The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(68)

She started up the thin mountain trail leading to the abbey, excited and nervous simultaneously. What would she tell the Aldermaston? How much would she reveal about herself? Should she reveal her true identity as the daughter of the King of Comoros? Should she show him the taint of the tattoo shadows at the base of her neck? Should she show him her shoulder? She knew from her experience that the grounds of an abbey were a political entity unto themselves. A maston could seek the right of sanctuary there, but she was no maston, so that privilege was not hers to take. She hoped the Aldermaston would know her language, but she was prepared to communicate with him any way she could.

As she climbed the mountain, her feet sore from the constant abuse, her stomach twisted with worry and dread. Most of all, she feared what this Aldermaston would say or do when he learned the truth about her. Would he be compassionate to her plight, or would he judge her? She was ashamed of what she had become, but she had not voluntarily chosen it. Her thoughts were so muddled from lack of sleep, she could barely arrange them. She staggered on the trail, trying to keep her boots from sliding off. Craning her neck up, she breathed deeply of the pine and the clean air.

Her stomach coiled with queasiness.

It was nearing dusk when she reached the abbey doors. She had not slept in three days, but despite all her fear and doubt, a sprig of hope lingered in her bosom. The Aldermaston would be able to help her. He could at least cast out the Myriad One. She wanted to sob with pent-up relief, her throat constricting. She pounded on the door before seeing the rope nearby and pulling it. Maia covered her mouth when an iron bell rang out in the dusk, feeling awkward and nervous and unsure of what to say.

A pair of boots approached the door and jangled the keys in the lock.

“Abrontay! Cenama majorni?” The man who opened the door had dark whiskers and snowy hair and looked like a porter. He was speaking a language she did not know, which she assumed was Mon.

“Aldermaston,” Maia said, seeing the man did not wear the cassock of the order.

“Cenama, mirabeau. Constalio ostig majorni. Vray. Vray!” His hand flitted at her dismissively.

“Please,” Maia said, switching to Dahomeyjan. “I must see the Aldermaston!”

The porter looked at her, confused. “Dahomish? I see. Are you maston? No? Only mastons can come at night. Show me a sign.”

She stared at him in confusion for a moment, but he did not want to wait for her to respond. “Go back to the village, little girl. I said that wrong. Young woman. Go along. Go!” He waved her away again, his eyebrows wrinkling with disdain.

He shut the gate door in her face, and she heard the locks click back into place.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE




Shame

Maia rested her forehead against the heavy wooden door. It was already almost twilight. She knew she would not make it back down to the village with her remaining strength. Nor could she wait outside the abbey all night without falling asleep. She slapped the door repeatedly with the flat palm of her hand. Receiving no answer, she rang the bell again. It clanged loudly, the sound vibrating under her skin and shooting down her spine. There was no answer on the other side.

Not knowing what to do, she knelt against the foot of the door, pressing her cheek to the wood. She was so tired. She slammed her hand against the door, then listened for sounds on the other side. There were obscure noises, the tramping of feet or boots, but no one came near the door. The sunlight melted away, bringing shadows. Smoke shapes snuffled at her in the emerging darkness, and she shuddered at their presence, enduring the discomfort. She blinked rapidly, trying to keep her mind clear of the fog of sleep. Beyond her lids, she sensed a primal power, like the waves of the sea, churning against her, threatening to sweep her away with its might.

Maia rose and yanked the bell again, sending the noise clanging into the night. She was so tired and filthy.

Please, Aldermaston. Please come.

After some time passed, she heard boots come to the door, and the porter opened it again. He looked at her peevishly. “Away, brat! The Aldermaston will not see you until morning. Go!” He gestured at her in annoyance.

She shook her head. “I cannot go. I must see him tonight.”

He scowled at her. “I can give you a lantern.” He drew one out from behind his back and offered it to her to take.

She folded her arms, refusing it. “I do not need light, I need the Aldermaston!”

He snorted, shrugged, and slammed the door in her face.

“Please!” Maia begged, pounding on the door again. If only she had thought to take one of Jon Tayt’s throwing axes, she could have started hacking away at the hinges. Again she knelt at the door, feeling the tide of power rise inside her, threatening to wilt her resolve. She bit her lower lip, desperately hoping the pain would distract her from her dark thoughts. Her knees ached from the position, but she was determined not to drift asleep.

Time passed slowly, the night’s chill seeping into the stones and wooden door. She could see her breath in the moonlight. Struggling to her feet, though the pain felt like knives shooting down her legs, she tugged on the rope again, clanging the bell.

Please come. Please. I need help.

She saw a glimmer of light under the crack of the door just before it opened. There was the porter again, frowning and holding a lantern. He stared at her, his expression stern as an owl, and then motioned with a jerk of his chin for her to follow him into the courtyard.