She gazed down at his upturned face, his eyes strangely calm, as if he were no longer suffering. The bloodstain on the floor was spreading.
“You are the only man . . . I will ever love,” she whispered through her tears. “Even in death, they cannot separate us. I would have married you by irrevocare sigil. Forever!” Why? Oh, why! She thought the pain in her heart would kill her.
Collier hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pushed himself up with one arm, pulling her down with the other. He kissed her tenderly, a farewell kiss, a kiss of love. She felt the mark on her shoulder flare, followed by the same tingle she had felt on her lips after Oderick’s kiss.
She kissed Collier back, pouring all the ardor and love that devastated her heart into the caress. Then she cradled his face between her hands and smothered him with kisses—his lips, his nose, his eyes and cheeks. She wept as she kissed him, knowing he was already dying.
His strength gave out, and he slumped in her arms. She cradled his body, pressing her cheek against his, feeling the warmth of his skin. She mourned. Her heart had never felt so broken. Everything in her world was upside down. All was blackness and despair, a misery beyond enduring.
He blinked up at her, a small smile on his face as he lay listless. “My love,” he whispered. “My queen. I named you my heir. You are Queen . . . of Dahomey now.”
She tried to stifle her sobbing and could not. She kissed him again, but his lips did not respond this time.
The kishion shoved Collier onto his stomach with a boot and wrenched Maia to her feet. The knife still protruded from the back of her husband—her heart’s husband. The kishion reached down and yanked the blade out, wiping the blood smears on Collier’s tunic before resheathing it.
Maia covered her face with her hands. “Leave him!” she choked in fury.
“He is a dead man,” the kishion said flatly. “If my blade did not finish him, your kiss surely will.”
The Bearden Muir is a vicious swampland. They have demolished trees and made the road impassable. Archers plague us night and day. But my army is cutting a swath to the abbey. We have axes enough for the work. There have been several small battles on the flanks, but they are sending young men to do men’s work. We will show them no pity.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Cursed Shores
Maia awoke from a dreamless fog. Her eyelids were heavy and puffy from crying. Dizziness and nausea twisted her insides, but the sound of creaking timbers and the sway of the sea finally helped orient her and made her realize she was on board a ship. She tried to lift herself up, and found her wrists were lashed together with leather bonds. As she came more awake, the crushing weight of grief slammed against her once more.
The memory of Collier collapsing on the floor of the inn, his life blood seeping away, made it difficult to breathe.
She lifted herself up on the stuffed pallet, staring at nothing, just trying to get air into her lungs. The ship rocked and swayed, as if it were trying to comfort her, but she doubted she would ever be happy again. Her fingers tingled from the bonds at her wrists, and she lifted her heavy hands to try and smooth the clumps of hair from her face. She was weak from lack of food and drink. But that was nothing compared to the blot in her heart. A few trembling sighs and hiccups came. Had she run out of tears at last?
Her memories after they had left Collier behind were hazy and disjointed. The kishion had trussed her up, tied a foul-smelling rag over her mouth—which had made her fall unconscious, mercifully—and loaded her into a chest. She could only surmise the chest had been carried aboard some ship in the harbor of Bridgestow, for the next thing she knew, she was swathed in total darkness. At some point the kishion had released her from the chest and carried her to the bed. After telling her he would return with food later, he had disappeared from the cabin. She must have slumped back into unconsciousness.
Maia trembled and shook, realizing that every moment carried her farther away from Comoros, from her people and the dangers they faced.
The door of the cabin groaned, and she flinched as the kishion stepped inside and bolted it behind him. His face was half-hidden in shadows. He looked at her warily, his face devoid of guilt or concern. He held a small bag in his hand.