The Ciphers of Muirwood

Book 2: The Covenant of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Fantasy Romance; Fantasy action & adventure; Historical Fantasy; Sword & Sorcery; Young adult; YA Epic Fantasy; Coming of Age; YA Coming of Age

Synopsis

From the moment she was banished by her father, the king, Princess Maia journeyed to seek sanctuary at Muirwood Abbey, the epicenter of magic and good in the land. Now safe for the first time since her cruel abandonment, Maia must foster uneasy friendships with other girls training to be Ciphers: women who learn to read and engrave tomes of ancient power, despite the laws forbidding them to do so.

As Maia tries to judge whom to trust, she makes a shocking discovery: her destiny is to open the Apse Veil and release trapped spirits from her world. Then she learns that her father is coming to Muirwood Abbey to celebrate the Whitsunday festival-and Maia's estranged husband, whom she was forced to abandon, will join him. Torn between deadly political machinations and unstoppable spiritual forces, Maia must channel unknown powers within herself to save her friends, the abbey, and the entire kingdom of Muirwood.

Release date: September 15, 2015

Publisher: 47North

Print pages: 402

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Execution

Sanford Price was a bull of a man even in his sixtieth year, and his time as a prisoner in Pent Tower had not broken him. He was tall, fit, and had a restless energy that drove him to pace and mutter to himself—habits that annoyed the sons who shared his prison. He had been the Earl of Forshee and a member of the Privy Council until his title and lands had been stripped away for his outspoken denunciation of the King of Comoros’s bad example to the realm. As if being stripped of his birthright were not punishment enough, the king’s guard had arrested and imprisoned him.

He did not regret his words, which were true.

What he did regret was that he had not realized how vengeful the king was or how far he had fallen from his maston oaths. And he regretted that his words had not only impacted himself, but also his sons. They had been one of the premier Families in power, reputation, and wealth. While the earldom had been stripped from him, Sanford knew that the people in his Hundred were loyal to the man, not the rank. Yes, another might be parading the title in his place, but if Sanford Price were to escape Pent Tower and ride north, all would see the meaning of true loyalty.

The prison that held him and his sons had once been furnished to house nobility. Traditionally, the highborn who were punished were still allowed splendid food, comfortable clothes, and occasional privileges like hawking or hunting. That had changed under the rule of King Brannon. The chambers had been converted into dungeons more terrible than a bleak underground cavern would be. From the towers one could see the parks, the river, the bustle and jostle of the markets beyond the palace walls. To view the frenzy of life but not be able to participate in it—that was a mental torture, to be sure. Pent Tower had been transformed into such a miserable place that the curtains had been removed for fear of fabric being used as ropes to escape through the windows. They were high enough up from the greenyard below that any attempt to descend would be fatal.

Sanford’s anger and brooding temperament were legendary, inherited from his forefather Colvin Price. His Family had a long history of valuing respect and duty, a legacy in which he took pride. As he had watched King Brannon flout the maston beliefs and customs at every turn, he had grown increasingly angry and restless. Someone needed to stand up to the man, and so Sanford had chosen himself to play that role, believing that if he did, others would follow his example.

It was shameful, truly, that a king would seek to disavow his lawful wife, bound to him by irrevocare sigil, for a strumpet. He ground his teeth in anger and frustration. When sacred things were mocked, it would bring disaster upon the realm.

And it had.

It reminded Sanford, darkly, of the days of his ancestor. Colvin had lived under the reign of a brutal king as well. The one man who had dared to stand up to him, Sevrin Demont, had been killed in battle. His son, Garen Demont, had continued the rebellion and eventually defeated the cruel king at a field called Winterrowd.

He stopped by the window, brooding, rubbing strands of his growing gray beard. Did there come a time when rebellion was the only course of action left to men of honor? Colvin had felt that emotion. He had joined Garen Demont’s rebellion against the king after learning that mastons were being secretly murdered throughout the realm. The king and his hetaera wife had sought to destroy the maston order subtly. Even though joining the rebellion had meant risking his own life and the future of his sister, Colvin had not hesitated.

Had such a time come to Comoros? An evil king could cause much suffering. If Sanford managed to escape Pent Tower, or—if the Medium willed it—he was set free, was this the moment to start a civil war? War always brought death, disease, and suffering for the people. Though the loss of his rank, wealth, and position were felt grievously, this was not about regaining what he had personally lost. It was about justice. It was about fairness. It was about the rule of law.

