The Banished of Muirwood Read Free

This is the fourth stillborn! It must be a sign that our marriage is cursed.”
    “No!” came the pleading voice. “We both felt it, Brannon. We felt the Medium consecrate our marriage. This is a test. To see . . . if we will be faithful.”
    Her father let out a hiss of anger. “Another test? And what then? Another? What if we were wrong? What if we should never have married? We are being punished by a mistake from the past.”
    “Hold me. Please, Husband. Hold me. To hear you say such things . . .”
    Maia heard only muffled words after that. Chancellor Walraven’s hand pressed against her shoulder now, squeezing it firmly enough to cause a flinch of pain. She stared up into his glowing silver eyes. The emotions from the chamber were draining away, drawn into the kystrel hanging around his neck. Walraven’s face twitched with agony, his fingers digging into her flesh so painfully that she nearly cried out, but she chewed on her lip and endured it, seeing the calming effect it was having on her parents.
    He was taking their emotions into himself, drawing away their pain. She saw the snake-like vine of a tattoo crinkle along his neck, poking out from above the ruff of his collar. He had warned her that the use of a kystrel painted the flesh of the chest with strange tattoos. It was a residue of the magic that marked the one who wielded it. He had shown her his own whorl mark once, half hidden beneath a thatch of gray hairs.
    The storm of emotions was passing. The chancellor’s eyes filled with tears and he brushed them away with his wrist, releasing the painful grip on her shoulder. She knew there would be bruises in that spot later.
    Walraven gave her a fierce look. “Never repeat what you heard here,” he whispered. “Your parents’ grief is private. When husbands and wives suffer blows such as these, they say things they may later regret. I have helped them through the worst of it. Remember the lesson, child. Even the deepest griefs can be governed by a kystrel. Above all, you must learn to control your emotions.”
    “I will,” Maia said solemnly.
    Together, they entered the birthing chamber where the smell of blood made her sick.

CHAPTER TWO

    Corriveaux
    A rough hand shook Maia’s shoulder, waking her. She blinked rapidly, still lost in the fog of the childhood dream. The whine of mosquitoes barely penetrated her thoughts and she struggled to remember where she was. The forest was thick and impenetrable, damp with soggy vegetation that clung to her tattered gown and frayed cloak. She sat up, wincing with pain from her festering wounds and bruises, and tried again to remember where she was and how she had come to be there.
    It took her several moments to orient herself. When the memories finally came flooding back, she almost wished they had remained elusive. She was camped in the cursed forests of southern Dahomey. In a desperate attempt to find a solution for the troubles that had beset Comoros after his banishment of the Dochte Mandar, her father had sent her to this land with a kishion—a hired killer—and a few soldiers as protectors, on a mission to seek out a lost abbey that contained secrets of the order. The way to the abbey had been lined with terrors, and a giant beast had scattered and brutalized her father’s men. Only she and the kishion still lived. They had at last found the abbey, and there, in a dark pool bathed in mystery, Maia had learned that her journey had only just begun.
    It was a nightmare, and yet it was all real.
    “You have a faraway look in your eyes, Lady Maia,” the kishion said, coming around and squatting in front of her. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks—his coarse hair was damp with it. Rags encrusted with dried blood bound wounds on his forearms and legs. His eyes surveyed her warily, his gaze flashing surreptitiously to the kystrel hanging loose in her bodice and the whorl of tattoos staining her upper chest and throat.
    “I was dreaming,” she mumbled