“They whip the fighters into a frenzy with the revels,” the kishion went on. “They are plied with drink, pleasures, and violence. Any guilt is purged away with kystrels. The Dochte Mandar teach that this is the second life. That each man . . . or woman . . . will be reborn again. Depending on how courageous and cunning you are, how fearless in battle and how cruel in strategy, you may become a chieftain in the next life. The Dochte Mandar say they speak to the dead in the dark pools and learn who should be the next chieftains. They tell us who has been reborn and what they were in their past life. To me, it is a bunch of nonsense. I think the Dochte Mandar say what they wish us to believe, to keep themselves in power.”
Something nagged at the back of Maia’s mind as she pondered his words. “I have heard about this teaching,” she said. “Not about the chieftains or the rulers of the Naestors. But I know people give great credence to what the Dochte Mandar teach . . . and they believe we will all be reborn.” She considered that for a moment. “It is an interesting thought. But it is not true.”
He glanced at her, his eyebrows furrowing. “What does it matter whether or not it is true?” he said with disdain.
She gave him a pointed look. “It makes all the difference in the world. You know about the Myriad Ones?”
“They are spirit creatures,” he said with a shrug. “The spirits of the dead.”
“No, they are the spirits of the Unborn. They are spirits too wicked and cruel to pass on to the other realm. They tempt us, kishion. They feed on our fears and jealousies. They persuade us to murder and torture. To betray. To lie. And they feed on us, just like the ravens feed on a carcass. The Myriad Ones have dominion in this fallen world, but there is a better world we can reach if we put our trust in the Medium. What the Naestors do not understand is when they die, they will become subject to the Myriad Ones if they do evil. There is no rebirth. They will feel like they feel now in life, only without the ability to sate their cravings or purge their guilt. Imagine the guilt they will feel then, kishion, when there are no longer any kystrels to numb their pain. Think of yourself and what you have done. There is not another chance. There is no glory waiting, only misery. I may suffer here. But I long for a better world.”
The kishion stared at her in suspicion. “And who is to say the mastons are right? The same logic turns against you, Maia. Perhaps nothing happens when we die. Like a fire that burns out, leaving naught behind but ash. We are simply no more. That is what I believe.”
“You may be right of course,” Maia said simply, not wanting to provoke him. “If you are right, then I have lost nothing in being good. I go to my ashes peacefully and am no more. But if we are right, where does it leave the Naestors?” She gave him a piercing look. “Where does it leave you? I know I am only reciting what the mastons have written in their tomes over the centuries. But I have felt the difference between the power of the Medium and how the Myriad Ones subvert it.”
Danger.
She stopped short, feeling the whisper in her mind like a clarion call.
“What?” he asked her, stopping too, his body tense as he began searching the forest for trouble.
Maia stood silently and listened to the wind rustling through the mossy trees. Closing her eyes, she opened herself up to the Medium’s will. She felt the breeze rustle her cloak, her skirts, her hair. She repeated the pledge she had made in Naess to serve the Medium, in an effort to cast aside all her pride, all her sorrow and grief. She shed these things like stained garments.
The breeze kicked up and she heard a marsh bird call.
Murer is here. Stop the hetaera from returning.
Maia opened her eyes. She had rarely heard the Medium’s whispers so clearly, so cuttingly. In her mind, she could see the lost abbey, could see a small camp near the garden wall. There Murer was, dabbing ointment against the bite marks on her cheek, her expression angry as she felt the ugly welts. There were six Dochte Mandar as well. And a kishion.
“What do you hear?” the kishion asked her.
“We are not alone,” Maia answered, opening her eyes.
The kishion scowled with anger as he regarded the small camp near the ruins of the lost abbey. He had anticipated finding refuge in this place, not enemies, but the Victus had ruined his plans.
“Do you see her over there?” Maia asked at his shoulder. Two Dochte Mandar were sitting before a small smoking fire, talking in low voices. The others were roaming the ruins, examining the Leerings and admiring the devastation of the place. Maia could feel the Leerings speak to her, like a chorus of dozens of small voices. These were the ruins of an actual abbey, and many of the Leerings still worked and had not been harvested by the Naestors.
One, in particular, struck her with the force of its power. It was coming from inside the abbey, and she could sense the power radiating from it. It was a Blight Leering. It was causing the land to become inhospitable. It seemed to recognize her, a maston in its presence, and she felt its will and power nudging against her mind.
“I see no sign of the girl,” the kishion said, squinting. “Perhaps she went inside. A man cannot enter that lair.”
“I must go after her,” Maia said.
“Wait until dark,” the kishion replied angrily. “It is barely noonday. We cannot approach without being seen. Why not wait until she comes out? Let me kill her.”