The rage smoldered inside of him. Four of his sons were trapped in the tower with him. Two of them—Tobias and Mennion—had been forced to part with their wives. Tobias had a baby who did not know his father’s face. He had heard they were all living in a cottage deep in Forshee, where they endured the persecution of the new earl. A sympathetic guard brought occasional reports, so at least they knew their Family was not going hungry. Many of the villagers throughout the Hundred regularly brought them cheese, sheep, and cows. Sanford himself had been known as a stern but compassionate earl; he had always erred on the side of giving too much instead of too little.

“You look angry, Father,” said his firstborn, Tobias. He joined him at the window and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I was thinking about our womenfolk,” he replied. “It is unjust that they suffer for my words.”

“When I think on how the king treats his own daughter,” Tobias said, “I can hardly be surprised that he treats us so ill.”

“Yes, he treats his daughter shamefully, but this is not how you reward loyal service. His actions encourage sycophants,” said Mennion from the trestle table where he was scooping up the remains of their breakfast. He was always hungry.

“Anyone who served him honestly was put to shame,” Tobias said. “Look no further than the Privy Council. None of the older advisors are left.”

“Like Morton,” said Sanford. “He is here in Pent Tower with us.”

“I wonder what Dodd is doing?” said Elder, who was sitting at the table too, leafing through a book with obvious boredom.

Sanford felt a stab of pain and pride at the thought of his youngest boy, Dodd. He shook his head and sighed gruffly. “He is every bit a prisoner as we are.”

“I would gladly exchange cells with the lad,” Mennion said, tapping his spoon on the table. “The best pastries in the world are at Muirwood Abbey.”

“Only on Whitsunday,” Elder said, grabbing his brother by the neck and throttling him gently. “Whitsunday,” he sighed after the mock abuse. “Do you think we will be out of here by then? Missing it last year made me dreadfully melancholy.”

“You truly miss the maypole dance?” said Gates, Sanford’s fourth son. He had been quiet up to that point, leaning against the wall and watching them, but he could not pass up the opportunity to tease.

“And you do not, Gates?” said Elder.

“No! I hate dancing.”

“Then how will you pick a wife?” put in Mennion, grinning.

“You are all fools,” Gates said. “I want to fight in at least two wars before I even think about choosing a wife. I swear, I hope Dahomey invades and we are released to draw arms. When it is time for a wife, I will let Father and Mother choose for me. Any girl will do, even a wretched lass. If she cooks anything like our ancestor Lia . . . I could not be happier! Now save some of that pie for later, Mennion. You will eat yourself sick.”

That earned a chorus of laughter from the brothers. It was a good sound to hear, and it soothed the worst of Sanford’s blistering anger. There were moments when the ribbing was not so good-natured. Five men cramped together in a single cell was enough to drive any one of them mad. Sanford had always detested cramped spaces.

“Do you think Dodd is well?” Tobias asked at his shoulder, pitching his voice lower. “I worry we have heard nothing from him of late.”

Sanford folded his arms, leaning back against the wall next to the window. Dodd was clever and loyal to his Family. He was a learner at Muirwood, and after Sanford and his other boys were arrested, riders from Comoros had gone to fetch him to the dungeon, little expecting the truth. Dodd had felt impressed by the Medium to take the maston test a year early, so when they arrived to arrest him, he was able to claim sanctuary at Muirwood as a maston. They had left empty-handed, thwarting the king’s will. There was a bounty on his head if he were even caught wandering outside the abbey grounds. So far the lad had harkened to Sanford’s wishes for him to stay in Muirwood. He knew his youngest son wished to join his mother and other Family back in Forshee, but any attempt to escape to Billerbeck Abbey would be fraught with peril.

“He is young and has much to learn,” Sanford said, brushing his hands together. “I only hope he does not do something foolish. If he listens to the Aldermaston and his wife, he will do well. If he were impetuous like Mennion, I would be more worried.” He grinned.

Tobias smiled as well. “I miss Dodd. Do you know, Father, why he chose to study at Muirwood instead of Billerbeck?”

“Of all you lads, Dodd is closest with the Medium,” Sanford said. “Sometimes it seems as if he is in a daydream. Billerbeck Abbey serves our Hundred, which is why all of you studied there, but Dodd felt that he needed to be in Muirwood. I had no reason to refuse him.”

