The Void of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  Maia was grateful for the words, but she worried the assistance would not come in time. “Thank you, Chancellor. I did what I could.”

  They reached the outer doors of the palace and quickly descended the steps to a courtyard teeming with horses. Her spike-haired groomsman, Jacobs, stood holding the reins of her palfrey. “Up you go, Your Majesty,” he said with a grunt, helping her mount.

  As soon as she settled into the saddle, Jon Tayt inspected the girth straps to make sure nothing had altered.

  Jacobs looked affronted. “No one touched her, Master Tayt,” he said with a snort. “I assure you, I too know how to saddle a horse properly!”

  Maia was grateful to be mounted and ready to depart. She saw a hand reaching up toward her and noticed Carew was handing her a hooded cloak, a simple riding cloak, nothing to mark her as nobility. She accepted it and fastened the clasp.

  “She looks like she can run quite a ways,” Jon Tayt said, slapping the horse’s flank affectionately. “A sturdy girl. I like her.”

  “Thank you,” Jacobs said with barely concealed annoyance. “I am pleased she earns your approval.”

  Jon Tayt adjusted the strap of the shoulder armor he wore. He looked like a bristling hedgehog of weapons. Arrows fanned out from his back like turkey feathers. Several throwing axes were stuffed in hoops in his belt and a large battle-axe was strapped to a piece of leather on his shoulder. He was equipped with shooting gloves, dirks, and even a gladius for close combat. A shorter pony was waiting for him, and he quickly mounted up with a jangle of his weapons.

  “Your Highness!” shouted a voice.

  A herald wearing the livery of Caspur pressed through the swelling crowd. Maia waved for him to approach and he rushed over and quickly dropped to one knee in front of her. “My lady, my name is Collin, herald of the Earl of Caspur.”

  “What news?” Maia asked, seeing the man’s nervous look.

  “There has been a battle,” he said, coming up close. Richard Syon sidled up on foot, his face grave.

  Maia frowned, trying to keep her restless horse still.

  “The Naestors came inland and started killing stragglers. The earl could not abide the slaughter and led his men against them. It was a trap, and we were quickly outnumbered by reinforcements.”

  Maia closed her eyes, dreading the news.

  “The fighting was fierce, my lady. The Naestors are bloodthirsty and savage, but the earl’s men were not cowards. Though we were outnumbered, we fought them off. They went back to the ships to fetch more men and are coming at us again. The earl bade me to tell you that we are retreating as you ordered and will slow the Naestors’ advance as best we can. We lost many good men in the battle. But he wanted you to know they fought bravely. They fought for you.” He mopped his mouth on his glove. “He did not bade me to say this, but I will say it all the same. He rallied the men with a speech, my lady. He sang your praises to the skies. That you were a true queen-maston, that the Medium would deliver us from our enemies if we believed in you as he does. The men fought like lions, my lady. Even outnumbered as we were.”

  Maia felt a rush of pride and appreciation for the Earl of Caspur. “Well done, my lord,” she said, grinning down at the herald. “Thank you. I have full confidence in your master. How many did you lose?”

  The herald gave her a hard look. “Three thousand men,” he said chokingly. “But they lost six . . . maybe eight thousand. There was no time to count the corpses.”

  “How many more do they have attacking from the south?” Maia wondered aloud.

  The man looked at her fiercely. “It matters not. We will hold them, my lady. We will hold them all for you.”

  Maia gave him a grim smile and then regarded Jon Tayt as he brought his mount up next to hers.

  “A fine kettle of fish,” he said with a crooked grin. Despite his pointy beard, he almost looked like a boy on the eve of his nameday celebration.

  One more time, Maia looked back at Richard. “We will see each other again in Muirwood, Richard. We are coming home.”

  He gave her that look again, a fatherly look of tenderness and affection she had not seen from her own father since she was a small child. Although he would not say it, she knew that even though he worried about her, he was proud of her decision to stay with the people.

