“Let me check for bites,” the kishion said, motioning toward her ruined gown.
The front of the garment had been torn when the soldiers her father had sent as her protectors attempted to snatch the kystrel from her neck and choke her to death. She clenched the fabric tighter around her throat and shook her head. “When we reach the ship,” she said. “I don’t feel any bites.”
He snorted, shrugged, and rose, surveying the Leering and rubbing his bandaged hand across the rippled edges of the stone. He sniffed at it, his expression one of disgust or superstition, and waited for her to summon water for them to drink.
Maia brushed a mass of tangled hair behind her shoulder and bent at an angle next to the Leering so that the gushing waters wouldn’t soak her. She invoked the kystrel, and the fire-coal eyes of the Leering ignited instantly. Water began gushing from the slats where the mouth had once been carved. Maia rinsed her filthy hands first, scrubbing away the dirt and muck, feeling the cool clean water play across her fingers. She cupped water into her palms and gulped it down, coming again for another drink. Then a third. The excess water dribbled onto a small bed of silt at the base of the Leering.
The kishion took his turn once she was through, burying his head under the stream of cold water before tipping his scarred lips up to the flow and gulping down deep swallows. Maia rested her palm against the Leering.
When her skin touched the stone, an image burst into her mind so sharp and clear it was as if a window to another place had opened and she could see both places at once.
Who are you?
The thoughts came from a man—a man kneeling in front of another Leering, another of the waymarkers leading to the lost abbey. She recognized his surroundings instantly, a grove of dead bones and rusted armor. It was the graveyard of some vicious battle where the participants had all slaughtered one another. The man’s hair and beard were ash blond; his countenance was tired and stained with grime. His black Dochte Mandar tunic was splattered with mud, and he clenched his own kystrel in his left hand.
Who are you, girl?
His fierce thoughts snatched at her mind, gripping her in a vise that bound her to the Leering. She could not move. She could not breathe. Soldiers wearing the uniform of Dahomeyjan knights scuttled around the man. Panic began to churn inside her. These men were also in the cursed woods . . . and they were hunting her. She could sense the blazing intensity of the blond man’s thoughts.
Maia tried to release the Leering, but her hand would not move. A surge of piercing power cut through her marrow and sinews, binding her fast.
I have her, the man thought to someone else. Another Dochte Mandar loomed into view and he put his hand on the stone next to the blond man’s. His thoughts joined the fray. She slept by the gargouelle last night. Orlander is almost there. I will try and hold her until they come. We have her! She is the one we seek.
Maia shoved at his thoughts with her will. The vise-like grip of the power that had her pinned groaned, and she tried to pry free. Some of her memories leaked through the bond.
She is strong, Corriveaux! the second Dochte Mandar thought, almost admiring.
Not as strong as me, the blond man snapped. She could still see him . . . the bearded one, Corriveaux. His thoughts began to intrude into her mind. His will was like a bar of iron, and he used it to bludgeon her resistance, his jaw clenched with fury.
Yes, you are Marciana Soliven, Corriveaux thought to her. We seized your ship and crew. Whilst you slept, I sent soldiers ahead with two hunters. Do not think you can escape me. Yield, Lady Marciana.
Maia’s whole body trembled with fear and rage. She flexed her will against theirs and felt the resistance start to budge. Corriveaux scowled, his brooding look turning darker. I see you. You cannot outmatch the resources of the King of Dahomey. We will hunt you down, my lady. Trust that. You cannot escape. When the soldiers arrive, you will surrender to them. You will instruct your protector to hand over his weapons. You will . . .
Maia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the Dochte Mandar’s thoughts. Despite her best efforts, they embedded themselves into her consciousness like runes carved into a rock. He was forcing his will on her, commanding her to obey his instructions. A raw compulsion gripped her, and she knew that if she saw those men, she would obey.
“My lady?” the kishion asked, looking up at her, at last sensing something was amiss.
She could not speak. Her tongue clove to her mouth. She looked down at him, her eyes pleading.
Leave me alone, Maia thought in desperation. Do not interfere.
I cannot hold her, the second Dochte Mandar thought with a groan of mental anguish.
We have her, Corriveaux thought. With both of us, we can tame her. Do not slacken your thoughts!