The Banished of Muirwood (25 page)

The afternoon waned, and she was about to give up hope when she heard boots marching up to the attic. Her heart began to pound with excitement. She waited at one side of the room as the door was unlocked. Two men entered, but she only recognized one of them. One of her visitors was handsome and wore a soldier’s uniform with her father’s crest and a sword belted to his waist. One of her father’s knights—Carew. The other wore a nobleman’s finery and the stole of the chancellor’s office around his neck.

She curtsied formally, despite her ragged dress.

“Ah, Lady Marciana,” the chancellor said. “This is Captain Carew. I am Crabwell. Do you know of me?”

“You are the king’s new chancellor?” she asked.

He nodded discreetly. “I served under Chancellor Walraven as a scribe. He always spoke highly of you. He said you had great intelligence. A natural gift for languages.” He switched his tongue to Dahomeyjan. “Is that still true?”

“It is, my lord,” she responded in kind, changing her inflection.

“Wonderful,” he said flatly. His eyes were dark and brooding. He looked nothing like Walraven, save for silver in his hair. He was broad around the shoulders, though not very tall. He tugged at one of his gloves. “I understand from Lady Shilton that you stubbornly cling to your past title as princess, refusing to acknowledge the Act of Inheritance.”

Maia stared at him, feeling her hope turn to ash. She sighed wearily, feeling her shoulder slope. “Lord Chancellor, who gave you your title?”

“The king. Your lord father,” he answered crisply.

“And if my father wishes it, could he remove the chancellorship from you as he has with your predecessors?”

“Naturally,” he responded. “He is the king. Which is why, by the Act of Inheritance—”

She cut him off. “My title was not given to me by the king,” she said firmly. “It is not a title that can be stripped away by an act. I am the Princess of Comoros because my mother is the Queen of Comoros and my father is the King of Comoros. They were anointed such by an Aldermaston.” She shook her head gravely. “How can I submit to an act unless it comes from that same authority?”

The guardsman smirked at Maia’s little speech and gave her an approving nod.

The chancellor eyed her shrewdly. “So what you are saying, Lady Maia,
the king’s daughter
, is that you will renounce your title if an Aldermaston proclaims it so?” His smile was mocking. “I think that can be arranged. Very well, I bid you good day. Captain Carew, let us depart with the king’s retinue.”

“Please!” Maia said, grabbing his sleeve. He looked down at her unwashed hand with disgust. “May I see my father and kiss his hand? I will not even speak to him. I wish only to see him.”

Chancellor Crabwell shook off her grip. “Lady Maia, the king’s daughter, that is entirely under
your
control. Should you wish to be reinstated to court immediately—today—all you must do is renounce your title. It is only your extreme stubbornness that prevents this.”

“Did my lord father say this?” she asked him with a hard edge in her voice.

“Indeed he did. Good day, Lady Maia, the king’s daughter.”

He nodded to Captain Carew and they both turned and left. The door was locked behind them. Maia stared at the peeling paint, her heart heavy and weary. As she listened to the boots thudding down the steps from the attic, she realized that her father would soon depart without even attempting to see her. She bit her lip, determination burning in her heart. He would see how far his daughter had been reduced. It was unthinkable for him to leave without at least acknowledging what he had done to her. She hurried to the window and thrust it open. A fragment of glass wobbled out and fell.

Maia climbed out of the dormer window and carefully pulled herself onto the roof. Doves hooted and fluttered away from her as she carefully trod up to the spine of the roof and came down the other side, toward another gabled window. She could hear the nickering of horses and carriages from the host assembled in the courtyard below. Flags and pennants whipped in the wind, and she felt her hair streaming across her face. She had not been outside for months, as the Shiltons would not allow her to walk the gardens or enter the streets for any reason. She had been starving for sunlight.

As she reached the far end of the roof, she caught sight of a small terraced ledge just below her that connected to the master bedroom. The terrace overlooked the courtyard. She crouched on the edge of the roof, feeling several loose shingles beneath her feet, and scooted to the edge. There was her father, striding across the courtyard with Crabwell and Carew in tow, deep in discussions with them both. Maia almost lost her courage, but she did not quail. She jumped off the edge of the roof onto the terrace edge just below. Her legs jolted with the impact and the sound attracted attention.

