The Banished of Muirwood (2 page)

When they reached the landing at the top of the turret, Maia could hear her father’s voice. That he was suffering was obvious—his voice was husky and ferocious.

“Why did I even marry you?”

Her eyes went wide with shock as she took in the meaning of the words. She had never heard him say such a thing, and was stunned silent.

The chancellor paused at the threshold, his eyes narrowing with anger. His face became a mask of calm, his lanky body stiffening with resolve as he held out an arm to prevent her from entering the room.

Maia could hear her mother’s sobs. “Forgive me, Husband. Forgive me. It . . . I . . . please . . . forgive . . . me. My child! My son!” There was a torrent of tears, gulping and swallowing and hissing breaths.

“To see you in such pain!” her father moaned. “It would have been better if we had never . . .” His voice trailed off and he coughed violently. “How could the Medium fail us . . . again? My thoughts were fixed. So were yours. It begins . . . with a thought, that is what they say. And all the vigils that were held to strengthen our connection to the Medium . . . the whole city was holding vigil!” His voice rose like thunder. “How could it fail us like this? What, in Idumea’s name, does it expect from us?”

“No . . . no . . . it is not . . . no . . . the Medium . . . it is not . . . the Medium’s . . . fault, Husband.” Her mother was babbling.

Maia shrunk, experiencing a dread that she had never felt before. Her parents had always made her feel comforted and safe. Hearing them so distraught, so wild, frightened her.

“I thought,” her father said venomously, “that if we obeyed the will of the Medium, our line would be secured. This is the
fourth
stillborn! It must be a sign that our marriage is cursed.”

“No!” came the pleading voice. “We both felt it, Brannon. We felt the Medium consecrate our marriage. This is a test. To see . . . if we will be faithful.”

Her father let out a hiss of anger. “Another test? And what then? Another? What if we were wrong? What if we should never have married? We are being punished by a mistake from the past.”

“Hold me. Please, Husband. Hold me. To hear you say such things . . .”

Maia heard only muffled words after that. Chancellor Walraven’s hand pressed against her shoulder now, squeezing it firmly enough to cause a flinch of pain. She stared up into his glowing silver eyes. The emotions from the chamber were draining away, drawn into the kystrel hanging around his neck. Walraven’s face twitched with agony, his fingers digging into her flesh so painfully that she nearly cried out, but she chewed on her lip and endured it, seeing the calming effect it was having on her parents.

He was taking their emotions into himself, drawing away their pain. She saw the snake-like vine of a tattoo crinkle along his neck, poking out from above the ruff of his collar. He had warned her that the use of a kystrel painted the flesh of the chest with strange tattoos. It was a residue of the magic that marked the one who wielded it. He had shown her his own whorl mark once, half hidden beneath a thatch of gray hairs.

The storm of emotions was passing. The chancellor’s eyes filled with tears and he brushed them away with his wrist, releasing the painful grip on her shoulder. She knew there would be bruises in that spot later.

Walraven gave her a fierce look. “Never repeat what you heard here,” he whispered. “Your parents’ grief is private. When husbands and wives suffer blows such as these, they say things they may later regret. I have helped them through the worst of it. Remember the lesson, child. Even the deepest griefs can be governed by a kystrel. Above all, you must learn to control your emotions.”

“I will,” Maia said solemnly.

Together, they entered the birthing chamber where the smell of blood made her sick.

CHAPTER TWO

Corriveaux

A
rough hand shook Maia’s shoulder, waking her. She blinked rapidly, still lost in the fog of the childhood dream. The whine of mosquitoes barely penetrated her thoughts and she struggled to remember where she was. The forest was thick and impenetrable, damp with soggy vegetation that clung to her tattered gown and frayed cloak. She sat up, wincing with pain from her festering wounds and bruises, and tried again to remember where she was and how she had come to be there.

It took her several moments to orient herself. When the memories finally came flooding back, she almost wished they had remained elusive. She was camped in the cursed forests of southern Dahomey. In a desperate attempt to find a solution for the troubles that had beset Comoros after his banishment of the Dochte Mandar, her father had sent her to this land with a kishion—a hired killer—and a few soldiers as protectors, on a mission to seek out a lost abbey that contained secrets of the order. The way to the abbey had been lined with terrors, and a giant beast had scattered and brutalized her father’s men. Only she and the kishion still lived. They had at last found the abbey, and there, in a dark pool bathed in mystery, Maia had learned that her journey had only just begun.

It was a nightmare, and yet it was all real.

“You have a faraway look in your eyes, Lady Maia,” the kishion said, coming around and squatting in front of her. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks—his coarse hair was damp with it. Rags encrusted with dried blood bound wounds on his forearms and legs. His eyes surveyed her warily, his gaze flashing surreptitiously to the kystrel hanging loose in her bodice and the whorl of tattoos staining her upper chest and throat.

