The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)(13)

“No!” Caspur shouted, seeing Maia and her escorts for the first time. His eyes widened with outrage.

“Go back to the castle if you are not man enough to watch,” Forshee sneered. Caspur’s face was white as chalk, but he backed away from the earl with an anguished look.

Forshee’s horse jumped a bit. He turned to Trefew and gave him a curt nod. “No speeches. This must be quick.”

Trefew pulled Maia to the wooden stairs, followed closely by the men who were grappling with Suzenne, and the two girls were forced up onto the platform. There was a growing rumble of noise from one side of the castle grounds, but they would arrive too late, Maia was suddenly certain of it. Her hair streamed across her face as the wind suddenly breathed across the greenyard. She tried to smooth it away, but Trefew’s grip on her arms barred her from even that small comfort.

Maia was escorted to the block at the center of the platform. Glancing up, she could see the tower cell where she had been imprisoned. She could see people at the windows, but it was too distant to clearly see Murer’s and Jolecia’s faces. Maia struggled to envision a last image of Collier before crossing the mysterious chasm to Idumea, but there was not time. Her body was thrust forward toward the executioner’s block.

Then she turned to look at the executioner, whose hands rested on the pommel of a giant sword so sharp its blade pierced the wood of the platform. He looked solemn and impressive and frightening under the leather hood.

The bottom of his mouth was visible, along with a telltale scar. She looked into his blue eyes, his deadly blue eyes. His shape, his size—she knew without a doubt it was the kishion.

He smiled when she recognized him.





There were some mastons who remained hidden in Assinica. Some poor souls who hoped to use persuasion to thwart us. They were meek, to be sure. They feared not torture nor death. Courage is often the balm of the fool. I ordered their remains to be hung by chains from the steeples as a witness.


—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey





CHAPTER FIVE




Kishion





Kneel,” Trefew ordered in Maia’s ear, then gave her another shove toward the block. She stumbled but managed to right herself and take another look at Suzenne—maybe her last. Suzenne’s cheeks were stained with tears, her fingers knotted together in a mute prayer. She was pale, but she nodded at Maia and did not look away from her. Two guards still restrained her friend; Maia was now free. The wind swept across her face again, sending strands floating before her eyes. She smoothed them away this time, facing the kishion with the greatsword.

A memory struck her at that moment. After their escape from Collier’s army, she had entreated him that someday he might be called upon to fulfill his duty to kill her. She had told him that she might ask it of him. She looked into those emotionless blue eyes. But no, they were not void of emotion anymore. He stared at her with obvious feeling, but how could she even describe what she saw in his eyes? Triumph? Glee? His smile made him look uglier, if anything, made her want to recoil. Why was he smiling at her? Was he so evil that killing her brought him joy? And yet, he had saved her life at Muirwood Abbey. If only she knew where his true loyalties lay.

Maia took the final steps to the cold plinth. She cupped her hands against her chest and then knelt on the planks. She shivered uncontrollably, but she did not flinch. Glancing down at the crowd, she saw a mixture of expressions there. Sadness, greed, placid unconcern, misery. All eyes were upon her. And there was Forshee, his expression an interplay of hatred and victory. The government was toppling, the stones just starting to crash down in the heath, and he hoped to come out ahead.

“Do it!” Trefew ordered savagely.

The kishion stepped forward. Her heart was brim with emotions as she heard and felt the distinct thud of his boots. At least the Apse Veil had been opened, she reminded herself again. Her mind wandered to those poor souls from Assinica, who would come to this land for shelter, only to find themselves in an evil kingdom that despised mastons. She thought of her grandmother and of Collier, wishing she had been permitted to say good-bye.

Then Maia lowered her head and swept the dark hair away, exposing the nape of her neck. The kishion’s shadow passed over her. She could hear his breathing.

“Do you forgive me of my office?” he asked her gruffly, his voice so familiar. They had wandered through the cursed shores of Dahomey together. Of the protectors who had traveled with her, he alone had survived the journey to the lost abbey. He had protected her from Corriveaux and his Dochte Mandar. He had nearly died at a mountain crossing in a confrontation with the Fear Liath.

“I am content to die,” Maia whispered, refusing to meet his gaze. Her head dipped lower.

“I know,” he answered softly. There was something in his voice when he said it. A familiarity. Compassion. “But you were born to rule.”

She heard the sudden stomp of his boot, so she shut her eyes, not wanting to see the blade as it came down to end her. But the cut did not come—at least not for her. Gasps sounded from the crowd, and a commotion erupted on the platform. There were cries of pain, shouts of outrage, and Maia opened her eyes and whirled around to look.

The kishion was attacking the soldiers on the platform, cutting them down one by one with the greatsword. For a moment, she did not understand what was happening, and then her heart burst with relief at the realization that her protector was protecting her still. The kishion kicked a soldier in the ribs so hard he flew off the platform and into the mass of swarming men who had gathered to watch her die.