The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3) (43 page)

The kishion had packed sufficient provisions and equipment, so this journey was slightly more comfortable than the last. Her heart was so broken and torn that she could not fill it with anything, not even hate or anger.

On a morning that had begun like any other since they started their voyage, she pushed a spiderweb away from her face and caught a little flicker of sunlight through the dense trees overhead. She was dirty and footsore, but the little stabs of light in her eyes felt good. It had been several days since their departure from Bridgestow. She worried about the invasion of her realm. What were her leaders doing in her absence? What did they think had become of her? She remembered Suzenne and Richard Syon with warmth and affection. She worried about her grandmother and wondered what was happening to her. She had a feeling that Sabine was also suffering. Perhaps her grandmother was merely on a different shore of the Great Sadness.

“I recognize this place,” the kishion said, coming to a halt.

It was growing colder, and the winks of sunlight had disappeared overhead, replaced by a gray wall of mist that began to descend from the treetops.

A prickle of apprehension shot through Maia. She remembered this place too. The field of bones with a Leering in the heap. The kishion scowled and glanced through the woods.

“We should skirt around it,” he said warily.

“No,” Maia replied, sensing another Leering in the area, one she had not noticed before. “Come with me,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him after her.

The mist grew thicker as they walked. The kishion looked around nervously, and she noticed he had unsheathed one of his knives. Maia felt no fear. Tendrils of wreathing fog swirled amidst the upper branches, descending lower, but there was no impulse to flinch away.

There.

Maia sensed the Leering at the perimeter of the enclosure. Then another one. Then a third. They were all summoning the mist. Through her Gift of Invocation, she realized that the Leerings were activated by the arrival of trespassers. In turn, the cover of the mist allowed the Fear Liath to emerge from its lair. Its only vulnerability was sunlight.

Maia silenced the Leerings with her mind, and their power immediately yielded to her request. The mist dispersed, and golden rays of sunlight showered down, streaming in slanting angles through the trees. The kishion stared in amazement.

“You did that?” he asked in confusion.

She nodded and then stared at the field of the dead. This was the final battleground of the Scourge. This was the place where thousands had been slaughtered. She stared at the moldering bones and armor, the rusted swords and spearheads. Sunlight glimmered on the pitted, rusty decay. The air had a metallic smell to it. She stared at the Leering in the center, the waymarker that had guided her to the lost abbey. But she already knew where it was. The trail was invisible, but it was clear in her mind, as if a blacksmith had forged a metal railing in the woods, leading the way.

The Fear Liath would not trouble them this time.

Maia offered a subtle thought, thanking the Medium for its assistance.

In reply, she felt a gentle murmur . . . so small and slight it was barely noticeable. The Medium was with her. She wanted to demand answers of it. She wanted to accuse and rage against it. She had been its loyal servant ever since her escape from Naess. It had rewarded her loyalty with the deaths of her parents, her true love. Feeling the Medium retreat from her, she crushed the negative thoughts with force of will.

No, she would have to continue to be patient. She would follow the trail through the woods. She would go to the lost abbey.

It struck her as a strange flash of insight.

Perhaps the kishion was doing the Medium’s will after all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Ereshkigal’s Daughter

W
hen they had last journeyed the cursed shores, it had taken a week for them to reach the lost abbey buried deep within the uninhabited terrain. This time they had traveled more quickly, with more confidence. As the morning dawned and they began walking, Maia finally began to speak to the kishion again.

The thought from Ovidius had struck her again.
You can learn from anyone—even your enemy.

“Tell me more about the Naestors,” Maia said, huffing a little. The terrain was steeper. There was a haunting beauty about this land that reminded her vaguely of the Bearden Muir and Muirwood.

“What do you wish to know?” he responded, glancing at her with surprise. Their past several days had been spent in silence.

“Tell me about their customs, traditions,” she said. “In Dahomey, they like eating melted cheese and skewered meats. Each kingdom has its own manners. Tell me about Naess.”

The kishion looked at her with a wrinkle of confusion. He had not broached conversation with her, allowing her time to grieve and for her rage to cool. But he was not averse to talking. “They crave treasure,” he said with a snort. “Treasure and fighting. They are fighters, raiders. They love mischief and plunder. There is a story that one of the chieftains went to conquer the shores of eastern Hautland. They were protected by keeps and walls and thought they could withstand a siege for some time. But the Naestors love cunning and trickery. They were not going to throw their lives away battering down walls. Instead, they sent a kishion over the wall to steal pigeons and doves from the dovecotes. When he got back, they tied burning strings to the birds’ legs and released them. They flew right back to the dovecotes, and it set the thatch on fire. Soon the city was blazing and everyone came running out. It was an easy slaughter.”

Maia looked at him. “That kishion . . . was you?”

He gave her a half smile and did not reply.

“So they love trickery and cunning. They prefer to steal their treasures than work for them. What of the dark pools? Tell me of them. Walraven shared some of that lore with me. What do you know?”

The kishion scratched the back of his neck. “That
is
lore of the Dochte Mandar. I am not sure I believe it.”

“Why not?” Maia asked.