  As her retinue rode out of the courtyard and into the deserted streets, she saw with amazement that the streets had been swept clean. The people began to cheer for her long before she reached Ludgate. As she rode through the gate on the palfrey, the roar became deafening.

  It was well past dusk and Maia was exhausted. Servants had ridden ahead and set up pavilions and a camp for her host along the road leading to Muirwood. She was still waiting for word of the Naestors arriving at Comoros. Though the sun had set hours ago, she believed the ships would have arrived by now. Men had been left behind to watch what happened and bring her news as soon as it was available. She wandered the camp, stopping at cookfires to visit those who were traveling. Word spread quickly where the queen had camped, and well-wishers came in a continuous stream to seek her blessing or pay their respects.

  While the rest of the ladies-in-waiting had gone on to Muirwood, Suzenne had ridden hard to catch up with Maia. Unaccustomed to hard riding and camping, she looked haunted and completely out of her element. Maia wanted desperately to comfort her friend with positive news about Dodd, but no word had come during the day. His fate—and his army’s—was a complete mystery, adding to their many worries. With no news, she did not know how she could best console her friend. Upon Suzenne’s own insistence, she was overseeing the preparations for the pavilion where Maia would sleep that night—a task with which she felt more comfortable—while Maia visited with her people.

  “We made good time today,” Jon Tayt said, approaching her with a sniffle as she walked back to her pavilion. “Another hard ride tomorrow and we may even see the Hundred.”

  Maia watched the different passersby, looking for a sign of the kishion. She had no doubt he was somewhere in the camp. The flickering lights from torches and campfires would make it easy for him to skulk and hide among the travelers. She had a feeling he would come to her tent that night to watch her, and the thought made her feel a mixture of dread and relief. In truth, she was afraid of falling asleep, afraid of what visions her dreams would bring.

  As she and Jon Tayt wove through the maze of campfires, she fell silent, reminded of the night she had learned Collier was the King of Dahomey. She had been captured by his soldiers and brought to his command pavilion. There had been an element of fear in the air that night as well, but nothing like what she had experienced amidst the Dahomeyjan soldiers. The people were worried about the Naestors who had invaded. They were worried but not panicked. She could see their confidence in their eyes, their trust in her.

  As she approached her tent, which was smaller than Collier’s, her thoughts continued to cling to that night . . . the night she had learned about the brand on her shoulder. Collier had insisted on seeing her shoulder, and eventually she had relented.

  The memory brought a queasy, guilty feeling to her heart. A chill rippled through her back, her vision began to fray at the edges, and she started breathing hard. The whispers of the smokeshapes began to hiss sibilantly around her. She struggled to control her thoughts, to bring them toward cheerier domains. It was night. Was it nearly midnight? She could not tell through the web of trees above.

  Maia.

  She immediately recognized Murer’s voice in her mind. Panic and fear followed fast behind. In her mind, she began summoning images of Muirwood, of her mother’s garden. She thought of Thewliss and his white mustache and soft-spoken ways. She thought of Aloia and Davi in the kitchen, imagining them prattling and teasing each other.

  “Are you all right?” Jon Tayt asked, nudging her elbow.

  I thought you would wish to know where I am right now.

  Murer’s voice sliced through her thoughts. She began to feel what Murer w
as feeling. A giddy anticipation of triumph. The desire for revenge. Part of her vision began to slough away, and Maia could see through Murer’s eyes. Her stepsister was also walking in a camp of soldiers. It was night. The same moon hung in the sky.

  And then Maia saw Collier’s tent, stiff and impassive. It was dark, and there were soldiers guarding it.

  As she approached, one of the guards held out his hand. “The king is asleep,” he said gruffly in Dahomeyjan. “Begone, strumpet.”

  Murer hit him with a blast of fear and desire, and the hand instantly dropped. He backed away, looking at her with astonished amazement. “Your . . . Your Majesty!” he whispered in shock. “I . . . I beg your pardon! I thought you were another camp follower!”

