The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3) (42 page)

Collier reached up and tugged at his tunic front. She saw a glimmer of silver, saw the pattern on the fringe. It was a chaen, the kind a knight-maston would wear.

Her eyes widened with surprise and misery. She stared, transfixed, as he lifted his hand and showed her the pink burn mark on his palm. He had . . . he had made his oaths? The realization only twisted the shards deeper into her heart.

“I am a maston,” Collier whispered through his anguish. “Even now.”

Maia crumpled with tears and hugged his face to her bosom, sobbing until her tears ran into his hair.

“Then you will die a maston,” the kishion said coldly. Maia recognized the look of murder in his eyes, but she only held Collier closer.

“Maia,” Collier whispered faintly. “I . . . love you.”

She gazed down at his upturned face, his eyes strangely calm, as if he were no longer suffering. The bloodstain on the floor was spreading.

“You are the only man . . . I will ever love,” she whispered through her tears. “Even in death, they cannot separate us. I would have married you by irrevocare sigil. Forever!”
Why? Oh, why!
She thought the pain in her heart would kill her.

Collier hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pushed himself up with one arm, pulling her down with the other. He kissed her tenderly, a farewell kiss, a kiss of love. She felt the mark on her shoulder flare, followed by the same tingle she had felt on her lips after Oderick’s kiss.

She kissed Collier back, pouring all the ardor and love that devastated her heart into the caress. Then she cradled his face between her hands and smothered him with kisses—his lips, his nose, his eyes and cheeks. She wept as she kissed him, knowing he was already dying.

His strength gave out, and he slumped in her arms. She cradled his body, pressing her cheek against his, feeling the warmth of his skin. She mourned. Her heart had never felt so broken. Everything in her world was upside down. All was blackness and despair, a misery beyond enduring.

He blinked up at her, a small smile on his face as he lay listless. “My love,” he whispered. “My queen. I named you my heir. You are Queen . . . of Dahomey now.”

She tried to stifle her sobbing and could not. She kissed him again, but his lips did not respond this time.

The kishion shoved Collier onto his stomach with a boot and wrenched Maia to her feet. The knife still protruded from the back of her husband—her heart’s husband. The kishion reached down and yanked the blade out, wiping the blood smears on Collier’s tunic before resheathing it.

Maia covered her face with her hands. “Leave him!” she choked in fury.

“He is a dead man,” the kishion said flatly. “If my blade did not finish him, your kiss surely will.”

The Bearden Muir is a vicious swampland. They have demolished trees and made the road impassable. Archers plague us night and day. But my army is cutting a swath to the abbey. We have axes enough for the work. There have been several small battles on the flanks, but they are sending young men to do men’s work. We will show them no pity.

—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Cursed Shores

M
aia awoke from a dreamless fog. Her eyelids were heavy and puffy from crying. Dizziness and nausea twisted her insides, but the sound of creaking timbers and the sway of the sea finally helped orient her and made her realize she was on board a ship. She tried to lift herself up, and found her wrists were lashed together with leather bonds. As she came more awake, the crushing weight of grief slammed against her once more.

The memory of Collier collapsing on the floor of the inn, his life blood seeping away, made it difficult to breathe.

She lifted herself up on the stuffed pallet, staring at nothing, just trying to get air into her lungs. The ship rocked and swayed, as if it were trying to comfort her, but she doubted she would ever be happy again. Her fingers tingled from the bonds at her wrists, and she lifted her heavy hands to try and smooth the clumps of hair from her face. She was weak from lack of food and drink. But that was nothing compared to the blot in her heart. A few trembling sighs and hiccups came. Had she run out of tears at last?

Her memories after they had left Collier behind were hazy and disjointed. The kishion had trussed her up, tied a foul-smelling rag over her mouth—which had made her fall unconscious, mercifully—and loaded her into a chest. She could only surmise the chest had been carried aboard some ship in the harbor of Bridgestow, for the next thing she knew, she was swathed in total darkness. At some point the kishion had released her from the chest and carried her to the bed. After telling her he would return with food later, he had disappeared from the cabin. She must have slumped back into unconsciousness.

Maia trembled and shook, realizing that every moment carried her farther away from Comoros, from her people and the dangers they faced.

The door of the cabin groaned, and she flinched as the kishion stepped inside and bolted it behind him. His face was half-hidden in shadows. He looked at her warily, his face devoid of guilt or concern. He held a small bag in his hand.

Maia smoothed the hair from her face again, staring at him with loathing and bitterness. “So we are going to the lost abbey,” she said, her voice so small and delicate that it sounded strange to her own ears.

The kishion nodded. He approached the bed and opened the sack. He put down a heel of bread wet with honey. A piece of dried meat came out next. A small round cheese followed and then a Muirwood apple. The apple surprised her and stabbed her with pain, but she reached for it first, bringing it to her nose to breathe in the smell. A few tiny tears moistened her lashes, but it was not enough to fall. Not even the apple could comfort her. She set it down on her lap without taking a bite, then glanced up at him, frightened by the coldness she saw on his face. The detachment.

“You have robbed me, kishion,” she said in a tremulous voice. “You killed my parents. You murdered the man I truly loved. Even Argus . . . faithful Argus . . . you are a monster.”