“On the roof!”

“Look, someone jumped!”

“My lord, be careful!”

Maia made it to her feet and went to the edge of the terrace, staring down. “Father!” she cried out.

He stared up at her, wearing ostentatious robes and finery, his hat plumed with several enormous feathers. He stared up at the terrace, and she saw his look of shock at seeing her up there, her dress threadbare and torn, her hair disheveled and filthy.

Maia sank to her knees, bowing her head and clenching her fingers together in a mute appeal.

There were gasps of shock and surprise. Her eyes bored into his.

“Please, Father,” she whispered. “Please do not let me stay here. It is killing me.”

He looked up at her, his expression twisting with sorrow. He bowed to her once, touching his velvet feathered cap. Then he mounted his stallion and rode away, not looking back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Wayfarer

M
aia awoke from the deep slumber slowly, feeling the warmth of sunlight on the crook of her back and hearing the warbling of birds. It was an effort to open her eyes, and when she did, her surroundings were unfamiliar. There was another sound she heard, a soft scraping noise, like a bird scratching a trunk with its beak. Her head throbbed dully as she pushed herself up, twigs and brush poking her breast.

“Ah, she awakens. It is noon and she revives.
Sangrion.
”

Maia started, for the voice came from behind her and she did not recognize it. She looked over her shoulder and found a man sitting cross-legged in the brush, his back against a large pine. He wore a dirty cloak over a dirty frayed tunic and worn leather sandals. His hair was thick and dark with spikes of white through it. He had intense dark eyes that were regarding her with an inscrutable look.

“Good noon, sister,” he said, his accent heavy and thick.

Maia blinked at him, feeling a sudden jolt of fear. She did not know him, yet he knew her . . . or at least something about her. The fringe of silver at his throat—a chaen shirt—marked him as a maston, and a tome lay open on his lap. He bore a stylus in his left hand, and she could see from the aurichalcum shavings that he had been engraving. That was the scratching noise she had heard.

“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely. Her throat was so thick she could hardly speak.

He chuckled and wiped the shavings away from the tome. “I am a wayfarer. A wanderer. I travel the kingdoms writing the history of the people. This is Mon. It is
my
country.”

Maia’s uneasiness clotted inside her like blood. “You are a maston.”

“Aye, sister.” He looked down at the tome and touched the stylus to continue writing. The little scratching noise sounded again.

Maia could feel a threat bubbling inside her. Anger seethed like a stewpot, though she did not know why. She sat up and looked around. Her rucksack was nearby. The small movement revealed the stiffness and soreness of her muscles.

“And you, sister, are a hetaera,” he said, still scriving, without looking up.

She stared at him in dread and fear. She felt the power of the kystrel begin to hiss in her heart. She did not want to hurt him. “I must go,” Maia said worriedly.

“Stay,” he said curtly. “I have not delivered my message.”

“Message?” Maia asked. Something told her to be afraid of this man. That he would harm her if she stayed. She did not trust the impulse, but she wanted to bolt into the trees as fast as she could.

“I am not a
pethet
, sister. I will not harm you. It is noon. The Unborn are weakest in the daylight. The power grows inside you, though, even now. You must be rid of it soon, before it claims you fully. Then others will join it, and you will be lost.” He smiled viciously. “It
wrestles
for you. Will you let it win? Hmmm?”

Maia looked at him pleadingly. “Can you make them go away?” she asked with breathless hope.

He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “I cannot. I am a wayfarer, sister. I write the stories. I do not make them.”

A violent spasm of rage made her want to strike out at the man, but she folded her arms and dug her hands into her ribs to regain control of herself. She started to rock back and forth.

“What are you writing in your tome?” she asked, her teeth starting to chatter.

He smoothed his hand across the gleaming page. “The truth, sister. Only that.”

She licked her lips. “And what is the truth that you write now?”

His wizened eyes locked on to hers, and she felt shame splash color on her cheeks. She looked away, unable to hold his penetrating gaze.

