The Banished of Muirwood (15 page)

Maia obeyed, hunching down and following him as he trailed along the creek, staying inside the lapping waters. The ferns offered some cover, but she knew it was not much. Her heart thrummed with anxiety. Argus, who trailed behind her, wagged his tail and stared into the woods.

A few moments later, she could make out Jon Tayt’s voice.

“I tell you, I have not seen a soul these last three days except for you lads. If I had, I would tell you. I am just a humble woodsman who fells trees for a living. Do you think the king would hire me? I can split wood faster than any man—”

“Be silent!” barked another voice. “Can you not stop talking?”

“If that pleases you, my lord. I was just saying that an army needs wood for fires, does it not? I can cut a cord of wood faster than you can put on your boots.”

Maia smiled in spite of herself. She recognized that Jon Tayt had been captured and was trying to warn her by talking loudly.

“Be still, man!” said another, cuffing him.

Argus growled.

Maia tried to grab at the dog’s ruff, but Argus broke through the brush of ferns and ran to his master.

“A boarhound!” someone shouted.

The kishion uttered a low curse.

Twigs snapped behind them. The kishion whirled, dagger in his hand, but something whistled and struck his head, knocking him down. He did not move. Maia dropped down beside him and turned him over. She feared an arrow had pierced him, but there was no mark on his body. He was quite unconscious.

Maia heard the whistling noise again and something hard struck her temple.

Her eyes filled with blackness and she slumped into the bed of ferns, joining him in oblivion.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Mark of Dahomey

I
t was the throbbing of Maia’s temple that woke her. As she struggled to open her eyes, she felt herself bounced and jostled so much she quickly lost the sense of up and down. Her wrists were bound together, her arms were bound to her sides—her ankles were secured as well. She struggled for a moment against the bonds and tried to calm the swelling panic that speared her heart.

Her movement had a sway and bounce to it, and after a few moments of startled awareness, she realized that she was being carried. Not on horseback, but on a litter of some kind, two long branches or poles with a blanket or cloak slung between them to cushion her. One man marched in front of her, another behind her. The sky was draining of color as she blinked, the woods filling with purple shadows. She could sense the Myriad Ones everywhere, thronging to the procession as it moved through the trees.

She tried to quiet her heart and focus her thoughts. It was not too late—she could still summon her magic. She could—

It was then Maia realized that the kystrel was gone.

She was defenseless against the Myriad Ones, and she now understood why they were flocking so thickly to her. They were drawn to her helplessness. She could sense their greedy thoughts as they whirled beside her in the twilight, waiting for full dark to attack her, to feed on her fears, to worm their way inside her skin, to steal her will and supplant it with their own. She began to wrestle against the bonds, her terror mounting with every hammer-stroke in her chest.

“She is rousing,” one of the soldiers muttered.

“Do not speak, lass,” another warned. “Or we have orders to gag you.”

She twisted against the litter, trying to count the men. She could see a dozen or more, all wearing the tunics of Dahomey. Trailing after her litter, she could see the kishion and Jon Tayt stumbling forward, hands bound in front of them with chains, pulled along by a rope secured to their bindings. Blood smeared across half of the kishion’s face. His hooded eyes stared at her, searching her face. He said nothing. His expression was hard as stone, implacable. She knew he was plotting how to escape.

Jon Tayt was dejected, his chin lowered in shame as he walked. She could not see any weapons on him. She was surprised, and startled, to see that his boarhound had been spared. Argus padded beside him, jaws muzzled with leather straps, tail bent low between his legs. Her heart sang with relief at the sight of him, but while her friends were alive now, their futures were unsure.

The Myriad Ones hummed around her gleefully, reveling in her capture, her defenselessness.

“You found her?” came a voice from ahead. She strained to see, but her position forbade it. The jostling walk came to a halt.

“Aye, Captain. The hunt has ended. We ran her to ground.”

“We found her before Corriveaux did. Is she alive?”

“Aye, Captain. As His Majesty ordered. A little bruised, but unharmed. What do we do with the two traitors?” He snorted and spat.

“They will stretch by a rope come dawn. They butchered the watch, remember? Take them away. No food. Keep them under heavy guard. If they try to flee, kill them. Do you have her medallion?”

“It is right here, Captain.”

