The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(43)
Dust clotted in her eyes, stinging them. She hunkered down, becoming as small as she could, but a horse still knocked her over. She was going to be trampled. Argus yipped with pain.
Maia could feel the Myriad Ones swarming her, drawn to her terrified emotions, feasting on them. There were hundreds of them—no, perhaps a thousand or more. She could feel their effect on the crazed horses and the lust-filled soldiers, in every blade of grass that surrounded them. The immensity of the feeling swept over her, like the stars glittering in the sky above and the crescent-shaped moon. She felt them probing against her clothes, rooting into her skin—hungry to be part of her, to claim her, to squirm their way inside her. Her heart wrinkled with dread, and she felt a burning sensation in her skin.
Maia lifted her head, drawing on the power of the kystrel.
She blasted the Myriad Ones away from her, sending them scattering about like leaves before a hurricane. She conquered the ache in her stomach enough to struggle to her feet. Clamping an arm around her middle, she lifted her head and stared at the wounded captain, who gazed back at her with terror. Her eyes were glowing silver, she knew that well enough, so he clearly knew she was using a kystrel.
She snuffed out his lust like a candle doused in a bucket. His courage, his fierceness, his bravado—she wrapped these up in the tangled veins of the kystrel and stripped him of everything that made him a man. His horse bucked with horror, and he slipped off the back, crashing to the road in a heap of gibbering fear.
The soldiers saw her and knew her for what she was.
“By the Blood!” someone screamed.
“Kill her! Kill her!”
One crossbowman still lived. He lifted the stock of his weapon and aimed for her heart. Maia sent out a blast of fear, throwing it in every direction like a shattered bottle of glass. The jagged bits flung into everyone. The crossbowman blinked, threw down his weapon, and spurred his horse to flee. Maia whipped the horses with her mind, making them believe they were being hunted by lions. Rather than respond to bit or bridle, they charged recklessly and quickly as far as they could.
Maia stood there like a beacon of fire, her shoulders drawn in, her cloak whipping about her as the crackle and pop of thunder rippled overhead. The winds were drawn to her, and she no longer felt any sign of the Myriad Ones. They were all cowering and skulking away from her.
Argus whined and cowered from her, so she let go of the kystrel’s power, feeling it drain from her slowly. Then came exhaustion, as it always did. There were a few twitching soldiers on the ground, and the kishion went to them one by one, snuffing out their lives.
Jon Tayt collected his axes, his expression dark. He glanced at her without speaking as he finished his dark task, then walked over to where the captain lay sniveling with fear. Jon Tayt was not a tall man, but he towered over the fallen captain.
“Never threaten a man’s hound,” he said in a flat, unemotional voice. Maia turned away as the captain was killed.
When they finally rested that night in the woods, Maia dreamed about her past again. She awoke, the dream still fresh in her mind, her emotions as vivid and real as if she had only just been informed of Chancellor Walraven’s death. All these years later, she could still remember every word of the note he had written to her.
Had I served the Medium with but half the zeal as I served your father, then it would not have left me naked to mine enemies. Until we meet again, in Idumea.
It was the custom of kings and queens to choose the wisest and most able counselors in the realm to advise them. The practice of consulting with a Privy Council was centuries old, dating back to before the mastons fled the kingdoms. The chancellor always led the Privy Council’s discussions, and while Walraven’s influence and power had not always been appreciated, it had always been felt. He had been the most powerful Dochte Mandar in the realm . . . moreover, he had been her staunchest advocate and friend.
The memories brought a painful ache.
She opened her eyes to ground herself in reality. She was tucked into the shade of a fallen tree whose exposed roots twisted like a tangle of vines. The kishion sat nestled in the cover of ferns with her, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. A small creek murmured next to them.
It was midmorning, but Maia still felt exhausted. They had walked through the night to put distance between themselves and the scene of slaughtered soldiers. Several times during the night they had listened as hunting horns blasted in the trees. There was no doubt the king’s army was hunting them now. After finding a suitable shelter in the ferns beneath the fallen tree, Jon Tayt had gone back to cover their trail and make false ones. He still had not returned.
Maia rubbed her eyes, careful not to rouse the kishion from his nap. Argus lay near her, she noticed, head resting on his paws. She reached out and stroked his fur, apologizing in her own way for frightening him the previous night.
Birds chirped in the tree heights, and the drone of insects offered the illusion of tranquility. The woods were full of the king’s men, she realized. But the woods were vast. It would not be easy for the others to find them if they held very still.
As she stroked Argus, she thought about Walraven again, remembering him with fondness as well as sadness. His actions—his sacrifice—had resulted in the Dochte Mandar being expelled from the realm. And he had known, prophetically, that things would go horribly wrong.
The news of evil had begun with his death. Her father had summoned Walraven to Comoros to stand trial for treason. Everyone knew that he would be condemned and executed, for his own hand had betrayed him. But Walraven took ill on the journey and died of a fever and chills before reaching the city. His body was interred in an ossuary in a mausoleum. There were whispers that he had been poisoned, but the coroners found no evidence of that. Because he had died a traitor, his lands and wealth were forfeited to the Crown. The Dochte Mandar were all given a fortnight to vacate the realm or risk execution.