by Jeff Wheeler
“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 he
r 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.
Maia reached the base of the Watzholt before nightfall. She knew it would be too treacherous to attempt the crossing by moonlight, so she made a small camp for herself in the trees. After living off the land for as long as she had, she knew which herbs were edible, so though she was hungry, she was not starving. A small creek trickled past, providing icy waters to refresh her thirst. Though she was heavyhearted, she did not despair.
Maderos’s words repeated over and over in her mind. She had felt such peace when he recited the words from the Aldermastons’ tomes, as if those words held the power of the Medium. Was that why learners spent so much time reading and engraving? Could the words themselves be instruments of power? It was an idea she had never considered.
A frosty wind from the Watzholt came rushing down the mountain and ruffled the trees, making her shiver. It would be a difficult climb, she knew, but she had endured many hardships on her journey. She pulled her fraying cloak tighter around her shoulders, huddling in the small shelter she had created. She dared not build a fire for risk of being seen. She did not want anyone to find her, for fear of hurting them at night.
As night fell, she stayed awake, watching the pale moon rising. Although she still feared sleep, she knew she was safer when she was far from some bastion of civilization. She wondered what sort of people the Hautlanders were and when they would learn about the burning of Cruix Abbey. Otherwise she might be recognized by description. If she moved quickly enough, she hoped she could make it to the port city and slip away without being discovered.
Perhaps it was too much to hope for.
Maia heard something.
She lowered her cowl and heard grunts and heavy breathing. A prickle of fear filled her heart. Was some bear or wolf pack hunting her scent? It was coming fast, snuffling through the brush.
She grabbed the strap of her rucksack and was preparing to flee when she heard a distinctive howl and bark. Then Argus barreled into her makeshift camp, licking her face with wild joy.
“You found me,” she said, feeling guilt and pleasure simultaneously. “You found me, Argus.” She hugged him fiercely, burying her face into his fur. She heard the clomping of boots following the boarhound.
I have learned, mostly through painful experience, never to be dismissive of a friend’s accusation, even if it seems unreasonable. More often than not, it is well-meant, the truth, and something I have needed to hear but did not want to. It is an easy thing to be offended. It is difficult to learn something new about ourselves.
—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Hunted
Jon Tayt sat in the shadows of the tree, but his eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he stroked Argus’s flanks. He had confirmed what she already knew—there were enemies on their trail. Corriveaux had discovered she was not with the king and had crossed into Mon with a retinue of Dochte Mandar, arriving at Cruix Abbey the morning after it burned.
Maia stared at the sky, sickened by the knowledge of what she had done.
“Did they harm the kishion?” she asked him worriedly.
He shook his head. “The healer dressed the wound, but he was burning with fever when I left. I hid him in the mountains.”
“You must go there yourself, Jon Tayt,” she implored. “Go and guide travelers through the peaks again. It is not safe to be near me.” She sighed and tugged her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. “I could not bear it if you or Argus were harmed because of me.”
He snorted. “I fear not the Dochte Mandar,” he said in a low voice. “They have hunters to be sure, but I am better. We can slip away if we are wary and quick.”
“No,” Maia said, a little too forcefully. She wrestled with her emotions. “It is not safe to be near me. There is good reason the Dochte Mandar hunt me. I am a danger to everyone. Even you.”
She heard him scratch the whiskers at his neck. “You felled the abbey.”
“Yes,” Maia confessed.
“Why? Did they threaten you?”
“No, they were innocent.” She felt her throat catch and coughed to clear it.
“Then why, Lady Maia? Why did you do it?”
She stared miserably into her lap. “I was not in control of myself. At night, I have strange visions of the past. They are so vivid and real. When I sleep, I lose control of myself and . . . am taken over by another force. It is like a sickness. I thought the Aldermaston could cure me. Instead, I harmed him.”
Jon Tayt sniffed, but he did not look accusing. “Best to keep you away from abbeys then, my lady.”
She looked up at him. “I urge you to abandon me. I am hunted by the Dochte Mandar. Now I will be hunted by the Aldermastons. The Naestors, whom I seek, will slay me when they find out what and who I am. I cannot—will not—ask anything further of you.”
“You’ve said your piece. Let me say mine.” He was silent a moment, the only sounds the rustling of the wind through the trees and Argus’s panting. “It gives me some comfort that you did not destroy the abbey deliberately. I have suspected for some time that you suffer from a fever or delirium at night. We have tried to keep watch over you—the kishion and I. The two of us had a truce, so to speak. But you should have told me, Lady Maia. I have an herb, valerianum, that can cause drowsiness and deep slumber when mixed with a tea. It is worth trying, at any rate. Or I can bind and gag you at night . . . truss you up like a slaughter-bound boar and tie you to a tree. If you had told me, I could have helped ere it came to this.” He grunted. “You were foolish and you were proud. But you are not guilty. I have seen your heart, and you are fair and just, even to those who do not deserve it. You stopped Feint Collier from hanging us. You have always tried to save innocents,
even at great cost to yourself. So I will say this one thing and then we are done, by Cheshu.” He scooted forward a bit, staring her full in the face, his eyes boring into hers with an almost feverish intensity. “You cannot dismiss me. I am not your servant to be banished. I am your friend. If Argus trusts you, and he nary trusts anyone but me, then you are fit companionship. A friend does not abandon a friend during troubled times. That is when the friendship is needed most.”
Maia’s eyes pricked with tears. Something had come loose inside of her during Jon Tayt’s speech. She was grateful beyond words and felt a soothing balm of relief as tears slipped from her moist lashes.
“I do not deserve your friendship,” she said, swallowing her tears. “But thank you.”
“Bah, do not weep, lass. You do not shed tears on a trifle, which is one of the things I admire most about you. There are only two good reasons to weep, by Cheshu. The death of your mother or the death of your hound. Everything else is a trifle to be endured.”
Maia laughed softly at the sentiment. “Well, my mother is still alive. Still banished at Muirwood Abbey, so it seems.” She thought of the letter Maderos had given her. “I may not be fit to be called her daughter, but I hope to change that. And Argus . . .” She reached over and pet him. “He has not forsaken me either.”
“Get your own hound,” Jon Tayt said teasingly. “Every lass deserves a good hound. When Argus sires some pups, one shall be yours.”
Maia sat quietly for a while, massaging her shoulders in the gloom. “So you left the kishion burning with a fever. Will he survive?” she asked finally, almost dreading the answer.
“He is a hardy man,” Jon Tayt said. He sniffed. “I gave him some feverfew. He was very low and may not survive the day. But if he does recover, I would not be offended.”
Maia smiled sadly and shook her head. Part of her was relieved, but she would miss the kishion. He had come to feel like a friend.
Argus’s head snapped up, his ears taut.