Maia heard the whisper of metal from the kystrel’s chain as it was placed in the captain’s hand. The Myriad Ones were gleeful, and she felt them pressing closer, snuffling against the taut fabric of the litter. It made her stomach sour.

“Set her down.”

The men carrying her litter lowered her into the brush. One of them slit the ropes at her ankles with a dagger. Two others hoisted her up onto wobbling legs. Someone steadied her. The captain carried a torch, revealing a face with a blond goatee and crooked teeth. He raised the torch and stared at her, eyeing her with animosity. The chain from her kystrel gleamed brightly in his hand.

“The king wishes to see her?” one of the soldiers asked curiously.

“Aye,” the captain said with a trace of smugness. “He’s with Feint Collier right now. Collier has seen her before, and the king wants him to identify her. She is as described.” He looked her up and down, his eyes narrowing. “Wine-colored dress. Dark hair. A beauty. The eyes are not glowing, though.” He smiled shrewdly. “I think we have the girl. If you will, lass, follow me to the king’s pavilion.”

A band of ten soldiers walked with her, flanking her from behind. Maia’s eyes were pinned to the chain dangling from the captain’s hand. Her muscles were bunched and sore, and her head still throbbed. She looked back and watched as Jon Tayt and the kishion were led a different way with Argus. It pained her to see them marched to their deaths. She grieved for them, but she was determined to plead with the king for their lives. Not that he would listen to her.

Myriad Ones were everywhere in the king’s camp. They hung over it like the smoke from the dozens of cooking fires. The men were bedding down for the night—some of the fires had spits roasting meat across them, and she could both hear the clank of cups and smell the wine within them. Everything and everyone was filthy, and she wrinkled her nose at the stench. Some of the soldiers leered at her as she passed them, others butted each other and pointed at her. She drew the eyes of everyone in the camp. Her stomach quailed with fear, but she put on a brave face. Somehow, she had to get the kystrel back. With it, she knew she could scatter the army and send them running. Without it, she was powerless.

In the center of the camp was a cluster of huge pavilions. Some were still being assembled, but the main one—the king’s—was already erect with a pennant fluttering from a pole at the center. Guards were stationed at the entrance, and she could see the lanterns illuminating the interior. The air was muggy and hot and she felt a bead of sweat trickle down her cheek. She mustered her courage, preparing to face the man she had been promised to marry as an infant.

The captain showed the kystrel to the guards stationed outside the tent. She looked away, unable to bear the sight of it in his hand, and saw several horses tethered nearby—one of them Feint Collier’s cream-colored stallion. She dreaded seeing him again under these circumstances, but maybe he could help her escape? The thought of being near him again so soon after their dance made her stomach flutter. Jon Tayt had said Collier could not be trusted, but she secretly hoped the hunter was mistaken. She would have to be careful of what she said in front of the king. She did not want to incriminate Collier if she could avoid it.

The guards parted the curtain and the captain walked in first, ducking beneath the heavy folds of fabric before turning and ushering her between the poles supporting the entryway. To Maia’s surprise, there was a Leering with a lantern hanging from its jaws on each side. She could sense their power as she passed them. Once she was inside the tent, the feeling of the Myriad Ones faded.

The ground was carpeted with bearskins. A small brazier filled with sizzling coals sat at the center of the room. The top of the pavilion was open, allowing the smoke to escape outside. The fabric of the pavilion was pale, decorated with purple trim and a design of strange flowers and runes.

There were several people inside the pavilion, but the first person she noticed was Feint Collier. He did not look like a man about to be decapitated for treason. He stood beside a man to whom he bore a pronounced familial resemblance—they were almost of a height, though the king was shorter, and they were both handsome with dark hair and broad shoulders. The main difference was that the king looked slightly younger, wore a colorful doublet, and glittered with jewels, from the earring in his right lobe to the rings glittering on his fingers and the jeweled saber at his side. Even his belt was studded with gems.

Maia dropped to one knee and bowed her head in respect. Her stomach churned with conflicting emotions. She knew the protocols of the Dahomeyjan court and wondered how long she would be able to preserve her secret without telling an outright lie to the king.

“My lord,” the captain said, “I bring your captive as you commanded. The killers who accompanied her have been confined and await your orders. We found a tree of suitable height.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Maia was startled at how much the king’s voice resembled Collier’s. Even in this they were alike.

“As you asked, we stripped her of this before bringing her to your lordship.”