Gates ambled up to join them. He always wanted to be included. He walked to the window and pressed his fingers against the glass.

“What day is it?” Gates asked, gazing out the window. “Does anyone remember?”

“It is Twelfth Night,” Mennion said, chewing and talking at the same time. “I heard a guard say that several days ago. It is the winter festival. What does it matter, they will not share any of the pastries with us.”

“It looks like they set up a maypole.”

“Really?” said Elder.

Gates pulled on the window latch and then shoved the window open. The wind outside was cold and knife-sharp. It was midmorning already, though due to the late season, the sun was having trouble breaching the height of the walls. With the window open, noises from the greenyard filtered up. People were gathering below, and Sanford noticed the gates were open. A scaffold had been erected, which was the shape his son had seen.

“What is happening?” Tobias asked, staring down.

“I know not,” Sanford replied.

“I cannot see,” said Mennion, who had finally abandoned his bowl and was shoving at his brothers. “Make room!”

“Be still!” snapped Sanford angrily. His sons quieted.

The crowd slowly filled the greenyard just below their room. Those in attendance reflected many different social classes. They were milling about, their voices murmuring with a thousand discussions. The scaffold was wide enough to fit no more than a dozen people.

A trumpet sounded and the noise suddenly hushed. There was a creak of wagon wheels, and the crowd jostled enough to open up a path, permitting a small wagon to pass through it.

“Who is that?” asked Gates.

“I cannot see,” Mennion growled.

It was not a full wagon, just a small cart that would normally be used to transport vegetables or the like. Standing in the cart was a man with a fading brown cloak and tattered pants. The hair was unkempt, but Sanford recognized him.

“It is Tomas Morton,” he said in dismay.

“The king’s chancellor?” Elder gasped.

“Was, not any longer. He resigned his post. Crabwell is chancellor now. There he is.” He pointed. “I did not see him before, wearing the black cloak and gold stole. Do you see him?”

“He’s an ugly man,” Gates said. “Give me a sword and I will—”

“Silence!” Sanford hissed.

The crowd parted to create a path to the scaffold. That was when Sanford noticed the man in a black hood standing by the short ladder that led to the top of the scaffold. His blood went to ice in his veins. There were several members of the king’s guard gathered around who helped lift Morton from the cart. He walked, a little drunkenly, to the edge and went to the ladder, which wobbled when he tried to climb it.

“Is he . . . is he . . . ?” gasped Tobias.

Sanford stared in dumbstruck amazement. The crowd had fallen silent below as a hush settled over it.

A woman pushed through the crowd and approached Morton, her voice pitched with anger and scolding. “Sir! Sir! There were papers my husband left in your hands when you were chancellor. Please, sir! Where are they?”

The prisoner looked confused. “Good woman,” he replied, “have a little patience. Give me an hour, and the king will rid me of any care I have about lost papers. And everything else for that matter!” He shook his head at her in disbelief and then made another attempt to climb the ladder, which rattled in place.

Sanford’s sons were silent, their eyes widening with growing terror as they took in the scene unfolding below them.

Morton turned to one of the soldiers. “Good sir, can you see me safely up the ladder? As for coming down, I daresay I will need your help again.”

The soldier helped steady the ladder and several men assisted Morton in climbing to the top of the scaffold, and a few clambered up after him. One of the soldiers who had stayed below handed up a huge block of wood with a notch cut out of it.

“By Idumea,” Sanford whispered.

Tomas Morton stood before the assembled crowd and started to speak. “I am here to face justice and the king’s will,” he said in a firm, loud voice. “I have been tried and—”

“No speeches!” shouted a man in armor astride a huge warhorse. “I am the sheriff of this Hundred. No speeches, Morton. You refused to sign the Act of Submission in a court full of witnesses. Lay your head down and suffer a traitor’s fate. If you be man enough.”

Sanford recognized the captain. His name was Trefew. He was one of the king’s new sworn men. Descended from the Naestors, he was a brutal man rumored to have no conscience at all.

“Well, then,” said Morton, his voice quavering. “I make no speeches. I am a humble servant of the king’s will. I did refuse to sign. That is true. I am a man, Captain Trefew. And I die a maston of the chaen, a faithful servant both to the Medium and to the king.” He carefully knelt in front of the block.

