The Void of Muirwood

Book 3: 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

When banished Princess Maia is captured by her father and threatened with execution, it appears that all is lost…until the people rise in rebellion against their king. Suddenly, the cast-aside royal finds herself crowned the first Queen of Comoros. But enemies appear on all sides as her father's conniving supporters assemble a new army against the fledgling ruler. While Maia struggles to keep the peace within her own walls, she rushes to form historical alliances with her neighboring kingdoms against an impending invasion of the ruthless Naestors-led by the cruel Corriveaux-who will destroy anyone Maia loves in order to ruin her kingdom and prevent the mastons from regaining power.

Realizing that Muirwood Abbey is once again her only hope for survival, Maia gathers her people there for protection. When she discovers an adversary greater than she's ever known, she must use all the magic, strength, and wisdom gained from her life's trials to prevent the Void that would bring destruction to herself, her true love, and the entire kingdom.

Release date: October 27, 2015

Publisher: 47North

Print pages: 432

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Leerings

Corriveaux Tenir tried to block out the waspy drone of the celebration and focused his gaze on the blackened visage of the Leering. The air was warm and yeasty with the mingled smells of ale and cinders. The heavy clunk of pewter mugs joined with the thudding of stamping boots, making him scowl. Drunkenness was a loathsome thing to Corriveaux. It addled the wits and inflamed the passions. It was excellent for controlling vast numbers of men. What some of them would do for even a swallow of brandy was almost laughable. Men would kill each other with enough drink. He counted on that.

He narrowed in on the eyes of the pockmarked stone face in front of him. This Leering had been harvested from an abbey in Avinion, moved by several oxen teams, and ferried by ship to Naess to be studied and saved. It was a special waymarker.

Corriveaux was fascinated by Leerings, which served as conduits for the Medium’s power. There were boundless varieties, and each one was unique and interesting. Some were small, tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand; others were carved into mammoth boulders or the capstones of arches. Each had a face—whether it bore the likeness of a man, woman, or child; an animal or beast; or personifications of the sun, moon, or stars. And the range of powers they possessed was practically infinite. There were even tiny ones to stop clothes from wearing out or metal tools from rusting. As he had studied in the tomes, Leerings could be channeled to multiple purposes. Together, a fire and a water Leering could create steam. There was power in steam, he was discovering. His mind always whirled with dozens of ideas for how Leerings could be used in war, machinery, and harvesting. But not everyone could use Leerings. That privilege of power was reserved to the Dochte Mandar, who bore kystrels, and the maston Families steeped in the traditions of the Medium.

Some Leerings could not be transported, or they lost their function. Others retained their power wherever they were located. Each of the ships in the armada had a Leering built into the front, called a figurehead. They invested the ships with various powers, such as speed and protection. A few of the figureheads could even belch fire.

Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out his hand to touch the waymarker. Closing his eyes, he summoned the power of the kystrel around his neck. A giddy, soothing feeling swept through him, making him shiver with delight. Yes, the men around him were satisfied with brandy, wine, and cider, but such simple pleasures did nothing for Corriveaux. He craved the magic of the Medium and how it made him feel—the way his very bones seemed to melt in delight. His pleasure showed: the tattoos from his use of the kystrel already wreathed his neck up to the jawline of his trimmed beard. As his hand touched the rough stone, the Leering awoke instantly.

Waymarkers were special Leerings that were connected to other stones in a web. By touching one, you could know the others in the web—you could see through their stone eyes and touch the minds of other humans who were connected to one of the Leerings in the web. If your will was strong enough, you could even take control of that person and command him or her to obey you. Corriveaux’s will was impressively strong. He was the only Victus to have subdued a hetaera.

By touching the waymarker, he could see through the eyes of another Leering on the other side of the world. Through the ship’s figurehead, he saw the vast armada filling a crystal-blue lake fringed with evergreens. He saw the ongoing construction of a series of decks and harbors, which would allow the brunt of the armada to harvest the Leerings of Assinica and ferry them back to Naess.

Corriveaux.

