The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)(83)

Maia felt a rush of pride and appreciation for the Earl of Caspur. “Well done, my lord,” she said, grinning down at the herald. “Thank you. I have full confidence in your master. How many did you lose?”

The herald gave her a hard look. “Three thousand men,” he said chokingly. “But they lost six . . . maybe eight thousand. There was no time to count the corpses.”

“How many more do they have attacking from the south?” Maia wondered aloud.

The man looked at her fiercely. “It matters not. We will hold them, my lady. We will hold them all for you.”

Maia gave him a grim smile and then regarded Jon Tayt as he brought his mount up next to hers.

“A fine kettle of fish,” he said with a crooked grin. Despite his pointy beard, he almost looked like a boy on the eve of his nameday celebration.

One more time, Maia looked back at Richard. “We will see each other again in Muirwood, Richard. We are coming home.”

He gave her that look again, a fatherly look of tenderness and affection she had not seen from her own father since she was a small child. Although he would not say it, she knew that even though he worried about her, he was proud of her decision to stay with the people.

As her retinue rode out of the courtyard and into the deserted streets, she saw with amazement that the streets had been swept clean. The people began to cheer for her long before she reached Ludgate. As she rode through the gate on the palfrey, the roar became deafening.





It was well past dusk and Maia was exhausted. Servants had ridden ahead and set up pavilions and a camp for her host along the road leading to Muirwood. She was still waiting for word of the Naestors arriving at Comoros. Though the sun had set hours ago, she believed the ships would have arrived by now. Men had been left behind to watch what happened and bring her news as soon as it was available. She wandered the camp, stopping at cookfires to visit those who were traveling. Word spread quickly where the queen had camped, and well-wishers came in a continuous stream to seek her blessing or pay their respects.

While the rest of the ladies-in-waiting had gone on to Muirwood, Suzenne had ridden hard to catch up with Maia. Unaccustomed to hard riding and camping, she looked haunted and completely out of her element. Maia wanted desperately to comfort her friend with positive news about Dodd, but no word had come during the day. His fate—and his army’s—was a complete mystery, adding to their many worries. With no news, she did not know how she could best console her friend. Upon Suzenne’s own insistence, she was overseeing the preparations for the pavilion where Maia would sleep that night—a task with which she felt more comfortable—while Maia visited with her people.

“We made good time today,” Jon Tayt said, approaching her with a sniffle as she walked back to her pavilion. “Another hard ride tomorrow and we may even see the Hundred.”

Maia watched the different passersby, looking for a sign of the kishion. She had no doubt he was somewhere in the camp. The flickering lights from torches and campfires would make it easy for him to skulk and hide among the travelers. She had a feeling he would come to her tent that night to watch her, and the thought made her feel a mixture of dread and relief. In truth, she was afraid of falling asleep, afraid of what visions her dreams would bring.

As she and Jon Tayt wove through the maze of campfires, she fell silent, reminded of the night she had learned Collier was the King of Dahomey. She had been captured by his soldiers and brought to his command pavilion. There had been an element of fear in the air that night as well, but nothing like what she had experienced amidst the Dahomeyjan soldiers. The people were worried about the Naestors who had invaded. They were worried but not panicked. She could see their confidence in their eyes, their trust in her.

As she approached her tent, which was smaller than Collier’s, her thoughts continued to cling to that night . . . the night she had learned about the brand on her shoulder. Collier had insisted on seeing her shoulder, and eventually she had relented.

The memory brought a queasy, guilty feeling to her heart. A chill rippled through her back, her vision began to fray at the edges, and she started breathing hard. The whispers of the smokeshapes began to hiss sibilantly around her. She struggled to control her thoughts, to bring them toward cheerier domains. It was night. Was it nearly midnight? She could not tell through the web of trees above.

Maia.

She immediately recognized Murer’s voice in her mind. Panic and fear followed fast behind. In her mind, she began summoning images of Muirwood, of her mother’s garden. She thought of Thewliss and his white mustache and soft-spoken ways. She thought of Aloia and Davi in the kitchen, imagining them prattling and teasing each other.

“Are you all right?” Jon Tayt asked, nudging her elbow.

I thought you would wish to know where I am right now.

Murer’s voice sliced through her thoughts. She began to feel what Murer was feeling. A giddy anticipation of triumph. The desire for revenge. Part of her vision began to slough away, and Maia could see through Murer’s eyes. Her stepsister was also walking in a camp of soldiers. It was night. The same moon hung in the sky.

And then Maia saw Collier’s tent, stiff and impassive. It was dark, and there were soldiers guarding it.

As she approached, one of the guards held out his hand. “The king is asleep,” he said gruffly in Dahomeyjan. “Begone, strumpet.”