The man with the hood stepped behind him and loosened his tunic collar, exposing the bare flesh of his neck and the silver chaen. Sanford stopped breathing.

No, no, no!

Morton laid his head down on the block, but then held up one hand, staying the executioner as a soldier handed him an axe.

“A moment, let me put my beard aside. It committed no treason. There we are. Do your office, Master Headsman. I forgive you.”

The four sons watched in horror as the headsman lifted the axe.

There was an audible gasp from the crowd.

When it was done, Sanford pulled the window handle and shut the glass, blocking out the grim sight with his body. His sons’ eyes were wide, their cheeks pale. Mennion scurried over to a privy bucket and vomited up his breakfast.

A maston murdered in daylight before a crowd under the pretense of law. Not even in Colvin Price’s day had a king committed such an egregious act against an innocent man.

Sanford turned to his sons. “We must find a way to escape,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Captain Trefew looked up at our window. He wanted to be sure we were watching.”

CHAPTER TWO

Binding Sigil

The dinghy glided down the river, cutting through the waters like a slick fish. The air was thick with strange smells and gnats that shimmered and glided in the waning afternoon sun. Maia felt a sheen of sweat on her brow, and her heart bubbled with anticipation as the docks loomed closer. The Holk waited back in the estuary, a massive black shadow moored alongside a wharf built against the fenlands, near a cabin made of stone blocks.

Maia hunched on the small bench, feeling anxious and excited. For so long, she had wished to go to Muirwood Abbey and become a maston. The faint buddings of hope inside her heart were so delicate and fragile, she was frightened even to breathe on them lest they be snatched away.

Jon Tayt worked the oars tirelessly. His boarhound, Argus, had settled along the bench near Maia, his muzzle resting on her lap. Next to her, clutching her arm, was her grandmother Sabine Demont, the High Seer of Pry-Ree, who gazed up at the abbey grounds with a curious smile, as if she were seeing something that Maia could not.

Muirwood was beautiful. The abbey rose above them, its steep gray walls covered in a web of scaffolding, and even from the river Maia could hear the sound of hammers striking chisels and see the ropes and pulleys strain as stones were added to the structure. There were dozens of workers around and on the abbey.

Maia squeezed Sabine’s arm. “I thought construction had been halted,” she said, her mouth widening in amazement. “I heard my father order it.”

Sabine grabbed her hand to squeeze it. “He did, Maia. But we answer to the Medium’s will. Can you feel it here?”

Maia nodded humbly. “From the Holk as we approached. I have never felt so calm and peaceful. I could feel the abbey . . . welcoming me.”

“When Lia drove out the Queen Dowager and her people after Muirwood was burned, she set protections on these grounds and fixed them by irrevocare sigil. The Myriad Ones cannot dwell here, and neither can any who serve them. You will be safe here, Maia. You must prepare yourself to take the maston test so you can fulfill Lia’s prophecy and open the Apse Veil again, restoring the abbey’s full rites. The dead must be freed from this world, and the mastons who are still in Assinica need to escape. It is the only way.” She pointed to the scaffolding. “The interior work is already finished. The exterior is nearly done as well. The scaffolding is a disguise to make others believe the abbey is still far from completion. We should never judge by what we see on the outside.”

“I was wondering what was left to do on it,” Jon Tayt said gruffly. “It looks nigh well finished to my eyes.”

“It will be done by Whitsunday,” Sabine said. “It has taken many years to complete, but it was built faithfully in the style of its predecessor. I can see the old abbey in my mind, Maia.”

Jon Tayt pulled one of the oars in and began maneuvering the skiff to the dock post. There was a man there with a pole and hook, waiting for them. As they came nearer, Jon Tayt fetched a coiled rope and flung the bulk to the man on the dock, keeping hold of one end. He quickly tied a knot to secure it to the bollard and then stepped onto the dock to confront the man who was fastening the other end.

“You are doing it wrong,” Jon Tayt said angrily, shooing him away. “Let me.”

Maia smiled. Jon Tayt was very particular about how things ought to be done. He was short and squat, with wavy copper curls covering part of his balding head and a bushy pointed beard that held on to the crumbs of his various meals. Argus bounded from the dinghy onto the dock, and the boat rocked slightly, earning the dog a curt whistle from his master.

