“As you wish. I fought alongside your lord father,” Forshee said with dignity. “I fought alongside him during the Dark Wars. He was a man of integrity. A man of prowess. A maston.” His voice fell lower. “He would be ashamed if he had lived to see you now.”
Maia’s throat constricted. She stared at the earl, then at her father, watching his neck muscles bulge. His shoulders jittered with repressed anger. “Is . . . that . . . all, Forshee?”
The earl nodded and seated himself at the table, looking at the king as if he were no more significant than a moth.
Her father pushed against the armrests of his chair and rose, bringing himself to his full height. Even his legs trembled with rage. “I had sought to make an alliance between our Families, Forshee. I know my stepdaughter Murer fancies one of your sons. But I cannot bear the thought of enduring your sanctimoniousness during holidays and such occasions. I brought you to my Privy Council because I value your wisdom, your excellence as a soldier and warrior, and the strength your Family brings to this realm. Your service has been undisputedly a value to the throne.” He clenched his fists and planted them on the table. “I know that you do not approve of me, Forshee. I could see it in your eyes before you said a word, and it disgusts me. You have five strapping lads. And you leave them five farthings apiece for your insolence and your treasonous tongue. I would not let any of the daughters of my realm marry into such proud and conceited stock as yours. Away from my sight! You displease me, my lord earl. And you will suffer for it.”
The Earl of Forshee rose again, his expression calm and untroubled. He dipped his head in salute and walked purposefully to the doors of the solar and left. Maia stared at her father, at the dangerous glint in his eyes.
He turned to Chancellor Morton. “Draw up orders to arrest Forshee before he leaves the castle. He will be bedding down in Pent Tower tonight.”
“My lord?” Morton said, aghast.
“His five sons will also pay the price for his insolence,” her father continued. “Summon them all to court. If any defy the summons, arrest them. I want to gather them together for a little reunion. Maybe a few dark days in a dungeon will lance the boils that afflict their spleens. Now, Morton. Now! Draw up the papers now.”
“Y-yes, my lord,” the chancellor said, his face pale.
Maia saw her father’s jaw trembling. He began to pace near his chair. “When you have finished the arrest order, I wish you to decree all efforts to rebuild the abbeys to cease forthwith. No more stone to be quarried. No more oxen to carry them. No more roads to be repaired. We will halt the work for a season and show traitors like Forshee there is a price to be paid.” He paused, realizing the play on words. “A Price. Yes, there will be a Price to be paid.”
He chuckled to himself and then turned to face his Privy Council, his knuckles pressing against the tabletop. “Does anyone else wish to speak?”
The shocked silence thrummed in the room.
“Good,” her father said contemptuously. He turned to Maia’s chair, the passion already beginning to cool in his eyes. “My dear, would you like a chance to visit Muirwood before the roads are closed?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vow
Yes.”
It was Maia’s own voice, her own mouth that said it. The sensation was like coming awake from a vivid dream, one that blurred like fog and syrup. Somehow she had fallen asleep in the king’s tent. Her memories were muddled and thick, and though in her mind’s eye she was staring at her father and answering his question, she realized ponderously that her memory was distorted. Her father had never asked her if she wished to go to Muirwood. He had never given her that option. The image of her father crumbled away, and she discovered another man standing before her, wearing the black cassock of the Dochte Mandar. He faced her direction, but his gaze shifted to someone next to her.
“Most illustrious prince,” the man said, his voice formal and speaking Dahomeyjan, “is it your will to fulfill the treaty of marriage concluded by your late father and the King of Comoros? And, as the Dochte Mandar has sanctioned this marriage, do you take Princess Marciana, who is here present, for your lawful wife?”
“Yes, I will,” said Collier.
The threads from her dream still billowed about her mind. She realized in the back of her mind that in front of her sat a wooden altar piece—a small one set near the brazier in the king’s tent. A stone Leering rested atop it, the face chipped and chiseled and blunted by hammer strokes, but still visible. Power emanated from it, and she realized she was kneeling in front of the altar, her arms resting on it. Collier’s arms were next to hers. Slowly, so slowly it felt as if she were turning a huge boulder by herself, she twisted her neck and saw Collier’s profile, his deep blue eyes gazing intently at the Dochte Mandar.
“You have declared your consent before me. May the Medium strengthen your consent and fill you both with pleasing Gifts. What we have joined hither, men must not divide.”