by Jeff Wheeler
“I should have let him!” Maia said with barely concealed anguish. “Why did I plead for your life? Why did I not allow the Fear Liath to drag you away?” She groaned. “You have repaid my kindness and mercy with blood!”
Her words stung him and he flinched. She could see the pain in his eyes, but his resolve did not waver. He was hard as flint, as immovable as a Leering.
Without shifting his gaze from hers, he reached toward his belt and drew one of his daggers. Then he grabbed her arms—not pausing when she cringed—and slit the bonds at her wrists, freeing her. He knelt by the edge of the bed, eyes level with hers. His scars had never looked so grotesque, and utter revulsion almost made her shrink away. He gripped one of her hands and pressed the dagger handle into her palm.
“You want revenge?” he sneered softly. “Then cut out my heart and eat it.” He dragged her wrist, blade first, toward his chest. Letting go, he quickly loosened his collar and exposed the skin and a thatch of hair. “Kill me, Maia. If you think it will make you feel any better.”
The blade was heavy in her hand. It was sharp and well made. She stared at it in her hand and sat up on the bed, the apple ready to tumble from her lap.
The kishion stared at her defiantly, exposing himself to a mortal wound. But she could see in his eyes that he did not believe she would do it. He knew she could not kill a defenseless man. She stared at the blade, trying to hear the Medium’s whisper through the haze of her grief and despair. She heard nothing.
Her hand grew heavy and her arm sank. The kishion snorted and took the blade, then slid it back into the sheath at his waist. He rose and scrubbed one hand through his untidy hair.
“That is why I am here. To do the things that you will not do.”
She gazed up at him. “Compassion is not weakness.”
“It is to the Naestors,” he said gruffly. “You do not understand the enemy. There is a practice in Naess called the Blood Eagle. It is an execution that makes a headsman’s axe seem tame. That is how they will destroy your leaders. Your chancellor, your Privy Council members. Your Aldermastons. They would have made you watch it, Maia.” He shook his head, his face twisted with revulsion. “I wanted to spare you the memories. They will destroy everyone. But they are afraid of the cursed shores. They fear the magic down there. Even the Leerings are cursed. So that is where I will hide you. I know that only a woman can pass the Leerings down in the lost abbey.” The look he gave her was plaintive. “Even if they find me, you can hide. You will be safe.”
She shook her head. “What is there is worse than death.”
His looked hardened. “I do not expect you to forgive me, Maia. I do not ask that of you. I will do what I must to keep you alive.” He gestured toward the food he had brought her. “You will need your strength to cross those lands. I have gathered supplies for the journey. It will not be long now.” He gave her a crooked smile. “It will be like it was before. You will see.” He left and shut the door behind him.
Maia’s legs ached from the long march through the woods. It had been so long since she had wandered this place, and yet the memories haunted her. There were bite marks on her skin, and the gnats and insects were a maddening nuisance. Before, they had wandered the cursed shores with caution and dread, not knowing what they would find or how far it would be. This time, they knew the journey; they knew where to find the waymarkers that would lead them to the abbey. Memories lurked everywhere. As Maia trudged through the brambles and mud, she could almost hear Captain Rawlt and his men cursing the climate and the snake-infested woods.
Each morning they examined themselves for ticks, which were plentiful, and wolf spiders. Maia found that the creatures left her alone for the most part. There were never any bites beneath her chaen, so she did not need the kishion’s help to remove them. There were also no whispers this time. No murmurings or premonitions of dread. Without the kystrel, the woods felt less haunted and foreboding. She wondered if the deadness in her heart did not leave the Myriad Ones enough emotions to feed on, or if something else was keeping them at bay.
The kishion’s spirits rose the farther they went. He did not speak to her often, and she was mostly silent with him. He had warned her not to escape, but she did not feel that fleeing was the right thing to do. Strangely, as they walked, she began to feel the subtle guidance of the Medium compelling her to follow him. It was almost as if there were a trail of lampposts leading off into the woods, a trail that beckoned her onward much as the waymarkers did. More than once, she felt a smokeshape traveling with them—leading her. At first she worried it was a Myriad One, but it did not feel malign. In fact, it reminded her of . . . Argus.
She did not want to be there. It had not been her decision to come to Dahomey. But as she followed the trail into the woods, it started to feel . . . right. Of course, she still carried the weight of her horrible grief. It was so vast and so omnipresent she had even given it a name. She called it the Great Sadness, and it was as vast as a lake, constantly rippling at her side as she walked. If she thought on it too much, it would overwhelm her with bitterness and tears. She could not will the Great Sadness away, so instead she became acquainted with it. She thought on it, seeking to learn something of and from it. It taught her, silently, of the pain others had felt upon losing loved ones and spouses. Quotes from the tomes she had studied ran through her mind over and over again. One from Ovidius particularly resounded with her: You can learn from anyone—even your enemy.
The kishion had packed sufficient provisions and equipment, so this journey was slightly more comfortable than the last. Her heart was so broken and torn that she could not fill it with anything, not even hate or anger.
