The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)(6)

“Enough!” Crabwell said disgustedly. He brushed his gloved hands together. “I told your father you would not relent. This is how you repay his leniency and mercy? With insults and infernal preaching? So be it. If you will not sign the Act of Submission, you will pay the price of a traitor’s death.”

Maia lifted her chin with false bravado . . . feeling indignation, but not remorse. “Then so be it, Chancellor. I will not sign it. If execution is how my father chooses to unbirth me, then I must accept it. You all feed his self-delusions and madness. But though he tells you the sky is red, he cannot make it so. And when he tires of you, do not believe you will be safe from his wrath either. You have your answer, Chancellor. I will not sign under duress. He has broken the pledge he made to me at Muirwood. If I die . . . I die innocent. And the Medium will judge you for my blood.”

She saw the Earl of Caspur’s eyes were wide and wet with tears. He looked shaken to the core. Crabwell seemed incensed, and only too eager to abandon the room.

The Earl of Forshee, however, looked murderous. His cheeks quivered with violence, his eyes were molten with ire. She felt a quick pulse of fear, for he looked as if he would gladly plunge a sword into her ribs. The power of the Myriad Ones emanated from inside him, telling her he was their creature, their plaything. He took a step toward her, his gloved fingers gnarled as if he wished to choke her to death. “You are so unnatural,” he said in a quivering voice. “How dare you speak to us thus? If you were my daughter,” he growled, “I would knock your head so hard against the wall that it would cave in like a baked apple.” He swallowed, saliva flicking from his lips, and took another step in her direction. “You are a traitoress and will be punished as such. Prepare for death, insufferable girl. I would volunteer to do it myself, though I fear a blade would be too merciful.”

The black void of his thoughts pressed into her, leaving a path of queasiness and disgust. He was so thick with the Myriad Ones, she could see them inside his black eyes. The raw hatred was terrifying. Maia felt her knees tremble and buckle, but she held firm, squeezing her fists to give herself the strength to remain standing. The howling thoughts of the Myriad Ones echoed through the small cell. It was a flood. Just like the rats Walraven had summoned into his office that long-ago day.

“Be gone,” Maia stammered, her tongue swelling in her throat. “I rebuke you.”

The rage in the man’s eyes intensified. He took yet another step toward her, and the other men did naught to stop him. Suzenne was shrinking beside her, holding up her hands as if afraid she too would be murdered. The edges of Maia’s vision began to flake with blackness, as if scales were growing on her eyes.

The Myriad Ones surged against her once more. In the past, she would have recoiled and surrendered under the force of their attack. This time she did not, for she was a maston.

Maia raised her hand in the maston sign. “Be gone,” she whispered again, her voice choking.

She did not feel the Medium come to rescue her, for there was no place for the Medium in that chamber. It was like clinging to a rope in the midst of a churning river, but she held firm, and the blackness could not claim her. She clung to her faith, rooted against the threat of danger.

The Earl of Caspur fled the room. Crabwell winced as he looked at her, as if the sight of her burned him. He was the next to storm past the guards and out of the cell.

The Earl of Forshee remained behind, his black eyes still raking hers. Will against will. He fought her for domination and control. She saw a flicker of silver in his eyes.

“Now,” Maia ordered forcefully.

And he obeyed.





The harvest of Leerings is rich indeed. The craftsmen of Assinica have a simplistic but beautiful style. The parks and lanes are clean and tranquil. The flowerbeds surrounding the abbey were sowed for spring flowers. It is almost a pity to ruin so much magnificence. Almost. When the mastons see the devastation we leave behind us, when they realize we will not be swayed by beauty, delicacy, or innocence, they will fear us. They will see that our will moves the Medium. Not with compassion, but with force. Those who defy our aims, even within our order, will repent their disobedience.


—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey





CHAPTER THREE




Hetaera’s Mark





Maia held Suzenne close, soothing her friend as shudders rippled through her body. The encounter with her father’s emissaries had shaken them both, but Suzenne appeared to be more affected. Maia had been in dark, threatening places before. A kishion had nicked her ribs with his knife, promising coldly to spill her blood if she used the kystrel against him again. A Myriad One had used her body as its own. She had endured many hardships in her life. For the past several years, Suzenne had lived in the cloisters of Muirwood, protected from the unpleasantness of the diseased kingdom around her.

“I have never been so frightened,” Suzenne choked back her tears. “Never have I felt such . . . blackness. How did you have the strength to stand against him? I quailed!”

Maia stroked Suzenne’s hair and hugged her. “I have faced worse. They were odious men. Caspur was affected by my words. I could see it in his eyes. But the others are quite hardened.”

“Ugh,” Suzenne moaned. “I feel sick. The Myriad Ones were here. You could feel them . . . sniffing about us like we were dead flesh to vultures. It was disgusting.”