The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3) (9 page)

“I cannot agree more,” the mayor said, mopping his brow with a silk kerchief from his pocket. He turned and left to make the final arrangements.

Maia turned to Collier. “Are you disappointed?”

He flashed her a small smile. “Whether you wear a servant’s gown or one made by a master tailor, you still look beautiful.” Collier took her to the corner of the room, where a chair sat in front of a table and mirror. “Your hair needs to be brushed. If I may?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him and nodded, giving him a private smile. Then she sat down in front of the mirror and gazed at her weary reflection. There were soot smudges above her cheeks.

Collier took a comb from the table and began to smooth out her long hair with expert hands, as he had done aboard the ship on their way to Naess. She was more comfortable with him now, but his touch made her shiver with pleasure and anticipation as his hands grazed the back of her neck.

“I wanted you to ride with us as well,” Maia said, looking at his deep blue eyes through the mirror’s reflection.

He shook his head. “Simon said it would be unwise, and I agree with him.”

Maia pursed her lips.

“Shall I explain?” he offered.

She nodded.

“The people love you. There is euphoria in the streets right now. Word is spreading quickly that you miraculously escaped your death at the tower and will ride through the city to claim your father’s throne. Simon’s people are helping to spread the word. All requests for evidence that your father still lives have been met with silence. Half the nobles, including Kranmir, fled the city, and many were robbed as they departed Ludgate.” He snorted to himself. “I will not comment on whether they deserved it. This is your moment, Maia. If the King of Dahomey rides beside you, then it will tarnish that moment. You did this, not I. It would not be wise to let people think that Dahomey manipulated your father’s death or put you on the throne.”

Maia stared at him. “A queen has never before ruled Comoros,” she whispered. “I will be the first.”

He nodded, teasing out some more strands of her hair with the comb. “Which is what makes it so interesting. The customs of your realm must change. Your struggles are just beginning. You have renegade earls who fear losing their possessions and estates. Men like Kord Schuyler, the Earl of Forshee. And Kranmir will do his utmost to rally the mastons against you. I imagine you will want to invest your friend’s husband with Schuyler’s title?”

The idea had never occurred to her—the notion of having that kind of power would take some adjustment, it seemed. “I suppose I can do that,” she said in an almost awed whisper.

Collier chuckled. “There are certain privileges that come with power, my dear. You can reward those who are loyal and faithful to you. That will show the people what you value and set the tone for their future behavior. Reward the mastons, and more nobles will choose to join the order.”

Maia nodded, smiling. “I will need a new chancellor as well.”

Collier tugged through a stubborn clump, easing the tangles out gently, and then continued to make long, smooth strokes. She sat patiently, enjoying this moment with him.

“That role is critical,” he said firmly. “It is someone you must absolutely trust. Your chancellor will act on your behalf. They will control who gets to speak with you and when. They will lead meetings in your absence and decide policy on your path. I kept my father’s chancellor when I became king. Integrity is paramount. He was a maston, and I knew that he would not use his power to reward himself or his friends. Do you have anyone in mind?”

Maia sighed and nodded. Their gazes met again in the mirror. “Richard Syon.”

He seemed startled but pleasantly so. “An Aldermaston?” he chuckled.

“Not just
any
Aldermaston. He has already shown himself to be a wise counselor, not to mention a patient and kindhearted man.” Maia also thought about his wife and her band of Ciphers. She smiled inwardly. She had not shared that secret with Collier yet—and indeed, it was not hers to share. “And he is the Aldermaston of Muirwood, the most ancient abbey of the realm.”

Collier nodded, and his eyes gleamed with approval. “I do not know of any precedent for it. He might reject the position. Or the High Seer might oppose your choice.” He winked at her.

“I shall have to ask my grandmother then,” Maia replied.

Collier finished combing her hair and gently played with some of the strands. He crouched behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“And when shall we announce our marriage to the people?” she asked him, feeling her stomach ripple and thrill as she gazed at him.

“Give me a few months in Dahomey,” he whispered in her ear. “You have not yet been crowned Queen of Dahomey. I imagine you should be crowned by your own people first.”

She turned. “Without you by my side?”

He gave her a small smile. “Setting up a kingdom takes time, my love. And I have problems of my own.”

She raised her eyebrows and waited for him to continue.

“When I arrived in Comoros, Simon told me that Paeiz is preparing to invade Dahomey. They think I am penniless and that my future father-in-law is too tightfisted to help. They seek to enlarge their borders at the expense of mine. I think they will be a little surprised to find us more than capable of defending our borders.” He smirked at her, but then his face grew serious. “Thanks to your grandmother,” he added softly.

She turned in the chair so she could look him in the eye. “I do not want you to leave me.”

“It will not be for long,” he promised, running his fingers down her cheek until they landed just below her forbidden lips.

A brisk knock sounded on the door, and then the mayor entered, beaming, noise from the streets outside streaming in from behind him. He looked at them askance, then grinned and winked, and bowed with a flourish.

“Your Majesty,” he said graciously. “As you can hear, the city is clamoring to see you.”

Collier crept his hand into hers, gave it a firm squeeze, and then let her go. She rose and followed the mayor to the front of the inn, where the cheers and shouts were growing louder and louder.

When she reached the door and shielded her eyes from the sun, she saw people on every cobblestone of the street, in every open window, on every roof. Everywhere there were raised caps and waving hands. A few of the escorts who would accompany her and the mayor were mounted, and she could tell they struggled to keep their horses calm in the sustained cacophony of noise.

When they saw her, it was like a rumble of thunder. The cheer deafened her.

