The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)(80)
After counseling with her advisors, Maia had ordered Caspur to hold the south and slow any advancing army to buy time for the people of Comoros to flee. If Lady Shilton’s warning bore weight, it would be the most useful position for him . . . and it would help trump the Victus’s plan.
What surprised Maia was how many people were refusing to abandon the city. According to the lord mayor, at least two in ten households desired to remain behind and ride out the storm.
“They would rather linger here and die, Justin?” she asked him, shocked. She cast her eyes around the mostly empty council chamber, shaking her head in disbelief.
He tapped his goatee and pointed at her. “You would be surprised how many of them have never left the city before. They feel safe behind these walls, even though they know the walls cannot protect them from the Dochte Mandar. They just do not believe that the Dochte Mandar would murder them all. Some say you are fearmongering.”
“I cannot understand,” Maia said, shaking her head. She glanced at Suzenne and Jayn, who sat close to her, to see if they shared her incredulity. “We have been planning this for several months, Justin. Why are they balking now?”
“Some people will not believe in a danger unless they can see it with their own eyes. There are undisputed reports that the Naestors have arrived . . . in force.” He puffed out his breath. “I think our estimates of the size of their army may have been too hopeful. Tens of thousands have disembarked on the first day alone. They are coming ashore on canoes and skiffs. Some of our people want to trample each other to flee. My question for you is this, my lady—should we force everyone to leave? And what about the prisoners being held in the dungeon?”
Maia gave him an icy look. “Send them in barred wagons to the dungeon at Mendenhall castle. They will not be left to face Corriveaux’s questionable mercy, but they will not be freed. They have had second chances enough, and will face trial when this war is over.”
The door to the solar opened and Richard strode in with a tall man wearing a hooded cloak. The man was gangly and tall and unfamiliar, but his clothing was Dahomeyjan. Her pulse quickened.
“What do you think of those who will not leave, Jayn? Suzenne?” Maia asked, looking to her friends.
“Two in ten is significant,” Jayn said. “But can we truly force them to come? The Medium resists compulsion in any form. They cannot be persuaded to see reason, Lord Mayor?”
Justin threw up his hands. “It is a simple enough argument. If you remain in the city, you will die. We thrust out the Dochte Mandar, if you remember. I imagine they will not be friendly when they return on warships. I do not know how much more motivation I can offer them!”
Maia turned to glance at Suzenne.
It seemed as if they shared the same thought, for suddenly Suzenne quoted the maston proverb that had been running through Maia’s mind. “A gentle answer turns away wrath. Harsh words stir up anger.”
Maia smiled and nodded to Richard. “That is one of the Aldermaston’s favorite ones. I remember it well. Justin, you have done all you can. Continue to oversee the evacuation. This city must be deserted when the Naestors come. Suzenne, Jayn. Gather my handmaidens. Go out into the city and seek to persuade the families to leave. Especially the elderly and those with little children. If their parents will not leave, coax them into letting us help their children escape. This would ease my burden greatly.”
Jayn and Suzenne both rose, holding hands to give each other strength. “We will go,” Jayn promised, and Maia loved her for it.
She had entrusted a message for Collier with Richard and begged him to send someone loyal and reliable to deliver the missive to her husband. She had not expected an answer so soon, as she knew Collier was likely riding with his army against Paeiz rather than waiting behind in Lisyeux. The man next to Richard was almost twice his height, a scarecrow of a man.
“Maia, this is De Vere from Lisyeux Abbey. He is the Aldermaston’s steward.”
The man lowered his hood, revealing a head of close-cropped hair that was pepper colored and well spotted with white. He was lean and long, his complexion weather-beaten, as if he had spent his entire life out of doors instead of inside an abbey.
“My lady,” the man said with a crooked bow and a thick accent. He had a gouty hip joint as he bent and winced. “I bring this from my master, the King of Dahomey. He gave it to me himself and requested that I entrust it to no hand other than your own. As you and I have never met, he bade me to ask you a password to confirm. He asked for the name of your favorite hound.” He gave her a pleasant smile and awaited her answer.
“Argus, who shared a name with a village in the mountains south of Roc-Adamour.” Maia replied softly in Dahomeyjan, smiling warmly at him.
The maston’s face crinkled into a delighted grin. “You do justice to my mother tongue, my lady,” he said jovially. “I heard that you did. You are our true queen, Lady Marciana. If you will have us.” He extended to her a small folded card, sealed with wax.
“Is this an answer to my warning?” Maia asked, taking it with trembling fingers. She could not believe Collier had responded so quickly.
“No, my lady,” De Vere answered. “I was with him this morning and saw him write with his own hand. What warning?”
Maia’s stomach wilted and she broke the seal. As she opened the paper, a tiny blue flower nearly tumbled out, and she caught it before it could flutter to the floor. It was a small flower with dainty blue stems.