The thought whispered into his mind as he connected with the Dochte Mandar stationed aboard the vessel. The man’s name was Pralt, and he was a seasoned member of the order, having been expelled from Comoros years ago, after the king of that land made the unprecedented decision to banish the order.

Greetings, Pralt. What news?

He could not only hear the man’s thoughts, he could actually experience his emotions. Most who used kystrels were not strong enough in the Medium to tap into the deeper ways of the magic, but Corriveaux had Family mixed in his blood, and the power came stronger to him than to many others. He could sense feelings of disappointment and fear. Pralt was dreading this communication.

The mastons fled.

What?

He could feel the bile rise up in his throat. Anger began to churn inside Corriveaux’s heart. He would not lash out at the man. Kicking down underlings was not a way to foster loyalty.

The kingdom was abandoned. There was no opposition awaiting us. The Aldermaston sent a delegation to us to sue for peace and—

Tell me! Corriveaux thought firmly. How can a kingdom flee? Where did they go? Did they leave no tracks?

Of course they left tracks, Corriveaux. There are no walls or fortification around the city, as you know. The hunters went tracking into the woods and found nothing. All the tracks were within the city. They led to the abbey.

Corriveaux tried to restrain his impatience. From Pralt, he was sensing different emotions now—mingled frustration and fury. They had sent legions of soldiers to Assinica after whispering promises to them about plunder, rape, and riches beyond their dreams. Dreams of the glory to come had been enough to motivate the soldiers to risk the wrath of the Medium by slaying thousands of mastons. And now there would be no battle. It was entirely possible the armada would revolt against their Dochte Mandar overseers.

Pralt, we know that many abbeys have tunnels constructed beneath them, secret passageways that enable people to escape. Surely that is where the mastons fled.

Pralt exuded a sense of contempt for Corriveaux, which only inflamed his anger.

We know this, Corriveaux. I am not a simpleton. You cannot move a herd of kine without leaving a trail of dung. You cannot move a herd of people without evidence either. The trail leads into the center of the abbey, not into the dungeon where the learners are instructed and where underground trails are most likely. There is a screen of wood. The Rood Screen. The markings of their feet were evident all the way to the screen. Then they disappeared.

Corriveaux listened in shocked silence. He could almost see the other man’s thoughts, could tell that Pralt had personally led the inspection.

They are gone, Corriveaux thought bleakly.

That is what I am trying to tell you. You must tell the Hand. What would he have us do? I am awaiting orders to raze the abbey and burn the city. The fleet is settling in and occupying houses. They left . . . they left cooked meals for us, Corriveaux. Every table was set as if expecting visitors. They left their belongings. All of them. Clothes, cloaks, vases, looms. Everything was abandoned and left behind for us to pillage. It is difficult maintaining order. The men want to go ashore and begin plundering. They left it all for us to take. Why would they do that?

Corriveaux gritted his teeth in fury. A peace offering. He knew that was what it was. We are innocent and harmless. We give you our city. We give you our possessions. Spare our lives, our culture. Do not hunt us.

The Apse Veil is open, Corriveaux thought.

What is that? Pralt demanded.

You have not studied the maston ways sufficiently. Their legends are as deep as time. The Apse Veil links the abbeys together, much like these waymarkers link us. If the Apse Veil had opened in any other kingdom but Comoros, we would have been the first to hear of it. It must mean they have gone to Muirwood. The mastons have returned after all, just as the Hand feared they would.

What would you have us do? Pralt asked.

Be vigilant. They may have left spies behind to study our reaction. Have the abbey guarded night and day, but in secret. The mastons may be peaceful, but they are cunning. Some may try to slip through the abbey again. Be watchful.

I will make it thus. Farewell, Corriveaux.

Farewell, Pralt.

Corriveaux released the waymarker, and the din from the celebration flooded his ears, making him nauseous. He was sweating beneath his velvet tunic, so he took a moment to calm himself, repeating the dirge of the Dochte Mandar in his mind to focus his thoughts.

