing compared to the blot in her heart. A few trembling sighs and hiccups came. Had she run out of tears at last?
Her memories after they had left Collier behind were hazy and disjointed. The kishion had trussed her up, tied a foul-smelling rag over her mouth—which had made her fall unconscious, mercifully—and loaded her into a chest. She could only surmise the chest had been carried aboard some ship in the harbor of Bridgestow, for the next thing she knew, she was swathed in total darkness. At some point the kishion had released her from the chest and carried her to the bed. After telling her he would return with food later, he had disappeared from the cabin. She must have slumped back into unconsciousness.
Maia trembled and shook, realizing that every moment carried her farther away from Comoros, from her people and the dangers they faced.
The door of the cabin groaned, and she flinched as the kishion stepped inside and bolted
it behind him. His face was half-hidden in shadows. He looked at her warily, his face devoid of guilt or concern. He held a small bag in his hand.
Maia smoothed the hair from her face again, staring at him with loathing and bitterness. “So we are going to the lost abbey,” she said, her voice so small and delicate that it sounded strange to her own ears.
The kishion nodded. He approached the bed and opened the sack. He put down a heel of bread wet with honey. A piece of dried meat came out next. A small round cheese followed and then a Muirwood apple. The apple surprised her and stabbed her with pain, but she reached for it first, bringing it to her nose to breathe in the smell. A few tiny tears moistened her lashes, but it was not enough to fall. Not even the apple could comfort her. She set it down on her lap without taking a bite, then glanced up at him, frightened by the coldness she saw on his face. The detachment.
“You have robbed me, kishion,” she said in a tremulous voice. “You killed my parents. You murdered the man I truly loved. Even Argus . . . faithful Argus . . . you are a monster.”
His eyes narrowed, but she could see he had been expecting recrimination. “I am,” he said with a chuckle. “Men like me exist to do that which is too difficult for the tenderhearted. Your mother’s health was failing long before I arrived at Muirwood. I hastened her journey to her next life, where I am sure she will be rewarded for her patient suffering.” He said this last part with a hint of derision. “Your father was a murderer himself, though he lacked the manhood to ever wield the blade for a killing blow. He was a coward. I will never regret killing him. I only regret not killing him sooner.” His face twisted with anger. “The dog tried to attack me. I have never been fond of beasts. They make my work more difficult. And if you recall, Maia, your husband . . . your duplicitous husband, threatened to hang me when next we met. You recall the gallows in Dahomey he used to threaten me? But I was too cunning for him.”
