“Lady Shilton?” Maia asked worriedly, hoping for more of an explanation.
“Your father summoned you in the middle of the night,” Lady Shilton said. “He has ordered for me to pretend you are still here, but . . . I think you are leaving us.”
Maia just looked at her, too surprised to say anything.
Lady Shilton bit her bottom lip. “I hope, Lady Maia, that you have enjoyed the privileges of late. The archery. The boat rides.” She swallowed, her expression very sallow and nervous. She was almost cowering. “I . . . hope you . . .” She stopped, unable to speak.
“What is it?” Maia pressed in concern. “Am I to be sent to Pent Tower?” She had an ugly vision of a headsman’s axe and felt as if a shadow had fallen over her shoulders.
“No!” Lady Shilton said soothingly. “I think . . . well, your father will want to tell you himself. Go, child. Go at once. Remember me . . . with mercy.” She shuddered and motioned for Rawlt to follow her. The three of them walked to the rear of the house, the wet grass soaking Maia’s slippers. The anxiety in her stomach was almost unbearable.
Moored alongside the river was a small skiff that could have belonged to any local fisherman. Seven soldiers had joined her and Rawlt and a ninth man was waiting at the skiff. As they approached by moonlight, she saw that there were no torches.
“Good-bye, Lady Maia,” Lady Shilton said ominously. She headed back to the manor house without a backward look and Maia followed the escort to the ship.
The man at the tiller was standing, a sturdy-looking fellow wearing dark, rugged clothing. His hands were clenched around a long mooring pole and he was leaning forward to watch them approach. When she was close enough for the moonlight to reveal his face, she saw a bluff chin, chiseled features, and a countenance etched with nicks and scars. Part of one ear was missing beneath the thatch of dark unruly hair. His eyes were light, piercing in intensity, and they were regarding her with a knowing look. Part of his mouth quirked, as if he were chuckling to himself about something.
It was the kishion.
She recognized him instantly and her heart lurched with memories. They were like cobwebs spun around one another in her mind. In the tangled skein, it was almost impossible to discern where one started and another ended. He was her protector. He would escort her to the cursed shores of Dahomey.
This has already happened! Maia wanted to shriek out loud, but her tongue was swollen and she was helpless against the tide of time that drew her ever onward. Someone she cared for was in danger. She fought against the current that continued to move her through the memory, but was helpless to stop it. She sat down on the low wooden bench and the soldiers filled in around her, protecting her on each side and in front and behind.
“Shove off,” Rawlt said.
The kishion obeyed, using the pole to push away from the pier. Oars were slid into place quickly and the men began to row. With so many men on board, the vessel rode very low in the river, and water slopped against the side of the hull.
Maia glanced over her shoulder, looking at the kishion in the back of the skiff. She was afraid of him. She remembered that fear, but it was different now . . . her feelings were allayed by all the experiences they had shared. He gazed at her, his expression a subtle blend of defiance and cruelty. Memories of all that had happened since that long-ago boat ride wove in and out, meshing with the sounds of slapping water, the dip and churn of the oarsmen.
Stars glittered in the dark sky above her.
Her senses blurred and she felt a queasy sort of feeling. Then she blinked and found herself on a different skiff. Looking down at her lap, she saw cloth of gold that shimmered like honey. She had rings on her fingers. She lifted her hand and felt the jeweled necklace around her neck, where the kystrel used to lay. Turning her head, she discovered that the soldiers had been replaced with men in black cassocks with silver eyes and gaunt determined faces. When she peered over her shoulder, she saw Corriveaux at the tiller, not the kishion. He was staring at her, his expression haughty with triumph, his eyes burned with lust and silver fire.
Maia felt something jolt and jostle her seat. The skiff had struck a dock post. The memories were merged somehow—she felt trapped between both worlds simultaneously.