The Banished of Muirwood (34 page)

“Enough,” Corriveaux said. He darkened the Leerings again, but their light did not go out fully. Maia struggled to cling to her connection. She was drowning in darkness. The gardens were pale, the light wavering in the Leerings as her will and Corriveaux’s contested for them.

Help me,
Maia begged in her mind. She pleaded with the Medium.
I would rather die than accept this fate. Give me the strength to keep the light!

“You are strong,” Corriveaux grunted, impressed. She saw sweat glisten on his brow. “But given your heritage, you would be. It was crucial to our cause that you were never allowed to train in an abbey. I feel your will bending. You cannot defeat me. I have trained for too long. Of course, you were trained as well. One of the best Victus of all was assigned to tutor you. To
groom
you for your role as the empress who will destroy the mastons. Walraven did his job admirably.”

Maia licked her lips, her stomach wrenching, her mind pounding with pain. “I do not believe you,” she gasped.

“You doubt my words?” Corriveaux said. “You were sent to the lost abbey to become a hetaera. Not, as you may suppose, so that your father could divorce your mother. All has been part of our design. The Victus have fashioned you. You do not even begin to comprehend our subtlety, but then, we were trained by the best minds. Our ancestors could not read. They could not scribe until they were taught by your husband’s ancestor, the last Earl of Dieyre. What treasures of wisdom we learned from the tomes. You were made by Walraven, like a carving from a master sculptor. And he is here to appreciate and marvel at his creation.”

Maia stared at him. “What are you saying? He is dead!”

Corriveaux smirked. “There is a certain venom from a certain serpent in Dahomey, you see. A poison, if you will, which will render its victim lifeless for three days.” He spread his hands wide. “No one has opened his ossuary in your cursed kingdom. They would consider it sacrilege. Enter please, my friend Walraven. I think more than enough time has passed since you last saw your protégée.”

As his voice boomed out beside her, one of the wooden panels on the wall opened silently, revealing a secret door and tunnel.

Her childhood mentor stood before her. His wild silver hair was as unkempt as it had ever been, and he wore a royal dress similar to Corriveaux’s, including the scabbard and ruby-pommeled sword. His face was stern and serious, his eyes flat and free of compassion.

“Ah,” Walraven said, his voice croaking with age. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, addressing Corriveaux. “I told you she was destined to be a queen. Queen of the Unborn. Is she not magnificent?”

He bowed slowly to Maia, his wrinkled face full of crags. “Your humble servant.”

One of the hard lessons I have learned in my life is to seek the will of the Medium amidst my suffering. If I did not get what I wanted, I suffered; if I got what I did not want, I suffered; even when I got exactly what I wanted, I still suffered because you cannot hold on to anything in the physical world forever. Time is like water. Please understand this, great-granddaughter, and teach it to your posterity. Your mind is your predicament. It wants to be free of change. Free of pain, free of the obligations of life and death. But change is law and no amount of pretending will alter that reality. The Medium always brings change.

—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Ereshkigal

W
ith the words
your humble servant
, Walraven might as well have stabbed Maia in the ribs with a dagger. She stared at him, shock stricken, incredulous, but she recognized his face, the tone of his voice. It was a voice she had longed to hear. She had treasured those words he had scribbled on a piece of paper for her. Memorized them. That he would cast himself down so that she might rise up someday had been the crutch that carried her through many difficult days.

But he had raised her up for this? To become queen of the hetaera? Her stomach shriveled with disappointment and anguish, and a shroud of weariness fell on her.

“You have been prepared for this very moment,” Corriveaux said archly, gripping the ornate chair and stroking the polished wood. “You will reign supreme across all the kingdoms. The finest gowns. The most dazzling jewels. You will have lovers, wine, and coin in abundance. The world is yours for the plucking, my dear.” He walked toward her. “You will be the most beautiful woman of them all. Every fashion you wear, every tress of your hair will be envied. They will bow to you and simper for a glance, a look of approval, a compliment offered freely. And the men . . . they will
worship
you.”

Maia stared into Walraven’s eyes as Corriveaux spoke, her look accusing and full of daggers. “You did this to me,” she whispered. “You turned my parents away from each other. You . . . you
spoiled
their lives to create mine.” Her jaw trembled as a burning fury erupted inside her heart.

“I did,” Walraven said, stepping closer. His eyes were deep and piercing. A light flush came to his cheeks. “For this moment, I did it. So that you could claim your destiny. So that you could
become
.”

Maia stared down at the floor, at the rich carpets. The enormity of what these men were offering her rose like the dawn sun. She could have carriages and pets, servants and gowns, jewels and treats. At her word, men or women would be sent to the gallows. With her kiss on his knuckles, a man would die. The freedom they offered her was more vast than oceans and continents. She would rule them all. The thought of so much power and influence made her dizzy.