“I was dreaming,” she mumbled hoarsely, shaking her head to try and clear the memories that clung to her like spiderwebs. Her dark hair was a nest of twigs and nettles. She arched her back, trying to loosen her muscles, and rubbed her arms vigorously. The world was syrupy and slow, the edges not quite real.

The childhood feelings of anger and pain still churned inside her from the dream. Slowly, she kneaded circles into her temples. That long-ago day when the babe was lost was the first time she had witnessed a hint of the man her father was to become. She shuddered and bile rose in her throat as she thought about how young and naïve she had been. The memory of what it had felt like to be a princess of the realm glimmered brightly.

Well, she was no longer that young naïve girl of nine. She was twice that age now, and a princess no longer.

“What troubles you?” he asked gruffly, his face livid with scars. Part of his ear was missing.

She squinted up at the kishion. “It was a sad dream. One from my childhood.” There was a stitch of pain in her side, and she kneaded it with her fingers to relieve the sensation. “Another stillborn babe. My mother’s grief. My father’s callousness. It was long ago.” She paused. “Before my father sent me away.”

“You mean before you were banished,” the kishion said flatly.

Maia shook her head. “No—he sent me away first, to the town of Bridgestow on the border of Pry-Ree. I was ostensibly there to help manage the border disputes between Pry-Ree and Comoros.”

“Ostensibly,” the kishion said with the twinge of a chuckle. It was the closest he ever came to laughter. “And what am I to make of such a word, my lady? I am a killer, not a scholar.”

“Forgive me. My thoughts are still muddled from the dream. I was only nine years old when I went to Bridgestow. It was at the chancellor’s suggestion. Do you remember Chancellor Walraven?” It earned her a curt nod. “After my mother’s last failed birth, he advised my parents to send me to Bridgestow so I could begin learning my duties as the heir to the throne. I lived on the border of Pry-Ree for three years. That is where I learned to speak Pry-rian.” She smoothed the wrinkled mass of her skirts. “Beautiful country. My mother’s Family is from there. I think my grandmother is an Aldermaston at one of the small abbeys. The trees are ancient. Have you been there?”

The kishion shook his head no but said nothing.

She gazed at the swarm of gnats that surrounded them, seemingly attracted to their voices. Waving them away with a stroke of her arm did little. She was tempted to use the kystrel to disperse them, but she needed to be sparing in its use. Already the tattoos were nearly climbing up her throat, and soon they would be visible to any keen observer. Once she was discovered, someone would tell the Dochte Mandar, and she would be executed immediately.

Of course, she was going to her death anyway.

The quest she had been given in the lost abbey had sealed her fate. She was to go to Naess, the seat of the Dochte Mandar, to seek the High Seer of the mastons—a woman—and learn the history of the Myriad Ones and how they had once infested and destroyed the kingdoms. It was the only way to save Comoros. But how could she possibly travel into the very heart of the place that had outlawed women to read or use the Medium?

Maia stared at the bark of a fallen redwood, the trunk slender and stricken with lichen and moss. Noises and clicks filled the gap in the conversation. She and the kishion were hurrying westward, trying to return to the shores of Dahomey, where the ship that had brought them, the
Blessing of Burntisland
, hopefully awaited. Though the kishion was as harsh as the unforgiving terrain they had wandered into, their journey was still beset with woes. Each night brought hordes of insects to torment them. Serpents were common—dangerous and poisonous. Clean water was scarce, but thankfully a path of Leerings had been left as waymarkers to the lost abbey.

Maia turned to the Leering she had slept beside. It was a tall, rounded stone, almost her height when she stood fully erect. There was a ravaged face carved into it, a face that had nearly been rubbed away by the centuries. All Leerings had faces carved into them and could channel the power of the Medium in some way, providing water, light, fire, heat—along with many other arcane powers. The Leerings had eased their journey.

Their rations had already vanished, but the kishion was adept at living off the land, even though the fare was not to her liking—lizards and rodents and sometimes bats for meat. She was starving for a decent meal and hoped they would reach the ship within the next few days. Sailing to her doom in Naess would almost be a relief so long as she had a bed to sleep on for the voyage.

“Let me check for bites,” the kishion said, motioning toward her ruined gown.

The front of the garment had been torn when the soldiers her father had sent as her protectors attempted to snatch the kystrel from her neck and choke her to death. She clenched the fabric tighter around her throat and shook her head. “When we reach the ship,” she said. “I don’t feel any bites.”

He snorted, shrugged, and rose, surveying the Leering and rubbing his bandaged hand across the rippled edges of the stone. He sniffed at it, his expression one of disgust or superstition, and waited for her to summon water for them to drink.

Maia brushed a mass of tangled hair behind her shoulder and bent at an angle next to the Leering so that the gushing waters wouldn’t soak her. She invoked the kystrel, and the fire-coal eyes of the Leering ignited instantly. Water began gushing from the slats where the mouth had once been carved. Maia rinsed her filthy hands first, scrubbing away the dirt and muck, feeling the cool clean water play across her fingers. She cupped water into her palms and gulped it down, coming again for another drink. Then a third. The excess water dribbled onto a small bed of silt at the base of the Leering.

