The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(69)

Her relief was wary, but she obeyed and followed. The inner courtyard was small, and they passed a gate of iron, which he closed and locked behind them. Each iron pole was topped with an ornate spike. The courtyard was paved in stone with small stone flower boxes along each side, overflowing with hardy mountain wildflowers. Leerings were set into each of the boxes, emanating a soft glow. She could hear the pattering of a fountain, and when she peered farther into the courtyard, she found the source: eight light Leerings encircled a water Leering that spewed a tall fountain onto the tiles beneath. The water drained from grates at the edges. Across the small courtyard, several dark-haired and olive-skinned learners watched her, but they kept to the shadows and spoke amongst themselves. She could not hear their comments over the splashing of the fountain.

The porter swayed the lantern and brought her to a small stone building built into the cliff side adjacent to the abbey. She craned her neck as she followed him, taking in the sight of the anvil-shaped mountain that towered overhead, making her feel insignificant.

She passed another Leering and felt it glaring at her as well. The eyes accused her. She did not feel that she belonged here.

The porter approached the door and rapped on it firmly. It was opened by an older man with silver hair, a prominent nose, and a stooped back—another servant, judging by his appearance. He waved for Maia to follow him inside, but before she did, she gripped the porter’s arm.

“Thank you,” she said humbly.

He snorted again and ambled back toward the gates. Maia followed the crow-beaked man into what she assumed to be the Aldermaston’s residence. Her stomach churned with uneasiness and shame. Even though she was frigid with cold, she felt a bead of perspiration trickle down her cheek. She wiped it away. Her mouth was dry.

The old man said something to her in the language of Mon, which she did not understand.

“Dahomeyjan?” she asked him.

He shook his head and then stopped at a door that was already open. Within, Maia saw a short, stubby man with a full beard and slight stubble on his head dressed in the gray cassock of the Aldermaston order. He was standing, gesticulating to two other men while speaking vehemently in a language she did not understand. The men nodded and departed the room. The Aldermaston, who still looked agitated, beckoned for Maia to enter.

He had dark eyes and a snapping temper. He spoke in Dahomeyjan. “I am told you are rude and disobedient. Also that you do not speak our tongue. You are from Dahomey then?”

Maia swallowed, feeling even more ill at ease now that she was here in the Aldermaston’s house. This was not the beginning she had hoped for. “Forgive me for arriving at such a late hour, Aldermaston.”

He scowled and observed her more closely, his brows furrowing. “You are not from Dahomey,” he said upon reflection. “Though you speak the language well. What other tongues do you speak?”

She stared at him, wondering how much she should reveal. “May we speak privately, Aldermaston?” She nodded toward the still-open door.

“I do not intend for this to be a long conversation,” he replied curtly. “I had a learner break his arm climbing one of the walls today, and the healer says it needs to be set, which will be excruciating. My stomach is growling for the supper I have not yet eaten. There are scrolls to read, tomes to engrave, and punishments to dole out this evening, my dear. I do not have much time to spare. But you were persistent. Is it money you need?”

Maia shook her head no.

“You are not a maston, though. You did not give the porter a sign.”

She shook her head no again.

He walked around the edge of the desk and pulled at the strands of his beard. “My porter believed you were obdurately seeking alms. I typically make such visitors wait a day before speaking with them. I have learned in my six years as Aldermaston that delaying a day will make the majority of your problems fly away.” He grimaced and then clasped his hands in front of his portly belly. “What do you seek? You are not even twenty by the look of you.”

“I am not,” Maia confessed.

“Where are you from?”

She sucked in her breath. “I am from Comoros.”

His brows needled like daggers. “Comoros?” He coughed, looking at her as if she had said she had somehow dropped down from the moon.

“I am Princess Marciana. Please call me Maia.”

“The bastard?” he asked curtly, coughing again.

She bowed her head and nodded.

“This is not at all what I suspected. Indeed!” He shook his head incredulously and scratched his bearded throat. His fingers were fidgety. He grabbed one of the scrolls off the desk before setting it back down just as abruptly. He looked down, then back at her again, sharply. “Can you prove your claim? Do you have a signet ring or some other way I can identify you?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Please, Aldermaston.” Her insides churned with dread and shame. She should flee. She should leave. How could she reveal herself to a man so distracted and contemptible? She tried to master her unpleasant emotions. “I need your help.”

He shrugged, obviously perplexed. “With what, may I ask?”

She stepped closer to him, dropping her voice lower. “Help me,” she whispered. “I . . . I . . . am . . .” She could not say it. Her tongue was too thick in her mouth.

“What?” he asked, crinkling his brows. “Speak up!”