The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(16)

“May I see my mother first?” Maia whispered, her throat too tight to speak.

“In time. Perhaps. If you are faithful to me. Now trouble me no more, child, until I call for you. Chancellor—escort her to the tower prepared for her.”





This you must always remember. The hunter is patient. The prey is careless. These are wise words from the man who trained me to survive many hardships.


—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey





CHAPTER SIX




The King’s Collier

As Maia regained consciousness, she was first aware of a strange new smell—a peculiar scent that clung to her clothes, her hair, even her skin. She struggled to open her eyes, and it was so dark she wondered for a moment if she had been blindfolded. Light stabbed her eyes from slits on her right and she twisted to try and determine the source. The boarhound, Argus, was resting against her back, its coarse fur a source of heat and warmth. The dog lifted its head when she moved and gave an exaggerated yawn, as if scolding her for sleeping so long.

“Awake. Finally.”

It was Jon Tayt’s voice, gruff in the shadows. She had not seen him there, but her eyes picked him out as they adjusted to the dimness. Her muscles were sluggish to respond when she struggled to move. She would not have felt any more spent had she swum upstream against a river. Still, she was aware enough to discern that she was in a small stone cave, and to hear the wind keening outside. There was no sign of the kishion, and that concerned her.

Maia sat up and grazed her head against the ceiling of the cave. As she did so, she realized she had been sleeping on a strange pallet. Instead of straw, the ground was covered in strange green leaves dusted with fuzz. It was the source of the peculiar smell.

“What is this?” Maia asked, bringing one of the crushed leaves to her nose. It reminded her of mint, but it was different somehow.

“I call it mule’s ear,” the hunter replied. “See the shape? It grows wild up here on this side of the mountain. Good for bedding down on.”

A low growl sounded in Argus’s throat.

“Bah, be quiet,” the hunter scolded. He sat against the rock wall of the cave, a throwing axe cradled in his lap. “Old dog.”

Maia reached down and stroked the hound’s neck, gently caressing its pelt. It looked back at her, its tongue lolling from its mouth.

“I do not want you spoiling my hound now, my lady,” he said, a wry smile in his voice. “I would cut off the hand of any man besides me who tried to tame him, but since you are not a man, I will leave your hand intact.” Jon Tayt’s boot edged out to nudge the dog’s flank. “He guarded you all night, even when you were thrashing. Bad dreams?”

Maia blinked, awash in the memories. This was the second vivid dream of her childhood she had experienced recently. It felt almost as if the Medium were trying to communicate something to her while she slept. Not only were the dreams vivid, but they were part of the series of events that had led to her quest. Her heart was on fire with the emotions of the past—feelings she struggled to bury. What was she supposed to learn from revisiting her old memories?

“Hmmm? Bad dreams?” she replied evasively. “Some, I suppose. Did I fidget, truly?”

The hunter nodded. “A little frightening to watch. I thought you might be chilled, but you were sweating. Then, when I started to worry it was a fever, you cooled down. You are a riddle, Lady Maia.” His voice became very serious. “Why you are traveling with a kishion?” The emphasis on the word showed his distaste. “I don’t need to ask why the Dochte Mandar are hunting you, the medallion you wear and your silver eyes are answer enough. Ach, what trouble brings you to Dahomey?”

Maia stared at him, wondering how much she should trust him. He was Pry-rian, so he did not share all the political machinations of the Dahomeyjans, whom she knew very well not to trust. He had aided in her escape from Corriveaux’s men, and in so doing had probably become an outlaw himself.

“I cannot help you truly,” he said, “if you keep secrets from me. Let me start with what I already know . . . what I wheedled out of your protector. If he did not think I could be trusted, I doubt I would have woken up, if you get my meaning. He said something about a lost abbey you found in the cursed woods on the other side of the mountains. You were passengers aboard the Blessing of Burntisland, which if you ask me, is a strange name for a ship. Your father’s escort is dead or, ahem, murdered. The Dochte Mandar have captured your ship, so you will not be sailing back the way you came. What did you come to Dahomey to find?”

Maia continued to stroke the boarhound as the hunter spoke. She realized, of course, that the kishion would probably try to kill the hunter. He knew too much. But he had forsaken his quiet trading village in the mountains to help her, and she would do everything in her power to save him from the kishion’s blade. She stared at his coppery hair and felt that uneasiness stir inside her again, warning her that she was about to be foolish.

“When my father cast the Dochte Mandar out of our realm,” Maia began slowly, continuing to pet the animal, “our people began to suffer from a variety of strange behaviors. A cycle of . . . viciousness. It was not the same as the Blight that pummeled our ancestors. Rather than a revolt of nature, it was a revolt against decency. My father was desperate for answers, so he searched through their tomes—the records of ancient days preserved by the Dochte Mandar.”