The Banished of Muirwood(38)
“The blade should spin twice before striking the post. If you are too close, you will hit with the haft. That could crack a man’s nose, true, but I would prefer to split his head open.”
He walked back to where she stood. “Let me show you again. Hold the haft here,” he said, gesturing with one of the weapons. “Feel the weight of it. I sharpen these blades every other day so they will stick when they hit. No use carrying a dull axe. They can even deflect a sword, like so.” He demonstrated a parry with one of the axes and then swept the other toward her neck, slowing the blow as it came near her. “Always carry three or four. It does not take long to yank one loose from a dead man and throw it again.”
“You are dangerous,” Maia said. Though his choice of words made her wince, his abilities were impressive.
“There is a right way to throw an axe. Some people think it is like throwing a dagger. Very different. The kishion can show you that skill. My expertise is with the bow and the axe. I would rather drop a man at thirty paces. He cannot cut you with his sword if he is already dead, you see.”
“Truly,” Maia agreed.
“Hold it so, as I showed you.” He stood behind her, rotating her so that she took a solid stance facing the maypole stump. In Maia’s mind, she imagined children dancing around the maypole, the ribbons slowly twisting and sheathing the dark wood with an interplay of color. There was dancing and fun, laughter and clapping. She could almost hear the music from her first maypole dance at fourteen, the sound of the lutes and pipes. Round and round they had danced—the noble Family dressed in bright colors fringed with fur, the servants and lower classes dressed in plainer garb, but sharing equally in the enjoyment of the occasion.
All except her. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself . . . her fourteen-year-old self . . . standing to the side, hungry to participate. Begging the Medium with her thoughts for one young man of the bunch, even a lowly butcher boy, to muster the courage to ask her to dance. The music swelled in her mind, the clapping growing louder. Laughter and cheers filled the night sky, bright with torch fire and the honeyed smell of treats.
Lady Deorwynn had been right, though. No one had dared anger the king by asking Maia to dance. Not one offer had been made.
Maia hefted the axe and hurled it at the maypole. It stuck on the first attempt.
“Humph,” Jon Tayt said gruffly. “A few more. You certainly do not lack the strength.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Earl of Dieyre
They sheltered at midday in a grove of aspen near a clear brook to rest and water their mounts and eat from the provisions in the saddlebags. The kishion had left them so he could scout the area for safety. As Maia pulled out a wrapped loaf of bread, a bit of color caught her eye in the bottom of the saddlebag. There, nestled amidst a cluster of three pears, she discovered a flower. She reached inside the bag and withdrew a small white lily. It was tiny but beautiful, and it had been left—quite deliberately—in her saddlebag.
A slight flush rose in her cheeks as she cupped it in her hand and stared at the six elegant petals. Feint Collier had left her this flower. It was a trifle, really—just a small gesture, and yet it touched her deeply. She sighed and then hid the flower again. She stood for a moment, trying to understand the mixed feelings that were stirring in her heart. She did not trust them. She did not trust him. Still, it was a thoughtful gesture and a small spot of brightness in a path drenched in shadows.
“Do you hear that?” Jon Tayt said, rising suddenly from the crouched position he had affected to drink from the brook. He wiped his mouth and beard and walked to the edge of the grove. After a few moments, Maia heard it as well. She had no doubt the kishion would have already heard the sounds. A rider.
Judging by the sound, the horse was at a full gallop, and sure enough, they could soon see a lathered mount plunging down the road. It came from the direction they were headed, riding hard and fast for Roc-Adamour. Maia stayed hidden in the fringe of trees, but she saw the colors of the rider’s tunic and his black felt hat. It was a royal horseman. Not Collier—the rider was too short, and she had not seen him wearing anyone’s livery the previous night.
The rider passed their position and was gone in moments, leaving a trail of settling dust.
“Not a royal scout,” Jon Tayt said, scratching his throat below his pointed beard. “A messenger. He could break his neck and the horse’s legs riding that fast. A pity for the horse. What an idiot.”
“He wore the king’s colors,” Maia pointed out.
“I noticed that. Collier said the army was north. We’re heading east. Maybe the rider is trying to catch up with Collier. Whatever the reason, we should get these steeds to Briec and be gone. From there, it is two days’ journey to the pass we need to take to cross into Mon.”