Maia stared up at the pocked surface. “They learned to control them after finding so many of these,” she said, patting the kystrel beneath her bodice. “But they lacked the maston lore to build their own Leerings or forge their own medallions. They tried. They carved faces into stones. They mimicked the designs perfectly.” She dropped her hand away and started walking toward Jon Tayt, who was beginning to saddle their mounts. She looked back at the kishion. “They could copy a Leering, but they lacked a maston’s authority to give it power.”
He walked with her toward the horses. “You are not a maston yourself, are you?”
She shook her head. “No. I was never permitted to learn. I know I would have passed. I can work a Leering without a kystrel, which most people cannot do, but I can only use the Medium’s stronger powers with it. Strength in the Medium comes from your Family, and all my ancestors were famous mastons. I would like to become one too . . . someday.”
Jon Tayt yanked hard on one of the girth straps. “Ach,” he said with a huff, catching her last words, “just slip away to Tintern Abbey in Pry-Ree and the Aldermaston will grant your request. If you were a maston, you would have no need to trifle with such jewelry.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Now that these beasts have calmed down a bit, there is a right way to saddle a horse and a wrong way. Collier knew the right way, but if you adjust the harness like so,” he grunted, moving the straps, “it makes it easier on the mount to carry you. We rode them hard yesterday. So we will give them a bit of a rest and walk them this morning, then ride hard later on.”
Maia walked up to Preslee and stroked her flanks, murmuring softly as she did so. “Did you check the hooves for pebbles?” she asked.
“I always do that first,” he said with a tight nod. “No sense saddling a lame horse. The hooves are hale and sound. The stables had a dozen other beasts in addition to these. The king likes to have fresh horses for hunting.”
Maia fetched a bag of provender from the saddle and started to feed her horse, grabbing a hunk of bread for herself. Preslee nuzzled the bag and began nickering with delight. Maia wished she had an apple to give her as well.
“I can do that, my lady,” Jon Tayt said, giving her a confused smile.
“I miss having my own horses,” Maia explained, shaking her head. “I always cared for my own. I know the right way to saddle them as well, Master Tayt.”
“Ah, but do you know the right way to throw an axe, my lady?”
She looked over her shoulder at the hunter, her lips pursed.
“I see you do not.” He gave a deep laugh. “You were taught languages, dancing, horsemanship, hawking, diplomacy, and either the lute or the virginal.”
“The lute, virginal, and the regal,” Maia corrected. “I was also taught Paeizian fencing.”
Jon Tayt snorted. “You and Collier share that in common then. He is a strong advocate for Paeizian fencing—hence the nickname. However, I can kill any Paeizian fencer with an axe from thirty paces away. Shameful they taught you to play the virginal and not how to throw an axe!” He grinned and then bellowed with laughter.
“You have convinced me that my education is incomplete,” Maia answered, enjoying the look on his face. “You must teach me.”
He clapped Chacewater on the flanks and started to give him a brisk rubdown. “Let me finish saddling the horses first. Always best to be prepared to ride and ride quickly. Take a brace of axes to that maypole stump and I will show you there. Hup, easy boy.”
Maia fetched two axes lying next to his rucksack and she carried them across the green to the charred maypole stump. She noticed the kishion scouting the grounds, looking as sullen and surly as usual. But her feelings about his sternness and solitary ways had evolved considerably over the past weeks. While he was not affable like Jon Tayt, she had found herself admiring his determination, survival instincts, and even his constant closeness. She was grateful to have both men as her protectors.
Argus trotted up to her as she reached the maypole, and she crouched to greet him. He was guarded with her, not as playful as he was normally, and she realized that the magic of the kystrel had frightened him away.
“It is well, Argus,” she said coaxingly. “I will not harm you.”
The boarhound sniffed at the grass near her before shifting his attention to her face. She stroked him, remembering her own spaniels and puppies as a child. She used to have a livery, men who wore her badge and colors—blue and forest green—horses and maidservants and advisors and cooks and hawks and longbows and Pry-rian fletched arrows. Everything she could have desired had been hers, and in abundance. All that had been stripped away when she was banished. And she had not even been banished to a distant castle or sent off to an abbey where she might have become a maston. She had been forced to watch as every luxury that had been taken from her was bestowed on Lady Deorwynn’s daughters.
Argus’s tongue lolled out of his mouth as he panted. She stroked his coat, jealous of the simplicity of Jon Tayt’s life.
“You are spoiling my hound,” he muttered as he approached. “You should kick him almost as often as you pet him.”