His eyes narrowed, but she could see he had been expecting recrimination. “I am,” he said with a chuckle. “Men like me exist to do that which is too difficult for the tenderhearted. Your mother’s health was failing long before I arrived at Muirwood. I hastened her journey to her next life, where I am sure she will be rewarded for her patient suffering.” He said this last part with a hint of derision. “Your father was a murderer himself, though he lacked the manhood to ever wield the blade for a killing blow. He was a coward. I will
never
regret killing him. I only regret not killing him sooner.” His face twisted with anger. “The dog tried to attack me. I have never been fond of beasts. They make my work more difficult. And if you recall, Maia, your
husband
. . . your duplicitous
husband
, threatened to hang me when next we met. You recall the gallows in Dahomey he used to threaten me? But I was too cunning for him.”

“I should have let him!” Maia said with barely concealed anguish. “Why did I plead for your life? Why did I not allow the Fear Liath to drag you away?” She groaned. “You have repaid my kindness and mercy with
blood
!”

Her words stung him and he flinched. She could see the pain in his eyes, but his resolve did not waver. He was hard as flint, as immovable as a Leering.

Without shifting his gaze from hers, he reached toward his belt and drew one of his daggers. Then he grabbed her arms—not pausing when she cringed—and slit the bonds at her wrists, freeing her. He knelt by the edge of the bed, eyes level with hers. His scars had never looked so grotesque, and utter revulsion almost made her shrink away. He gripped one of her hands and pressed the dagger handle into her palm.

“You want revenge?” he sneered softly. “Then cut out my heart and eat it.” He dragged her wrist, blade first, toward his chest. Letting go, he quickly loosened his collar and exposed the skin and a thatch of hair. “Kill me, Maia. If you think it will make you feel
any
better.”

The blade was heavy in her hand. It was sharp and well made. She stared at it in her hand and sat up on the bed, the apple ready to tumble from her lap.

The kishion stared at her defiantly, exposing himself to a mortal wound. But she could see in his eyes that he did not believe she would do it. He knew she could not kill a defenseless man. She stared at the blade, trying to hear the Medium’s whisper through the haze of her grief and despair. She heard nothing.

Her hand grew heavy and her arm sank. The kishion snorted and took the blade, then slid it back into the sheath at his waist. He rose and scrubbed one hand through his untidy hair.

“That is why I am here. To do the things that you will not do.”

She gazed up at him. “Compassion is not weakness.”

“It is to the Naestors,” he said gruffly. “You do not understand the enemy. There is a practice in Naess called the Blood Eagle. It is an execution that makes a headsman’s axe seem tame. That is how they will destroy your leaders. Your chancellor, your Privy Council members. Your Aldermastons. They would have made you
watch
it, Maia.” He shook his head, his face twisted with revulsion. “I wanted to spare you the memories. They will destroy everyone. But they are afraid of the cursed shores. They fear the magic down there. Even the Leerings are cursed. So that is where I will hide you. I know that only a woman can pass the Leerings down in the lost abbey.” The look he gave her was plaintive. “Even if they find me, you can hide. You will be safe.”

She shook her head. “What is there is worse than death.”

His looked hardened. “I do not expect you to forgive me, Maia. I do not ask that of you. I will do what I must to keep you alive.” He gestured toward the food he had brought her. “You will need your strength to cross those lands. I have gathered supplies for the journey. It will not be long now.” He gave her a crooked smile. “It will be like it was before. You will see.” He left and shut the door behind him.

Maia’s legs ached from the long march through the woods. It had been so long since she had wandered this place, and yet the memories haunted her. There were bite marks on her skin, and the gnats and insects were a maddening nuisance. Before, they had wandered the cursed shores with caution and dread, not knowing what they would find or how far it would be. This time, they knew the journey; they knew where to find the waymarkers that would lead them to the abbey. Memories lurked everywhere. As Maia trudged through the brambles and mud, she could almost hear Captain Rawlt and his men cursing the climate and the snake-infested woods.

Each morning they examined themselves for ticks, which were plentiful, and wolf spiders. Maia found that the creatures left her alone for the most part. There were never any bites beneath her chaen, so she did not need the kishion’s help to remove them. There were also no whispers this time. No murmurings or premonitions of dread. Without the kystrel, the woods felt less haunted and foreboding. She wondered if the deadness in her heart did not leave the Myriad Ones enough emotions to feed on, or if something else was keeping them at bay.

The kishion’s spirits rose the farther they went. He did not speak to her often, and she was mostly silent with him. He had warned her not to escape, but she did not feel that fleeing was the right thing to do. Strangely, as they walked, she began to feel the subtle guidance of the Medium compelling her to follow him. It was almost as if there were a trail of lampposts leading off into the woods, a trail that beckoned her onward much as the waymarkers did. More than once, she felt a smokeshape traveling with them—leading her. At first she worried it was a Myriad One, but it did not feel malign. In fact, it reminded her of . . . Argus.

She did not want to be there. It had not been her decision to come to Dahomey. But as she followed the trail into the woods, it started to feel . . . right. Of course, she still carried the weight of her horrible grief. It was so vast and so omnipresent she had even given it a name. She called it the Great Sadness, and it was as vast as a lake, constantly rippling at her side as she walked. If she thought on it too much, it would overwhelm her with bitterness and tears. She could not will the Great Sadness away, so instead she became acquainted with it. She thought on it, seeking to learn something of and from it. It taught her, silently, of the pain others had felt upon losing loved ones and spouses. Quotes from the tomes she had studied ran through her mind over and over again. One from Ovidius particularly resounded with her:
You can learn from anyone—even your enemy.