“Say on,” Jon Tayt asked, his voice thick.
“The Scourge was raging by then, destroying the people with a terrible plague. Yet still Dieyre fought. He was driven from his throne three times, and three times he returned with an army to reclaim it. It is believed that the final battle happened in Dahomey; it is said there was a mass slaughter that only he survived. He was nearly disfigured with scars and fainted from the loss of blood. Yet he survived, the last man, just as Lia had predicted he would. He wandered the kingdoms, searching in vain for another living soul. There were none. All had either perished by the sword or by the Scourge.”
A feeling of blackness swelled in her heart. It was a terrible story. One that had always afflicted her. What would it have been like, she had wondered, to be the last man on earth? To see the fulfillment of a maston prophecy that had proved unavoidable? She cringed at the memory, feeling sympathy for the lonely creature he must have been.
Maia swung up into the saddle, feeling the black history taint her mood. She stared down at the kishion and Jon Tayt. Both looked back at her with grave expressions, clearly wondering if there was more. There was.
“You see, Emperor Dieyre—as he called himself—was the last man . . . until the Naestors came. They first discovered the ruins of Comoros and Pry-Ree. They sent ship after ship, investigating the ruined kingdoms. These were longboats, not the large sailing ships that the mastons left on. Eventually, they found Dieyre, ruling in the ruins of a desolate castle in Hautland. He was old by then. He lived among them for only nine months before he died. It was he who taught them to read the tomes they plundered. Some were maston tomes that had been secreted away. Some were tomes from the Dochte Mandar. In a way, the Naestors blended the two, learning how to control the Medium in proper ways through use of the kystrels. The Dochte Mandar among us now are not the same as the ones who lived during the days of the Scourging, though they kept the name.”
“By Cheshu,” Jon Tayt said in a small voice. “That is quite a tale, is it not? How much of it is true, I wonder?”
“Even the mastons believe it is true, Jon Tayt. When they returned, they found the Naestors inhabiting their lands. Many could speak the ancient languages, or at least well enough to communicate.” Maia stroked Preslee’s mane. “But Dieyre had left a prophecy of his own before he died. He told the Naestors that a woman with a child of his seed had gone with the mastons. He named that child’s posterity as his heir, the heirs of his empire.”
“By the Blood,” the kishion swore softly. “The greedy Mark is his kin?”
Maia nodded. “Do you understand why I must flee Dahomey as quickly as I can? If the Mark captures me, he will claim my birthright as the king’s daughter to win another kingdom for himself. The Mark wishes to rule all the kingdoms, as Dieyre once did. I have just told you what happened when one man tried to do that.”
“Everyone perished,” Jon Tayt said flatly.
They reached the town of Briec well before sunset, having ridden hard for the remainder of the day. The town was fenced in by a low, crumbled wall that would not have repulsed an army of any size. Jon Tayt explained how the towns farther north were all heavily fortified and had seen battles throughout the years as the various kingdoms plundered one another.
The town was not large enough to have its own abbey or castle, but the main inn served as the largest and most distinctive structure in town. There were at least six gabled roofs in the same style she had seen in Roc-Adamour, except the main building looked like six of the long, narrow Roc-Adamour buildings smashed together into one. Each gabled roof had a different style and size, and several jutted out at odd angles. A large central chimney rose above all the roofs and vented a cloud of smoke. The stables were adjoined to the inn, and they found a stable boy ready to take their mounts from them.
The interior of the inn had an enormous common room with trestle tables and a single fire. It was full of travelers with packs, staves, and heavy boots, who had stopped to share drinks and rest from their various journeys. The room was warm and lively, and a set of musicians were tuning their instruments near a small stage at the far side of the room. Maia stared longingly at the troupe, eager to hear them play. Several of the inn patrons waved at her and her fellow travelers, acknowledging them cheerily. Some glanced more than once at Maia, and she regretted not raising her cowl before entering.
“How long should we stay?” she asked Jon Tayt.