The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(82)

Down below, the horses were going wild with terror and the soldiers fled into the cover of the trees to escape the coming devastation.

Maia struggled to reclaim her mind. She had lost control of it with a single action, and she struggled to wrench it back. She was still aware, still seeing the scene unfold, but it was as if she were tagging along beside herself. Detached, similar to how she’d felt in the Aldermaston’s chamber. She dreaded harming anyone else.

“Too far!” Jon Tayt warned, one hand gripping Argus’s leather collar.

The snow roared behind them. The trees were just ahead and men cowered behind the trunks, some trying desperately to climb the laden branches to get to higher ground. It was hopeless. The avalanche billowed like a storm cloud forming over the sea as it came down. It rose higher and higher until it towered over the trees and over all the specks of rock and men.

The sound as it rushed up behind her was monstrous, more terrible than the Fear Liath. They were almost to the trees when the plume of white death caught up to them. Jon Tayt grabbed for her arm, but he was pulled away from her, snatched up by the icy flood. The massive cloud picked her up too, smothering her with thick flakes of snow. It carried her down into the trees, where the wall of white blanketed the entire woods.

Maia was shrouded in snow, facedown. Everything was white. That dark part of her gloried in her power, in the unstoppable force of destruction she had unleashed against the men who sought to tame her. The weight of the snow over her was comfortable, like a blanket. She was perfectly calm and experienced an unnatural serenity. The quelling of noise was absolute.

She did not know how long she had lain there, still as a corpse, when the crunch of hooves broke the quiet.

Then there was a voice, a guttural voice, calling out. She heard the slump of a body landing in the snow and the noise of approaching boots. Her hand was sticking out of the snow. A gloved hand grasped it and she felt her body being tugged loose of the womb of snow.

“Gottsveld! Ich naida strumpf! Gotts! Gottsveld!”

Maia lifted her head, the snow dropping from her face in clumps. A man stood above her, gripping her hand and arm and pulling her up. He was short, his hair a brownish gray that belied his age, which was perhaps thirty. His eyes were blue. He wore a fur cloak, but she could see a prince’s tunic beneath it, embroidered with gems and golden thread. His boots were high and rimmed with fur. A hunting horn and a sword dangled from his thick belt.

His eyes were serious as he looked down at her and he seemed anxious to help. But then he saw her face, saw that she was a woman, saw that she was their prey. She read his thoughts as splotches of blood staining the snow, clear and distinct and dirty.

He had not realized who he was saving from the avalanche until that moment. He was alone, his comrades helping to rescue the others.

Maia tightened her grip on his hand, her eyes burning into his. She felt his fear. It was syrupy and delicious. His mouth widened in shock, his pupils enlarging.

She flooded his heart with love and pity. Every hope, every longing, every desire in his heart she blew on like tender coals and ignited. His will shriveled before the heat of hers. And though Maia did not know the Hautlander tongue, the Myriad One did. It flowed from her lips with savage sweetness.

“Och denor, mien frenz. Vala Rostick. Vala Rostick.”

You saved my life, dear friend. Take me to Rostick.

Take me to Rostick.





As you have seen, there is a portion of my tome that has a binding sigil on it. I have bound this information so that it may not be spoken of or revealed before it is time. To do so early will thwart the Covenant of Muirwood. But there will be a sign to indicate when the binding sigil may be opened. If it is opened too early, the maston order will be destroyed and the world with it. Cruix Abbey will burn. This is the sign that the hetaera have returned. The Queen of Comoros will be poisoned. This is the sign that the Covenant may fail. Be watchful.


—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT




Poisoned

A firm pounding thudded on the attic room door. Maia’s temples throbbed with pain and the incessant noise made her ears and jaw ache. Her body felt swollen and shards of pain shot through her bowels. She tried to sit up on the bed, but fell weakly back down.

The door handle jiggled and Lady Shilton entered, her face flushed with fury. She had gray streaks through her hair, which had only increased in number in the eighteen months Maia had been living in her accursed manor. She had been beautiful once, but her beauty was distorted by the angry crinkles around her eyes, which she constantly attempted to smooth and hide with powders and ointments.

“Still abed,” Lady Shilton uttered with loathing. “You will not eat your meals here, Maia. We fought this battle before and I will not give quarter. You heard the bell ringing. Come downstairs at once!”

“I am ill,” Maia said miserably, gripping her stomach. “I do not want anything to eat.”

“This is just another one of your provocations,” the lady sneered. “You will come downstairs. Now!”

Maia shook her head. “Please. Just let me rest. I am unwell.”

“You were well enough last night. The bell rang. You will come!”

“No,” Maia said weakly, shaking her head. “I cannot.” Her stomach doubled with sharp cramps. All night, she had felt them coming on.