On a morning that had begun like any other since they started their voyage, she pushed a spiderweb away from her face and caught a little flicker of sunlight through the dense trees overhead. She was dirty and footsore, but the little stabs of light in her eyes felt good. It had been several days since their departure from Bridgestow. She worried about the invasion of her realm. What were her leaders doing in her absence? What did they think had become of her? She remembered Suzenne and Richard Syon with warmth and affection. She worried about her grandmother and wondered what was happening to her. She had a feeling that Sabine was also suffering. Perhaps her grandmother was merely on a different shore of the Great Sadness.
“I recognize this place,” the kishion said, coming to a halt.
It was growing colder, and the winks of sunlight had disappeared overhead, replaced by a gray wall of mist that began to descend from the treetops.
A prickle of apprehension shot through Maia. She remembered this place too. The field of bones with a Leering in the heap. The kishion scowled and glanced through the woods.
“We should skirt around it,” he said warily.
“No,” Maia replied, sensing another Leering in the area, one she had not noticed before. “Come with me,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him after her.
The mist grew thicker as they walked. The kishion looked around nervously, and she noticed he had unsheathed one of his knives. Maia felt no fear. Tendrils of wreathing fog swirled amidst the upper branches, descending lower, but there was no impulse to flinch away.
There.
Maia sensed the Leering at the perimeter of the enclosure. Then another one. Then a third. They were all summoning the mist. Through her Gift of Invocation, she realized that the Leerings were activated by the arrival of trespassers. In turn, the cover of the mist allowed the Fear Liath to emerge from its lair. Its only vulnerability was sunlight.
Maia silenced the Leerings with her mind, and their power immediately yielded to her request. The mist dispersed, and golden rays of sunlight showered down, streaming in slanting angles through the trees. The kishion stared in amazement.
“You did that?” he asked in confusion.
She nodded and then stared at the field of the dead. This was the final battleground of the Scourge. This was the place where thousands had been s
laughtered. She stared at the moldering bones and armor, the rusted swords and spearheads. Sunlight glimmered on the pitted, rusty decay. The air had a metallic smell to it. She stared at the Leering in the center, the waymarker that had guided her to the lost abbey. But she already knew where it was. The trail was invisible, but it was clear in her mind, as if a blacksmith had forged a metal railing in the woods, leading the way.
The Fear Liath would not trouble them this time.
Maia offered a subtle thought, thanking the Medium for its assistance.
In reply, she felt a gentle murmur . . . so small and slight it was barely noticeable. The Medium was with her. She wanted to demand answers of it. She wanted to accuse and rage against it. She had been its loyal servant ever since her escape from Naess. It had rewarded her loyalty with the deaths of her parents, her true love. Feeling the Medium retreat from her, she crushed the negative thoughts with force of will.
No, she would have to continue to be patient. She would follow the trail through the woods. She would go to the lost abbey.
It struck her as a strange flash of insight.
Perhaps the kishion was doing the Medium’s will after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ereshkigal’s Daughter
When they had last journeyed the cursed shores, it had taken a week for them to reach the lost abbey buried deep within the uninhabited terrain. This time they had traveled more quickly, with more confidence. As the morning dawned and they began walking, Maia finally began to speak to the kishion again.
The thought from Ovidius had struck her again. You can learn from anyone—even your enemy.
“Tell me more about the Naestors,” Maia said, huffing a little. The terrain was steeper. There was a haunting beauty about this land that reminded her vaguely of the Bearden Muir and Muirwood.
“What do you wish to know?” he responded, glancing at her with surprise. Their past several days had been spent in silence.
“Tell me about their customs, traditions,” she said. “In Dahomey, they like eating melted cheese and skewered meats. Each kingdom has its own manners. Tell me about Naess.”
The kishion looked at her with a wrinkle of confusion. He had not broached conversation with her, allowing her time to grieve and for her rage to cool. But he was not averse to talking. “They crave treasure,” he said with a snort. “Treasure and fighting. They are fighters, raiders. They love mischief and plunder. There is a story that one of the chieftains went to conquer the shores of eastern Hautland. They were protected by keeps and walls and thought they could withstand a siege for some time. But the Naestors love cunning and trickery. They were not going to throw their lives away battering down walls. Instead, they sent a kishion over the wall to steal pigeons and doves from the dovecotes. When he got back, they tied burning strings to the birds’ legs and released them. They flew right back to the dovecotes, and it set the thatch on fire. Soon the city was blazing and everyone came running out. It was an easy slaughter.”
Maia looked at him. “That kishion . . . was you?”
He gave her a half smile and did not reply.
“So they love trickery and cunning. They prefer to steal their treasures than work for them. What of the dark pools? Tell me of them. Walraven shared some of that lore with me. What do you know?”
The kishion scratched the back of his neck. “That is lore of the Dochte Mandar. I am not sure I believe it.”
“Why not?” Maia asked.
He shrugged. “Because I see how they manipulate the chieftains. When you went to Naess, did you see any of the revels?”