“Welcome back to Muirwood, my lady,” said the dockman to Sabine. “I sent the page running to the Aldermaston as soon as we spied the Holk upriver. He wishes to see you right away.”

“Thank you,” she replied. Maia went to cross to the dock on her own, but Jon Tayt finished with the rope and reached out a meaty hand to pull her across. She wore a pale blue gown that marked her as a wretched. Not that the dress would actually disguise her, but it would offer her more anonymity, making it easier for her to blend in with those living at the abbey. Her stomach trembled with nerves as she thanked Jon Tayt and waited for Sabine to be helped onto the dock.

Her grandmother was sprightly in her movements, considering her age. Her long hair had gray streaks through it, but the natural buttery color was still evident, and her wise eyes and lovely smile commanded more attention than her wrinkles and crags.

“This is your new home as well,” Sabine said, turning back to the hunter. “The hunter’s lodging is ready for you. But please come with us to meet the Aldermaston.”

Jon Tayt sighed. “I would rather walk the grounds and get a feel for this bog. The Bearden Muir, you called it? By Cheshu, I miss Pry-Ree! I do see a lot of oak trees, though. Will be good for throwing my axes. They look hardy enough.”

Taking Maia’s arm, Sabine led her down the dock to a series of stone steps that led them up the hill. Jon Tayt followed behind, carrying their gear like a pack horse, and Argus padded next to him.

As they mounted the steps, the grounds became suddenly visible, and Maia smiled to see so many people about. Sabine walked close to her, pointing out the various sights. “There is much to see, but let me quickly explain what I can. The cloisters are over there, the lower wall next to the abbey. That is where the learners study reading and engraving. The boys study there during the day, but after the gates are locked at night, the Aldermaston’s wife brings the Ciphers there to study.”

“Do the boys know? Surely someone must see them?”

“There are tunnels beneath the abbey grounds, Maia. The Ciphers enter the cloisters from the tunnels. Not even the gate porter knows what goes on after he locks up each night. The tunnels connect the Aldermaston’s manor to the abbey, as well as to several other locations, including one in the village beyond the walls. Leerings protect the passageways. Over there, that is the laundry where lavenders scrub the clothes. And there is the duck pond. One of my favorite places is the Cider Orchard, where the Muirwood apples grow. It is lovely in the spring.” Maia’s heart thrilled at the sight of it. She had heard dozens of stories about her ancestors Lia and Colvin and how special the Cider Orchard had been to them. How she longed to visit it.

“Are there any apples?” Maia asked.

Sabine shook her head. “It is not the season yet. Wait until spring. The Aldermaston’s kitchen. Do you see it over there with the steep roof and the cupola? That is where you will eat, Maia. It is the same as when my great-grandmother lived there many years ago. When my mother returned on the ships, it was still standing. So was the orchard, though it had grown rather wild! After many years of taming and tending, it was restored. The Aldermaston’s manor is next to the kitchen. The learner quarters are over there, but you will not be staying there.”

Maia looked at her in concern. “Where then?”

“You will stay in the Aldermaston’s manor, Maia. Your father may have disinherited you, but you are still a king’s daughter. I have asked the Aldermaston to choose one of the Ciphers to be your companion. She will stay at the manor with you.”

Maia nodded, biting her lip. Her emotions continued to bubble inside her—a strange brew of nervousness and anticipation. This was really happening. For years she had longed to come to Muirwood and see her mother. A pang of sadness stabbed her heart, which she concealed from the others.

As she gazed at those wandering the grounds, she could easily discern the difference between the wretcheds and the learners by the style of their clothing and bearing. Young men and young women walked the grounds, some wearing the finery of nobility, others wearing pale blue gowns and girdles or blue tunics and belts. She saw several—of both classes—look her way curiously. Some began whispering and pointing. Some looked very young.

“How many learners are here?” Maia asked, keeping her voice low.

“Forty or so. Many start when they are twelve or thirteen, but few make it to their fourth or fifth year. If someone has not passed the maston test by the end of their sixth year, they are sent away.”

“I am nearly nineteen,” Maia said, feeling the twist of anxiety in her stomach. “I have not had enough time to prepare.”

