“Compassion is all well and good in the tomes, girl, but if they reach the Blessing before us, we do not stand a chance getting around the Spike and back to Comoros.”
“They will die here anyway, kishion. But they are my father’s subjects. I will not murder them.”
“I am not asking you to do it, Lady Maia. I believe that is why your father paid for me.” He stepped away from her.
“No.”
He turned on her savagely. “You foolish little wretched! You cannot stop me! Do you not understand this? If they make it to the ship, we are doomed to remain here. Our kingdoms are nearly at war. I will not spend a day longer in the cursed lands than I must.”
Maia stepped forward. “It is you who does not understand, kishion. My magic is the only thing protecting us from the cursed lands.”
“Hardly.”
“You doubt it? If you sleep farther than a dozen paces from me tonight, you will not wake ever again. These woods will kill those soldiers before they reach the last waymarker. They will kill you as well, if you leave me. Now put that knife in your sheath and come with me.”
He looked uncertain, his gaze boiling with fury.
She bit her lip and wrestled with her patience. “I am here because my magic will get us through the dangers that you cannot stop. My magic has found the right path, saved us weeks of wandering through these woods. But I was raised in a castle, kishion, not in the woods. I cannot make it alone to the lost abbey, and I know that.” With her hand still pressing her wound, she held out her other hand. “Come with me. Please.”
He folded his arms angrily and stalked past her. Deep in the woodlands, the creature roared.
*
Eight waymarkers—eight days since landing on the shores below the Spike.
“I have never seen this kind of structure before,” the kishion said, stopping in wonder and running his gloved hand over the ivy-covered pillar. Sweat trickled down the grooves of his scars. The climb up to the peak had spent them both.
Maia sat on a wedge-shaped rock, trying to catch her breath. Her dress clung to her uncomfortably. She had folded her cloak and stuffed it along the lower strap of her pack so that it cushioned her side. Her long dark hair was knotted and tangled, and her hands had never been so filthy, the nails cracked and uneven. She felt strength in her body from the days of hard travel. Her muscles were not so sore as they had been at first, and she felt a little pride at the accomplishment of having survived the cursed lands. She pressed her hand against her lower back, stretching the muscles across her shoulders.
Looking up, she watched as the kishion explored the base of several pillars. He climbed up onto a large boulder and hopped to the top of a broken pillar. On his tiptoes, he craned his neck.
“I do not believe . . . ! I must be hungrier than I thought.”
“What is it?” Weariness sagged on her shoulders. The kystrel was heavier than usual today.
“Orchards. Rubble everywhere, but I swear I see an orchard over there. Plums and ’cots growing up here. I must be going mad with hunger.”
Foraging in the cursed woods had been difficult. They had found blackberries and chokecherries that were so sour they were hardly edible. They had not found any game animals and were forced to eat serpent as their daily meat after the dried beef spoiled.
As Maia got to her feet, the wound on her ribs throbbed with the effort. It was tender to the touch, and the flesh had been slow to heal even after she had cleaned it well at a Leering. Her legs ached from the long climb, and some of the seams on her leather boots had begun to split. Her dresses would befit a scullery girl now, not a king’s daughter. It reminded her of the rags she used to wear at Lady Shilton’s manor. The memories made her cringe and she banished them. A king’s disinherited daughter, she reminded herself. Not quite a wretched, but not much better than one.
The kishion climbed down quickly and led her through the maze of broken stone. Maia paused and brushed a moss-covered rock. The whispers came through strongly, and the kystrel tingled against her skin. She was grateful the shadowstain encroached so slowly. When she had last looked at herself in a private moment, the shadowstain had just begun to spread across her breastbone and nearly to the hollow below her throat. She remembered some of the Dochte Mandar she had seen—their entire faces painted with tattoos after years of use. For now, her bodice covered hers, but what would happen when it began webbing its pattern up her neck?