Her heart crumpled in pain and despair. She was weary of running. Her endurance was spent. Instead of a cage, her prison would be made of silk, gold, and damask. Instead of an iron collar, a golden tiara. She felt the blackness swelling inside her. Perhaps it was time to accept the future these men had built for her. Now, at least, she would have unlimited powers of revenge. All she needed to do was claim them.

For this moment. You were born for this moment.

Maia stared at Corriveaux, her vision blurring with blackness. It was like standing in the waves of the sea and getting dragged out by the surf. The sands at her feet were shifting away, urging her out into deeper waters. Wave after wave of the hetaera’s blackest thoughts pounded against her—
hatred, revenge, hatred, revenge
. It was vast and relentless. She realized she would live her life in dreams, while her body was used to commit atrocities. Better to bury her face in a pillow and never breathe again.

“If I will not?” Maia asked weakly, her voice coming out in a gasp.

Corriveaux chuckled coldly. “I think you will, my dear. We have invested so much in preparing you. The Victus are patient. So very patient. It would amaze you how patient we can be.” His voice was thick with meaning.

“But
if
I refuse?” Maia said, growing stronger, clenching her hands into fists.

“In the past, the Dochte Mandar would use poison to force a hetaera to accept her calling. Serpent venom. You will die to be reborn. There are rare cases when the poison does not work, of course. You seem naturally resistant to poison.” There was something in his voice she did not comprehend. “You would rather be a hostage than empress? You and your
husband
both? We could extort quite a ransom from your kingdoms. And if you think you are the only girl we have been preparing for this privilege, you are mistaken.” He took a step toward her, his face greedy and delighted. “But why make this so difficult?
Claim
your birthright.”

She backed away from him, her mind panicking. He was going to touch her shoulder. She could sense his intent. He was going to invoke the spirit inside of her. Images crashed inside her mind, like a thousand dishes shattering.

She would not submit, no matter how gilded the prison. She would
never
submit. She was the daughter of mastons. This was not her destiny.

“Do not touch me,” Maia said, holding her ground. She stopped retreating and stared at Corriveaux with defiance.

His face was livid with rage at being disobeyed. “You will submit, Lady Maia. I assure you. You will.”

She felt his will crushing against hers, filling her with terror and weakness and despair. His eyes glowed silver.

The feelings were not real, she told herself. They were as false as the dreams that had haunted her these past weeks. She gritted her teeth and pushed against them. He was very strong, but she did not summon her own magic. She did not invoke the kystrel’s power to defend herself. To do so in this moment would be to summon
her.
Iron bands wrapped around her thoughts, clenching against her, imprisoning her. She fell to her knees, her skirts rustling, and she bowed her head. Darkness swarmed her vision. She wanted to speak, to defy him, but her tongue was swollen in her mouth. She felt death whisper in her ear that if she did not submit, her soul would be wrenched from her body. Pain ignited across her skin; anger raged inside her.

I submit to the Medium’s will,
she thought, unable to utter a single word.
Use me as you will. If I must live in chains for the rest of my life, I will. If I must starve in a dungeon, I will. I will not willingly serve the Myriad Ones. I will only submit to the Medium.

It was as if a door opened inside her mind. Many times she had felt the power of the kystrel. This new feeling dwarfed it like a puddle would a lake. She felt the bands against her mind grow hot.

Walraven!
Corriveaux thought, panicking.
Join my thoughts! I cannot hold her!

Maia felt the rending of the bands, and she started to stand, feeling as if she had an enormous beam of wood across her shoulders weighing her down. Sweat stung her eyes as she pushed herself to her feet.

“No!” Corriveaux snarled. He grabbed her shoulder, the one with the hetaera’s brand. Her skin burned with fire and she felt as if furnace doors were closing around her soul. She was hot enough inside to melt metal, the power of the Medium fighting to save her.

Maia thrust the edge of her hand into Corriveaux’s throat and pried his hand off her shoulder with her other hand. He gurgled and bent double, choking at the blow. She stood taller, heaving against the doors closing on her mind, but they were too heavy.

You are mine,
seethed a voice in her head.
You wear my brand. You are my tabernacle.

I serve the Medium’s will. Not yours.

You will serve me!

Maia crumpled to her knees, straining against the weight.
I will fight you,
Maia vowed.
You may as well destroy me. You cannot claim me. I never consented.

Did you not?
the voice laughed.
In the tunnels beneath the lost abbey, you vowed to give me your life! You made that covenant when you were asked what you offered in exchange for the knowledge of how to save your kingdom. I hold you to it.