He shrugged. “Because I see how they manipulate the chieftains. When you went to Naess, did you see any of the revels?”

“No,” Maia answered. She had only been there briefly, and all her time had been spent with Corriveaux and Walraven.

“They whip the fighters into a frenzy with the revels,” the kishion went on. “They are plied with drink, pleasures, and violence. Any guilt is purged away with kystrels. The Dochte Mandar teach that this is the second life. That each man . . . or woman . . . will be reborn again. Depending on how courageous and cunning you are, how fearless in battle and how cruel in strategy, you may become a chieftain in the next life. The Dochte Mandar say they speak to the dead in the dark pools and learn who should be the next chieftains. They tell us who has been reborn and what they were in their past life. To me, it is a bunch of nonsense. I think the Dochte Mandar say what they wish us to believe, to keep themselves in power.”

Something nagged at the back of Maia’s mind as she pondered his words. “I have heard about this teaching,” she said. “Not about the chieftains or the rulers of the Naestors. But I know people give great credence to what the Dochte Mandar teach . . . and they believe we will all be reborn.” She considered that for a moment. “It is an interesting thought. But it is not true.”

He glanced at her, his eyebrows furrowing. “What does it matter whether or not it is true?” he said with disdain.

She gave him a pointed look. “It makes all the difference in the world. You know about the Myriad Ones?”

“They are spirit creatures,” he said with a shrug. “The spirits of the dead.”

“No, they are the spirits of the
Unborn
. They are spirits too wicked and cruel to pass on to the other realm. They tempt us, kishion. They feed on our fears and jealousies. They persuade us to murder and torture. To betray. To lie. And they feed on us, just like the ravens feed on a carcass. The Myriad Ones have dominion in this fallen world, but there is a better world we can reach if we put our trust in the Medium. What the Naestors do not understand is when they die, they will become
subject
to the Myriad Ones if they do evil. There is no rebirth. They will
feel
like they feel now in life, only without the ability to sate their cravings or purge their guilt. Imagine the
guilt
they will feel then, kishion, when there are no longer any kystrels to numb their pain. Think of yourself and what you have done. There is not another chance. There is no glory waiting, only misery. I may suffer
here
. But I long for a better world.”

The kishion stared at her in suspicion. “And who is to say the mastons are right? The same logic turns against you, Maia. Perhaps nothing happens when we die. Like a fire that burns out, leaving naught behind but ash. We are simply no more. That is what
I
believe.”

“You may be right of course,” Maia said simply, not wanting to provoke him. “If you are right, then I have lost nothing in being good. I go to my ashes peacefully and am no more. But if we are right, where does it leave the Naestors?” She gave him a piercing look. “Where does it leave
you
? I know I am only reciting what the mastons have written in their tomes over the centuries. But I have felt the difference between the power of the Medium and how the Myriad Ones subvert it.”

Danger.

She stopped short, feeling the whisper in her mind like a clarion call.

“What?” he asked her, stopping too, his body tense as he began searching the forest for trouble.

Maia stood silently and listened to the wind rustling through the mossy trees. Closing her eyes, she opened herself up to the Medium’s will. She felt the breeze rustle her cloak, her skirts, her hair. She repeated the pledge she had made in Naess to serve the Medium, in an effort to cast aside all her pride, all her sorrow and grief. She shed these things like stained garments.

The breeze kicked up and she heard a marsh bird call.

Murer is here. Stop the hetaera from returning.

Maia opened her eyes. She had rarely heard the Medium’s whispers so clearly, so cuttingly. In her mind, she could see the lost abbey, could see a small camp near the garden wall. There Murer was, dabbing ointment against the bite marks on her cheek, her expression angry as she felt the ugly welts. There were six Dochte Mandar as well. And a kishion.

“What do you hear?” the kishion asked her.

“We are not alone,” Maia answered, opening her eyes.

The kishion scowled with anger as he regarded the small camp near the ruins of the lost abbey. He had anticipated finding refuge in this place, not enemies, but the Victus had ruined his plans.

“Do you see her over there?” Maia asked at his shoulder. Two Dochte Mandar were sitting before a small smoking fire, talking in low voices. The others were roaming the ruins, examining the Leerings and admiring the devastation of the place. Maia could feel the Leerings speak to her, like a chorus of dozens of small voices. These were the ruins of an actual abbey, and many of the Leerings still worked and had not been harvested by the Naestors.

One, in particular, struck her with the force of its power. It was coming from inside the abbey, and she could sense the power radiating from it. It was a Blight Leering. It was causing the land to become inhospitable. It seemed to recognize her, a maston in its presence, and she felt its will and power nudging against her mind.

“I see no sign of the girl,” the kishion said, squinting. “Perhaps she went inside. A man cannot enter that lair.”

“I must go after her,” Maia said.

“Wait until dark,” the kishion replied angrily. “It is barely noonday. We cannot approach without being seen. Why not wait until she comes out? Let me kill her.”

Maia shook her head. “No, I must stop her now. The Medium bids me to go.”

He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back behind the boulder, his face angry. “There are six Dochte Mandar and a kishion down there!” he snarled.