Relieved, she obeyed and bowed her head, allowing him to press his thick hand against her head. This was a Gifting. She began to shiver. Her stomach twisted into knots, and she felt the terrible urge to retch.
“Lady Marciana,” he said in broken Dahomeyjan. “Ah . . . I place upon you a . . . a . . . Gift. Yes, a Gift. By Idumea’s hand, I . . . sense in you . . . the presence of one . . . the . . . presence of a . . . Myriad One.” She heard his breath begin to pant, and she felt the churn of power swelling up inside her. Not here! she pleaded in her mind. Help me!
“By Idumea’s . . . hand . . . I bestow . . . a . . . Gift. Of Knowledge.” His breath came in short gasps, as if he were racing up a stairwell. “You must . . . seek . . . the High Seer. She . . . is . . . she . . . calls . . . all the new . . . Aldermastons. She anoints them. Only one . . . with the Gift . . . of Seering . . . can name . . . ungh . . . name . . . the Myriad One . . . vested . . . inside . . . you. Seek her . . . in . . . Naess.”
The Aldermaston jerked his hand away from her head and continued to breathe in huge gulps. Maia whirled and saw his hand was covered in blisters, as if he had grabbed a burning kettle by the handle. He gripped his wrist with his other hand, sweat streaking down his face. He stared at Maia with fear. He was trembling and quite pale.
“Not . . . my . . . abbey,” he groaned. “Please! Not mine!” His look was not angry, only desperate. “Go! You must go! Now!”
Maia rose from the chair. “I did not seek to bring evil here,” she said, staring at his blistered palm.
“I know it,” he muttered. “I saw into your heart. But you are a hetaera. You are bound to a Myriad One. You must learn its true name in order to send it away. Only someone with the Gift of Seering can know that.”
“But I thought all Aldermastons—”
He shook his head violently. “No! But three days ago, the whispers of the Medium bade me to hold vigil. Not just to go without sleep for three days, but also to go without food and drink. I did not understand why. It weighed on me. I was so busy and tired. If I had held vigil, I may have been strong enough in the Medium to help you tonight. I cannot send this one away. It is too strong. You are too strong in the Medium. Stronger than me. Your lineage . . . child . . . it is powerful.”
“Aldermaston!” she begged, seeing his face blanch.
She felt a familiar heaviness wash over her. She remembered the powerful force of the waves as they crashed against the hull of the Blessing of Burntisland. No matter how strong the sails or taut the ropes, the ship had been thrashed about unwillingly. It was as if those waves were buffeting her. She tried to walk against the current pulling at her, but it felt as if her clothes and skin were too heavy for her to resist.
He raised a trembling arm, his face beaded with sweat. “I . . . rebuke . . . you . . .”
The tidewaters of power swelled inside her, sweeping her under the crest. She heard a voice. Her own voice, but it was not her speaking.
“You know too much now, Aldermaston.”
“Depart!” he croaked hoarsely.
Maia heard herself laugh. “You cannot banish one who is already banished. No man can tame me, Aldermaston.”
“The High Seer is a woman,” the Aldermaston said angrily. “The Dochte Mandar will bring you to Naess.”
There was another silver laugh. “I know. I intend them to. Foolish man. You thought a little gate and door could keep me out? We are many. We are one.” She began to chant the dirge from the tome. “Och monde elles brir. Och cor shan arbir. Och aether undes pune. Dekem millia orior sidune.”
“No,” the Aldermaston groaned. “Please, no!”
“Och monde elles brir. Och cor shan arbir. Och aether undes pune. Dekem millia orior sidune.”
“No! I beg you, no!”
“Och monde elles brir. Och cor shan arbir. Och aether undes pune. Dekem millia orior sidune!”
Maia felt the waves of power crest inside her, a sensation that set her fingers tingling. She was still conscious, though her awareness had been shoved into a corner of her own mind. She struggled to regain control of her body, but it was like shoving one of those sea waves. There was nothing to push against.
Boots pounded down the corridor, and the door of the Aldermaston’s chamber flew open. He had sagged to his knees, one hand resting on the table, the other quivering as he tried to hold up the maston sign with his hand.
“Aldermaston!” someone shrieked. “The abbey! The abbey is burning!”
There has never been a time in which mastons have not been persecuted. There is a never-ending war, you see, between the mastons and the hetaera. The hetaera, whose order has prevailed and survived for many thousands of years, received a mortal wound in my generation, of which the monster must finally die. Yet so strong is her constitution, great-granddaughter, she may endure for centuries before she expires.
—Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR