The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(9)

Maia watched him closely, noting how he had become the center of attention in the room by the way he projected his voice. Copper-colored hair was also rare in Dahomey. There was no denying it, the man was Pry-rian. He looked to be a dozen or so years older than her, and the good-natured smile on his face told her he was comfortable in his position. She noticed in her observation that he had two throwing axes and a long knife in his belt and seemed to be quite unfamiliar with starvation.

The tall man approached with a massive tray of bread, nuts, cheese, and some wild berries. “I will cut some meat when it is finished cooking,” the man said. “Are you warming up now, pretty lass?”

Maia nodded and thanked him again. “How much can I pay for the meal?” she asked.

The man waved her off and shook his head. “You are hungry and must eat. Why should coins exchange hands for that? We are simple people who live off the land. What we have, we share.”

The notion startled her even more. Was it a maston village? “That is very kind. Thank you. Who is that man in the chair by the other fire?” she asked him.

The tall man’s grin broadened. “The best tracker and hunter in Dahomey if you ask him. I thought you might be here to find him. He provided the stag roasting on the spit. His name is Jon Tayt. Are you seeking a hunter? Most who travel up to this village seek him.”

“Can you introduce us then?” Maia asked, feeling a prickle of warmth that had little to do with the fire. She knew instinctively that her need had brought them to this quaint hamlet. It was the work of the Medium.

The tall man nodded and approached the man, bending low to whisper in his ear. The hunter’s gaze did not shift or change. He simply nodded and made a motion to shoo the others away. Some cast furtive glances at her and the kishion, but they filed away without argument. Jon Tayt eased up off the chair and walked toward them, his heavy boots thudding on the dirt floor. The boarhound raised its head, its ears going on the alert, but it did not follow its master.

Maia was secretly starving, but she refrained from enjoying the warm bread and nuts as she waited for the hunter to approach. His hazel eyes seemed to size her up, taking in the sight of her torn bodice, the rugged look of the kishion, the hunted expressions on their faces. He grabbed another chair and spun it around and sat in it, resting his meaty arms on the back of the chair.

“Well, you came over the mountains,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. “Ach, you came from the other side. And you survived it. Incredible.” He gave a nod to the kishion. “Wolves? The scars on your hands . . . you ran afoul of a maddened pack. And the scabs on both of your skins. I know the insects that made those. Little buggers burrow into your skin. If you do not burn them out or cut them out, you go mad with disease.” He chuckled with some amusement and shook his head. “Obviously you did not come here wanting me to lead you inside that foul domain. So what brings you here tonight, I must wonder?”

Maia felt a spasm of excitement inside, but she tried to calm it. This was exactly the sort of person they needed to guide them. Still, she would need to be very careful about what she revealed.

She tried a subtle tactic. “I was not expecting to find one who speaks Pry-rian,” she said in that language. It rolled off her tongue, and she watched as his eyes widened with surprise. A twitch on his mouth started, and then he was grinning fully.

“Nor was I, lass,” he replied in kind, bowing his head to her. He slammed his fist onto the table, jarring the tray and scattering some of its contents. “By Cheshu!” he roared, laughing so hard it shook the room. “When I awoke this morning, I was the only man within three hundred leagues who could speak my mother tongue. How I miss hearing it! Who are you, my lady?” He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes piercing hers. “You do not have the look of Pry-Ree, though you speak the tongue true as any lass born and bred there.”

She stared into his eyes and took his measure. If she wanted to earn this man’s trust and respect, she decided, she needed him to understand the fullness of her plight. Threats would not work. While she had wanted to keep her identity a secret, she felt that trusting another foreigner, a man from Pry-Ree, might be possible, particularly since the Medium seemed to have brought them together.

She decided to trust him.

“I am Marciana Soliven,” she announced softly, causing the kishion to hiss in surprise and alarm. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her muscle.

“Are you now?” Jon Tayt said, clearly astonished by her candor. He started to chuckle again, shaking his head in wonder. “Lady Maia of Comoros. The banished princess.” His words were spoken softly, with an echo of sympathy. He shook his head again, leaning back away from his chair, and folded his arms. “I barely recognized you, you look so terrible.”

“Have we met?” Maia asked, her interest piqued.

“You would not remember me, as you were just a little wisp of girl yourself at the time. Your father sent you to settle border disputes between Comoros and Pry-Ree when you were a wee child. Everyone knew of you by reputation, but I also saw you occasionally. At the time, I was often surveying lands for those border disputes . . . or helping enforce them afterward, sometimes with an axe or an arrow.”

“So you were a hunter for the King of Pry-Ree?”

He snorted and waved his hand. “No, I work for hire. Usually for lesser nobles or people with means. I cannot guard my tongue. I say the truth regardless of who it hurts, so no king ever secures my services for long. Most noble folk are pure and utter fools, and I tend to despise them.”