“Lia passed the maston test when she was younger than you, and she had never studied a tome in her life. Strength in the Medium comes from your Family. You already know how to read, and you speak multiple languages, which gives you an advantage over many of these learners. Some struggle to speak a sentence of Dahomeyjan, yet you are fluent. You have had more training than most of the learners. And your experience in the world . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Following her gaze, Maia saw a man and woman were approaching them from the Aldermaston’s manor. Then she recognized the pair’s gray ceremonial robes and realized it was the Aldermaston and his wife. She was not certain what she had been expecting, but she had not imagined that she would be taller than the Aldermaston. He was short and stocky, with wispy gray hair that receded far up his scalp. His ears were large and pronounced and his jowls slightly drooping. She had expected a beard, but he was clean-shaven. He did not look imposing, the kind of man who could call thunder out of the sky. His wife was bird-thin and frail, with silver hair that was short and bobbed.

As the distance separating them closed, what struck her next about the Aldermaston were his eyes. They were light brown in color, yet they were the most piercing, intense eyes she had ever encountered. As his gaze shifted from Sabine to her, she felt as if it were reaching inside her soul and examining her deepest secrets, her hidden shame. The eyes were full of wisdom. They were compassionate. They were deeper than the depths of the sea. She felt stripped of all concealment by the time he came to a stop in front of her.

The Aldermaston’s warm hand reached forward and found hers. He clasped her hands within his and brought her closer. “Welcome,” he said in a sincere, ponderous way. “Welcome to Muirwood. We are so pleased you have come. You are the daughter of mastons, and now you will become one yourself. You are most welcome, Marciana.”

“Thank you, Aldermaston,” Maia said, her voice trembling with emotion from the tenderness of his greeting. He looked at her as if she were his own daughter. She could feel the power of the Medium radiating from him like ripples of steam off a hot kettle.

As soon as the Aldermaston released her hands, his wife pulled her into a hug. Maia could feel the bones of the woman’s shoulder blades through the fabric of her cassock, and her nose was flooded with the welcome scent of purple mint. When the woman pulled away, she gazed at Maia with unmistakable warmth. “Hello, Maia,” she whispered. Then she patted her cheek.

“Come with us to the house,” the Aldermaston said, and then gestured to Jon Tayt to approach. “There is much we must discuss. You are Jon Tayt, our new hunter? Welcome, sir. Come with us.”

Maia did not understand the whirlwind of emotions inside her, but she nearly started weeping. There was a feeling in the air, something thick and tremulous and unidentifiable. It weighed almost painfully on her heart.

They reached the manor house and entered it, drawing the gaze and whispers of the learners and helpers all around the abbey grounds.

There was a very tall man with thick graying hair waiting for them in the Aldermaston’s private chamber. He wore simple yet dignified robes of office, and he greeted the Aldermaston as soon as they entered.

“I brought her, Aldermaston,” the man said, bowing respectfully. The difference in their heights was almost startling. “She awaits in the anteroom.”

“Thank you.” He motioned toward the man. “This is Tomas, my steward. We have served together for many years. He is a faithful counselor and taught engraving in the cloisters for many years. And Tomas”—this time he flourished an arm toward Maia—“this is our new guest.”

“Welcome, Lady Marciana,” Tomas said with a smile that flashed two large dimples in his cheeks. He had a large graying mustache to match his thick hair, and he stroked it absently. “Would you like anyone else to be here, Aldermaston? I can send for the healer?”

The Aldermaston gave a subtle shake of his head and only lifted his palm slightly. “No, Tomas. Thank you. We are enough.”

As soon as Tomas shut the door, enclosing them all in the room, the Aldermaston turned to look at Maia, his face serious and sad. “Marciana, I have grievous news.”

She swallowed, feeling her insides ripping. “My mother is dead,” she said softly, the words thick in her throat.

The Aldermaston nodded heavily and Sabine put her arm around Maia’s shoulders.

Grief sent cracks through Maia’s heart. The truth had come to her in a dream, so it was no surprise, yet the announcement still felt like a blade stabbed between her ribs. She flinched, trying to master herself.

“Three days ago,” the Aldermaston said, walking forward and taking her hand. “I tried to Gift her with healing. I sought the Medium’s will to Gift her with life, but it was not to be. The Medium took her from us.” He shook his head with sorrow. “Sadness, disappointment, and troubles are inescapable, Marciana, but there is more to life. Of course, I do not seek to diminish how hard some of these events are. Words cannot always comfort grief. As has happened in your life and the life of your mother, troubles can last a long time. But try to remember this, Marciana. You must not allow them to consume you.”