I do not disagree that the maston tomes have gems of great wisdom contained therein. We can learn from anyone, even our enemies. Knowledge can be twisted into any shape. Did not one of the wisest men teach that the least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousandfold? That is the hallmark of the Victus. By small degrees are women wooed. By tiny corruptions will kings fall. I especially love the tome of Ovidius, who has taught all other men the art of telling lies skillfully.

—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey

CHAPTER SEVEN

Pardon

M
aia rode a quivering stallion through the streets of Comoros to the deafening tumult of cheers and fanfare. The horse had blinders to keep it moving straight, but she could sense the beast’s nervousness, which rivaled her own. The mayor of Comoros rode at her side, waving gallantly to the crowds who had assembled en masse to see her. Everywhere there were men and women with tears streaming down their filthy faces, people shouting for her to go forth and claim the crown long denied to her.

It was a moment she would never forget.

She had been prepared to die for her convictions, but now she realized it might require more courage to live for them. So many lives were in her hands, and she could not fail them. The streets were clogged with mud and debris, but it did little to stop the people who were gathering around the cavalcade, or to cool their ardor. She was the first female heir of Comoros, with no legitimate brothers to rival her for the power of the throne. In the distant past, one female heir had attempted to take the queendom and failed, sparking a civil war that had lasted nearly a generation.

Someone from the crowd rushed up to hand her a flower, but the person was rebuffed by one of her escorts who surrounded them on foot, each of them carrying poleaxes to keep the crowd from engulfing them. The lady was grabbed by the shoulder and shoved away.

Without pausing to consider her actions, Maia tugged on the reins and halted her nervous mount. “Bring me that woman’s flower,” she said in a firm tone of command. The closest soldier gazed at her in confusion for a moment, as if to gauge her sincerity, but then strained against the crowd to make his way to the older woman. When he returned to Maia, he presented her with the flower. She took it in one hand, still clenching the reins in her other, and nodded her thanks to the woman, who stared at her with dumbstruck gratitude. Another cheer went up from the crowd as those nearby realized what she had done. She tapped the flanks of her horse with her boots and pressed on amidst the noise and confusion.

The people wanted more than to see her wearing a humble servant’s gown and riding a cream-colored stallion. They wanted to touch her, speak to her, and know her.

All that would come with time. Maia had no intention of sequestering herself away in the castle once it had been seized. She would first seek out Suzenne and Dodd and ensure they were safe. There was a nervous pit in her stomach that would not be moved until she saw them again.

A man hung precariously from a weathercock on a roof, waving his cap like a flag and screaming her name. When she waved up at him, the crowd cheered her all the louder. There were so many people, it was impossible to focus on anyone for very long.

“Almost there!” the mayor shouted to her, gesturing as Pent Tower loomed ahead of them. The walls were crowded with spectators, citizens who had helped storm the greenyard in a selfless effort to save her life. The outer walls were in the mayor’s control now. The keep itself had been bolted and shut, but the mayor’s men had also taken control of the river leading to and from the palace. Several nobles had already been caught trying to flee, and the rest were hunkering down within the keep for a siege.

“Have your men be gentle with the crowd,” she told the mayor. Then she had to repeat herself, yelling this time, for him to hear.

He looked at her askance. “My lady, we are doing our best to hold them back!” he shouted in reply. Then he beamed with satisfaction. “I have never seen such a mob! Not even on Whitsunday!” He gave her a victorious smile and tapped his stallion’s flanks with his spurs, urging the reluctant horse onward.

The garbled shouts from the crowd washed over her. She heard men crying out praise for the king’s daughter, as if it were a title of the greatest honor. Others shouted out their support for the reign of the new queen. Each clop of hooves brought them nearer to their destination, and Maia could not help but wonder what would happen when they actually reached the gates. Demanding the castellan to open the gates was a risk. If he refused and challenged her authority, it would be an inauspicious beginning. Yet the mayor was convinced that the castellan would surrender rather than face the wrath of the mob that followed Maia. There were not enough soldiers in the city to tame the restless hive. The city’s very vulnerability—months, nay, years, in the making—had prepared it for Maia’s claim.

As they reached the outer walls, flower petals started snowing down on them. How it had happened, she did not know, but it felt as if every flower seller in the entire city must have gathered their wares together to be shredded and tossed from the heights. Rose petals mixed with daffodils and daisies to create a fragrant, beautiful rain. A small blue forget-me-not landed on Maia’s hand, and she snatched it up before it blew away, smiling at the memories it inspired.

The mayor guffawed at the display, his features glowing with the triumph of the moment. He motioned for Maia to ride under the arch and into the main bailey. The greenyard was off to the left, and to her relief, the scaffold was not still standing. It had been broken down, the plinth knocked onto its side and broken to pieces. The greenyard swelled with people—merchants and tanners and weavers all jumbled together and waving and screaming her name.

The mayor beamed. “I have never seen the like,” he shouted. “By the Blood, what a scene!”

Maia’s heart beat hard in her chest as their horses continued to approach the huge doors of the keep. There were guards stationed on the walls looking down at them. Their helmets concealed their faces, but they wore her father’s uniforms.

The mayor reined in his stallion, and the beast stamped nervously. Maia’s own mount still trembled with fear, and she tried to soothe it by stroking its mane.

The mayor held his fist high in the air, and the folk in the bailey fell silent, though the roar from outside the walls did not abate. Tension and dread hung in the air. Maia’s mouth went dry as she gripped the reins, squeezing the leather straps hard enough to bite into her skin, and stared up at the walls.