As soon as he felt centered, he hurried out of the chamber of the waymarker and down the hall—the racket of the revelers increasing with each step. He avoided the doorway leading into the great hall, where hundreds of Leerings illuminated the vaulted beams and provided heat and warmth for the men gathered inside. After they had their fill of the casks of drink that had been provided, the slave women would be brought in to dance, inflaming them all the more. Every day new ships arrived from foreign ports, bringing a new glut to be enjoyed—whether it be wealth, food, fabric, or art. Though it disgusted Corriveaux, it was necessary. Men would only commit the worst murders when they could drown their senses afterward and if they truly believed that those killings would improve their standing in their next life. It did not hurt that any last traces of guilt could be purged by the kystrels.

For a moment he felt an unexpected temptation to join in the reveling. But no, the Victus stood above the ranks of mere men. They were the masters of the fates. The spinners of webs. The patient spider awaiting its prey. He could feel the trembling strain on the lines. It was time to act, time to bite, time to feast on blood.

Corriveaux reached the end of the corridor and opened another door that led down into the dungeons. As he passed, Leerings meant for light greeted him. His boots clipped on the rough stone steps as he hurried his way down. At the base of the steps, a door Leering blocked the way. These had also been taken from the abbeys and would only open with the proper password.

Unconquerable.

The door responded to his thought and swung open with a grinding sound that made him squirm. Flames dimly lit the passageway beyond, and the smell of nutmeg hung in the air. Corriveaux entered and walked down the small arched corridor. Rooms were set into each archway along both sides of the main gallery. Within these alcoves were shelves and tables that sagged under the weight of gleaming maston tomes. Buried deep within the ground, it was a place sacred to the Victus. It was the inner sanctum, the only place where the tomes were allowed to be read. The Leerings were triggered so that if anyone attempted to carry one of the aurichalcum tomes away, all of them would be instantly engulfed in fire.

The tomes contained rich secrets, and one of Corriveaux’s favorite pleasures was to come here and glean knowledge from the pages.

Another chamber—Corriveaux’s destination—rested at the very end of the corridor. The heavy wooden door gaped open.

“Corriveaux,” said a raspy, gravelly voice as he reached the threshold.

He could not see the man behind the voice.

“Where are you?” he answered.

“Where you cannot see me,” came the reply. “Put your dagger on the plinth.”

That was different. A Victus’s dagger was his only safeguard against murder. Being asked to put it down was a request for absolute trust and fidelity. The dagger was a symbol. The members of the Victus did not all know one another’s identities. Only the Hand knew. The dagger was a sign to show the carrier’s allegiance, a token that enabled him to walk unmolested past any Dochte Mandar and fulfill his assignment, regardless of where he traveled.

Corriveaux did not hesitate to walk up and put his dagger on the stone plinth positioned beneath a light Leering by the entrance to the room. Standing at the edge of it, he could see a shadow move on his left. He did not flinch.

“One of you has betrayed me,” the dark voice growled.

Corriveaux felt a spasm of startled surprise. He dared not utter a word, but the hairs on his neck bristled with fear and dread. Could it truly be him?

A heavy step sounded, followed by a dragging noise. Corriveaux knew the Hand had a stump for one leg. His movement was ponderous due to his girth. A gnarled, meaty fist closed on the dagger hilt on the plinth.

Corriveaux wanted to protest his innocence, but he knew it would be foolish. If the Hand believed it was him, he would die regardless of his innocence. He stood calmly, steeling himself, trying to keep a ball of sweat from dripping down his cheek, through sheer force of will.

“What news from Assinica?” the man rasped, bringing the dagger out of the shaft of light. He coughed wetly.

“They have fled,” Corriveaux said tautly, keeping his eyes trained on the light. He wanted to flinch and flee, but he knew it would mean instant death.

“Yes,” the Hand said in his guttural tone. “I expected this when you let the High Seer slip away.”

“I—” Corriveaux checked himself just in time. He blinked, trying to keep his thoughts collected.

A wheezing laugh followed his self-correction. “There are only three men who know enough to betray us,” the Hand whispered. “You. Walraven. And Gastone. All three of you are uncommonly clever and motivated. All three patiently bide your time for my death. I know that. But the traitor must meet his fate, and soon, if we are to succeed.”

Corriveaux could almost feel the Hand’s hot breath on his neck as the other man came around behind him. The stump-like appendage thudded once more and fell silent.

