Maia blinked at him, feeling a sudden jolt of fear. She did not know him, yet he knew her . . . or at least something about her. The fringe of silver at his throat—a chaen shirt—marked him as a maston, and a tome lay open on his lap. He bore a stylus in his left hand, and she could see from the aurichalcum shavings that he had been engraving. That was the scratching noise she had heard.
“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely. Her throat was so thick she could hardly speak.
He chuckled and wiped the shavings away from the tome. “I am a wayfarer. A wanderer. I travel the kingdoms writing the history of the people. This is Mon. It is my country.”
Maia’s uneasiness clotted inside her like blood. “You are a maston.”
“Aye, sister.” He looked down at the tome and touched the stylus to continue writing. The little scratching noise sounded again.
Maia could feel a threat bubbling inside her. Anger seethed like a stewpot, though she did not know why. She sat up and looked around. Her rucksack was nearby. The small movement revealed the stiffness and soreness of her muscles.
“And you, sister, are a hetaera,” he said, still scriving, without looking up.
She stared at him in dread and fear. She felt the power of the kystrel begin to hiss in her heart. She did not want to hurt him. “I must go,” Maia said worriedly.
“Stay,” he said curtly. “I have not delivered my message.”
“Message?” Maia asked. Something told her to be afraid of this man. That he would harm her if she stayed. She did not trust the impulse, but she wanted to bolt into the trees as fast as she could.
“I am not a pethet, sister. I will not harm you. It is noon. The Unborn are weakest in the daylight. The power grows inside you, though, even now. You must be rid of it soon, before it claims you fully. Then others will join it, and you will be lost.” He smiled viciously. “It wrestles for you. Will you let it win? Hmmm?”
Maia looked at him pleadingly. “Can you make them go away?” she asked with breathless hope.
He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “I cannot. I am a wayfarer, sister. I write the stories. I do not make them.”
A violent spasm of rage made her want to strike out at the man, but she folded her arms and dug her hands into her ribs to regain control of herself. She started to rock back and forth.
“What are you writing in your tome?” she asked, her teeth starting to chatter.
He smoothed his hand across the gleaming page. “The truth, sister. Only that.”
She licked her lips. “And what is the truth that you write now?”
His wizened eyes locked on to hers, and she felt shame splash color on her cheeks. She looked away, unable to hold his penetrating gaze.
“I wrote that a hetaera from Comoros, the king’s daughter, burned Cruix Abbey to the ground. It was my abbey, sister.” His face was solemn, not accusing. “I do not hate you for what you did. Who am I to judge the king’s daughter? The truth is your father is a pethet. He does not deserve the title ‘father.’ However, there are many pethets who wear that title, though it fits them poorly. When pethets rule, the people mourn. I do not judge you, sister. I have written your sad story for many years.”
Maia felt tears burning in her eyes. “Are they . . . are they all dead at the abbey?” she gasped. In part of her mind, she could see the cliffs burning with fire as the abbey went up in flames. That sick foreign part of her reveled at the sight, thrilled by the scorching flames.
The man’s voice was firm and void of emotion. “The Aldermaston only and not yet. He could not flee.” He sighed. “You kissed his forehead, sister. Your lips bring a curse. They bring death.” His voice dropped low. “A betrayer’s kiss. It has always been so, even on Idumea.”
Tears trickled down Maia’s cheeks—a foreign sensation since she so rarely cried. The tears were hot and wet and they seared her skin as they fell from her lashes. “I am sorry,” she gasped. Maia gazed up at the tops of the trees, her heart dying with regret. She buried her face in her hands and wept. She should fling herself off a cliff. She had to save the world from what she had become. Death was the only way to end the madness in her life. If she could not control her actions, if she could not stop the Myriad One inside of her, she could at least do no more harm.
“Do you think that would help, sister?” the stranger said softly, his voice slightly mocking. “Your thoughts are tangled with her thoughts. Do you realize that? If you jumped, she would cause the Medium to blow you back up to the top. And then another of your choices would bind you to her.”
Maia stared at him, her eyes wet. “You can hear my thoughts?”
“It is one of my Gifts,” he replied sternly. “What a burden!” Then he chuckled softly to himself. “You can imagine the joy of hearing what everyone you meet thinks of you. Pethet recolo! There is fat, smelly Maderos! His breath reeks. His ankles are too skinny and his middle too ripe. He is crooked. He is ugly. Bah!” He waved his hand in the air. “How quickly we judge each other. How quickly our thoughts condemn us. The Medium looks on the heart, sister. Not the face. You are judged by the choices you make. Not the choices of others.”