The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(42)

Once she had it memorized, she turned her attention to the kystrel. Cupping it in her hand, she felt the hard edges of its woven, whorl-like pattern. It did not represent any specific creature. It was just a ring of interwoven leaves that were neither uniform nor precise. A kystrel—named after the falcon. A small bronze chain was affixed to it.

Maia stared at it, remembering that long-ago day when she had watched the chancellor use his kystrel to summon mice and rats to the tower. At the time, he had said she was too young to use one. He had warned that her years as an adolescent would be full of turbulent emotions—a storm of feelings she would have to learn to control before using a kystrel. He had promised to give her one when she became an adult. The fact that he had done so now meant that he did not expect to live to see that day. The thought grieved her.

Maia straightened the chain and slung it around her neck. She waited, pensive, trying to see if she would feel any different. But she felt the same as she always did. Nothing had changed.

She tucked the kystrel into her bodice so that its cool metal was pressed against her skin, then folded the paper tightly and hid it in her girdle. She wondered if she would see Walraven again.

He will be dead in a fortnight.

Maia stopped, eyes wide. She had heard the whisper in her thoughts as loudly as if someone had spoken them. It made gooseflesh spread across her arms and neck and a shiver go down her spine.

A fortnight later, when news arrived of Walraven’s death, she learned to trust the voice of the Medium.





The Naestors fear us greatly because the Dochte Mandar have taught them to. They have witnessed the evidence of the Medium’s destruction when a people violates laws of justice, honor, and compassion. Thoughts bring good or ill, depending on the prevailing temperaments. More than anything else, the Naestors fear the annihilation they witnessed after coming to our shores and the mastons who, despite the fervor of their faith in the Medium, could not prevent it. You will learn, great-granddaughter, that the Dochte Mandar took upon themselves the duty to control the feelings of the population. They seek to prevent another Blight. What happens to the flood when the levees are stripped away?


—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey





CHAPTER FOURTEEN




Myriad Ones

You say the watchword is ‘Comoros’?”

Maia stared up at the captain, high on his saddle. He was a big man with a blond turf of stubble on the dome of his head and a trimmed goatee. He had an easy smile, but his eyes bored into hers and stared up and down her body. A twitch at the corner of his mouth flashed and was gone.

All around these men, Maia could feel the sniffling, snuffling reek of the Myriad Ones. Oily blackness gripped her heart. There was a mewling sound, inaudible to the ear, that felt like the whine of a bow driven over a lute string at an awkward angle. It made her teeth hurt and her stomach shrivel.

Jon Tayt hefted an axe in his hand, and the hound Argus growled threateningly.

There were twelve men in all—each on horseback, dressed in the king’s colors, and carrying weapons. Three had crossbows.

“Let us pass,” Maia said, her voice sounding hollow even to her.

The captain of the riders looked at her. His eyes burned with desire. “Kill the dog and the hunter. Bring her to my tent.”

Jon Tayt planted his foot and hurled the axe at the nearest man holding a crossbow. The blade snapped the taut crossbeam, and the mechanism shattered in his hands. Argus snarled and barked furiously, yapping at the horses’ legs as he darted in and out between them, causing the steeds to snort and buck at the commotion.

Jon Tayt drew another axe and sent it winging into the chest of a second crossbowman, toppling him from the saddle.

The kishion struck from the shadows of the road. He had skulked into the darkness the moment they heard the riders’ approach, and now he emerged, digging his dagger into the captain’s leg, making him howl with pain.

Someone grabbed a fistful of Maia’s hair and yanked, dragging her backward. She tripped as her attacker’s horse jostled her and pain shot across her scalp. Reaching back, she grabbed the man’s gloved wrist and tried to pull him off his horse, but all she managed to do was collide with the beast.

“I have her!”

Ignoring the pain, Maia twisted to get a better look at her attacker, only stopping when she saw a dagger dangling from a sheath on the man’s belt. She let go of the wrist and grabbed the hilt, pulling it free.

Another horse boxed her in on the other side, and two arms reached down to pull her up by the armpits. The motion threw her off balance, but at least her hair was free. She struggled against his grip, but he easily turned her over, stomach down, and gave the horse a sharp kick to get it moving. In a series of quick movements, Maia stabbed his thigh with the dagger, drew it out, and stabbed him a second time in the hip. Grunting with pain, he dropped the reins and grabbed her wrist to prevent a third strike. He swore at her, the words laced with anger and pain.

Something yanked on her boot and pulled her off the horse. She landed sharply on the road, the impact knocking the wind out of her. Argus crouched over her, defensively snapping and barking with savage fury.

“By the Blood, kill them all!” the captain roared.

Maia struggled to kneel, trying to breathe through the fiery pain shooting through her lungs. There were so many soldiers. Hooves trampled dangerously near to her, one nearly crushing her hand. She choked for breath, feeling a surging panic.