“It is you I have chosen, Corriveaux. You are young. You are ambitious. You are impatient.” A low chuckle sounded. “You know what happens next.”

There was a grunt and then a gasp.

Corriveaux whirled, watching in horror as the Hand pulled the bloody dagger out of his own stomach. The hulk of a man shuddered and dropped to one knee, his meaty fist clutching the front of Corriveaux’s tunic. He dropped the dagger to the stone floor, and it clattered away.

Corriveaux stared at the Hand in shock as blood began pattering on the floor.

“You will lead us,” the Hand hissed, his voice full of pain. “I will counsel you from the dark pools now. Your rivals must . . . be destroyed. Do not trust them. One of them . . . is the traitor.”

His puffy face and jowls quivered. His eyes were fierce with determination.

“Bring back the hetaera,” he said. “Destroy the world. Or the mastons will defeat us.” And then he collapsed.

CHAPTER TWO

The King’s Threat

It was a beautiful spring day outside Pent Tower—sunlit, a little hazy with miry smoke, and trilling with bird song. Maia sat by the window, watching as the knights marched in cadence below her window on the greenyard, their uniforms fastidiously clean and dangling with badges and ribbons and frills. From her view at the window, she could see the chancellor’s tower and its solitary window, and her memory suddenly bloomed with the sound of skittering mice and rats, a pair of wooden clogs, and Chancellor Walraven’s weary smile.

“I spent many hours in that tower,” Maia said, gesturing toward it with conflicting emotions. “Never in this one, though.”

Her friend Suzenne was pacing the room, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth, for though it was sunny, it was cold. Her face was drawn with anxiety and worry. When she heard Maia’s voice, she came over to the window and stood behind her.

“Which tower?” Suzenne asked.

“The one with the pennant fluttering. A bird just landed on it, did you see?”

“Is that the chancellor’s tower?”

Maia nodded pensively. “I did not know about the Ciphers then. I thought that I was the only woman in the entire kingdom who had been taught to read, that because I was a princess, I was above the taboos of the Dochte Mandar.” She sighed as she thought on all she had learned about kystrels and hetaera. She had been groomed by Walraven and the Victus to become one, to wreak havoc on the mastons and destroy them. Though Walraven had eventually joined the maston cause at great personal risk, he had not halted the Victus’s plot. They had hoped to use Maia as the vessel for Ereshkigal, Queen of the Unborn. Had she agreed, they would have made her their empress, the ruler and commander of all the kingdoms. They had promised her jewels and gowns, power unsurpassed since the days of the Earl of Dieyre. And she had somehow managed to deny them and survive. Until now.

Maybe my purpose has been fulfilled, Maia mused. She had left the dark island of Naess with her grandmother, the High Seer of the mastons, and sailed to Muirwood Abbey. There she had studied the tomes, learned about the maston order, and become one herself. Then she had successfully reopened the Apse Veil, joining the worlds together so that the dead could finally rest in Idumea, and the mastons in Assinica could escape slaughter. She wondered if she had completed her purpose and the Medium would now shepherd her on to her next life. Maia was troubled by the thought. She did not feel ready to depart.

And yet why else had the Medium not warned her to stay away from Comoros?

“You are lost in thought,” Suzenne said, resting a hand on her shoulder. Not her left shoulder, where the hetaera brand lurked, hidden beneath her dress. “Did you sleep much last night?”

Maia shook her head. “I dare not,” she confided. “The Myriad Ones are everywhere. I think they are waiting for me to grow weary before attacking me.”

“Do you think they will?” Suzenne looked even more nervous.

Maia nodded. “I wrestled against them all night,” she said, her voice sounding hollow even to her own ears. “I am protected by wearing the chaen, but they intrude into my thoughts most insidiously. I can hardly think without some remembrance of their power over me. Did you not feel them this morning at the execution?”

Suzenne blanched. “That was terrible. You came here to prevent Lady Deorwynn’s execution, and instead we became the chief witnesses of her death.”

Maia stared sympathetically at her friend. “Are you afraid to die, Suzenne?”

The other girl’s anguish deepened. “Yes,” she whispered in a small voice.