Maia huddled inside herself, bent double with the struggle.
Never willingly. You forced me. I am not your daughter.
In Maia’s mind, she conjured the image of her own mother.
Save me!

She cannot save you, foolish child. Even now, my servant ministers her death. Death by poison. Poison that was meant to kill you. She is too weak, too sick to survive as you do. He drips it on her lips whilst she sleeps.

Maia’s mind opened and she saw a small room, dark as night. There was a woman on a bed, whimpering in her sleep, her hair both dark and silver. A man stood over her, a small vial in his fingers. She recognized his scars, the coldness in his eyes. It was the kishion.

Serve me, and she lives. Serve me, and I spare her.

Maia saw the glimmer of moonlight through the veil of curtains. But she already knew the truth. She already knew her mother would die.

I serve the Medium’s will.

As Maia bowed her head, the furnace door slammed shut against her mind. Blackness. Isolation. Gibbering terror.

You chose foolishly,
the voice smirked.

And suddenly, in the midst of the impenetrable darkness, there was a prick of light and a voice. A woman’s voice. Her mother’s voice.

“You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart.”

The prick of light widened, growing brighter and brighter. A groan of pain wrenched from Maia’s lips. She heard another voice, spewing Dahomeyjan. It was her own voice, and the most vile curses blasted from her lips.

Patiently. Calmly. The voice repeated, “You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart.”

Maia shuddered with violent tremors. She felt something jar loose inside her. It was her soul. She was going to die. The pain was horrible. White light blinded her, as if every Leering in the garden had conjured the sun. She was going to vomit. She was going to explode.

In the light, Maia saw someone, but the light was painful to look at. The voice was her mother’s, but the face was not.

“You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart!”

The shredding feeling of her soul being ripped out eased, the force of it such that Maia collapsed on the rug, panting. She blinked, still blind, and breathed deeply. The air was unburdening. She took another huge swallow of air and suddenly her chest heaved and she sobbed. The feelings of taint and blackness were gone. The creature’s grip on her mind had finally been broken.

She felt arms wrap around her. “I am here, Maia. I am here.”

Maia could not see through her tears. She looked up and felt a thumb wipe away the moisture from her cheek. “Mother?” she whispered faintly.

“No, Maia. I am your grandmother.” The woman cupped Maia’s face between her palms and stared at her with blue-green eyes the same color as her own. The woman was slight and her wrinkled skin showed her age, but she looked so much like Maia’s mother it was startling. “I am Sabine Demont, High Seer of Pry-Ree.” She smiled with such warmth and love that Maia began to choke again on her tears. Her language switched to Pry-rian. “You are my lost one. My little girl. The Medium forbade me to see you until now. Until you made your choice. I have been holding vigil these last three days to summon enough strength to drive the spirit of Ereshkigal out of you. She is the Queen of the Myriad Ones, and she seeks revenge against our Family. You are my granddaughter.” Tears trickled down the wizened cheeks framed by crinkled gray-gold hair. Then she turned, gazing up at Walraven. “I told you, did I not? I told you she would not falter.”

Walraven’s expression had completely transformed. He came and knelt down by Maia, his face twisting with grief. “I am and always will be your most humble servant, Lady Maia,” he whispered hoarsely. He put his hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Forgive my many deceptions. I have secretly served the mastons since I met your grandmother in Muirwood Abbey. I am a traitor to the Victus, but hopefully my treachery has saved lives. Including yours.” He smiled wanly and then stood and addressed Sabine. “Lady Demont, you must flee Naess. The Dochte Mandar will kill you . . . they are already planning it. I have a ship waiting at the dock. You know the straits are heavily guarded, but I believe you may slip away . . .”

Maia’s grandmother stood and shook her head. “That would compromise you further, dear friend. There is no need; I have made other arrangements.” She looked down at the prostrate Corriveaux. “He will sleep under the Medium’s weight for a while. You must pretend to have been overcome by it as well. Your friendship is still needed. So is your loyalty. Thank you for all you have done.”

Walraven looked concerned. “Lady Demont, how will you escape?”

She smiled and tugged open a pouch hanging from her simple girdle. She plunged her hand inside and withdrew a glimmering golden orb that was the most intricate thing Maia had ever seen. It had strange golden stays and a middle that whirred and spun.

“The Cruciger orb!” Maia gasped, recognizing what it was from the legends she had read.

“But the island . . . the armada,” Walraven said, shaking his head.

“My ship is waiting for us,” she said, touching his arm and patting it patiently. “We will take the
Holk
to Muirwood, as agreed. Maia will be safe there. You must give us time, Chancellor. You must stall the armada from striking Assinica. Maia is not yet ready to take the maston test. She needs time.” She looked down at the orb. Maia stared at the determination and emotion in her grandmother’s eyes.