The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(22)

Maia’s stomach began to clench with dread. Were these questions innocently asked? Collier was an astute man. He had noticed them and observed them before calling them over to his table. He had commented on the kishion’s marked absence from their conversation. Was he a hunter himself?

“Yes, a lightning fire struck last night. Wicked storm blew in over the mountains.”

“From the cursed lands,” Collier said. “Something foul is always coming from there. The Dochte Mandar are up to something. Do you know anything about it?”

Jon Tayt shrugged. “I do not do work for the Dochte Mandar either,” he said firmly. “Every year or so, one of them wanders into Argus and then crosses the mountains, but they never come back.”

Collier frowned, picking from the heel of bread on the tray. “I do not trust the Dochte Mandar,” he said simply, his voice very low. “Maybe King Brannon of Comoros was wise to expel them from the realm.”

Maia focused on chewing a piece of meat, trying to keep any emotions from showing on her face. Collier was watching her closely, she knew, watching for a reaction. She dipped another piece of bread in the flavorful cheese, though the hunger had shriveled in her stomach.

“Well,” Collier said with a breezy voice as he rose. “This inn may have the best supper in Roc-Adamour, but it does not have the best rooms. If they lack space, come to the Vexin Inn up the hill, where I am staying tonight.”

“You do not stay at the mansion?” Jon Tayt asked. “The stables there are spacious. You showed them to me once.”

“No one stays at the manor unless the king is on the way. Even we lowly servants stay farther down the mountain. It was good to see you, Tayt.”

“You as well, Collier, though I have even less reason to favor the Mark now. He just killed my work.”

“You have always managed to fall on your feet, Tayt. My regrets to your purse, but heed my warning. Do not try crossing the mountains. I do not think my voice would lessen any punishment if you were caught flouting this one.” He looked again to Maia, and his swagger softened. “It was a pleasure meeting you, my lady. I only wish I had learned your name.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, nodding to him respectfully. But she did not oblige him.





The Naestors are a cunning people, as I have warned you. Let me paint in your mind something of the visions I have seen of the future. The whispers from the Medium speak softly. The land of the Naestors is a place of dark pools, sheathed in ice and shadows. They are not builders; they are conquerors. When they claimed our lands, they did not understand how to build castles and abbeys out of stone. They did not comprehend the workings of pulleys and levers. They inhabited our coasts first, then our cities. When the first mastons returned, the Naestors organized a council of the wisest Dochte Mandar. In your day, great-granddaughter, the Dochte Mandar advise political rulers. They also proselytize a different doctrine than the mastons’. Some manipulate themselves into positions of great responsibility. This council was the start of all that.

Some of the Dochte Mandar advocated war with the mastons. Others advocated abandoning their spoils completely and retreating to the north. The wisest one prevailed. He was also the most cunning of the Dochte Mandar. His name was Victus. He advised that the mastons be greeted as the true rulers of the lands. Each kingdom was given a Family to rule over it. They sought to learn from us, to discover our secrets of the reading and engraving of tomes, the building of structures, and the carving of Leerings. They would watch us and learn from us. And when they had seen the completion of the first abbey, when they had gleaned the knowledge they craved, they would rise up and seek to destroy us. Not through their own force. But by turning our Families against each other. The Dochte Mandar would be the puppetmasters.


—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey





CHAPTER EIGHT




Escape

There was a soft tap on the door, breaking Maia’s reverie. She had been sitting at the open gabled window of the inn, staring into the night sky and watching the flickering light from lamps and torches throughout the town. Trees crowded the inn, and some of the branches came near enough that they almost touched the walls. She sat with her elbow on the sill, chin resting on her palm.

The knock startled her, and it was only then she realized she was fondling the kystrel, which hung loose over her dress. She quickly plunged the medallion back into her bodice and adjusted it to hide the whorl of shadows painted across her chest. The fabric of the burgundy gown Jon Tayt had given her was warm and comforting. She had stripped away the tattered servant’s gown and washed it in the lukewarm tub of bathwater following her own bath. Her hair was still damp, but it felt so much better to be clean.

Rising from the window, she walked to the door and raised the latch. The kishion stared at her for a moment, one eyebrow lifting as if he hardly recognized her, and then Jon Tayt followed him inside, Argus trailing after. The boarhound sniffed at her, and she dropped to one knee to caress his muzzle and head.

Jon Tayt shut the door and latched it firmly. The room was too small for so many, but the hunter had said he and Argus would be sleeping in the common room that night. The kishion would keep watch over her as she slept.

“You look a different woman, by Cheshu,” Jon Tayt said, scratching his throat. “I have some healing paste for the scratches and bruises. It will help.”