The kishion took his turn once she was through, burying his head under the stream of cold water before tipping his scarred lips up to the flow and gulping down deep swallows. Maia rested her palm against the Leering.

When her skin touched the stone, an image burst into her mind so sharp and clear it was as if a window to another place had opened and she could see both places at once.

Who are you?

The thoughts came from a man—a man kneeling in front of another Leering, another of the waymarkers leading to the lost abbey. She recognized his surroundings instantly, a grove of dead bones and rusted armor. It was the graveyard of some vicious battle where the participants had all slaughtered one another. The man’s hair and beard were ash blond; his countenance was tired and stained with grime. His black Dochte Mandar tunic was splattered with mud, and he clenched his own kystrel in his left hand.

Who are you, girl?

His fierce thoughts snatched at her mind, gripping her in a vise that bound her to the Leering. She could not move. She could not breathe. Soldiers wearing the uniform of Dahomeyjan knights scuttled around the man. Panic began to churn inside her. These men were also in the cursed woods . . . and they were hunting her. She could sense the blazing intensity of the blond man’s thoughts.

Maia tried to release the Leering, but her hand would not move. A surge of piercing power cut through her marrow and sinews, binding her fast.

I have her
, the man thought to someone else. Another Dochte Mandar loomed into view and he put his hand on the stone next to the blond man’s. His thoughts joined the fray.
She slept by the gargouelle last night. Orlander is almost there. I will try and hold her until they come. We have her! She is the one we seek.

Maia shoved at his thoughts with her will. The vise-like grip of the power that had her pinned groaned, and she tried to pry free. Some of her memories leaked through the bond.

She is strong, Corriveaux!
the second Dochte Mandar thought, almost admiring.

Not as strong as me,
the blond man snapped. She could still see him . . . the bearded one, Corriveaux. His thoughts began to intrude into her mind. His will was like a bar of iron, and he used it to bludgeon her resistance, his jaw clenched with fury.

Yes, you
are
Marciana Soliven,
Corriveaux thought to her.
We seized your ship and crew. Whilst you slept, I sent soldiers ahead with two hunters. Do not think you can escape me. Yield, Lady Marciana.

Maia’s whole body trembled with fear and rage. She flexed her will against theirs and felt the resistance start to budge. Corriveaux scowled, his brooding look turning darker.
I see you. You cannot outmatch the resources of the King of Dahomey. We will hunt you down, my lady. Trust that. You cannot escape. When the soldiers arrive, you will surrender to them. You will instruct your protector to hand over his weapons. You will . . .

Maia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the Dochte Mandar’s thoughts. Despite her best efforts, they embedded themselves into her consciousness like runes carved into a rock. He was forcing his will on her, commanding her to obey his instructions. A raw compulsion gripped her, and she knew that if she saw those men, she would obey.

“My lady?” the kishion asked, looking up at her, at last sensing something was amiss.

She could not speak. Her tongue clove to her mouth. She looked down at him, her eyes pleading.

Leave me alone
, Maia thought in desperation.
Do not interfere.

I cannot hold her,
the second Dochte Mandar thought with a groan of mental anguish.

We have her,
Corriveaux thought.
With both of us, we can tame her. Do not slacken your thoughts!

The grip on her mind tightened further, sending a piercing shard of agony into her skull. She began to moan, feeling her will crumble. Her knees were shaking, and the rest of her body started to convulse. She hunkered inside herself, summoning reserves of strength and determination. She would battle them off. There was no choice. She was willing to die in her quest, but not this soon.

Lady Marciana, you will surrender. You will surrender. You
will
surrender!

Her breath gushed out of her as the kishion tackled her away from the waymarker and landed on top of her. With her connection to the Leering abruptly broken, she felt herself free of the torturous grip on her mind. She was soon hyperventilating, gasping for breath.

“They found us!” she gasped through chattering teeth. “The Dochte Mandar are in the woods!”

“Where?” he asked, getting up quickly and pulling her with him. He unsheathed a blade and whirled around, staring into the dark woods.

“The way we came,” she said, pointing west. “I saw them in my mind. They said they have our ship and crew. They knew we were camping by the boulder, so they sent men ahead, including two hunters. We must flee, but where? Now we have no way of crossing the water.”

Her heart pounded with confusion. This was a foreign land. It was the land where death was born.

“If the ship was taken, then the west is closed to us. We have no choice—we must go north and cross Dahomey on foot.”

Maia knew he was right, though she dreaded it with all her heart. An ancient rivalry existed between Comoros and Dahomey. The ruler of Dahomey was an ambitious and ruthless young king who had sworn to humble her father and subdue Comoros, not only for daring to expel the Dochte Mandar, but also for breaking the long-ago plight troth binding him to Maia. What the King of Dahomey did not know was that her father’s kingdom was already rife with violence and unrest. And now its fate rested on her shoulders, the banished daughter her father had disinherited.