The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(2)
Maia sighed deeply. She wanted a kystrel. She wanted to prove she could be trusted with one. Many maston families could still use Leerings to invoke the Medium, but for reasons no one understood, mastons had grown weaker with the Medium over the centuries. The only way to channel real power through the Medium was by using a kystrel, and kystrels were only used by the Dochte Mandar. Still, Maia was not ungrateful for her rare position and her treasured secret.
None of the girls of the seven realms were allowed to learn the secret art of reading and engraving. That was a privilege only allowed to boys and men. Because of something done in the past, something related to the Scourge that had destroyed so many people, women were not trusted to learn how to use the Medium by reading ancient tomes, and it was absolutely forbidden for a woman to be given a kystrel. Some women, because of their lineage, were strong enough in the Medium that Leerings obeyed them, and that was considered acceptable. Those women could become mastons. Women could be trained at abbeys to speak languages, learn crafts and music, but nothing more. Except for Maia, and she knew that it was because her father was the king, and he made his own rules.
Maia uttered a Pry-rian epithet about patience.
Walraven scratched his beard again. “You must have inherited the Gift of Xenoglossia from your ancestors, child. How many languages do you speak now?”
“Dahomeyjan, a little Paeizian, and our language, of course,” Maia replied, sitting up straight and smiling broadly. “I can read and scribe them all. I wish to learn the language of Pry-Ree, my mother’s homeland, next. Or the language of Naess. Which would be better?”
“You are only nine, child. I find Naestor particularly excruciating. There are too many runes to memorize.” He tapped his finger on the polished golden tome in his lap. “You must never let on that you can read, Maia. I would be put to death if my brethren of the Dochte Mandar discovered our secret.”
Maia twirled some of her dark hair and gazed at the chancellor with concern. “I would never betray you,” she said gravely.
He smiled. “I know, child. The Medium broods on me. You are destined for great things. I think it is quite probable that you will become the Queen of Comoros someday.”
Maia felt a spasm of dread. “What about my mother’s confinement? Do you have a premonition of evil about the baby, Lord Chancellor?”
Walraven combed his fingers through his wiry gray hair. “I will always tell you the truth, Maia. You were the firstborn, a daughter. By law and custom, you cannot rule even if there are no male heirs. Your mother has had three stillborn children after your birth.” The words sent another shudder through Maia, and a terrible surge of guilt nearly strangled her. Still, she did not cry. Her father had once boasted to an emissary from Paeiz that his daughter, Maia, never cried.
“Was it my fault?” Maia asked in a calm serious voice.
“Who can say for certain? Perhaps it is the Medium’s will for your mother to bear no other children. Even now, we await the word.” He waved his hand toward the mounds of parchment on his desk. “I have missives to write, instructions to send, curiosity to sate. Every ruler of every kingdom wishes to know the sex of the child and if it is born living. Do you see that pile on the edge of my desk? It is an offer of marriage from the King of Pry-Ree if the babe is a boy. A vast sum. The King of Dahomey has several daughters, quite old already, and you can be sure he would send a parchment and a cask of jewels to secure an alliance with the young prince, just as he did for you.” A wise smile split his mouth. “He may still begrudge the past, but he is clever enough to value a relationship with a stronger kingdom.”
Maia smiled ruefully at the thought of her marriage. When she was two years old, the King of Dahomey had sired his heir and promptly made an alliance with Comoros, binding the two children with a plight troth. The troth was retracted years later after a trade agreement fell apart between Dahomey and Paeiz, a conflict that had ended in a brutal war.
Maia had always known her marriage would be political. Even at nine, she harbored no illusions about that. However, she trusted Chancellor Walraven and knew him to be a shrewd man . . . and a caring one. He was her father’s closest advisor, her personal tutor, and a prominent Dochte Mandar even outside their kingdom.
Maia smoothed the front of her dress over her aching knees. “Do you have any plans for me . . . to marry?” she asked him, trying not to betray her conflicted feelings on the subject.
“Hmmm?”
She saw that he was cocking his head, his ear angled toward the open door.
“Are there any negotiations underway for . . . my marriage?”
“Not presently,” Walraven replied. “You are a handsome lass, if a bit shy. There are certainly no shortages of offers for your hand. But it would not be politically prudent to finalize anything until it is clear whether or not your mother will give birth to an heir. As your father’s advisor, I must steer the ship the way the winds are blowing, not where I wish them to blow. If I judge them properly, you will one day rule this realm even though no woman ever has. That will make a difference in who I select as your consort, do you not think?”
Maia could hear shuffling feet coming up the turret stairwell. Chancellor Walraven stood and hefted the tome onto his desk, shoving aside a stack of parchments to make room. He frisked the front of his cassock and gazed through the window pane, out over the mass of shingled roofs and belching chimneys. The sky was a soot stain outside.