Maia rested her forehead against the heavy wooden door. It was already almost twilight. She knew she would not make it back down to the village with her remaining strength. Nor could she wait outside the abbey all night without falling asleep. She slapped the door repeatedly with the flat palm of her hand. Receiving no answer, she rang the bell again. It clanged loudly, the sound vibrating under her skin and shooting down her spine. There was no answer on the other side.
Not knowing what to do, she knelt against the foot of the door, pressing her cheek to the wood. She was so tired. She slammed her hand against the door, then listened for sounds on the other side. There were obscure noises, the tramping of feet or boots, but no one came near the door. The sunlight melted away, bringing shadows. Smoke shapes snuffled at her in the emerging darkness, and she shuddered at their presence, enduring the discomfort. She blinked rapidly, trying to keep her mind clear of the fog of sleep. Beyond her lids, she sensed a primal power, like the waves of the sea, churning against her, threatening to sweep her away with its might.
Maia rose and yanked the bell again, sending the noise clanging into the night. She was so tired and filthy.
Please, Aldermaston. Please come.
After some time passed, she heard boots come to the door, and the porter opened it again. He looked at her peevishly. “Away, brat! The Aldermaston will not see you until morning. Go!” He gestured at her in annoyance.
She shook her head. “I cannot go. I must see him tonight.”
He scowled at her. “I can give you a lantern.” He drew one out from behind his back and offered it to her to take.
She folded her arms, refusing it. “I do not need light, I need the Aldermaston!”
He snorted, shrugged, and slammed the door in her face.
“Please!” Maia begged, pounding on the door again. If only she had thought to take one of Jon Tayt’s throwing axes, she could have started hacking away at the hinges. Again she knelt at the door, feeling the tide of power rise inside her, threatening to wilt her resolve. She bit her lower lip, desperately hoping the pain would distract her from her dark thoughts. Her knees ached from the position, but she was determined not to drift asleep.
Time passed slowly, the night’s chill seeping into the stones and wooden door. She could see her breath in the moonlight. Struggling to her feet, though the pain felt like knives shooting down her legs, she tugged on the rope again, clanging the bell.
Please come. Please. I need help.
She saw a glimmer of light under the crack of the door just before it opened. There was the porter again, frowning and holding a lantern. He stared at her, his expression stern as an owl, and then motioned with a jerk of his chin for her to follow him into the courtyard.
Her relief was wary, but she obeyed and followed. The inner courtyard was small, and they passed a gate of iron, which he closed and locked behind them. Each iron pole was topped with an ornate spike. The courtyard was paved in stone with small stone flower boxes along each side, overflowing with hardy mountain wildflowers. Leerings were set into each of the boxes, emanating a soft glow. She could hear the pattering of a fountain, and when she peered farther into the courtyard, she found the source: eight light Leerings encircled a water Leering that spewed a tall fountain onto the tiles beneath. The water drained from grates at the edges. Across the small courtyard, several dark-haired and olive-skinned learners watched her, but they kept to the shadows and spoke amongst themselves. She could not hear their comments over the splashing of the fountain.
The porter swayed the lantern and brought her to a small stone building built into the cliff side adjacent to the abbey. She craned her neck as she followed him, taking in the sight of the anvil-shaped mountain that towered overhead, making her feel insignificant.
She passed another Leering and felt it glaring at her as well. The eyes accused her. She did not feel that she belonged here.
The porter approached the door and rapped on it firmly. It was opened by an older man with silver hair, a prominent nose, and a stooped back—another servant, judging by his appearance. He waved for Maia to follow him inside, but before she did, she gripped the porter’s arm.
“Thank you,” she said humbly.
He snorted again and ambled back toward the gates. Maia followed the crow-beaked man into what she assumed to be the Aldermaston’s residence. Her stomach churned with uneasiness and shame. Even though she was frigid with cold, she felt a bead of perspiration trickle down her cheek. She wiped it away. Her mouth was dry.
The old man said something to her in the language of Mon, which she did not understand.
“Dahomeyjan?” she asked him.
He shook his head and then stopped at a door that was already open. Within, Maia saw a short, stubby man with a full beard and slight stubble on his head dressed in the gray cassock of the Aldermaston order. He was standing, gesticulating to two other men while speaking vehemently in a language she did not understand. The men nodded and departed the room. The Aldermaston, who still looked agitated, beckoned for Maia to enter.