The Banished of Muirwood(121)

Her stomach thrilled. She would be among other girls who knew how to read? “Thank you, Grandmother,” Maia said. She took the simple gown and hurriedly put it on and then tied the girdle around her waist. The fabric was wool and it was warm. The sleeves were long and drooping.

Argus’s ears pointed up and he snuffled a growl.

“Best we leave,” Jon Tayt said. “We have a mountain to cross before we reach the Holk.”




The dinghy bobbed and pitched in the turbulent waters. Maia was soaked through from the spume and spray, and she huddled alongside Argus, who growled at the bucking sensation. It was morning, but there was no sun, only a pale sky—like the promise of sunrise except without the glorious rays of light and striations of color. The rocks were jagged like decaying teeth and the oarsmen pulled hard to crest the swells. She clung to the gunwale, watching as the oarsmen fought the pounding surf.

“Row man! Row!” the man at the helm barked in Pry-rian. “Pull hard, lads, it is a way off yet. Row man, row!”

Maia stared back at the craggy alcove, the enormous black basalt cliffs that rose from the churning foam and spray like a decaying monster. Sea creatures speckled the rock with a variety of muted colors, creating a queer beauty that thrilled her heart.

You cannot escape me, daughter of Ereshkigal. The voice sneered in her mind. I am the Queen of Storms.

Maia gritted her teeth, afraid of the voices in her mind.

You will all drown. If you will not serve me, you will drown.

“Maia?” Sabine’s hand touched her arm. The fabric of her sleeve was soaked and her grandmother was equally drenched. “You look fearful. Do you hear her again?”

Maia nodded, shivering and shuddering. The brand on her shoulder was hot.

Another huge wave picked up the dinghy, and for a moment, Maia feared it would capsize. She clung to the hull, terrified.

“She cannot harm you,” Sabine said soothingly. “You hear her many voices because you trained yourself to listen for them. Now you must learn to ignore her thoughts and begin coaxing the Medium to speak with you. It begins with a thought, Maia.” Another swell made Sabine totter a bit. “That was thrilling!” she said, beaming. “It begins with a thought. Think of a safe place, of a time when you were happy. With the memory will come the feeling. You can choose what you remember, and thus the feelings those memories instill. You must choose wisely. Everything hinges on our thoughts.”

Maia frowned as she realized something. The dreams she had experienced since her visit to the lost abbey had returned her to her most haunting memories, summoning all the dark emotions she had buried deep within her. Ereshkigal had not just devised the dreams as an empty distraction—the Myriad One had feasted on her hatred, her fear, and her resentment.

“I do not have many memories of peaceful times,” she said, her voice rising in pitch as the next swell hit them. Her stomach bubbled and seethed. It was exhilarating, but terrifying.

She remembered the dinghy that had brought her to the shores of Dahomey. Faces and images flashed through her mind. The ruins of Dochte Abbey, a blackened skeleton of rubble that would never rise again. The kishion gripping her hand, helping her climb down a rope despite the bob of the waves. Leerings. Blinding lightning. So many of the memories were tainted. Maia had known such little peace in her life, and anxiety flooded her heart at the reminder.

Then a memory struck her like a hammer blow. It was a small inn in the hinterlands of Dahomey. There was pretty music, clapping, and dancing. As she closed her eyes, she could hear the stamp of boots, the cheers, the thrill of the various instruments. She longed to make music again, to strum a lute with her fingers.

In her mind, she saw Collier approaching her.

“A dance,” he said, extending his hand to her. “If you must go tonight, then give me this memory to take with me. Please, my lady. Dance with me.”

Her raging heart began to quell as she lived again in the memory. Before she knew who he truly was. Before the illusions of her life were shattered. She could still hear the labored breathing of the sailors as they rowed, but their words were slurred, as if heard from beneath water. She felt one of Sabine’s hands gripping hers, her other arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders as she stroked Maia’s damp hair. But in her mind, she was in that small village as she and Collier began to dance. He had taught her a new dance, the Volta, and she remembered how it had felt when his strong arms lifted her high and twirled her around. The simple, pure joy of it.

So much had happened since then. So many surprises. So many disappointments. But Maia savored the memory, the feel of his hand in hers. She had not kept anything of his except for the single pair of earrings. She wished she still had the crumpled lily he had left in her saddlebag. She thought of his eyes, his handsome smile that had a certain cocksureness to it. She admired his thick dark hair and wondered at the little scar on his cheek. She sank deep into the memory, reveling in every detail.