When Maia finally saw the abbey, she was surprised at how small it was compared to the steep cliffs it was nestled amidst. The abbey had been built into the side of a cliff, only this cliff was infinitely taller and broader than the one supporting Roc-Adamour. A huge swath of evergreen trees nestled up against the lower reaches of the abbey, offering a colorful contrast to the steel-colored stone. Only a few scattered firs clung to the crags and seams of the mountain. The abbey was built along the bend of a ridge, and behind it, Maia could make out four other ridges. The mountain trail led beyond even that, and her mind filled with wonder at the distant sight. The abbey was four levels high, made of pale stone with gently sloping roofs and walls of varying heights. It was not a grand abbey like those she had seen in Comoros, but it was impressive—if only because the workers had needed to hammer rock so high up in the mountains to build it.
Unfortunately, they had to hike down to hike up. At the floor of the canyon rested a tiny village set beside the river, impossible to avoid for any who traveled to the abbey. There were small outer buildings, one with a waterwheel that dipped into the river gorge. The locals spoke a blend of three languages, though mostly the tongue of Mon. Maia did not know that language, but she was able to communicate as though they were Dahomeyjan travelers, and the locals did not understand whether her dialect was true or not. They seemed surprised to have visitors from Dahomey, but not enough to probe into the circumstances.
There was a healer in the village named Dom Silas, a wizened man with graying hair that had once been black, and he set to work on the kishion at once, clucking his tongue and chattering on in his native tongue. The hamlet was small, with only twenty or so structures. Dom Silas indicated that the kishion’s injuries were severe and that he would need time to know whether he could be cured. Jon Tayt had passable knowledge of his language.
“I will stay with him,” Jon Tayt said. “Go to the Aldermaston and perform your errand.” He took another look at her. “You can barely stand, lass. Do you want to rest here first?”
“I dare not,” Maia replied thickly, gripping his meaty shoulder before leaving the healer’s chamber.
She started up the thin mountain trail leading to the abbey, excited and nervous simultaneously. What would she tell the Aldermaston? How much would she reveal about herself? Should she reveal her true identity as the daughter of the King of Comoros? Should she show him the taint of the tattoo shadows at the base of her neck? Should she show him her shoulder? She knew from her experience that the grounds of an abbey were a political entity unto themselves. A maston could seek the right of sanctuary there, but she was no maston, so that privilege was not hers to take. She hoped the Aldermaston would know her language, but she was prepared to communicate with him any way she could.
As she climbed the mountain, her feet sore from the constant abuse, her stomach twisted with worry and dread. Most of all, she feared what this Aldermaston would say or do when he learned the truth about her. Would he be compassionate to her plight, or would he judge her? She was ashamed of what she had become, but she had not voluntarily chosen it. Her thoughts were so muddled from lack of sleep, she could barely arrange them. She staggered on the trail, trying to keep her boots from sliding off. Craning her neck up, she breathed deeply of the pine and the clean air.
Her stomach coiled with queasiness.
It was nearing dusk when she reached the abbey doors. She had not slept in three days, but despite all her fear and doubt, a sprig of hope lingered in her bosom. The Aldermaston would be able to help her. He could at least cast out the Myriad One. She wanted to sob with pent-up relief, her throat constricting. She pounded on the door before seeing the rope nearby and pulling it. Maia covered her mouth when an iron bell rang out in the dusk, feeling awkward and nervous and unsure of what to say.
A pair of boots approached the door and jangled the keys in the lock.
“Abrontay! Cenama majorni?” The man who opened the door had dark whiskers and snowy hair and looked like a porter. He was speaking a language she did not know, which she assumed was Mon.
“Aldermaston,” Maia said, seeing the man did not wear the cassock of the order.
“Cenama, mirabeau. Constalio ostig majorni. Vray. Vray!” His hand flitted at her dismissively.
“Please,” Maia said, switching to Dahomeyjan. “I must see the Aldermaston!”
The porter looked at her, confused. “Dahomish? I see. Are you maston? No? Only mastons can come at night. Show me a sign.”
She stared at him in confusion for a moment, but he did not want to wait for her to respond. “Go back to the village, little girl. I said that wrong. Young woman. Go along. Go!” He waved her away again, his eyebrows wrinkling with disdain.
He shut the gate door in her face, and she heard the locks click back into place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Shame