The Banished of Muirwood (26 page)

Maia reached the base of the Watzholt before nightfall. She knew it would be too treacherous to attempt the crossing by moonlight, so she made a small camp for herself in the trees. After living off the land for as long as she had, she knew which herbs were edible, so though she was hungry, she was not starving. A small creek trickled past, providing icy waters to refresh her thirst. Though she was heavyhearted, she did not despair.

Maderos’s words repeated over and over in her mind. She had felt such peace when he recited the words from the Aldermastons’ tomes, as if those words held the power of the Medium. Was that why learners spent so much time reading and engraving? Could the words themselves be instruments of power? It was an idea she had never considered.

A frosty wind from the Watzholt came rushing down the mountain and ruffled the trees, making her shiver. It would be a difficult climb, she knew, but she had endured many hardships on her journey. She pulled her fraying cloak tighter around her shoulders, huddling in the small shelter she had created. She dared not build a fire for risk of being seen. She did not want anyone to find her, for fear of hurting them at night.

As night fell, she stayed awake, watching the pale moon rising. Although she still feared sleep, she knew she was safer when she was far from some bastion of civilization. She wondered what sort of people the Hautlanders were and when they would learn about the burning of Cruix Abbey. Otherwise she might be recognized by description. If she moved quickly enough, she hoped she could make it to the port city and slip away without being discovered.

Perhaps it was too much to hope for.

Maia heard something.

She lowered her cowl and heard grunts and heavy breathing. A prickle of fear filled her heart. Was some bear or wolf pack hunting her scent? It was coming fast, snuffling through the brush.

She grabbed the strap of her rucksack and was preparing to flee when she heard a distinctive howl and bark. Then Argus barreled into her makeshift camp, licking her face with wild joy.

“You found me,” she said, feeling guilt and pleasure simultaneously. “You found me, Argus.” She hugged him fiercely, burying her face into his fur. She heard the clomping of boots following the boarhound.

I have learned, mostly through painful experience, never to be dismissive of a friend’s accusation, even if it seems unreasonable. More often than not, it is well-meant, the truth, and something I have needed to hear but did not want to. It is an easy thing to be offended. It is difficult to learn something new about ourselves.

—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Hunted

J
on Tayt sat in the shadows of the tree, but his eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he stroked Argus’s flanks. He had confirmed what she already knew—there were enemies on their trail. Corriveaux had discovered she was not with the king and had crossed into Mon with a retinue of Dochte Mandar, arriving at Cruix Abbey the morning after it burned.

Maia stared at the sky, sickened by the knowledge of what she had done.

“Did they harm the kishion?” she asked him worriedly.

He shook his head. “The healer dressed the wound, but he was burning with fever when I left. I hid him in the mountains.”

“You must go there yourself, Jon Tayt,” she implored. “Go and guide travelers through the peaks again. It is not safe to be near me.” She sighed and tugged her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. “I could not bear it if you or Argus were harmed because of me.”

He snorted. “I fear not the Dochte Mandar,” he said in a low voice. “They have hunters to be sure, but I am better. We can slip away if we are wary and quick.”

“No,” Maia said, a little too forcefully. She wrestled with her emotions. “It is not safe to be near
me.
There is good reason the Dochte Mandar hunt me. I am a danger to everyone. Even you.”

She heard him scratch the whiskers at his neck. “You felled the abbey.”

“Yes,” Maia confessed.

“Why? Did they threaten you?”

“No, they were innocent.” She felt her throat catch and coughed to clear it.

“Then why, Lady Maia? Why did you do it?”

She stared miserably into her lap. “I was not in control of myself. At night, I have strange visions of the past. They are so vivid and real. When I sleep, I lose control of myself and . . . am taken over by another force. It is like a sickness. I thought the Aldermaston could cure me. Instead, I harmed him.”

Jon Tayt sniffed, but he did not look accusing. “Best to keep you away from abbeys then, my lady.”

She looked up at him. “I urge you to abandon me. I am hunted by the Dochte Mandar. Now I will be hunted by the Aldermastons. The Naestors, whom I seek, will slay me when they find out what and who I am. I cannot—
will not—
ask anything further of you.”