“I wrote that a hetaera from Comoros,
the king’s daughter
, burned Cruix Abbey to the ground. It was
my
abbey, sister.” His face was solemn, not accusing. “I do not hate you for what you did. Who am I to judge the king’s daughter? The truth is your father is a
pethet
. He does not deserve the title ‘father.’ However, there are many
pethets
who wear that title, though it fits them poorly. When
pethets
rule, the people mourn. I do not judge you, sister. I have written your sad story for many years.”

Maia felt tears burning in her eyes. “Are they . . . are they all dead at the abbey?” she gasped. In part of her mind, she could see the cliffs burning with fire as the abbey went up in flames. That sick foreign part of her reveled at the sight, thrilled by the scorching flames.

The man’s voice was firm and void of emotion. “The Aldermaston only and not yet. He could not flee.” He sighed. “You kissed his forehead, sister. Your lips bring a curse. They bring death.” His voice dropped low. “A betrayer’s kiss. It has always been so, even on Idumea.”

Tears trickled down Maia’s cheeks—a foreign sensation since she so rarely cried. The tears were hot and wet and they seared her skin as they fell from her lashes. “I am sorry,” she gasped. Maia gazed up at the tops of the trees, her heart dying with regret. She buried her face in her hands and wept. She should fling herself off a cliff. She had to save the world from what she had become. Death was the only way to end the madness in her life. If she could not control her actions, if she could not stop the Myriad One inside of her, she could at least do no more harm.

“Do you think that would help, sister?” the stranger said softly, his voice slightly mocking. “Your thoughts are tangled with
her
thoughts. Do you realize that? If you jumped, she would cause the Medium to blow you back up to the top. And then
another
of your choices would bind you to her.”

Maia stared at him, her eyes wet. “You can hear my thoughts?”

“It is one of my Gifts,” he replied sternly. “What a burden!” Then he chuckled softly to himself. “You can imagine the joy of hearing what everyone you meet thinks of you.
Pethet recolo!
There is fat, smelly Maderos! His breath reeks. His ankles are too skinny and his middle too ripe. He is crooked. He is ugly. Bah!” He waved his hand in the air. “How quickly we judge each other. How quickly our thoughts condemn us. The Medium looks on the heart, sister. Not the face. You are judged by the choices
you
make. Not the choices of others.”

She looked at him pleadingly. “How can I rid myself of this . . . this creature inside of me?”

“Bah, you already know! Seek the High Seer.”

Maia struggled with her doubts. “That is what the Aldermaston of Cruix told me. But the Myriad One also seems to be sending me to Naess. How do I know what the Medium’s will is?”

He scratched the corner of his mouth with the butt of the stylus. “I told you that your thoughts are tangled. You are deep in the enemy’s power. But your
lineage
is strong in the Medium.” His voice hushed. “Very strong, sister. You must learn to discern between the voice in your head and the voice in your
heart
.” He then tapped the stylus against his temple. “Aldermaston Josephus said, ‘Truth I will tell you in
your mind
and in
your heart
, by the Medium, which will come upon you and dwell in your heart.
’
” He sniffed. “Aldermaston Pol said, ‘The peace of the Medium, which passeth all understanding, will keep your hearts
and
minds.’ You must study at an abbey, sister. There is much wisdom in the Aldermastons’ tomes. More wisdom and truth than you have found in the tomes of the Dochte Mandar.”

She frowned. “I have always wanted to study at an abbey, Maderos. My father forbids it.”

He pursed his lips. “I know, sister. As I have told you, I have written your life. I have a keen interest in your Family. Now, for my message.”

She looked at him in surprise, drying her eyes. Somehow, their conversation had made her feel better. A feeling of peace and quiet had settled on her as he quoted from the words of the Aldermastons. It felt as if the ancients’ wisdom had tamped down the darkness inside her. “I thought you already had—”

He clucked his tongue. “No, sister. I gave you morsels of counsel from an old man who has seen much of this vile world. I was sent with a message to give you.” He opened a large leather knapsack and rummaged through the contents. “Ah,
blessit vestiglio!
” He pulled out a folded paper with a wax seal. “I saw her melt the wax to fix the seal,” he said. “It has not been opened or changed by anyone since leaving her hand.”

