“You do not do that,” Maia commented wryly, standing.
There was a smile in his voice. “Of course not, lass. He has saved my life. More than once, truth be told. You do not kick a dog who has saved your life. I want you to kick him so that he stops fawning over you all the time. He seeks to please you. Yes, Argus—do not deny it! I can see it. Shameful.” He tossed the hound a bit of dried meat, and Argus loped away to start gnawing at it.
“I am more suited for a dog’s company than a person’s,” Jon Tayt admitted, drawing one of the axes from his belt. He flipped it and caught it by the handle. “I like to talk and Argus likes to listen.”
“A fitting pair you two make,” Maia agreed.
He smiled at her. “I like you, Lady Maia. Nary a whine or a whimper from you since we left the village named after my dog. Only when you sleep.” He took a step forward and hurled the axe, which spun lethally end over end until it buried itself in the center of the burnt maypole with an ominous thuck.
“You step forward with the opposite leg as you release. You want to be at least five paces away from your target at first. Work on accuracy at short distances. Then go farther and farther back. You want to cluster them if you can.” He threw the second axe and it bit into the wood right next to the first. He smiled at himself and walked up to the post to yank them both free.
“The blade should spin twice before striking the post. If you are too close, you will hit with the haft. That could crack a man’s nose, true, but I would prefer to split his head open.”
He walked back to where she stood. “Let me show you again. Hold the haft here,” he said, gesturing with one of the weapons. “Feel the weight of it. I sharpen these blades every other day so they will stick when they hit. No use carrying a dull axe. They can even deflect a sword, like so.” He demonstrated a parry with one of the axes and then swept the other toward her neck, slowing the blow as it came near her. “Always carry three or four. It does not take long to yank one loose from a dead man and throw it again.”
“You are dangerous,” Maia said. Though his choice of words made her wince, his abilities were impressive.
“There is a right way to throw an axe. Some people think it is like throwing a dagger. Very different. The kishion can show you that skill. My expertise is with the bow and the axe. I would rather drop a man at thirty paces. He cannot cut you with his sword if he is already dead, you see.”
“Truly,” Maia agreed.
“Hold it so, as I showed you.” He stood behind her, rotating her so that she took a solid stance facing the maypole stump. In Maia’s mind, she imagined children dancing around the maypole, the ribbons slowly twisting and sheathing the dark wood with an interplay of color. There was dancing and fun, laughter and clapping. She could almost hear the music from her first maypole dance at fourteen, the sound of the lutes and pipes. Round and round they had danced—the noble Family dressed in bright colors fringed with fur, the servants and lower classes dressed in plainer garb, but sharing equally in the enjoyment of the occasion.
All except her. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself . . . her fourteen-year-old self . . . standing to the side, hungry to participate. Begging the Medium with her thoughts for one young man of the bunch, even a lowly butcher boy, to muster the courage to ask her to dance. The music swelled in her mind, the clapping growing louder. Laughter and cheers filled the night sky, bright with torch fire and the honeyed smell of treats.
Lady Deorwynn had been right, though. No one had dared anger the king by asking Maia to dance. Not one offer had been made.
Maia hefted the axe and hurled it at the maypole. It stuck on the first attempt.
“Humph,” Jon Tayt said gruffly. “A few more. You certainly do not lack the strength.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Earl of Dieyre
They sheltered at midday in a grove of aspen near a clear brook to rest and water their mounts and eat from the provisions in the saddlebags. The kishion had left them so he could scout the area for safety. As Maia pulled out a wrapped loaf of bread, a bit of color caught her eye in the bottom of the saddlebag. There, nestled amidst a cluster of three pears, she discovered a flower. She reached inside the bag and withdrew a small white lily. It was tiny but beautiful, and it had been left—quite deliberately—in her saddlebag.