The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)(81)
My love please wait
Word reached me that the Dochte Mandar annulled our marriage and suitors from Hautland have come seeking your hand. I will not rage against fate or the Medium. I know you have longed for freedom. To marry who you choose by irrevocare sigil. I know you have always desired to marry a maston, and Prince Oderick is truly one. It is my belief that he is sincere. That the alliance with Hautland is real. Simon is dead. I do not trust the messages I am getting about you. Rumors that the Victus are preparing to wage war against all of us. It may last for years. Having Hautland as an ally would be a blessing. But please, my dearest love, please wait for me. Do not decide rashly. Do not promise yourself yet. Wait for me. I will come for you.
Ne-mou-blie
Ne-mou-blie
Ne-mou-blie
Her throat caught with anguish, and tears stung her eyes as she stared at the little flower in her palm.
Forget me not.
Forget me not.
Forget me not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Invasion
The fire Leerings burned so hot in the sickroom that sweat trickled down Maia’s forehead, back, and ribs. The days were a jumbled heap in her mind, difficult to sort out. She dipped a cloth in the warm water, sopped it, squeezed out some of the excess, and then gently patted Prince Oderick’s feverish skin. Despite the oven-like temperature in the sickroom, he shivered and convulsed. His lips were chapped and peeling. His skin looked sunken against his flesh. He was shriveling before her eyes, his throat and cheeks pocked with lesions. After six others attending him had fallen victim to the symptoms as well, there had been no other visitors. No one except for Maia.
Doctor Bend was terrified of coming down with the plague sores himself. No one knew how it was transmitted. Each victim suffered agonizing coughs that spewed spittle into the air. Then there was sweating and shaking and, earlier this morning, the prince had begun bleeding from his eyes. It was a grotesque suffering.
“I beg you . . . forgive . . .” the prince wheezed. His eyes were haunted, delirious.
“Forgive? Forgive what?” Maia asked, bathing the water-sodden cloth against his forehead.
His weak hand trembled and then touched her arm, as weak as a puppy. “Forgive . . . me. I was fooled . . . by the Victus.” He blinked, seized by a contortion of pain. “Hautland will revenge. My people . . . will know . . . you tended me. When I was sick.” He doubled over and coughed, moving away from her and hacking violently.
Maia’s heart ached to see him in this state. She did not fear the disease that ravaged those in the palace’s sickroom. Though she tended them all, she had a calm sense of assurance that she, as the originator of the illness, could not be harmed by it.
He lay panting after the cough, his breaths coming in deep rugged gasps. His jaw locked and he began to seize. And then suddenly, he was still, his final breath ebbing from him like a punctured water skin. Maia bit her lip as she watched him die. It was strange to see, almost as if his skin was sloughing something off. A part of him was gone. The wasted flesh remained behind, but something greater lingered in the air around her. She felt tears prick her eyes, not of sadness, but of relief.
An invisible hand seemed to rest on her shoulder as she closed her eyes, feeling her heart brim with emotions. A brightness illuminated the room.
“Farewell, Prince Oderick,” she whispered through her tears. “Until we meet again . . . in Idumea.”
She felt a trembling feeling of warmth and appreciation glide across her shoulders. Who he was . . . the essence of his being . . . was not lying still and crumpled on the bed—she knew it. It was like staring at a rumpled shirt on the floor—evidence of the man who had worn it, but not of the man himself.
Thank you, my lady. The thought-whisper was so faint, she almost missed it.
Drenched with sweat, Maia rose and extinguished the blazing Leerings all at once with a final thought. She dropped the cloth near the dish and then walked to a wash basin near the door and rinsed her hands with lye. She lingered a moment, realizing with a mixture of pathos and horror that the others so infected would likely die that day as well.
Then she opened the door and walked out. The corridor was heavily guarded, preventing passersby from straying near the sick and dying men. Maia found Richard, his gray hair askew, conferring with the Hautlander chancellor. Both men looked at her with imploring eyes. She nodded to them.
“The prince is dead,” she said softly. A hush fell over those crowding the hall.
Captain Carew strode up to her. “Your Majesty, you must abandon the city. The armada could be here any moment. You must go!” he said, his voice burning with impatience.
“Walk with me,” Maia said, heading toward her personal chambers, where she could change.
Richard and the Hautlander chancellor followed as well, and the crowd parted for them to pass.
“How many are left in the city?” Maia asked, keeping a brisk pace.
“One in ten,” Richard answered. “Your ladies persuaded half of those who refused. They are still out there trying. I think they should be summoned back to the palace.”
Maia nodded her head. “Absolutely. Have them evacuate through the Apse Veil to Muirwood immediately. Tell them I will meet them at the abbey.”