The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)(78)

Confusion warped Maia’s mind. No, Collier wore her kystrel. And yet she could feel the medallion nestled against her bosom. It was warm, almost burning. Her breastbone was stained with creeping, ivy-like tattoos. They were small, like a tiny budding flower. A taller wave made the ship lurch, and Maia gripped the table and watched the jewelry box slide. The swell ended and then she reached in and took the bracelets, sliding them onto her wrists. There was a spot for earrings, but they were missing. She would have to wait for them until Maia was dead.

The thought sent a spasm of alarm through Maia. She was asleep, yes, but this was not a dream. She was leagues away, on a boat. As she tried to clear her vision, she saw that she was not in the Argiver at all. This was not the captain’s quarters, but a lush room fit for a ruler. There was an enormous canopied bed, and gowns had been tossed hither and yon. There were still more hanging from wooden pegs and stacked on chests. The room was rife with the smell of the sea as well as the overpowering smell of cider.

On the far wall, there was an oval mirror. Maia was certain she was in someone else’s body . . . and she thought she knew whose. If the woman would only look at herself in the mirror, she would know for sure.

As if in obedience to the thought, she felt the woman rise.

So you wish to see yourself? Very well.

The mirror showed a shaft of light as the door opened and a man drew in his head. He had a pointed beard, a thick muscled chest, and a rakish look. There was a sword at his hip. He was easily forty, and sweeps of gray meshed with his dark locks. He was unfamiliar to Maia.

“You look . . . dazzling,” the man said in a thick accent, absorbing her with his eyes. Maia felt the pulse of the kystrel and could sense that it inflamed the man’s passions even more. He stared at her, his eyes hungry, his mouth slightly open as if he were dumbfounded. Maia could sense his desire and passion as a physical force.

Maia saw all of this through the reflection in the mirror. The door was somewhere behind her, but the mirror revealed it. And then another image blocked her view. The woman herself.

Murer. Maia recognized her haughty face, but she saw in her eyes a vengefulness that looked both cruel and alluring. It was like looking at herself, and Maia’s senses reeled from the sight. Murer was wearing a wig, the hair a deep brown to match Maia’s own locks. The gown, the jewels, the hair. A sickening horror spread through her.

Ah, you understand at last. I am you, Maia. I am what you should have become. And he will mourn the day he spurned me in that dance. He will beg for my mercy and forgiveness, but he shall not get it. They are coming for you, Maia. I will claim the crown you stole from me after all your bodies are burned.

“Where are we, Captain?” Murer asked the man with the pointed beard, smoothing the fabric of the golden gown seductively, knowing he could see her reflection in the mirror.

“We have arrived at the riverhead, my lady. We will be docked within the hour at Lisyeux.” His voice throbbed with emotion. He could hardly keep his composure.

Murer smoothed some hair over her ears, a small frown forming on her face when she did not feel earrings there. Ah, but you have them, Maia.

“I have the cloak for you, my lady,” the captain said, entering with a deep velvet shroud. “You wished to be seen arriving from the abbey. There will be a coach brought straightaway.”

“Very well. That is all,” Murer said, waving him away with a dismissive look.

“Is there another way I may serve you?” he asked pleadingly.

“Be gone,” she said curtly, but gave him a sly look as he shut the door.

Maia struggled to force herself awake. She shook against the grip that held her and felt her left shoulder burn. The pain, oh, the pain—

“Wake up! Maia, wake up!”

She could almost hear the tinkling sound of Murer’s laughter as she was ripped away from the vision. Men are easily seduced, Maia. They never cease craving with their eyes. They want to yield to us. Even the mastons. You had your chance. Now it is my turn.

The vision broke apart and Maia found herself being shaken violently. She was in her nightclothes, in her bed in the palace. The blankets were tangled and askew. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, clenching hard enough to hurt.

“Please, wake up!” the kishion said with desperation. His fingers made the brand on her shoulder burn and she knew that if she had not been wearing the chaen beneath her chemise, the Myriad Ones would have already infested her. Even with it, she could feel them mewling around her, hissing.

Her eyes snapped open, and she saw the kishion’s face, a look of worry and fear mingling with his scars. His eyes were wide and sincerely concerned.

“I am well, let me go!” she said, realizing only then she was trembling, and pushed his arms away.

Looking relieved, he released his hold on her shoulders. She could feel the marks where his fingers had pressed and was very aware of how close he was and the smell of him, and a spasm of fear shook her.

Maybe it shone on her face. His look hardened, turning in an instant from concern to spurned anger, and he rose and stepped away from the bed.

“It was another nightmare,” he said, almost defensively. Frail light seeped in through the parted curtains. She saw him walk to the table and grab a goblet. He raised it to his lips and gulped the liquid inside down quickly, muttering something to himself she could not make out.

Maia ripped away the bed sheets and blankets. It was dawn, just as it had been in her dream. That meant Murer had already left Comoros by ship and sailed across the channel to Dahomey. It was not a great distance to travel, and in good weather could be done in less than a day. She strode over to the changing screen, snatching one of her gowns on the way.