“You’ve said your piece. Let me say mine.” He was silent a moment, the only sounds the rustling of the wind through the trees and Argus’s panting. “It gives me some comfort that you did not destroy the abbey deliberately. I have suspected for some time that you suffer from a fever or delirium at night. We have tried to keep watch over you—the kishion and I. The two of us had a truce, so to speak. But you should have
told
me, Lady Maia. I have an herb, valerianum, that can cause drowsiness and deep slumber when mixed with a tea. It is worth trying, at any rate. Or I can bind and gag you at night . . . truss you up like a slaughter-bound boar and tie you to a tree. If you had told me, I could have helped ere it came to this.” He grunted. “You were foolish and you were proud. But you are not guilty. I have seen your heart, and you are fair and just, even to those who do not deserve it. You stopped Feint Collier from hanging us. You have always tried to save innocents, even at great cost to yourself. So I will say this one thing and then we are done, by Cheshu.” He scooted forward a bit, staring her full in the face, his eyes boring into hers with an almost feverish intensity. “You cannot dismiss me. I am not your servant to be banished. I am your friend. If Argus trusts you, and he nary trusts
anyone
but me, then you are fit companionship. A friend does not abandon a friend during troubled times. That is when the friendship is needed most.”

Maia’s eyes pricked with tears. Something had come loose inside of her during Jon Tayt’s speech. She was grateful beyond words and felt a soothing balm of relief as tears slipped from her moist lashes.

“I do not deserve your friendship,” she said, swallowing her tears. “But thank you.”

“Bah, do not weep, lass. You do not shed tears on a trifle, which is one of the things I admire most about you. There are only two good reasons to weep, by Cheshu. The death of your mother or the death of your hound. Everything else is a trifle to be endured.”

Maia laughed softly at the sentiment. “Well, my mother is still alive. Still banished at Muirwood Abbey, so it seems.” She thought of the letter Maderos had given her. “I may not be fit to be called her daughter, but I hope to change that. And Argus . . .” She reached over and pet him. “He has not forsaken me either.”

“Get your
own
hound,” Jon Tayt said teasingly. “Every lass deserves a good hound. When Argus sires some pups, one shall be yours.”

Maia sat quietly for a while, massaging her shoulders in the gloom. “So you left the kishion burning with a fever. Will he survive?” she asked finally, almost dreading the answer.

“He is a hardy man,” Jon Tayt said. He sniffed. “I gave him some feverfew. He was very low and may not survive the day. But if he does recover, I would not be offended.”

Maia smiled sadly and shook her head. Part of her was relieved, but she would miss the kishion. He had come to feel like a friend.

Argus’s head snapped up, his ears taut.

“
That
would be a sign,” Jon Tayt whispered, “that we should be on our way up the mountain.”

The storm struck the Watzholt as they reached the other side of the ridge. Fluffy feathers of snow blasted into them, propelled by a howling wind that made each step a struggle. Maia’s fingers and toes felt like ice, and the scarf over her mouth made it difficult to breathe. The drifts were up to their waist and getting deeper.

The Watzholt range rose up like a ridge of sharp teeth, and while they were only seeking to pass between the crevices, it was still high and the air thin.

“I know these mountains!” Jon Tayt shouted over the wind. “There is a village on the other side, but it is far. We may freeze to death before we get there!”

Maia shivered with the cold, wishing there were a Leering she could use to summon heat.

“Do we go back?” she shouted at him.

He shook his head, his coppery beard white with snow, like a grandfather’s. He looked excited, as if the storm pleased him.

“What do we do then?” she yelled.

“Build a cave,” he shouted. “Over there, in that drift! Come on!”

He slogged over to a lumpy portion of the snow and sank down to his knees. He withdrew one of his throwing axes, using the handle and blade like a shovel to dig away the snow. He waved her over and handed another one to her. Maia knelt beside him and began digging too, wondering what madness Jon Tayt was attempting. At least digging was easier than walking in the blizzard, and the work had her heart beating fast.

“Why do you look as if you are enjoying this?” Maia said through chattering teeth.

The hunter grinned. “This storm is covering all of our tracks. Even with a hound it would be difficult for them to track us now. Dig!”

