Argus whined and cowered from her, so she let go of the kystrel’s power, feeling it drain from her slowly. Then came exhaustion, as it always did. There were a few twitching soldiers on the ground, and the kishion went to them one by one, snuffing out their lives.
Jon Tayt collected his axes, his expression dark. He glanced at her without speaking as he finished his dark task, then walked over to where the captain lay sniveling with fear. Jon Tayt was not a tall man, but he towered over the fallen captain.
“Never threaten a man’s hound,” he said in a flat, unemotional voice. Maia turned away as the captain was killed.
When they finally rested that night in the woods, Maia dreamed about her past again. She awoke, the dream still fresh in her mind, her emotions as vivid and real as if she had only just been informed of Chancellor Walraven’s death. All these years later, she could still remember every word of the note he had written to her.
Had I served the Medium with but half the zeal as I served your father, then it would not have left me naked to mine enemies. Until we meet again, in Idumea.
It was the custom of kings and queens to choose the wisest and most able counselors in the realm to advise them. The practice of consulting with a Privy Council was centuries old, dating back to before the mastons fled the kingdoms. The chancellor always led the Privy Council’s discussions, and while Walraven’s influence and power had not always been appreciated, it had always been felt. He had been the most powerful Dochte Mandar in the realm . . . moreover, he had been her staunchest advocate and friend.
The memories brought a painful ache.
She opened her eyes to ground herself in reality. She was tucked into the shade of a fallen tree whose exposed roots twisted like a tangle of vines. The kishion sat nestled in the cover of ferns with her, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. A small creek murmured next to them.
It was midmorning, but Maia still felt exhausted. They had walked through the night to put distance between themselves and the scene of slaughtered soldiers. Several times during the night they had listened as hunting horns blasted in the trees. There was no doubt the king’s army was hunting them now. After finding a suitable shelter in the ferns beneath the fallen tree, Jon Tayt had gone back to cover their trail and make false ones. He still had not returned.
Maia rubbed her eyes, careful not to rouse the kishion from his nap. Argus lay near her, she noticed, head resting on his paws. She reached out and stroked his fur, apologizing in her own way for frightening him the previous night.
Birds chirped in the tree heights, and the drone of insects offered the illusion of tranquility. The woods were full of the king’s men, she realized. But the woods were vast. It would not be easy for the others to find them if they held very still.
As she stroked Argus, she thought about Walraven again, remembering him with fondness as well as sadness. His actions—his sacrifice—had resulted in the Dochte Mandar being expelled from the realm. And he had known, prophetically, that things would go horribly wrong.
The news of evil had begun with his death. Her father had summoned Walraven to Comoros to stand trial for treason. Everyone knew that he would be condemned and executed, for his own hand had betrayed him. But Walraven took ill on the journey and died of a fever and chills before reaching the city. His body was interred in an ossuary in a mausoleum. There were whispers that he had been poisoned, but the coroners found no evidence of that. Because he had died a traitor, his lands and wealth were forfeited to the Crown. The Dochte Mandar were all given a fortnight to vacate the realm or risk execution.
When they left, the devastation began.
Word came next of a pack of wild boars roaming the hinterlands, besetting villages and killing children. The hunters sent to destroy the pack had failed. Wolves began marauding through the woods as well. Without the Dochte Mandar, the many Leerings in the kingdom were useless, forcing people to carry water or harvest fuel for fire. There were mastons, of course, who could and did use them, but their number was small compared with the Dochte Mandar. The extra work angered the people—a feeling that began to fester.
Soon riots broke out across the kingdom, but that was not the worst of it—tales started to pour in from around the realm, each more horrid than the last. A man with a scythe had gone on a rampage in his village, killing innocent villagers. A mother had drowned her three children in a well. A young man had set fire to a barn full of his village’s grain right before winter. It seemed that every fortnight, another tale of woe would arrive, and the court would gossip and statutes would be passed forbidding this or that. But while a deadly spring that poisoned all who drank from it could be cleansed, this madness kept no pattern. No, it was mercurial and erratic, which meant no one knew when or where the next tragedy would strike. The only commonality was that such things had never occurred under the gaze of the Dochte Mandar. Expelling them from the realm had fundamentally altered Comoros. The people began to fear it was another Blight.