The Banished of Muirwood (30 page)

She found the bridge she sought and crossed it. She was surprised to see the water was not fetid or reeking of dead fish, given the cramped conditions of the city. The water was as immaculately clean as the cobblestone streets . . . but how was it all kept that way? After crossing the bridge, she began searching the ships for any markings of Dahomey or Comoros. She needed to find someone who could guide her.

“Bick nuffen,”
someone said at her sleeve, tugging her. She whirled and saw four young men dressed in wharf garb with dark scarves around their necks.
“Bick nuffen trollen?”

Most of them laughed. One of them began fishing in his purse for coins.
“Septem? Goch, drillow!”
One of the other young men butted his comrade in the belly with his elbow and leered at her.

Maia understood. They thought she was a girl who sold herself for money.

“No,” Maia said firmly, her eyes blazing with anger and loathing. Her mouth firmed into a frown and she shook her head and stormed away.

“Doch! Bick nuffen, doch!”

She heard them following her, so she marched faster, her eyes scanning the wharf for a sign. There were only men around her, and she realized, belatedly, that she was violating another tradition in Hautland.

The men continued to follow her. She glanced back once and discovered the group had grown from four to six. Onlookers continued to gaze at her with open contempt and murmur to one another. There were different expectations of women in this kingdom and she was clearly violating them on every level. She hugged herself as she walked, trying to ignore her pursuers in the hopes they would relent.

So many ships. Most were facing upriver and moored to the wharf, but some of them were being turned about by long poles and ropes, their bulks facing outward as they prepared to set sail. The amount of traffic and congestion was baffling, but there was a certain order and rhythm to it. Commands were barked and then promptly obeyed. Men worked in unison, in small crews. Again, there were no women anywhere.

“Bick nuffen!”
Someone grabbed her arm from behind. She spun around and raised her hand, but the man caught her wrist and squeezed hard. It hurt, but she ignored the pain. A group of men had gathered around her and she could feel them crowding her away from the wharf and toward the wall. It was like an unstoppable tide. There were so many bodies pressing around her that when a hand reached down to squeeze her rump she did not know whose it was.

The man holding her wrist leered at her.
“Cozzen, bick nuffen. Cozzen sprout.”

She spit in his face.

That shocked them. He released her in surprise to wipe the spittle from his cheek, and a look of murder filled his eyes.
“Cozzen freegin!”
he shouted at her and backhanded her sharply across the face. Her head rocked back, but she had been struck before and harder. She did not lose her balance or cry out in pain. Instead, she stared at him defiantly.

Again, she surprised them with her brazen resistance. Several more backed away nervously, leaving an open space around her.

“No,” she said, dreading what was to come. The kystrel’s power began to rise inside her. The dark part of her burned to life with the anger she felt. She could quench their lust and their anger and leave them lying in the gutter. She should not. She knew she should not.

“Ick dirk?”
the man said contemptuously, gazing down at her blade. Then he drew a sword from his belt.

Someone fell down next to the man who threatened Maia. A bloom of blood stained the fallen man’s shoulder and he howled with pain. Then there was another cry of pain. The wall of men surrounding Maia parted, backing out of the way of a man wielding a bloodied sword.

“Mein bick nuffen,”
the man said with a deadly voice. A voice she recognized. A voice that cut through the conflicting noise in her head.

It was Feint Collier.

That was all Collier said before slicing the wrist of the man who held the sword, smashing his nose with an elbow, and kneeing him hard in the groin. As the man crumpled to the cobblestones, Collier went after the next one.

Maia heard the sound of blades clearing sheathes all around her.

In all the kingdoms, the Aldermastons are empowered to teach mastons their oaths. But there must always be one Aldermaston who has the Gift of Seering. This Aldermaston, male or female, is chosen as the High Seer. When the High Seer dies or is slain, the Aldermastons from all the abbeys assemble and the Medium chooses, through a secret Leering, who the new High Seer will be. To serve as the High Seer is a heavy burden, great-granddaughter. It is a heavy burden indeed. It will be your burden, and it will be heaviest on you in the land of the darkest night.

—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey

CHAPTER THIRTY

Queen of Dahomey

C
ollier moved like a serpent. That was the only way to describe it. He was all supple grace, rippling away from blows with ease before stinging with his fangs. He did not wait for the others to strike first. They were surrounded by over a dozen men with blades, and he took the fight to their cheekbones, their eyes, their wrists, their bowels. Stab, swish, parry—lunge. Maia had seen Paeizian fencing masters before. In her former life, she had even trained under one in her father’s court. But this was not a controlled ritual. This was a fight to the death.

Someone’s eye was pierced and she winced at the sound of it, the impact followed by a yelp and shriek of pain. Blood bloomed like flower petals from her attackers’ shoulders, arms, and waists. She could see why the King of Dahomey had earned the nickname of
Feint
. His moves were completely unpredictable and utterly savage. Several of the men tried to rush him from behind, but he swept low, parrying multiple blades with a single stroke before flicking out his own blade like a serpent’s tongue, meticulously stabbing his opponents in vulnerable locations, dropping them with graceful ease and debilitating wounds.

