The Banished of Muirwood(63)

“Say no more.”

“I must! You shame me by allowing her to stay at court. I am mocked because of her presence. The sneers and quips are intolerable! I beg you, my lord. Send her away!”

Maia swallowed, setting down the map she had been studying of the various kingdoms. She had been tracing the borders of Dahomey with her finger when the argument became loud enough for all to hear. She had only visited Pry-Ree, and though she knew it was unlikely to happen, she longed to see all the realms. She took any chance she could to speak with ambassadors from the other kingdoms, to learn little bits about their ways and manners. Being sent to a distant manor house far from her father and mother, where she would be isolated from everything that interested her and everyone who cared for her, would be a terrible fate. She had long wished to join her mother’s exile at Muirwood, but that was impossible. Her father’s heart was flint.

He stared down at Lady Deorwynn coldly. “Mayhap if you treated Maia more civilly, there would be less gossip and fewer sneers! She is my daughter, and I will not exile her from court. She has been obedient to my orders, patiently suffering her disinheritance and your mistreatment of her. By the Blood, woman, if you treated her with a bit of compassion, there would be none of this rancor in my house!”

Lady Deorwynn came to her feet with startled fury. Her eyes blazed with rage; her jaw quivered with emotion. “How dare you!” she said through clenched teeth.

“How dare I? She is my daughter, not yours. If you treated her with a morsel of dignity . . . but I see that is beyond you. You care only for your own flesh and blood.”

Lady Deorwynn trembled with rage. “I treat her,” she said venomously, “with all the dignity she deserves considering her rank, which you, my lord, gave to her. What shall I hear next, that you plan to marry her to the Prince of Hautland? A banished daughter? You mock me, my lord, you mock me!”

“I have problems enough to vex me,” the king said curtly. “Why do you add to my griefs? Out! Out!” He flung his arm wide, nearly hitting her. “Give me peace, woman.”

Lady Deorwynn retreated, subtly, beyond his reach. She gave a deep curtsy, but her face was full of anger and anguish. “As you bid me, my lord,” she snarled. Then, sweeping up her skirts, she turned and stalked away from the solar chamber, snapping her fingers twice as she went. Her daughters bowed their heads, sighed, swept up their needlework, and followed in her wake.

Maia felt a throb of triumph at how her father had defended her in front of Lady Deorwynn. But Maia knew the woman’s games, knew that she would make her father suffer for the humiliation. Though they bickered often, their fights never lasted long, and words shared on a pillow seemed to tamp the flames of anger that often blazed between them.

Her father knuckled his eyes, his head stooped and downcast. Seated quietly near him, mute, were several members of his Privy Council. They watched him wrestle with his emotions, wisely saying nothing.

He rubbed his beard and exhaled deeply from his nose, staring off into the distance. He fidgeted one of his ruby rings with his lips, toying with it, smoldering. In the past, Chancellor Walraven had always been there to dispel his more violent emotions. She felt the kystrel beneath her bodice grow warm in response to her thoughts, so she chased them away. Many members of the Privy Council were mastons. What would they think of the king’s banished daughter if her eyes suddenly started glowing silver?

Her father had always been an emotional man, easily swayed by his feelings. He could be all sunlight and warmth one moment, with easy smiles and a teasing tongue; and in the next, he could be as hard and violent as a whip, his words lashing out with stinging barbs. The Dochte Mandar had helped regulate his mercurial sways. But now that Walraven was dead and the other Dochte Mandar had been exiled from the realm, her father had more trouble than ever achieving equanimity.

His head turned and he looked at her, startling her.

A grieved smile twisted his mouth, and he beckoned for her to approach him. His summons surprised her, but she promptly obeyed, setting aside the map to come to his side. Her coarse woolen skirt rustled as she knelt by his chair. He cupped her cheek with his palm.

“I would have you near me, Maia,” he said softly. “You . . . comfort me.”

Her heart skidded with pleasure and she gave him a rare smile in return, saying nothing. He motioned to a chair from the table. “Sit by me. We discuss grievous matters.” There were flecks of gold in his hair still, but she was surprised, being so near him, by how much silver was already there.

She pulled the chair up next to him and sat down, resting her hand against his. The rings on his fingers were jagged and rough, but the skin beneath hers was warm.