The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(4)

“Hold me. Please, Husband. Hold me. To hear you say such things . . .”

Maia heard only muffled words after that. Chancellor Walraven’s hand pressed against her shoulder now, squeezing it firmly enough to cause a flinch of pain. She stared up into his glowing silver eyes. The emotions from the chamber were draining away, drawn into the kystrel hanging around his neck. Walraven’s face twitched with agony, his fingers digging into her flesh so painfully that she nearly cried out, but she chewed on her lip and endured it, seeing the calming effect it was having on her parents.

He was taking their emotions into himself, drawing away their pain. She saw the snake-like vine of a tattoo crinkle along his neck, poking out from above the ruff of his collar. He had warned her that the use of a kystrel painted the flesh of the chest with strange tattoos. It was a residue of the magic that marked the one who wielded it. He had shown her his own whorl mark once, half hidden beneath a thatch of gray hairs.

The storm of emotions was passing. The chancellor’s eyes filled with tears and he brushed them away with his wrist, releasing the painful grip on her shoulder. She knew there would be bruises in that spot later.

Walraven gave her a fierce look. “Never repeat what you heard here,” he whispered. “Your parents’ grief is private. When husbands and wives suffer blows such as these, they say things they may later regret. I have helped them through the worst of it. Remember the lesson, child. Even the deepest griefs can be governed by a kystrel. Above all, you must learn to control your emotions.”

“I will,” Maia said solemnly.

Together, they entered the birthing chamber where the smell of blood made her sick.





CHAPTER TWO




Corriveaux

A rough hand shook Maia’s shoulder, waking her. She blinked rapidly, still lost in the fog of the childhood dream. The whine of mosquitoes barely penetrated her thoughts and she struggled to remember where she was. The forest was thick and impenetrable, damp with soggy vegetation that clung to her tattered gown and frayed cloak. She sat up, wincing with pain from her festering wounds and bruises, and tried again to remember where she was and how she had come to be there.

It took her several moments to orient herself. When the memories finally came flooding back, she almost wished they had remained elusive. She was camped in the cursed forests of southern Dahomey. In a desperate attempt to find a solution for the troubles that had beset Comoros after his banishment of the Dochte Mandar, her father had sent her to this land with a kishion—a hired killer—and a few soldiers as protectors, on a mission to seek out a lost abbey that contained secrets of the order. The way to the abbey had been lined with terrors, and a giant beast had scattered and brutalized her father’s men. Only she and the kishion still lived. They had at last found the abbey, and there, in a dark pool bathed in mystery, Maia had learned that her journey had only just begun.

It was a nightmare, and yet it was all real.

“You have a faraway look in your eyes, Lady Maia,” the kishion said, coming around and squatting in front of her. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks—his coarse hair was damp with it. Rags encrusted with dried blood bound wounds on his forearms and legs. His eyes surveyed her warily, his gaze flashing surreptitiously to the kystrel hanging loose in her bodice and the whorl of tattoos staining her upper chest and throat.

“I was dreaming,” she mumbled hoarsely, shaking her head to try and clear the memories that clung to her like spiderwebs. Her dark hair was a nest of twigs and nettles. She arched her back, trying to loosen her muscles, and rubbed her arms vigorously. The world was syrupy and slow, the edges not quite real.

The childhood feelings of anger and pain still churned inside her from the dream. Slowly, she kneaded circles into her temples. That long-ago day when the babe was lost was the first time she had witnessed a hint of the man her father was to become. She shuddered and bile rose in her throat as she thought about how young and na?ve she had been. The memory of what it had felt like to be a princess of the realm glimmered brightly.

Well, she was no longer that young na?ve girl of nine. She was twice that age now, and a princess no longer.

“What troubles you?” he asked gruffly, his face livid with scars. Part of his ear was missing.

She squinted up at the kishion. “It was a sad dream. One from my childhood.” There was a stitch of pain in her side, and she kneaded it with her fingers to relieve the sensation. “Another stillborn babe. My mother’s grief. My father’s callousness. It was long ago.” She paused. “Before my father sent me away.”

“You mean before you were banished,” the kishion said flatly.

Maia shook her head. “No—he sent me away first, to the town of Bridgestow on the border of Pry-Ree. I was ostensibly there to help manage the border disputes between Pry-Ree and Comoros.”

“Ostensibly,” the kishion said with the twinge of a chuckle. It was the closest he ever came to laughter. “And what am I to make of such a word, my lady? I am a killer, not a scholar.”

“Forgive me. My thoughts are still muddled from the dream. I was only nine years old when I went to Bridgestow. It was at the chancellor’s suggestion. Do you remember Chancellor Walraven?” It earned her a curt nod. “After my mother’s last failed birth, he advised my parents to send me to Bridgestow so I could begin learning my duties as the heir to the throne. I lived on the border of Pry-Ree for three years. That is where I learned to speak Pry-rian.” She smoothed the wrinkled mass of her skirts. “Beautiful country. My mother’s Family is from there. I think my grandmother is an Aldermaston at one of the small abbeys. The trees are ancient. Have you been there?”