“No,” Maia answered. She had only been there briefly, and all her time had been spent with Corriveaux and Walraven.
“They whip the fighters into a frenzy with the revels,” the kishion went on. “They are plied with drink, pleasures, and violence. Any guilt is purged away with kystrels. The Dochte Mandar teach that this is the second life. That each man . . . or woman . . . will be reborn again. Depending on how courageous and cunning you are, how fearless in battle and how cruel in strategy, you may become a chieftain in the next life. The Dochte Mandar say they speak to the dead in the dark pools and learn who should be the next chieftains. They tell us who has been reborn and what they were in their past life. To me, it is a bunch of nonsense. I think the Dochte Mandar say what they wish us to believe, to keep themselves in power.”
Something nagged at the back of Maia’s mind as she pondered his words. “I have heard about this teaching,” she said. “Not about the chieftains or the rulers of the Naestors. But I know people give great credence to what the Dochte Mandar teach . . . and they believe we will all be reborn.” She considered that for a moment. “It is an interesting thought. But it is not true.”
He glanced at her, his eyebrows furrowing. “What does it matter whether or not it is true?” he said with disdain.
She gave him a pointed look. “It makes all the difference in the world. You know about the Myriad Ones?”
“They are spirit creatures,” he said with a shrug. “The spirits of the dead.”
“No, they are the spirits of the Unborn. They are spirits too wicked and cruel to pass on to the other realm. They tempt us, kishion. They feed on our fears and jealousies. They persuade us to murder and torture. To betray. To lie. And they feed on us, just like the ravens feed on a carcass. The Myriad Ones have dominion in this fallen world, but there is a better world we can reach if we put our trust in the Medium. What the Naestors do not understand is when they die, they will become subject to the Myriad Ones if they do evil. There is no rebirth. They will feel like they feel now in life, only without the ability to sate their cravings or purge their guilt. Imagine the guilt they will feel then, kishion, when there are no longer any kystrels to numb their pain. Think of yourself and what you have done. There is not another chance. There is no glory waiting, only misery. I may suffer here. But I long for a better world.”
The kishion stared at her in suspicion. “And who is to say the mastons are right? The same logic turns against you, Maia. Perhaps nothing happens when we die. Like a fire that burns out, leaving naught behind but ash. We are simply no more. That is what I believe.”
“You may be right of course,” Maia said simply, not wanting to provoke him. “If you are right, then I have lost nothing in being good. I go to my ashes peacefully and am no more. But if we are right, where does it leave the Naestors?” She gave him a piercing look. “Where does it leave you? I know I am only reciting what the mastons have written in their tomes over the centuries. But I have felt the difference between the power of the Medium and how the Myriad Ones subvert it.”
Danger.
She stopped short, feeling the whisper in her mind like a clarion call.
“What?” he asked her, stopping too, his body tense as he began searching the forest for trouble.
Maia stood silently and listened to the wind rustling through the mossy trees. Closing her eyes, she opened herself up to the Medium’s will. She felt the breeze rustle her cloak, her skirts, her hair. She repeated the pledge she had made in Naess to serve the Medium, in an effort to cast aside all her pride, all her sorrow and grief. She shed these things like stained garments.
The breeze kicked up and she heard a marsh bird call.
Murer is here. Stop the hetaera from returning.
Maia opened her eyes. She had rarely heard the Medium’s whispers so clearly, so cuttingly. In her mind, she could see the lost abbey, could see a small camp near the garden wall. There Murer was, dabbing ointment against the bite marks on her cheek, her expression angry as she felt the ugly welts. There were six Dochte Mandar as well. And a kishion.
“What do you hear?” the kishion asked her.
“We are not alone,” Maia answered, opening her eyes.
The kishion scowled with anger as he regarded the small camp near the ruins of the lost abbey. He had anticipated finding refuge in this place, not enemies, but the Victus had ruined his plans.
One, in particular, struck her with the force of its power. It was coming from inside the abbey, and she could sense the power radiating from it. It was a Blight Leering. It was causing the land to become inhospitable. It seemed to recognize her, a maston in its presence, and she felt its will and power nudging against her mind.
“I see no sign of the girl,” the kishion said, squinting. “Perhaps she went inside. A man cannot enter that lair.”
“I must go after her,” Maia said.
“Wait until dark,” the kishion replied angrily. “It is barely noonday. We cannot approach without being seen. Why not wait until she comes out? Let me kill her.”
Maia shook her head. “No, I must stop her now. The Medium bids me to go.”
He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back behind the boulder, his face angry. “There are six Dochte Mandar and a kishion down there!” he snarled.
Maia felt a burning confidence inside her as the Medium swelled within her breast. She felt the Leerings below them thrum in response. Some of their eyes began to glow. Shouts of warning rang out from the Dochte Mandar below.
“What are you doing?” the kishion demanded hotly, grabbing a fistful of her gown with his hand.
“Nothing,” she answered, feeling a little helpless and giddy against the flood of power unloosing inside her. “It is the Medium. They cannot stop us. Believe in me.”
