Maia thrust the edge of her hand into Corriveaux’s throat and pried his hand off her shoulder with her other hand. He gurgled and bent double, choking at the blow. She stood taller, heaving against the doors closing on her mind, but they were too heavy.
You are mine, seethed a voice in her head. You wear my brand. You are my tabernacle.
I serve the Medium’s will. Not yours.
You will serve me!
Maia crumpled to her knees, straining against the weight. I will fight you, Maia vowed. You may as well destroy me. You cannot claim me. I never consented.
Did you not? the voice laughed. In the tunnels beneath the lost abbey, you vowed to give me your life! You made that covenant when you were asked what you offered in exchange for the knowledge of how to save your kingdom. I hold you to it.
Maia huddled inside herself, bent double with the struggle. Never willingly. You forced me. I am not your daughter. In Maia’s mind, she conjured the image of her own mother. Save me!
She cannot save you, foolish child. Even now, my servant ministers her death. Death by poison. Poison that was meant to kill you. She is too weak, too sick to survive as you do. He drips it on her lips whilst she sleeps.
Maia’s mind opened and she saw a small room, dark as night. There was a woman on a bed, whimpering in her sleep, her hair both dark and silver. A man stood over her, a small vial in his fingers. She recognized his scars, the coldness in his eyes. It was the kishion.
Serve me, and she lives. Serve me, and I spare her.
Maia saw the glimmer of moonlight through the veil of curtains. But she already knew the truth. She already knew her mother would die.
I serve the Medium’s will.
As Maia bowed her head, the furnace door slammed shut against her mind. Blackness. Isolation. Gibbering terror.
You chose foolishly, the voice smirked.
And suddenly, in the midst of the impenetrable darkness, there was a prick of light and a voice. A woman’s voice. Her mother’s voice.
“You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart.”
The prick of light widened, growing brighter and brighter. A groan of pain wrenched from Maia’s lips. She heard another voice, spewing Dahomeyjan. It was her own voice, and the most vile curses blasted from her lips.
Patiently. Calmly. The voice repeated, “You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart.”
Maia shuddered with violent tremors. She felt something jar loose inside her. It was her soul. She was going to die. The pain was horrible. White light blinded her, as if every Leering in the garden had conjured the sun. She was going to vomit. She was going to explode.
In the light, Maia saw someone, but the light was painful to look at. The voice was her mother’s, but the face was not.
“You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart!”
The shredding feeling of her soul being ripped out eased, the force of it such that Maia collapsed on the rug, panting. She blinked, still blind, and breathed deeply. The air was unburdening. She took another huge swallow of air and suddenly her chest heaved and she sobbed. The feelings of taint and blackness were gone. The creature’s grip on her mind had finally been broken.
She felt arms wrap around her. “I am here, Maia. I am here.”
Maia could not see through her tears. She looked up and felt a thumb wipe away the moisture from her cheek. “Mother?” she whispered faintly.
“No, Maia. I am your grandmother.” The woman cupped Maia’s face between her palms and stared at her with blue-green eyes the same color as her own. The woman was slight and her wrinkled skin showed her age, but she looked so much like Maia’s mother it was startling. “I am Sabine Demont, High Seer of Pry-Ree.” She smiled with such warmth and love that Maia began to choke again on her tears. Her language switched to Pry-rian. “You are my lost one. My little girl. The Medium forbade me to see you until now. Until you made your choice. I have been holding vigil these last three days to summon enough strength to drive the spirit of Ereshkigal out of you. She is the Queen of the Myriad Ones, and she seeks revenge against our Family. You are my granddaughter.” Tears trickled down the wizened cheeks framed by crinkled gray-gold hair. Then she turned, gazing up at Walraven. “I told you, did I not? I told you she would not falter.”
Walraven’s expression had completely transformed. He came and knelt down by Maia, his face twisting with grief. “I am and always will be your most humble servant, Lady Maia,” he whispered hoarsely. He put his hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Forgive my many deceptions. I have secretly served the mastons since I met your grandmother in Muirwood Abbey. I am a traitor to the Victus, but hopefully my treachery has saved lives. Including yours.” He smiled wanly and then stood and addressed Sabine. “Lady Demont, you must flee Naess. The Dochte Mandar will kill you . . . they are already planning it. I have a ship waiting at the dock. You know the straits are heavily guarded, but I believe you may slip away . . .”