It took hours of shoveling through the packed snowdrift, but they dug a cave into the mountainous pile and then a little chamber higher up. It was not tall enough to stand in, but the walls of snow provided protection from the shearing wind and ice, and Maia’s shivering began to subside.

Argus whimpered from the cold and Maia pitied the beast, though she wished she had a coat of fur instead of two soggy gowns sticking to her. Her breath was a mist as she let it out, and everything around them was a uniform white. The wind moaned from the tunnel.

After he had finished packing the snow on the floor, Jon Tayt brought out his pack and fished through it for some food to eat. He looked positively cheery.

Maia clutched her stomach and dug her hands into her armpits to try and warm them. Her hair was damp, and clumps of ice clung to the tresses. It was still daylight, but it felt like twilight in the cave.

“Here,” Jon Tayt said, offering her some dried beef wedged in a crust.

She ate it ravenously, her hunger increased by the effort of digging their shelter. “At least we have enough water,” she said, her teeth chattering.

He shook his head. “Never eat snow. It will kill you with cold. You are shaking, lass. Here, lay your head against Argus. Keep close to him for warmth.” He brushed his gloved hands together, looking around the shelter with an appraising eye. “Not bad at all. This will do.”

She chewed through the stiff bread, drank sparingly from her waterskin, and nestled against Argus’s flank as she continued to eat. The bread was a bit hard, and the meat tough and spicy. Jon Tayt munched on a fistful of nuts, then offered some to her. She refused, feeling the fatigue from their efforts settle in on her.

“Stay awake as long as you can,” he warned, nudging her. “It is dangerous to fall asleep in the snow anyway, but perhaps more so for you. I will keep watch and wake you if you start to act strangely. Hopefully the storm will pass soon.”

She blinked at him and nodded, pulling her cloak tightly over her and Argus like a blanket. Before long she dozed.

Maia.

The voice whispered inside her mind. Her eyes snapped open.

She was aware, subtly, of a presence deep in her mind. It made her cringe. It was her husband. Her mother’s warning stung her conscience.

Maia?

She could sense him. He was warm, fed, and comfortable. How she envied him that. He was in his pavilion again, a warm brazier offering heat. She longed to be there, to feel a fur blanket beneath her and eat warm food.

Are you cold? You seem like ice. Where are you?

She could almost smell him. No, she
could
smell him. She could even smell the wine on his breath. Somehow, her thoughts were entwining with his and she was sharing his sensations.

I am cold
, she thought to him, almost in spite of herself.

Where are you, Maia?

She did not want to commune with him, but the warmth was so inviting she could not resist it. He took another swallow of spiced wine and it felt as if it went down her throat instead. It warmed her from the inside.

Hautland
, she found herself thinking.
We were caught in a blizzard crossing the Watzholt.

So we are talking now? I sensed you before, but you did not respond. I can
feel
the cold. Are you in danger?

She could feel his warmth and he could feel her chill. It was a strange intimacy, their minds weaving together like this through the Medium. She was grateful for it. Her body stopped trembling.

She stared at the wall of the snow cave, but in her mind, she saw the interior of his pavilion, looking much as it had the night they had spent together. She flushed with embarrassment.

I am hunted,
she thought back to him.
What do you know about the Victus?

It is a secret order within the Dochte Mandar. They are the ones hunting you. Corriveaux is one of them. My spies watch for them, but they are subtle. What do you know about them, Maia?

She breathed out slowly.
Nothing. I heard they were strong in Hautland.

Their origin is Naess, but Hautland seems to serve their interests the most. I have heard they torture people for information. Or bend them to their will. Be careful.

I will. Thank you, Collier.

Do you need help?
She could feel the urgency in his mind, his desire to aid her.
I could send a ship for you. Let me help you.

She realized she would need a ship to reach Naess. There was no way to route by land. She had assumed she would hire passage on a cargo ship bound to the northernmost kingdom. Part of her resisted letting Collier help. Another part of her wanted to confide everything to him and beg his help.

Please. Let me help you.

She wriggled under her cloak, uncertainty wrestling inside her.
Maybe one thing.

Yes! Tell me.

I need a ship to carry us to Naess. I may not . . . return. They may kill me.