Maia turned and took Suzenne’s hands in hers, squeezing them. “I am struggling with that fear as well, I admit. Chancellor Walraven taught me not to fear death. That lesson is in the maston tomes as well, and yet the urge to cling to this second life is so strong. Let us remember the maston ceremony. This is not our final destiny. Knowing that makes it easier to bear the truth of what may happen.” She swallowed hard. “I am so sorry that you and Dodd came with me to Comoros. I hope my father does not kill you because of me. That would be too hard for me to endure.”

Suzenne tugged one of her hands free and wiped the tears that had fallen from her lashes. She dropped down to her knees in front of Maia. “I do not regret coming with you, Maia. Dodd and I are bound by irrevocare sigil. They may have separated us in this dungeon, but they cannot separate us forever.” She blinked quickly, suppressing further tears. “I know you and the King of Dahomey—”

Maia smiled sadly. “I hardly think of him as that. He is Collier to me.”

Suzenne’s voice was pained. “Your husband is not a maston. If you die, you will not be with him. Does that not make you grieve?”

Maia gave her a sad smile before looking back out the window and nodding. If all had gone according to Collier’s plan, he’d ridden through the night from Muirwood to reach his spy, Simon Fox, this very morning. How surprised Simon would be to learn that Maia was in the city! She had not made it very far from the gates of Claredon Abbey before being abducted by the chancellor’s men. There had been no opportunity to visit Simon as she’d promised Collier she would do.

“I do not know what the Medium has in store for me,” Maia said, shuddering, “but I love him, Suzenne. I am surprised that it hurts so much to say it. Our entire relationship has been fraught with disappointments. We were trothed as infants and then my father reneged on the contract. Collier kidnapped me in Dahomey and forced me to marry him, or he would have killed my companions. Not a wonderful beginning to a marriage.” She gave Suzenne a crooked smile. “But he has changed. Muirwood has transformed him just as it did me. I am the same girl who left these shores on a ship to fulfill my father’s will. And yet I am so much stronger than I was then. I will stand up to the king, no matter what he threatens.” She felt the smile slip from her face. “Even if he kills me.”

Suzenne trembled in sympathy. “Do you think that he will?”

Maia shook her head. “No. He will try and break me first. He will let us linger in this dungeon, tortured by the freedom that is within our sight, but not within our reach, for a while. He thinks to frighten me into surrendering, but he does not know that I have already been through the crucible. I know my own strength, and I do not fear him.” She squeezed Suzenne’s hand again and then rose, stretching her tired limbs. She was sorry she could not save Lady Deorwynn from her fate. Listening to Jolecia’s shrieks and sobs after the execution was painful to endure. All of the lady’s children had been imprisoned. She knew how it smarted to be deprived of the benefits of rank after years of enjoying them. She pitied them.

“I wish they had let Dodd stay with us,” Suzenne said. “I keep thinking about what they did to his father and brothers, and I cannot stop fretting about him.”

Maia continued to walk the room, wishing there were books to read, but of course such a simple pleasure would not have been provided to two girls who were expected to be ignorant of the skill.

The sound of heavy boots marching down the hallway filtered into the room, but this was not uncommon in Pent Tower. She did not give it much thought until the sound grew louder and the steps started up the stairwell leading to their cell. Suzenne’s face pinched with concern, and she rushed across the room to stand by Maia’s side.

Moments later, the lock on the door rattled and the door opened. Two knights dressed in her father’s colors entered the room and stood guard on either side of the door. Between them entered Chancellor Crabwell, followed by the Earl of Forshee and the Earl of Caspur. To a man, their expressions were stern.

“I wondered how long before we would meet again, Chancellor,” Maia said with feigned indifference.

“When we last met, the Medium delivered us into your hands. Now it has delivered you into ours. Or should I say, it was your cunning that entrapped us at Muirwood.” He chuckled to himself and scratched the corner of his mouth. He was dressed in a sable-lined cape, felt hat, and the ceremonious golden stole of his office. His hair was going gray, and despite his bold words, he looked nervous. It did not harm the effect that he was shorter than her and had to look up to meet her eyes.

