Maia brushed her hair back from her ear, listening to the clicking noise of a series of insects speaking to each other across the vastness of the woods.
Suddenly Argus’s head lifted and his ears shot up. His pale fur twitched. A low growl rumbled in his throat.
Maia reached over and touched the kishion’s knee.
His eyes opened immediately.
“I am sorry—”
She pressed her fingers against her own mouth, signaling for him to be silent.
He rubbed his eyes and shifted forward onto one knee, cocking his head. Then, motioning for her to stay put, he stepped into the soft mud of the creek. The water did not even go up to his knees, but it muffled his footsteps as he ducked under the fallen tree and disappeared from sight. Maia felt a rumble in Argus’s throat and she patted him to quiet him. His ears quivered and his tail had stopped wagging.
The kishion returned shortly thereafter and motioned for her to join him in the water. She grabbed her pack and followed, plunging into the cold water, mud churning beneath her boots. She ducked under the bridge of the fallen tree, trying to keep her cloak from being soaked along with her skirts, and came through into sunlight and solid land on the other side. A bird fluttered past, trilling a song.
The kishion awaited her just past the tree.
“I hear voices coming this way,” he whispered in her ear. “Keep low and follow.”
Maia obeyed, hunching down and following him as he trailed along the creek, staying inside the lapping waters. The ferns offered some cover, but she knew it was not much. Her heart thrummed with anxiety. Argus, who trailed behind her, wagged his tail and stared into the woods.
A few moments later, she could make out Jon Tayt’s voice.
“I tell you, I have not seen a soul these last three days except for you lads. If I had, I would tell you. I am just a humble woodsman who fells trees for a living. Do you think the king would hire me? I can split wood faster than any man—”
“Be silent!” barked another voice. “Can you not stop talking?”
“If that pleases you, my lord. I was just saying that an army needs wood for fires, does it not? I can cut a cord of wood faster than you can put on your boots.”
Maia smiled in spite of herself. She recognized that Jon Tayt had been captured and was trying to warn her by talking loudly.
“Be still, man!” said another, cuffing him.
Argus growled.
Maia tried to grab at the dog’s ruff, but Argus broke through the brush of ferns and ran to his master.
“A boarhound!” someone shouted.
The kishion uttered a low curse.
Twigs snapped behind them. The kishion whirled, dagger in his hand, but something whistled and struck his head, knocking him down. He did not move. Maia dropped down beside him and turned him over. She feared an arrow had pierced him, but there was no mark on his body. He was quite unconscious.
Maia heard the whistling noise again and something hard struck her temple.
Her eyes filled with blackness and she slumped into the bed of ferns, joining him in oblivion.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Mark of Dahomey
It was the throbbing of Maia’s temple that woke her. As she struggled to open her eyes, she felt herself bounced and jostled so much she quickly lost the sense of up and down. Her wrists were bound together, her arms were bound to her sides—her ankles were secured as well. She struggled for a moment against the bonds and tried to calm the swelling panic that speared her heart.
Her movement had a sway and bounce to it, and after a few moments of startled awareness, she realized that she was being carried. Not on horseback, but on a litter of some kind, two long branches or poles with a blanket or cloak slung between them to cushion her. One man marched in front of her, another behind her. The sky was draining of color as she blinked, the woods filling with purple shadows. She could sense the Myriad Ones everywhere, thronging to the procession as it moved through the trees.
She tried to quiet her heart and focus her thoughts. It was not too late—she could still summon her magic. She could—
It was then Maia realized that the kystrel was gone.
She was defenseless against the Myriad Ones, and she now understood why they were flocking so thickly to her. They were drawn to her helplessness. She could sense their greedy thoughts as they whirled beside her in the twilight, waiting for full dark to attack her, to feed on her fears, to worm their way inside her skin, to steal her will and supplant it with their own. She began to wrestle against the bonds, her terror mounting with every hammer-stroke in her chest.
“She is rousing,” one of the soldiers muttered.
“Do not speak, lass,” another warned. “Or we have orders to gag you.”
She twisted against the litter, trying to count the men. She could see a dozen or more, all wearing the tunics of Dahomey. Trailing after her litter, she could see the kishion and Jon Tayt stumbling forward, hands bound in front of them with chains, pulled along by a rope secured to their bindings. Blood smeared across half of the kishion’s face. His hooded eyes stared at her, searching her face. He said nothing. His expression was hard as stone, implacable. She knew he was plotting how to escape.