She heard the sound of the kystrel chain unraveling. Glancing up, she could see it dangling from the captain’s gloved fingers. If her arms were not bound, her wrists wreathed in ropes, she would have leaped for it. The woven strands of the kystrel sang to her, called to her. It was
her
magic. It was also her only hope of escape.

The king walked forward, looking at the kystrel as if it were a dangerous serpent. He gingerly took it from the captain, barely touching it with his own gloved hand, and then walked over to a small camp table and set it down by a jewelry box. It gleamed and Maia hungered for it. She kept her eyes downcast.

“Leave us,” the king ordered.

“My lord?” the captain asked warily, his goatee twitching with nervousness.

“She is bound with ropes, Captain, and my collier will run her through if she tries anything foolish. Depart.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” the captain said, and he did as ordered, leading his men out of the pavilion. The evening shadows had deepened, but there was sufficient light in the pavilion. The interior did not smell of the filth of the camp, and she noticed some incense sticks poking from the lip of the brazier. The two men stared at her as she waited on her throbbing knee.

“Well, Your Majesty,” the king said with a snort. “I shall leave the two of you alone to talk.”

Maia’s head jerked up with startled surprise. The king stroked his chin, winked at Feint Collier, and then walked to the opposite side of the pavilion, parted a secret fold, and disappeared.

Maia stared in disbelief.

Collier scratched the corner of his eye, looking a little abashed, and then walked over to help her to her feet.

“You?” Maia whispered, her breath tremulous. She was bewildered.

“I am whoever I want to be,” Collier replied. “It is one of the many privileges of being a king. For you, I am Feint Collier. To many, I am called the Mark of Dahomey, though I resent the nickname. People believe whatever they want to believe anyway.” He unsheathed a hunting dirk from his belt and walked behind her. She felt a prickle of apprehension and fear before the ropes binding her arms were severed and fell away. Her wrists were still secured together, but the gesture gave her a sliver of hope.

“Welcome to Dahomey, Princess Marciana,” he said, touching a lock of hair by her neck. “Or do you truly prefer
Maia
, as I have been informed?”

She shivered at the familiarity of his touch and whirled, backing away from him. “You deceived me.”

He smiled proudly. “Thank you.”

“You knew who I was all along?” Maia pressed.

“Your beauty is renowned, my lady. It took more than blisters, scabs, and dirt to conceal it. And be fair, I did try to tell you.”

“How so?” Maia asked, her mind racing.

“The flower I left in your saddlebag. A lily of Dahomey. The royal flower. I wanted you to know that I knew who you were, so I gave you a hint. You have been under close guard and I could not speak freely, lest the kishion slit your throat or mine.”

“He was sent to protect—”

“He is a hired killer.” He walked over to a small tray and grabbed a few salted nuts and began munching them. “Your father likely paid him to keep you from falling into my hands. How very rude of him to treat his future son-in-law that way.”

Maia stared at him in shock.

“Yes, I deceived you most shamefully,” Collier said with a mock bow. “Did you not enjoy it, though? I certainly did. I will always remember that dance in Briec. There was such a wicked innocence to it. You did not know who I was. I pretended not to know who you were.” The self-satisfied smile on his mouth made her want to slap him hard across the face. “Rarely am I so entertained.” He finished the nuts and brushed his hands together smoothly. “So, for the rest! Now that I have captured you, my lady, I am not going to hold you for ransom. No, nothing like that. I will not execute you, nor will I allow the Dochte Mandar to do so. I will set you free this very evening and you may go on your way to do whatever mischief you were sent here to accomplish. All I ask, my lady—and it really is a small request—is that we marry immediately.”

“You are mad,” Maia gasped in wonderment.

“Hardly. Cunning, wise, treacherous, and—to many a lady—charming. Let me put it this way,” he continued, sitting on the edge of the small sturdy table. “I seek to fulfill the plight troth of our infanthood, solemnizing our union under the auspices of the Dochte Mandar—for I am
not
a maston and neither are you!” He grinned with triumph. “As my wife, you will provide me with the lawful grounds to invade your kingdom and claim it on your behalf, deposing your feckless, ruthless, and quite possibly
insane
father, giving us the thrones of Comoros and Dahomey. My ambitions, naturally, do not end there, as with our combined strength, we will topple the other kingdoms and then invade the homeland of the Naestors.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and winked. “We can accomplish all this by Whitsunday. What do you think?”