The Ciphers of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood #2)(79)
“Crabwell wants to talk to you,” the captain told Collier. He gave Maia a nod, but otherwise ignored her.
“I am not leaving the abbey grounds tonight,” Collier said with a snort.
“He has not left either,” Carew explained. “Kranmir has been talking to the king, warning him not to do anything rash. It seems the little man has a spark of conscience left. The High Seer’s warning rattled him, I think. Crabwell wants to use the moment to settle him down. A truce or treaty with you might do the trick.” He directed his gaze at Maia. “It will not take long, if Gideon is reasonable.”
Collier scowled. “A treaty? On Whitsunday eve? Does Crabwell never stop plotting?”
“Does a spider stop weaving webs?” Carew said with a smirk. “A treaty and your dowry negotiations. That is all he asks of you. Then he can work on getting the king a little drunk and hopefully fix his seal to it before morning. Trust me, Gideon, we all want to avoid an open conflict tomorrow.”
Collier tapped his chin. “Where is Maia’s father now? Is he still at the abbey?”
Carew rolled his eyes. “He left hours ago. He’s back at the Pilgrim making eyes at the Sexton girl. Crabwell expects a marriage soon.”
Collier grunted in disgust. “Now that he has Kranmir in his pocket, there is no doubt he can arrange the divorce. Your kingdom is a cesspit, Carew. You realize that?”
Carew nodded and grinned. “Our spies in Dahomey say yours is not much better . . . maybe a garderobe if not an actual cesspit. Come, man! I am tired of walking hither and yon. Talk to Crabwell.”
A look of frustration crossed Collier’s face, but she gave him permission to leave her with a curt nod. He smiled his thanks, cupped her cheek with his warm hand, and stared at her with his piercing blue eyes. “I will be back shortly. Bolt the door, Wife.”
“I will,” Maia said, squeezing his hand before he left and followed Carew. The two bickered and taunted each other as they walked down the hall. The rest of the corridor was empty, only a few Leerings to illuminate it. The floor rushes looked excessively trampled.
Maia used her thoughts to light the fire Leering in her room and then shut the door, dragging the bolt into place to secure it.
There was a little scuff behind her.
She whirled, heart in her throat, and caught a glimpse of the sheriff of Mendenhall before a black sack was plunged over her head.
Maia was trussed up—ankles, knees, wrists, and arms—and a gag covered her mouth. She was wrapped up in smothering sackcloth, the smell of it blocking her other senses. She was being carried by several men who walked briskly and noiselessly. The coolness of the outdoors penetrated the cloth as they carried her outside, and her heart quailed in panic. She tried to scream, but the thick gag in her mouth prevented any noise from escaping her except for small groans. Thrashing in the bonds, she tried to free herself and felt the bands around her wrists begin to wriggle loose. She bunched her legs to kick, but there were easily four or more men holding her captive, and she was no match for their combined strength. The exertions tired her quickly, and the gag made breathing difficult; for a moment she was afraid she would suffocate.
They were walking on soft ground, the boots muffled by the grass. She could hear voices, but it was difficult to make out the words because of the material shrouding her.
“By the Blood, what a night for fog!”
“Darker than usual. We should have brought torches.”
“No torches, fool. Easier to slip out this way.”
Rage and terror wriggled inside Maia with savage intensity. She had no doubt these men had abducted her to take her to her father, outside the abbey grounds. Even more than confronting her father again, she feared that leaving the abbey’s protection would make her vulnerable to the Myriad Ones. She had not passed the maston test yet, so she had no chaen under her dress to guard her from the beings. No kystrel either, not that she would have used one. Feeling a spasm of fear, she wriggled again, trying to buck herself loose.
“She is feisty,” one of them grunted disapprovingly.
“You did not expect her to come willingly, surely?” It was the sheriff’s voice. “Be still, Lady Maia. We are not sent to harm you, if that is what you fear.”
She could not tell them what she feared. She could not utter the loathsome truth to anyone living. Even the thought of doing so flooded her with guilt and shame. She was a hetaera. Even without a kystrel, she was dangerous. And outside the abbey grounds, she could be lethal. Maia shivered with dread anticipation, fearing what would happen next.
“The mist is so thick! Are we going the right way?”
“We are,” the sheriff said self-assuredly. “I have trodden these grounds all winter. I can find my way blindfolded.”
“The fog is worse than a blindfold. Will the Aldermaston curse us for doing this?”
“Shut it,” said another man. “Be quiet for once in your life. See the trees?”
“It’s the Cider Orchard,” the sheriff explained. “The smells should hide the trail from the hunter’s dog. The onion sack she is in will help as well.”
So that explained the stench. She bobbed and swayed to the rhythm of their pace, each rut and stumble shaking her bones. She was panting beneath the hood, sweaty and queasy and near to retching.
“The orchard is thick. Almost through. The wall ends just past it, by the hillside. Men will be waiting for us there with lanterns.”