The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(75)

“I am not a pethet, sister. I will not harm you. It is noon. The Unborn are weakest in the daylight. The power grows inside you, though, even now. You must be rid of it soon, before it claims you fully. Then others will join it, and you will be lost.” He smiled viciously. “It wrestles for you. Will you let it win? Hmmm?”

Maia looked at him pleadingly. “Can you make them go away?” she asked with breathless hope.

He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “I cannot. I am a wayfarer, sister. I write the stories. I do not make them.”

A violent spasm of rage made her want to strike out at the man, but she folded her arms and dug her hands into her ribs to regain control of herself. She started to rock back and forth.

“What are you writing in your tome?” she asked, her teeth starting to chatter.

He smoothed his hand across the gleaming page. “The truth, sister. Only that.”

She licked her lips. “And what is the truth that you write now?”

His wizened eyes locked on to hers, and she felt shame splash color on her cheeks. She looked away, unable to hold his penetrating gaze.

“I wrote that a hetaera from Comoros, the king’s daughter, burned Cruix Abbey to the ground. It was my abbey, sister.” His face was solemn, not accusing. “I do not hate you for what you did. Who am I to judge the king’s daughter? The truth is your father is a pethet. He does not deserve the title ‘father.’ However, there are many pethets who wear that title, though it fits them poorly. When pethets rule, the people mourn. I do not judge you, sister. I have written your sad story for many years.”

Maia felt tears burning in her eyes. “Are they . . . are they all dead at the abbey?” she gasped. In part of her mind, she could see the cliffs burning with fire as the abbey went up in flames. That sick foreign part of her reveled at the sight, thrilled by the scorching flames.

The man’s voice was firm and void of emotion. “The Aldermaston only and not yet. He could not flee.” He sighed. “You kissed his forehead, sister. Your lips bring a curse. They bring death.” His voice dropped low. “A betrayer’s kiss. It has always been so, even on Idumea.”

Tears trickled down Maia’s cheeks—a foreign sensation since she so rarely cried. The tears were hot and wet and they seared her skin as they fell from her lashes. “I am sorry,” she gasped. Maia gazed up at the tops of the trees, her heart dying with regret. She buried her face in her hands and wept. She should fling herself off a cliff. She had to save the world from what she had become. Death was the only way to end the madness in her life. If she could not control her actions, if she could not stop the Myriad One inside of her, she could at least do no more harm.

“Do you think that would help, sister?” the stranger said softly, his voice slightly mocking. “Your thoughts are tangled with her thoughts. Do you realize that? If you jumped, she would cause the Medium to blow you back up to the top. And then another of your choices would bind you to her.”

Maia stared at him, her eyes wet. “You can hear my thoughts?”

“It is one of my Gifts,” he replied sternly. “What a burden!” Then he chuckled softly to himself. “You can imagine the joy of hearing what everyone you meet thinks of you. Pethet recolo! There is fat, smelly Maderos! His breath reeks. His ankles are too skinny and his middle too ripe. He is crooked. He is ugly. Bah!” He waved his hand in the air. “How quickly we judge each other. How quickly our thoughts condemn us. The Medium looks on the heart, sister. Not the face. You are judged by the choices you make. Not the choices of others.”

She looked at him pleadingly. “How can I rid myself of this . . . this creature inside of me?”

“Bah, you already know! Seek the High Seer.”

Maia struggled with her doubts. “That is what the Aldermaston of Cruix told me. But the Myriad One also seems to be sending me to Naess. How do I know what the Medium’s will is?”

He scratched the corner of his mouth with the butt of the stylus. “I told you that your thoughts are tangled. You are deep in the enemy’s power. But your lineage is strong in the Medium.” His voice hushed. “Very strong, sister. You must learn to discern between the voice in your head and the voice in your heart.” He then tapped the stylus against his temple. “Aldermaston Josephus said, ‘Truth I will tell you in your mind and in your heart, by the Medium, which will come upon you and dwell in your heart.’” He sniffed. “Aldermaston Pol said, ‘The peace of the Medium, which passeth all understanding, will keep your hearts and minds.’ You must study at an abbey, sister. There is much wisdom in the Aldermastons’ tomes. More wisdom and truth than you have found in the tomes of the Dochte Mandar.”

She frowned. “I have always wanted to study at an abbey, Maderos. My father forbids it.”

He pursed his lips. “I know, sister. As I have told you, I have written your life. I have a keen interest in your Family. Now, for my message.”

She looked at him in surprise, drying her eyes. Somehow, their conversation had made her feel better. A feeling of peace and quiet had settled on her as he quoted from the words of the Aldermastons. It felt as if the ancients’ wisdom had tamped down the darkness inside her. “I thought you already had—”

He clucked his tongue. “No, sister. I gave you morsels of counsel from an old man who has seen much of this vile world. I was sent with a message to give you.” He opened a large leather knapsack and rummaged through the contents. “Ah, blessit vestiglio!” He pulled out a folded paper with a wax seal. “I saw her melt the wax to fix the seal,” he said. “It has not been opened or changed by anyone since leaving her hand.”