  “He will wish to see me, I think,” Murer said with a seductive purr, in flawless Dahomeyjan. Maia could feel the heat radiating from her bones. Tongues of fire licked at her insides—fire that consumed and would never fail to burn.

  “Yes, yes at once!” the guard said, holding open the tent flap. It was dark within, but Maia could just make out the familiar scene. She had been there herself, after all.

  Yes, child, murmured Ereshkigal. All men submit to me. And you will watch it. This is my revenge on you as well.

  “Maia!”

  Firm hands grabbed her, and the vision shattered. She was back at her camp, crouched at the door of her pavilion. She had swooned, and Jon Tayt had caught her. The force of the hetaera’s thoughts thudded against her mind.

  “Help me,” Maia whimpered, and Jon Tayt led her dazed into the tent. Suzenne was waiting in there, and her eyes grew huge with concern. But it was impossible for Maia to process what was going on around her. She felt the tears squeeze through her lashes as she trembled and shook. No, not Collier, no . . . please! Her heart burned and ached, and she wanted to scream out in rage and desperation.

  “What is it?” Suzenne asked, rushing to her side. “She looks awful. What happened?”

  Maia covered her face and started to weep.

  Quickness is the essence of war. Strike where you are least expected. Overwhelm with terror and force. The resistance will shatter, and your enemies will flee. It is easier to destroy a man who is running away. It has been many years since the full force of the Naestors has been used. The kingdoms we have long enslaved will remember this Void for years to come. They will remember it, and they will fear us. I write these words from the Privy Council chambers in Comoros. We have destroyed the northern army. We are forcing Caspur’s army to retreat. From our station in Comoros, we will lead the assault into the hinterlands and destroy the young queen at Muirwood.

  —Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Defenders

  It was midnight. Suzenne sat with Maia, a tome spread on the table before them, and she read from it softly, using the words to drive away the terrors of the night. Maia shuddered helplessly, feeling her enemies prowling around her, seeking to stave their way into her mind and crush her. The soothing words from the tome provided just enough sparks of light to keep the darkness at bay.

  “You should sleep,” Jon Tayt said, offering her a cup of valerianum tea. Even though it was midnight, the camp was still noisy with crackling and snapping fires and the soft coughing and murmuring of the populace around them. The scent of smoke lingered in the air.

  “I will,” Maia said, patting his hand. Her heart was heavy with the knowledge of what Murer was doing in Dahomey. With Suzenne’s help, she had been able to keep the evil from intruding on her thoughts again, which at least meant she would not have to witness the horrible scene herself. “You must get some sleep as well. I will need you tomorrow. You must teach people to cover our trail, to make it difficult to find us.”

  Jon Tayt scratched the back of his neck. “We’re leaving marks a blind man could follow,” he said with disgust. “I will do my best.”

  The chair the hunter sat on creaked as he rose and then shuffled from the tent.

  Suzenne paused from reading the tome, her eyes red and shadowed. Their fingers entwined, and Maia squeezed firmly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You helped me get through the worst of it. At least I hope that was the worst of it.” She stared down at the gleaming aurichalcum page and traced one finger across the engravings. “I cannot help but think that the men and women who carved these tomes must have faced the same impossible situations and heartaches we do. And these very words helped them endure it.”

  Suzenne nodded and stroked Maia’s arm. “To endure suffering patiently. It is no easy thing.”

  Staring into her friend’s sad eyes, Maia said, “Do you fear the worst about Dodd?”

  “That he is dead?”

  “No . . . that he betrayed you.”

  Suzenne’s lips tightened into a small frown. “I do not believe he is dead. I think I would know that, somehow. But do I think he succumbed? At first I could not bear the thought. But . . . I see now that it is possible. A kystrel is so powerful. You know that for yourself. The maston test warns us to beware them. If he did, I am sure he feels . . . racked with shame and guilt. He may be afraid to come to me. To face me with that stain.” She sighed and looked down. “But I love him, Maia, and I fear what it will do to my heart to learn the truth. It is a difficult burden. Each day I have not heard from him is a dagger in my breast. I long to see him again. To forgive him if he is contrite. I hope he is not wounded, languishing somewhere all alone.”

