“I was dreaming,” she mumbled hoarsely, shaking her head to try and clear the memories that clung to her like spiderwebs. Her dark hair was a nest of twigs and nettles. She arched her back, trying to loosen her muscles, and rubbed her arms vigorously. The world was syrupy and slow, the edges not quite real.
The childhood feelings of anger and pain still churned inside her from the dream. Slowly, she kneaded circles into her temples. That long-ago day when the babe was lost was the first time she had witnessed a hint of the man her father was to become. She shuddered and bile rose in her throat as she thought about how young and naïve she had been. The memory of what it had felt like to be a princess of the realm glimmered brightly.
Well, she was no longer that young naïve girl of nine. She was twice that age now, and a princess no longer.
“What troubles you?” he asked gruffly, his face livid with scars. Part of his ear was missing.
She squinted up at the kishion. “It was a sad dream. One from my childhood.” There was a stitch of pain in her side, and she kneaded it with her fingers to relieve the sensation. “Another stillborn babe. My mother’s grief. My father’s callousness. It was long ago.” She paused. “Before my father sent me away.”
“You mean before you were banished,” the kishion said flatly.
Maia shook her head. “No—he sent me away first, to the town of Bridgestow on the border of Pry-Ree. I was ostensibly there to help manage the border disputes between Pry-Ree and Comoros.”
“Ostensibly,” the kishion said with the twinge of a chuckle. It was the closest he ever came to laughter. “And what am I to make of such a word, my lady? I am a killer, not a scholar.”
“Forgive me. My thoughts are still muddled from the dream. I was only nine years old when I went to Bridgestow. It was at the chancellor’s suggestion. Do you remember Chancellor Walraven?” It earned her a curt nod. “After my mother’s last failed birth, he advised my parents to send me to Bridgestow so I could begin learning my duties as the heir to the throne. I lived on the border of Pry-Ree for three years. That is where I learned to speak Pry-rian.” She smoothed the wrinkled mass of her skirts. “Beautiful country. My mother’s Family is from there. I think my grandmother is an Aldermaston at one of the small abbeys. The trees are ancient. Have you been there?”
The kishion shook his head no but said nothing.
She gazed at the swarm of gnats that surrounded them, seemingly attracted to their voices. Waving them away with a stroke of her arm did little. She was tempted to use the kystrel to disperse them, but she needed to be sparing in its use. Already the tattoos were nearly climbing up her throat, and soon they would be visible to any keen observer. Once she was discovered, someone would tell the Dochte Mandar, and she would be executed immediately.
Of course, she was going to her death anyway.
The quest she had been given in the lost abbey had sealed her fate. She was to go to Naess, the seat of the Dochte Mandar, to seek the High Seer of the mastons—a woman—and learn the history of the Myriad Ones and how they had once infested and destroyed the kingdoms. It was the only way to save Comoros. But how could she possibly travel into the very heart of the place that had outlawed women to read or use the Medium?
Maia stared at the bark of a fallen redwood, the trunk slender and stricken with lichen and moss. Noises and clicks filled the gap in the conversation. She and the kishion were hurrying westward, trying to return to the shores of Dahomey, where the ship that had brought them, the Blessing of Burntisland, hopefully awaited. Though the kishion was as harsh as the unforgiving terrain they had wandered into, their journey was still beset with woes. Each night brought hordes of insects to torment them. Serpents were common—dangerous and poisonous. Clean water was scarce, but thankfully a path of Leerings had been left as waymarkers to the lost abbey.
Maia turned to the Leering she had slept beside. It was a tall, rounded stone, almost her height when she stood fully erect. There was a ravaged face carved into it, a face that had nearly been rubbed away by the centuries. All Leerings had faces carved into them and could channel the power of the Medium in some way, providing water, light, fire, heat—along with many other arcane powers. The Leerings had eased their journey.
Their rations had already vanished, but the kishion was adept at living off the land, even though the fare was not to her liking—lizards and rodents and sometimes bats for meat. She was starving for a decent meal and hoped they would reach the ship within the next few days. Sailing to her doom in Naess would almost be a relief so long as she had a bed to sleep on for the voyage.