The word sent a shiver through Maia, though she knew not why. “What is that, Chancellor?” She could not even say the word, for she feared it would burn her tongue.
Walraven shook his head. “That you must learn for yourself when you face the maston test. Hetaera are powerful with the Medium because they use kystrels. They brought the Scourge upon the world, which is why the Dochte Mandar have banned women from using the medallions. But I assure you, child. The argument is useless in this case. There have been no hetaera for ages.”
Emotions are the most ungovernable of human frailties. How I have learned this to be true! In the tome of Aldermaston Aquinar, he scribed a saying to give himself strength to manage his heart. He wrote, “Give me a waking heart, that no curious thought can withdraw me from the Medium. Let it be so strong that no unworthy affection can draw me backward, so stable that no tribulation can break it, and so free that no election by violence can make any challenge to it.” That is what I have always desired—a waking heart. One that can never be lulled into complacency.
—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER TEN
Nightmares
Lady Maia! Wake up! Wake up!”
She awoke to the sensation of hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her roughly, and a burning feeling against her chest. The emotions of the dream were so vivid that when her eyes flew open in sudden terror, she could not remember where she was, or even her age. The kystrel seared against her skin, and she felt the power of the Medium flood through her, urgent and panting and swelling like the tide.
It was Jon Tayt who had grabbed her shoulders, she realized. His face was pressed but a few inches from hers.
“Stop the magic!” he begged her.
She saw the kishion kneeling nearby, hand on his dagger hilt—looking for a moment as if he would slit her throat if she did not stop.
The power and fury of the Medium roared in her ears, irrepressible. She felt the vastness of the world at her fingertips, as if in that moment, she could encircle the entire land, all of the kingdoms, in her arms, as a lavender gathers a heap of laundry.
“Please!” Jon Tayt’s eyes were desperate. He had a look of awe as well as fear, and in the mirrors of his eyes, she could see that her own eyes were glowing silver.
For a moment, she could not relinquish the magic, though she tried. The wind howled, blasting her hair and cloak. This squall she had created was as powerful as a sea storm, and it hurled against them violently.
Enough, Maia thought with a twinge of fear, but a force of command. Be still.
The kystrel began to cool against her neck. With it, the winds died down. She stared at her surroundings, confused. Three horses were tethered to a fallen log, and they were all rearing and bucking, whinnying in terror.
Jon Tayt sighed with relief, releasing her shoulders, and then rushed to calm the mounts. Three horses. Three names—Revenge, Chacewater, and Preslee. Not horses from her stables when she was a child, but horses loaned to them by Feint Collier. She blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the turbulent emotions her dream had left with her.
“They are getting worse,” the kishion said in a low voice.
“What do you mean?” Maia asked him, drawing her cloak around her bodice. She knew this latest surge of magic would only have enlarged the tattoo. How much longer did she have before she could no longer conceal it?
“The nightmares.”
Rather than look at him, she fussed with the edge of her burgundy gown and flicked away bits of debris from the fabric.
“Tell me.”
She finally met his eyes. “I am not confessing my dreams to you, kishion.”
He brooded and shook his head. “My lady, this last one brought a storm down on us so severe it frightened away game in all directions. The horses nearly killed themselves trying to flee from you.”
“I am sorry,” she said through clenched teeth. “But I cannot control my dreams. None of us can. See? The magic is tamed now. Jon Tayt is soothing the horses. All will be well in a moment.”
The kishion shook his head. “They are getting worse, though.”
She struggled to keep her composure. She wanted to yell and scream at him, to unleash the childish emotions awakened by the dream. But she had to keep her feelings under control. She pressed her fingers against her mouth, as if that would stop her from blurting out anything she did not want to reveal.
All her life, she had bottled up her emotions. That was the way of the mastons, after all. And the Dochte Mandar too. She knew what became of a person who lost control of their wants, emotions, and desires—she needed only to look as far as her father. It was one fate she would not allow herself to suffer. So she could be poked, but she would not flinch. She could be teased, but she would not retaliate. Deep down, though, a well of anger and indignation had built up inside her, and it threatened to break loose. She dared not allow it.