Argus growled.
Maia tried to grab at the dog’s ruff, but Argus broke through the brush of ferns and ran to his master.
“A boarhound!” someone shouted.
The kishion uttered a low curse.
Twigs snapped behind them. The kishion whirled, dagger in his hand, but something whistled and struck his head, knocking him down. He did not move. Maia dropped down beside him and turned him over. She feared an arrow had pierced him, but there was no mark on his body. He was quite unconscious.
Maia heard the whistling noise again and something hard struck her temple.
Her eyes filled with blackness and she slumped into the bed of ferns, joining him in oblivion.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Mark of Dahomey
It was the throbbing of Maia’s temple that woke her. As she struggled to open her eyes, she felt herself bounced and jostled so much she quickly lost the sense of up and down. Her wrists were bound together, her arms were bound to her sides—her ankles were secured as well. She struggled for a moment against the bonds and tried to calm the swelling panic that speared her heart.
Her movement had a sway and bounce to it, and after a few moments of startled awareness, she realized that she was being carried. Not on horseback, but on a litter of some kind, two long branches or poles with a blanket or cloak slung between them to cushion her. One man marched in front of her, another behind her. The sky was draining of color as she blinked, the woods filling with purple shadows. She could sense the Myriad Ones everywhere, thronging to the procession as it moved through the trees.
She tried to quiet her heart and focus her thoughts. It was not too late—she could still summon her magic. She could—
It was then Maia realized that the kystrel was gone.
She was defenseless against the Myriad Ones, and she now understood why they were flocking so thickly to her. They were drawn to her helplessness. She could sense their greedy thoughts as they whirled beside her in the twilight, waiting for full dark to attack her, to feed on her fears, to worm their way inside her skin, to steal her will and supplant it with their own. She began to wrestle against the bonds, her terror mounting with every hammer-stroke in her chest.
“She is rousing,” one of the soldiers muttered.
“Do not speak, lass,” another warned. “Or we have orders to gag you.”
She twisted against the litter, trying to count the men. She could see a dozen or more, all wearing the tunics of Dahomey. Trailing after her litter, she could see the kishion and Jon Tayt stumbling forward, hands bound in front of them with chains, pulled along by a rope secured to their bindings. Blood smeared across half of the kishion’s face. His hooded eyes stared at her, searching her face. He said nothing. His expression was hard as stone, implacable. She knew he was plotting how to escape.
Jon Tayt was dejected, his chin lowered in shame as he walked. She could not see any weapons on him. She was surprised, and startled, to see that his boarhound had been spared. Argus padded beside him, jaws muzzled with leather straps, tail bent low between his legs. Her heart sang with relief at the sight of him, but while her friends were alive now, their futures were unsure.
The Myriad Ones hummed around her gleefully, reveling in her capture, her defenselessness.
“You found her?” came a voice from ahead. She strained to see, but her position forbade it. The jostling walk came to a halt.
“Aye, Captain. The hunt has ended. We ran her to ground.”
“We found her before Corriveaux did. Is she alive?”
“Aye, Captain. As His Majesty ordered. A little bruised, but unharmed. What do we do with the two traitors?” He snorted and spat.
“They will stretch by a rope come dawn. They butchered the watch, remember? Take them away. No food. Keep them under heavy guard. If they try to flee, kill them. Do you have her medallion?”
“It is right here, Captain.”
Maia heard the whisper of metal from the kystrel’s chain as it was placed in the captain’s hand. The Myriad Ones were gleeful, and she felt them pressing closer, snuffling against the taut fabric of the litter. It made her stomach sour.
“Set her down.”
The men carrying her litter lowered her into the brush. One of them slit the ropes at her ankles with a dagger. Two others hoisted her up onto wobbling legs. Someone steadied her. The captain carried a torch, revealing a face with a blond goatee and crooked teeth. He raised the torch and stared at her, eyeing her with animosity. The chain from her kystrel gleamed brightly in his hand.