  Maia squeezed harder, trying to communicate comfort through her touch. She had to believe the same about Collier. When she had approached his tent those many months ago, he had been expecting her to be a hetaera and to use her kystrel against him. He had seemed to relish the notion, in fact. But his shaming of Murer and Muirwood came at a cost. The girl would be revenged on him. The notion made Maia sick inside. The fact Murer was only now traveling to Dahomey told her something else—her stepsister was not a full hetaera . . . yet.

  There was a rustle from the tent wall, and the kishion slipped inside. In his presence, the small comfort she had derived from the tome faded. When Suzenne saw him, she grew pale with fear and the tendons in her hands stiffened.

  The kishion looked from the two of them to the tome, and a smirk hovered on his mouth. He looked restless, full of energy. She had not seen him throughout the journey, but she had sensed he was there, lurking in the shadows. Always just out of sight. Always watching her.

  “Out,” he said dismissively to Suzenne.

  She did not move, her eyes staring into his cold ones with fear and resolve.

  “I wish her to stay,” Maia said softly, firmly, keeping her grip on Suzenne’s hands.

  “If you wish her to hear what I have to tell you, so be it,” he replied with a scowl. “It matters not.”

  “Say what you must,” Maia sighed, forcing herself to be patient. She stared up at him, feeling the mood in the tent shift. He looked edgy and nervous. He kept glancing back at the tent door as if he expected soldiers to come rushing in.

  “We should go. Tonight,” he said to her.

  “Where?” she demanded. “To Muirwood?”

  He snorted with laughter. “Do you really think an abbey will save you? Of course you do, look at that tome.” He scrubbed his gloved hand through his mass of hair, as if trying to scratch a violent itch. “The end is nigh, Maia. The Naestors are almost here, and they did not leave their victory to chance. They will not stop until you are dead and your people are murdered. I know you cannot abide this thought. That you cannot dwell on the fact that so many will be slain in cold blood. But believe me, I know these people. I am a Naestor.”

  Maia had rarely seen him so emotional. “I know what they intend. I believe you.”

  “Then come with me!” he seethed, stepping forward. Suzenne looked shocked, her face struggling to conceal her revulsion. “They are encircling you. Like hunters cornering a deer. They send the dogs to flush you out. But soon it will be spears and arrows. It is almost too l
ate. Once the circle closes, it is over.” His eyes were wild with intensity. “These are not your father’s soldiers . . . they are not knights. They do not fight with honor, but with ruthlessness and savagery.” He stepped back from her, his voice low and compelling. “Each man has multiple weapons. Spears, throwing axes, battle-axes, and swords. Each man carries a shield, which they will wedge together to create a wall. Throw a man against that wall and he cannot break through. Throw a dozen men and they still will not manage to budge it. Then the soldiers will jab at you with their spears. They will hook you with axes. The wall will advance and advance and advance, and you will have no way of stopping it. Not with arrows. Not with a battering ram! They are trained like this. Each unit travels with a Dochte Mandar to keep fear away and to embolden the men to murder. They are connected like a hive of bees, and they swarm and sting. Maia, your knights have never faced this sort of enemy before. Naestors are quick, they are fearless, and they are numberless. It is not an army. It is a horde.”

  Maia stared at him, her mind full of the sight and sound of clashing men, screaming in guttural tones as they slew their enemies. She closed her eyes, quelling the violent thoughts. Then she opened her eyes and stared at him with as much serenity as she could muster. “The Medium will deliver us.”

  He looked at her with disdain. “I knew you were going to say something trite like that.” He grunted with ill humor.

  Maia shook her head. “The Medium can be forced, it is true. But do not be deceived. That is not the true order of things. If we trust it and if we believe in it, the Medium can save us. All you do is poison my mind with your words. The Medium is not warning us to flee these shores. It commands that we gather together, that we summon our wills together to withstand the Naestors.”