The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(78)

“Bah, do not weep, lass. You do not shed tears on a trifle, which is one of the things I admire most about you. There are only two good reasons to weep, by Cheshu. The death of your mother or the death of your hound. Everything else is a trifle to be endured.”

Maia laughed softly at the sentiment. “Well, my mother is still alive. Still banished at Muirwood Abbey, so it seems.” She thought of the letter Maderos had given her. “I may not be fit to be called her daughter, but I hope to change that. And Argus . . .” She reached over and pet him. “He has not forsaken me either.”

“Get your own hound,” Jon Tayt said teasingly. “Every lass deserves a good hound. When Argus sires some pups, one shall be yours.”

Maia sat quietly for a while, massaging her shoulders in the gloom. “So you left the kishion burning with a fever. Will he survive?” she asked finally, almost dreading the answer.

“He is a hardy man,” Jon Tayt said. He sniffed. “I gave him some feverfew. He was very low and may not survive the day. But if he does recover, I would not be offended.”

Maia smiled sadly and shook her head. Part of her was relieved, but she would miss the kishion. He had come to feel like a friend.

Argus’s head snapped up, his ears taut.

“That would be a sign,” Jon Tayt whispered, “that we should be on our way up the mountain.”




The storm struck the Watzholt as they reached the other side of the ridge. Fluffy feathers of snow blasted into them, propelled by a howling wind that made each step a struggle. Maia’s fingers and toes felt like ice, and the scarf over her mouth made it difficult to breathe. The drifts were up to their waist and getting deeper.

The Watzholt range rose up like a ridge of sharp teeth, and while they were only seeking to pass between the crevices, it was still high and the air thin.

“I know these mountains!” Jon Tayt shouted over the wind. “There is a village on the other side, but it is far. We may freeze to death before we get there!”

Maia shivered with the cold, wishing there were a Leering she could use to summon heat.

“Do we go back?” she shouted at him.

He shook his head, his coppery beard white with snow, like a grandfather’s. He looked excited, as if the storm pleased him.

“What do we do then?” she yelled.

“Build a cave,” he shouted. “Over there, in that drift! Come on!”

He slogged over to a lumpy portion of the snow and sank down to his knees. He withdrew one of his throwing axes, using the handle and blade like a shovel to dig away the snow. He waved her over and handed another one to her. Maia knelt beside him and began digging too, wondering what madness Jon Tayt was attempting. At least digging was easier than walking in the blizzard, and the work had her heart beating fast.

“Why do you look as if you are enjoying this?” Maia said through chattering teeth.

The hunter grinned. “This storm is covering all of our tracks. Even with a hound it would be difficult for them to track us now. Dig!”

It took hours of shoveling through the packed snowdrift, but they dug a cave into the mountainous pile and then a little chamber higher up. It was not tall enough to stand in, but the walls of snow provided protection from the shearing wind and ice, and Maia’s shivering began to subside.

Argus whimpered from the cold and Maia pitied the beast, though she wished she had a coat of fur instead of two soggy gowns sticking to her. Her breath was a mist as she let it out, and everything around them was a uniform white. The wind moaned from the tunnel.

After he had finished packing the snow on the floor, Jon Tayt brought out his pack and fished through it for some food to eat. He looked positively cheery.

Maia clutched her stomach and dug her hands into her armpits to try and warm them. Her hair was damp, and clumps of ice clung to the tresses. It was still daylight, but it felt like twilight in the cave.

“Here,” Jon Tayt said, offering her some dried beef wedged in a crust.

She ate it ravenously, her hunger increased by the effort of digging their shelter. “At least we have enough water,” she said, her teeth chattering.

He shook his head. “Never eat snow. It will kill you with cold. You are shaking, lass. Here, lay your head against Argus. Keep close to him for warmth.” He brushed his gloved hands together, looking around the shelter with an appraising eye. “Not bad at all. This will do.”

She chewed through the stiff bread, drank sparingly from her waterskin, and nestled against Argus’s flank as she continued to eat. The bread was a bit hard, and the meat tough and spicy. Jon Tayt munched on a fistful of nuts, then offered some to her. She refused, feeling the fatigue from their efforts settle in on her.

“Stay awake as long as you can,” he warned, nudging her. “It is dangerous to fall asleep in the snow anyway, but perhaps more so for you. I will keep watch and wake you if you start to act strangely. Hopefully the storm will pass soon.”

She blinked at him and nodded, pulling her cloak tightly over her and Argus like a blanket. Before long she dozed.

Maia.

The voice whispered inside her mind. Her eyes snapped open.

She was aware, subtly, of a presence deep in her mind. It made her cringe. It was her husband. Her mother’s warning stung her conscience.

Maia?

She could sense him. He was warm, fed, and comfortable. How she envied him that. He was in his pavilion again, a warm brazier offering heat. She longed to be there, to feel a fur blanket beneath her and eat warm food.