One of the victims lost his blade at Maia’s feet, and she swept it up by the hilt. It had been years since she had handled such a blade, but she knew what to do. The foes were thinning quickly, but she sliced the arm of one of the men lunging at Collier’s back. The man growled in pain, scowled at her, and without further ado, fled into the crowd. They had attracted the eyes of everyone on the wharf and sailors hung from the rigging of their boats to get a better view of the fight.

Maia watched as a man in a black jeweled tunic approached them from the wharf with an ornate blade in his hand. He had a trim goatee and an earring in one ear. Sweeping back his cloak, he shouted out a challenge that sent several of their opponents scurrying away.

The man did not look to be a Hautlander and when he shouted again, Maia recognized his tongue as Paeizian. He was challenging Collier to a duel.

Using the distraction, another man slowly slipped up behind Collier with a dagger, and Maia kicked him in the ribs, knocking him down, winning her chuckles of approval from the gathering crowd. She stood near Collier, blade held defensively in a bell guard stance, and positioned herself to protect his back.

Collier’s voice was sardonic. “Thank you for making it so easy to find you.”

“Are you going to fight him?” she asked, watching the black-clothed man approach.

“Not many other options at the moment.”

The two men faced off, swishing their blades down in an informal salute. Maia felt the power of the Medium radiating out from Collier, sending tendrils of oily fear into the air. The two engaged without another word, their blades flashing in the morning light and clashing sharply against each other. Both men were masters, Maia could see, and the simple blows that had disarmed or set down Collier’s previous opponents would not work the same way against this man.

The two traded parries and lunges, their weapons whistling death. The newcomer, who was older and more worldly, frowned in concentration as he deflected the blows Collier aimed at him, then riposted ruthlessly. Their blades clashed and the feeling of fear in the air darkened and intensified. Maia could see that emotion in the eyes of the other observers, who backed away from the combatants for fear of their lives.

“He is good,” Collier said, sweat dripping from his nose.
“Melle bene.”

The man with the goatee dipped his chin to acknowledge the praise.

Maia looked down the street and saw a retinue of Dochte Mandar marching toward them.

“They are coming,” she warned. “He is only here to stall us.”

“Give me a
moment
more,” Collier said, his voice strained as he arched his back and twisted away from his opponent’s thrust, but not quickly enough to escape a shallow cut that sliced open his shirt, exposing the kystrel beneath it and sending a rivulet of blood down his front. When Maia saw the kystrel, her thoughts went black and she struggled to keep her own mind.

No! No! Not now!

Collier slammed his elbow down on the man’s wrist, then punched his pommel guard into the man’s lip so hard his head tossed back. He twirled his body around and clipped the man’s boot, knocking him on his back. The blade clattered from the Paeizian’s hand. Collier poised over him and the man’s eyes went wide with terror as the blade jabbed at his chest. There was a chink of metal as the tip of Collier’s sword was deflected off something under the man’s shirt.

“Thought so,” Collier said angrily. “A Victus.” Then he adjusted his aim and plunged his blade into the man’s forearm, impaling it. There was a howl of pain and agony.

Collier’s face was flushed, his breathing heavy, but in a fluid series of movements he jerked his blade loose, grabbed Maia’s arm, and pulled her after him. “Run,” he ordered.

They charged away from the advancing Dochte Mandar, who struggled through the disintegrating crowds. Shouts and warnings threatened them from behind, but the crowds parted as they made their way through it. The naked swords they wielded ensured it.

“The
Argiver
!” Collier shouted, jutting his blade to point the way. The boat he indicated was already facing the right direction, making ready to sail. Cries of alarm filled Maia’s ears, and they ran as hard as they could, rushing along the wharf toward the vessel.

“Drop it,” he yelled. “Drop the sword!”

She watched him sheathe his own weapon as he ran, but—deciding to trust him—she cast hers away, hearing the metal thump against the wood of the docks.

The shouts and screams from behind them were getting louder.

Collier’s hand gripped hers. His fingers were hot and she clung to them tightly, feeling her stomach begin to bubble as she realized what he intended to do. They were going to jump off the pier.

“Are we—?”

She could not finish the words. He leaped off the edge of the wharf, pulling her with him, and she barely had time to gulp in a breath of air before they struck the chill waters and plummeted into the depths. Her gown felt like an anchor pulling her down through the churning waters. She felt Collier’s arm around her waist and he was swimming, pulling her after him. All was tumultuous and wet, but his grip was firm and strong as he clutched her to him and stroked toward the ship. She kicked in rhythm with him, giddy with the thrill of their escape.

A lurching feeling.

Somehow, he was clinging to a rope and the men aboard the ship were hoisting them up. His arm still pinned her safely to his chest as they were dragged free from the waters.

