The Banished of Muirwood(69)

Corriveaux’s eyes widened with shock. He held his hand up in a placating gesture. “Oh, my lord king, what have you done?” He backed away slowly, trying to put some distance between the tip of the blade and his chest.

“I do not believe in your superstitions,” Collier said. “You use the kystrels to control our hearts and minds. I am protected from you. Remember that. Now, I have several nooses that were not put to use last night. You can all share them between you if need be.”

“That will not be necessary,” Corriveaux said, retreating to the tent flap. “You clearly have the situation well under control. I should not have doubted your wisdom.”

Collier barked a laugh. “You will answer for this, Corriveaux. Report to my Privy Council and await my judgment.”

“Yes, my liege. As you command.” Corriveaux bowed deeply. As he lifted, he shot Maia a murderous look, his lips twisted with rage.

The King of Dahomey had her kystrel. He wore it around his neck. She could see the thin chain against his skin. They were bound together now, and not just as husband and wife. The other five Dochte Mandar who traveled with Corriveaux sulked out of the tent after him.

Maia thought she heard a bird chirping. How she heard it past the wild hammering of her heart, she did not know. She rose from the chair, feeling her legs strengthen beneath her.

Collier sheathed his blade and turned, brushing his hands. “I told you I would protect you, Maia. I do not think they will be fool enough to defy me.” He gave her a charming smile. “I am going to summon my armies to invade Comoros. It is time to depose your father. Shall we?” He offered her his hand.

“You wear my kystrel,” Maia said hollowly.

“You gave it to me,” he said with a laugh.

“I am sorry.” She swallowed.

“For what?”

Sleep, she commanded in her mind, shoving her thought at him.

He collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Maia knelt carefully by his crumpled form. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling. So easy it would be. So easy to kill him. A small kiss on his cheek was all it would take. The thought in her mind horrified her, and she realized with a jolt that it was not her own.

Maia reached for the chain of the kystrel around Collier’s neck. As her fingers drew near, she felt her left shoulder begin to smolder with pain. Her muscles seized up and locked. She could not stretch her arm any farther, try as she might. Pain and nausea swept through her.

She felt . . . disapproval.

Maia huddled next to him and stared down into his sleeping face. The face of her husband. This was not the royal wedding she had dreamed of as a child. There had been no pageantry. No Aldermastons with gray cassocks and wise airs. It had not been a maston wedding, performed in an abbey by irrevocare sigil.

She was grateful for that much.

She pulled her arm back and found that she could move it again. The being trapped inside her—the Myriad One whose name she did not know—would not allow her certain actions against its interests. She breathed deeply, trying to steel her heart. She reached down and squeezed her husband’s rough hand.

“I am truly sorry, Feint Collier,” she whispered. “But I cannot let you use me to destroy my father.” She gave the hand another squeeze. “Do not try to find me, for I will run from you for the rest of my life.”

She rose and looked down at him one last time. There was her pack near the mouth of the tent. She grabbed it. Spying one of his cloaks rumpled on a chest, she swung it over her shoulders, raised the cowl, and slipped out the back of the tent into the dawn air.





There was once a wise Aldermaston who said, “Gold tests with fire, woman with gold, man with woman.”


—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey





CHAPTER TWENTY



Peliyey Mountains

The morning sky was hazy with camp smoke as the soldiers awoke and began stirring the ashes from the previous night. Some bent low and breathed on the cakes of ash, coaxing them to life again. Others carried piles of sticks, ready to feed the flames. Maia passed them as a shadow, swathed in Collier’s big coat.

“We could use more wine in our rations,” a big man muttered as she passed. “My head is aching.”

“Because you drank too much wine last night.”

Maia walked past them with a firm stride, wanting to hurry without appearing to do so.

She heard the crunch of boots behind her, coming on her left, so she switched directions, going around another campfire. The sounds of pursuit persisted. A lump of fear settled into her stomach. She did not want to use the kystrel’s magic to flee, but she wondered if she would even have a choice. Though it no longer hung around her neck, its power was as accessible to her as ever—more so.