Maia stared at him in surprise. “Who?” Her heart began to burn inside her.

He did not reply, only handed her the letter.

Maia snapped the seal and unfolded the paper, which trembled in her hand. The first word made her heart seize with joyful pain and the tears flow afresh.

Daughter
.

It was written in ink, in a tremulous hand. It was from her mother. She had never seen her mother write anything in her life. Always she dictated to secretaries or scribes who wrote her letters for her, as women were not permitted to read or engrave. The hand was elegant, and Maia could see a hesitance in her choice of wording, as if it were not a natural thing for her to write. She mopped her tears on her sleeve and read impatiently.

Daughter,

I have heard tidings today that I perceive (if they are true) that the time
is very near when the Medium will prove and test you. I am glad of it. The Medium will not suffer you to perish if you beware offending it. I
pray you, good daughter, to offer yourself to the Medium. I have heard
that you suffer much under Lady Shilton. If she brings you orders from the king, I am sure you will be commanded what you should do. Listen to my counsel, Daughter. Answer with few words, obeying the king, your father, in everything save only that you will not offend the Medium and lose your own soul. Go no further in learning the ways
of the Dochte Mandar. And wheresoever, and in whatsoever, company
you shall come, observe the king’s commandments that are right.

One thing I especially desire for you, for the love that you do owe unto me. Keep your heart and mind chaste, and your body free from all ill and wanton company. Do not desire any husband save he be a maston. I dare to hope that you shall see a very good end and better than you can now hope for. We never come to Idumea but by our troubles. More than any earthly Gift, I desire above all to see you again, before death separates us.

Your loving mother,

Catrin the Queen

Maia wiped her nose, watching as the tear splotches on the paper stained the ink. She looked down at her lap, feeling as if a warm blanket had been draped around her shoulders. Just those few words, written in her mother’s own hand, gave her more comfort than she had ever known.

What a wreck Maia had made of her life. She knew, though, deep inside, that despite her wrongs, her mother would forgive her and still accept her. She so longed to see her.

“Is my mother still at Muirwood?” Maia whispered thickly.

“Aye, sister. But your destiny bids you north.”

She sighed, then looked painfully at Maderos.
Will I ever see her again?

Maderos gave her a lopsided smile. “All things are possible to the Medium,” he answered.

Maia rose and hefted her rucksack onto her shoulder. She bit her lip. “I will not venture near any abbeys on my journey,” she said. “I did not know . . . what would happen. I am sorry.”

He stuffed his tome in his leather bag and grabbed a gnarled walking staff, using it to rise. The staff was misshapen with a knobby end. It looked like the twisting root of a hulking tree.

“As I told you, sister. You are condemned for your choices. Just as the Myriad Ones were condemned for theirs.”

“How far am I from Naess?” she asked. “It is noon, so I cannot determine which way is north.”

He lifted his crooked staff and pointed toward a tall, craggy mountain wreathed in snow. “Across the Watzholt, you will find the kingdom of Hautland. You must cross it to reach the port cities, like Rostick. There you can find a ship. Be wary, sister. The Hautlanders help lead the Dochte Mandar’s hunt against women who break their laws. They are the closest kingdom to Naess, so they are the most influenced by them. And beware the Victus. They hunt you still.”

“Who are they?”

He smiled knowingly. “You will see, little sister. You will see.”

“Will you walk with me, Maderos?” she asked. “I feel safe with you. I do not have any companions now.” She thought tenderly on the wounded kishion, knowing he would need to rest before moving. But Jon Tayt and Argus might follow her, and though she desperately wanted to see them, she could not risk their lives with the evil inside her.

A crinkled smile. “No, sister. I delivered the message as I promised. We cannot control the storms or the rain. We cannot prevent the wind from howling. But you can choose to whistle, eh sister?” He began to whistle, and started off to the east. She watched him go, amazed at the speed of his stride. Soon he vanished into the woods, leaving her alone.