Maia huddled under a wool blanket and sipped from a mug of warm broth, her hair dripping water into her eyes. She sat on a stool in the captain’s chamber, which was well furnished and tidy. A single bed was crammed against one wall, stuffed with a pallet and warm fur blankets. There was a window at the rear of the ship, but the curtains were drawn and a lantern swinging from a hook provided the only light.

Collier, who was wrapped up in a blanket himself, conversed with the captain in the open doorway.

“Are they blocking the harbor gate?” Collier asked.

“No, my lord. There is so much confusion on the wharf still. The Dochte Mandar cannot get past the crowd to warn them. My lad in the crow’s nest says there are three ships in front of us, but they are not halting anyone from leaving the river.”

“Excellent,” Collier said with a smile. “Watch the armada when we pass it, and let me know if any ships follow us. We are bound for Naess, are we not, my lady?”

“Yes,” Maia said, shivering.

“Well done, Stavanger. See my treasurer when we are done. A thousand marks, as I promised you.”

“You are quite welcome, my lord,” the captain said with a grin. His weathered face was covered in splits and crags and his head was topped with a thick ruff of graying hair. “I am quite comfortable in my second’s quarters. These are yours as long as you need them. Welcome aboard the
Argiver
, my lady. My queen. My apologies for the rough conditions, but this is a trading ship.” He smiled at her and ducked out of the room.

The boat swayed as it picked up speed. The current of the river sent it toward the sea, but first they would need to get past the harbor gate and its massive towers.

Collier shut the door and bolted it. He turned and gave her an enigmatic look. She saw the angry welt on his chest, still bleeding.

“You are hurt,” she said, rising from the bed. “Let me help you.”

“I have a healer on board,” he said. “But if you insist.”

“Sit down,” she said, motioning to the bed, and then rummaging through the captain’s things until she found some linen napkins. She fetched some woad from her pack and quickly made some paste from it. Collier lay down on the bed, one arm behind his head, and gazed at her curiously. He looked very comfortable and self-confident. She found her fingers trembling.

“Let me see it,” she said, scooting the stool over to the bedside. He undid the lacing of his vest and then opened the buttons of his ruined shirt. The new slash would leave a scar to join the others on his skin from dozens of little nicks and cuts. She had the sudden desire to ask how he had come by them, but the kystrel gleamed in the lantern light and caught her eye. She felt it draw at her mind—the force of it making her dizzy.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Yes, quite well,” she replied, struggling to control her thoughts.

“You looked at the medallion and swooned.”

“I am a little dizzy, that is all.” She blinked quickly. There was a shadowstain on his chest—just a small one, with the familiar whorl pattern. “You used the kystrel during the fight.”

“Of course I did,” he said. “The odds were uneven enough. But the man at the end—the Paeizian—he had one as well. He tried to shove his way into my thoughts and fill me with fear. I was not about to let him win, particularly not that way.”

Maia dabbed some of the woad against the wound. He winced, but did not flinch.

“That was brave of you,” she said softly. “Facing so many.”

A smirk twisted his mouth. “You could have scattered them easily enough yourself. Though not with a blade.”

She paused, looking down at him. Was he serving her or the Myriad One inside her? Where was his allegiance? She believed, deep down, that his understanding of her was flawed. If he believed she was a hetaera deliberately, and it was part of the reason he wanted her as a partner, what would he think when he learned that she wanted more than anything to be rid of the creature haunting her? Would he cast her aside? Did she want him to?

“What a grave expression,” he said shrewdly.

“I suppose it is,” she replied. “I was not expecting to see you in Rostick.”

“Are you
grieved
to see me in Rostick?” he asked teasingly.

Rather than answer the question, she said, “You took a great risk coming here. If the Hautlanders knew . . .”

He nodded. “Exactly. If they knew who either of us were. Hmmm. The ransom they would charge would cripple my kingdom. And I think even your father would ransom you.” He reached up and rubbed her chin with his thumb. “But if he did not, I would.”

“You enjoy taking such risks,” she said. “I should think you would be more cautious.”

“Life is risk,” he answered. “I thrill at the opportunity. Yes, that fencing master could have killed me. He took the same risk as I did, and he lost the use of his sword arm. Maybe permanently.”

“Why did you not spare him the wound?” Maia asked, smoothing ripples in the salve she had applied to the scar.

“You
never
spare a Paeizian the honor of sporting a vicious wound!” he said with a bark of laughter. “First of all, I was held hostage in Paeiz, so I have some natural resentment. But fencing masters are also arrogant and proud. If you best one, they will come at you again and again, trying to win back their lost honor. Give one a decent scar, and it becomes a badge of honor. Truly, it is maddening business, their sense of revenge. I have always been very capable with a sword. It comes naturally to me. When I was twelve, I defeated my first master. I was considered too young to be a target for a blood feud, but that changed when I was fourteen. They consider you man enough to die at that age.”