“Is that how you’ve managed to convince yourself?” Maia asked him pointedly. “You think we tricked you at Muirwood?”

“Of course it was trickery!” Crabwell snapped. “We had the sheriff’s men posted around the grounds all winter. But they were not mastons, and the only place they could not search was the abbey itself. We know about the tunnels beneath the grounds, my dear. The High Seer—your grandmother—is a wise and cunning woman. I must applaud her ability with stagecraft, Maia, truly I must. She won the day, and your father was almost convinced. But Kranmir is a persuasive man. He helped him see the truth.”

“And the light coming from the abbey?” Maia said in a scoffing tone. “The mists that were sent away?”

“Leerings all have peculiar properties, child. They are useful in propagating superstitions from the old days. You cannot imagine what the Naestors believe about us, the simplicity of some men!” Crabwell coughed, then resumed a more formal tone. “Lady Maia, I am here at your father’s behest to give you one last chance to join him. If you refuse, you will be executed for treason. It will not be difficult to persuade the people that you were duped by your clever grandmother if you accede to the king’s demands and—”

“No!” Maia interrupted angrily.

Crabwell’s eyes blazed with fury. “. . . and if you sign the Act of Submission with two earls of the realm as witnesses. I have a copy of it here,” he said, waggling a leather cylinder at her. “Once you do this, you will be escorted forthwith from Pent Tower and receive all the dues you are—”

“No!” Maia said more forcefully.

Crabwell nearly choked on his impatience. “Let me finish. If you will . . . my lady. I did promise your father that I would give you this opportunity.” He swallowed, his face suddenly blotchy and red. “Ahem . . . and receive all the dues to which you are entitled as his bastard daughter. He will forgive your treason at Muirwood if you cooperate, but you will not be a member of the Privy Council. An oath made under duress is no oath at all and contrary to the laws of the realm. Lady Jayn Sexton and the king will be married this evening. She will become his rightful queen, and her issue will be his rightful heirs.” He stuffed the leather cylinder back into his belt. “There, I have completed my task. Is your answer still the same? I charge you, on your very life, not to trifle with us. The king has empowered the three of us to oversee your fate.”

“I wish to see my father,” Maia demanded firmly.

Forshee snorted, and she finally looked at him. His face was contorted with fury, and his eyes were like twin flames. An imposing man, he looked to be in his forties and very strong and hale.

“Your father will only see you,” the Earl of Caspur interjected in a forbidding tone, “if you sign the Act of Submission right now. This is your last chance, girl. Do not be a fool. The king has already promised more mercy than you deserve.”

Maia regarded the Earl of Caspur and his grizzled beard. She saw he looked more nervous than angry, his eyes almost pleading with her to acquiesce. Judging by his silver beard and the fringe of hair beneath his velvet cap, he was the oldest of the three lords.

She looked him in the eyes. “You were there, my lord,” she said softly, trying to reach him. “What you witnessed was not a deception. I opened the Apse Veil and reached through time itself and drew Lia Demont into our realm. The Covenant of Muirwood had to be fulfilled. We have so many enemies, so many who seek to humble our kingdom and bring us to desolation. I have seen the Naestors’ fleet, my lords. They will not succeed in destroying our kinsmen in Assinica, but they will come here next to hunt for them. They are on their way even now, yet here we are, fighting amongst ourselves.” She looked back at Crabwell with clear, resolute eyes. “I care nothing for lands or titles. I do not care who is queen or who is heir. Our people are suffering, Chancellor. They are suffering in squalor. They are suffering in ignorance. They are suffering because they have forgotten what the Medium even feels like. You have forgotten, sir.”

Crabwell looked at her blackly, his eyes smoldering. “I never felt it,” he said disdainfully. “Oh, it is real. I know that. They say the Medium grants our secret wishes, yes? I am an ambitious man. We all are,” he said, gesturing to the other two men. “And look how it has yielded us a ripe kingdom . . . which you seek to topple.”

Maia shook her head in denial. “I have no ambition, Chancellor. I only seek the welfare of my people.”

“That is treason,” he accused. “They are your father’s subjects, not yours.”