Maia knew from the look in his eyes that he too was intimate with suffering.

“I wish I could have seen her one last time,” Maia said, her voice choked.

“You will,” the Aldermaston said fervently, tightening his grip on her hand. “Death brings sorrow. It always will. But you will do something important here, Maia. You will open the Apse Veil again. The dead are grieving all around us because they are condemned to linger here in this world. You will open the gates of their prison. Your mother knew it. I know it. You were foreseen to do this. Someday, you will see her again. You are bound together by irrevocare sigil.”

Maia looked away, unable to gaze for long into his intense eyes. He was so quiet, so soft-spoken, yet he was filled with certainty and conviction that was harder than stones and stronger than storms.

“Thank you, Aldermaston,” Maia said haltingly.

He led her over to a chair and helped her sit. Then he took his wife’s hand and guided her to a table heaped with scrolls, quills, ink, scriving tools, a small tome, and various other tools and implements. Once she was seated, he sat down himself. Sabine settled into a chair near Maia, and Jon Tayt slouched on the window seat against the wall.

“Tomas,” he said, “would you explain to the High Seer what we heard from Comoros?”

“Yes, Aldermaston.” Tomas stayed standing, hands clasped in front of him. He sighed. “Chancellor Morton was . . . I do not know how to say this delicately . . . he was beheaded at the greenyard of Pent Tower for not signing the Act of Submission. This was done in the morning in front of a crowd of at least five hundred witnesses, including all the prisoners in the tower. Those are the facts as I understand them.” He sniffed, his jaw clenching with pent-up anger.

Maia stared at him. She had heard the news first from her husband, Collier. It had happened less than a fortnight ago. Thinking of her husband made her sick inside. She had fled Naess, and he had been imprisoned for her treachery.

Jon Tayt snorted. “They killed a man for not signing a piece of parchment?”

Tomas nodded, rocking on his heels. “The Act of Submission places the king’s authority above the Medium. Abbey lands now fall under the king’s tax. All Aldermastons will be appointed by the king and not the High Seer. In short, he is a bloody, raving, lunatic!”

“Tomas,” the Aldermaston said gently.

“I should not have said that,” Tomas said immediately, his cheeks flushing. “I neglected to remember that his daughter has just arrived. Lady Maia, I beg your pardon, but I do not have kind feelings toward your father at present.”

Sabine leaned forward. “He will be surprised when he learns I am at Muirwood.”

“I would think so,” Tomas said, rocking on his heels again.

Jon Tayt sat at the window seat, scratching behind Argus’s ears. “He had better not come here,” he said gruffly. “I may lose my temper with him. To think, he beheaded the man in full daylight?”

The Aldermaston leaned forward and folded his arms. “We cannot let the current situation distract us from the Covenant of Muirwood. When the queen died, and I believe she was poisoned, we sent a message to the palace to inform the king. I am expecting news imminently of what is to be expected for the state funeral. We may very well have a royal host descending on Muirwood.” He lowered his voice. “That would be most inconvenient. The king would learn that the abbey is nearly complete and that construction was not halted as he ordered. What do you advise, High Seer?”

The thought of seeing her father again, especially so soon after her mother’s death, made Maia grimace and clench her fists.

Sabine stared hard at the Aldermaston. “Maia does not have much time to pass the maston test.”

“I agree,” the Aldermaston replied, only adding to Maia’s concern.

“Who have you chosen to be her companion?”

The Aldermaston turned to his wife and gestured for her to speak.

“High Seer, we have many capable girls among the Ciphers,” she said. “Some are highborn. Some are wretcheds. I feel impressed by the Medium to choose Suzenne Clarencieux as Maia’s companion.”

“Tell me of her,” Sabine said thoughtfully.

“This is her final year of study, and she is to pass the maston test herself come Whitsunday. She is of a respectable Family, the oldest of three children. She helps the others learn, and does not have airs. She is well respected by the other learners and has influence among them. I believe she will be discreet in this matter. She is a Cipher, so she can be trusted with secrets.”

“Send her in,” Sabine said. Tomas smiled, flashing his dimples again, and left to get her from the anteroom.

“You prepared the tome, I see,” Sabine said to the Aldermaston once the door had been closed once more.

“As you instructed,” he replied thoughtfully, indicating the tome in front of him.

“That tome is for you, Maia,” Sabine said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “I asked the Aldermaston to engrave a page. The final page.”

The door opened, and the tall steward returned to the room with a young woman, nearly Maia’s match in age and height. She was a beauty, Maia saw, and wore a silk-and-brocade gown that must have cost at least a thousand marks. A jeweled choker circled her neck, and her hair was braided into a long golden rope. Her appearance made Maia feel a prickle of envy, as she was once more dressed in plain clothes that did not speak of her station. The girl’s expression was alarmed, especially when she saw she had been brought into a crowded room.

Sabine rose from the chair and greeted her. “Welcome, Suzenne. Be at ease.”

Her eyes widened. “You are the High Seer,” she gasped, then did a deep curtsy.

“Have you told her, Joanna?” Sabine asked the Aldermaston’s wife.

“No.”

Sabine nodded, then reached out and took the younger woman’s hand. “You are probably fearful. Be at ease, truly. You are here because of your merits, not as a punishment.”

The girl flushed at the compliment. “Thank you.”

“Suzenne, you are here because the Medium wills it. I asked the Aldermaston to choose a learner of great ability and discretion to assist us. The Medium impresses upon my mind that they chose well. I have a duty for you to perform that will require the utmost secrecy and discretion. Before moving forward, I must ask if you will willingly accept this charge.”

Though she looked overwhelmed, and her eyes were shiny with held-back emotion, the girl did not hesitate to reply. “Yes, High Seer. Of course! I will serve however the Medium wills.”

Sabine nodded and released her hands, then walked over to Maia and gestured for her to rise. “This is my granddaughter, Lady Marciana . . . Maia.”

Suzenne looked at Maia, her eyes widening with shock. “The king’s daughter?” she gasped.

“Yes,” Sabine said, stroking Maia’s arm. “She will be studying at Muirwood. She is to become a Cipher before she takes the maston test. I need your help to teach her, Suzenne. The fate of the abbey rests on her.”

“Yes,” Suzenne stammered. “Of course. If you wish it, High Seer.”

“There is one thing you must understand. It is knowledge that you must protect above all else, Suzenne. Everyone in this room will know, but no one else can know. Do not be frightened. Maia . . . please show her the mark on your chest.”

Maia’s stomach lurched and she felt herself go pale with shame. Obediently, she tugged at the bodice of her blue gown and exposed some of the shadow stains on her chest, the whorl of tattoos that had afflicted her since she first wore the kystrel, which now hung around her husband’s neck.

Suzenne’s eyes widened with fear.

“This you must keep secret,” Sabine said, motioning for Maia to cover the marks. “It is written in a tome on the Aldermaston’s desk.”

Maia felt the flush of the Medium engulf the room. A small stone Leering on the desk began to glow red-hot. The Aldermaston produced a set of tongs and set them on the Leering, heating them up.

The Aldermaston looked at the trembling girl. “Suzenne, you must safeguard this secret. It is the Medium’s will. Maia was deceived by the Dochte Mandar and tricked into becoming a hetaera. You will understand what that means when you take the maston test shortly. You must know that she did not make this choice willingly. She will carry the mark the rest of her life, but she is not evil. I want you to know that I trust her implicitly, just as I trust the High Seer . . . just as I trust the Medium. That is how I know Maia belongs here. This place is her only refuge, her only sanctuary. You must guard her secret, Suzenne. Will you do so?”

Suzenne sniffled, dabbing tears from her eyes. “I will, Aldermaston.”

With that, the Aldermaston nodded and pulled the tongs from the burning Leering. His wife fixed a band of solid aurichalcum across the bottom of the tome, pressing together the final page and the page above it, which was blank. With the tongs, he gripped the ends of the bands, allowing the heat to fuse it around the pages. Then he set down the tongs and pushed the tome away from him.

Sabine took up a scriving tool from the table and drew a symbol into the molten gold. The Medium thrummed in the chamber, making Maia feel strange and wonderful.

“This is a binding sigil,” Sabine said softly, setting down the tool. “No one will be able to speak of Maia’s secret.” She looked at Maia. “Not even our enemies.”

Or your husband, her eyes seemed to say.