“They are mine because I love them,” Maia pleaded. “My husband is the King of Dahomey. If you put me to death, he will not stay his hand at revenge.” She could hear Suzenne’s ragged breathing behind her, and though she wished more than anything for her friend to be safe, she was grateful that she did not need to face these men alone.

Forshee almost spluttered with rage. “You know nothing of politics, lass,” he said. “Your husband is a penniless, gutless fool who brought his kingdom to ruination by letting himself be captured by the Naestors. Even if he wished to retaliate, he could not.”

Maia stared at him coldly. “You are misinformed, my lord Earl. About many things.” She turned her gaze on the others, giving them each the same piercing look. “I see, gentlemen, that you act out of fear and hatred. Remember what the Medium does. You are not quite correct, Chancellor, but you are close. It brings our thoughts to bear on us. You fear losing power, and so you will lose power. The foundation you stand on is crumbling.”

“Enough!” Crabwell said disgustedly. He brushed his gloved hands together. “I told your father you would not relent. This is how you repay his leniency and mercy? With insults and infernal preaching? So be it. If you will not sign the Act of Submission, you will pay the price of a traitor’s death.”

Maia lifted her chin with false bravado . . . feeling indignation, but not remorse. “Then so be it, Chancellor. I will not sign it. If execution is how my father chooses to unbirth me, then I must accept it. You all feed his self-delusions and madness. But though he tells you the sky is red, he cannot make it so. And when he tires of you, do not believe you will be safe from his wrath either. You have your answer, Chancellor. I will not sign under duress. He has broken the pledge he made to me at Muirwood. If I die . . . I die innocent. And the Medium will judge you for my blood.”

She saw the Earl of Caspur’s eyes were wide and wet with tears. He looked shaken to the core. Crabwell seemed incensed, and only too eager to abandon the room.

The Earl of Forshee, however, looked murderous. His cheeks quivered with violence, his eyes molten with ire. She felt a quick pulse of fear, for he looked as if he would gladly plunge a sword into her ribs. The power of the Myriad Ones emanated from inside him, telling her he was their creature, their plaything. He took a step toward her, his gloved fingers gnarled as if he wished to choke her to death. “You are so unnatural,” he said in a quivering voice. “How dare you speak to us thus? If you were my daughter,” he growled, “I would knock your head so hard against the wall that it would cave in like a baked apple.” He swallowed, saliva flicking from his lips, and took another step in her direction. “You are a traitoress and will be punished as such. Prepare for death, insufferable girl. I would volunteer to do it myself, though I fear a blade would be too merciful.”

The black void of his thoughts pressed into her, leaving a path of queasiness and disgust. He was so thick with the Myriad Ones, she could see them inside his black eyes. The raw hatred was terrifying. Maia felt her knees tremble and buckle, but she held firm, squeezing her fists to give herself the strength to remain standing. The howling thoughts of the Myriad Ones echoed through the small cell. It was a flood. Just like the rats Walraven had summoned into his office that long-ago day.

“Be gone,” Maia stammered, her tongue swelling in her throat. “I rebuke you.”

The rage in the man’s eyes intensified. He took yet another step toward her, and the other men did naught to stop him. Suzenne was shrinking beside her, holding up her hands as if afraid she too would be murdered. The edges of Maia’s vision began to flake with blackness, as if scales were growing on her eyes.

The Myriad Ones surged against her once more. In the past, she would have recoiled and surrendered under the force of their attack. This time she did not, for she was a maston.

Maia raised her hand in the maston sign. “Be gone,” she whispered again, her voice choking.

She did not feel the Medium come to rescue her, for there was no place for the Medium in that chamber. It was like clinging to a rope in the midst of a churning river, but she held firm, and the blackness could not claim her. She clung to her faith, rooted against the threat of danger.

The Earl of Caspur fled the room. Crabwell winced as he looked at her, as if the sight of her burned him. He was the next to storm past the guards and out of the cell.

The Earl of Forshee remained behind, his black eyes still raking hers. Will against will. He fought her for domination and control. She saw a flicker of silver in his eyes.

“Now,” Maia ordered forcefully.

And he obeyed.