A small smile curled the corner of Murer’s mouth. A sad smile. She sighed and breathed no more.
Maia gently set her down on the hard stone. She touched the cold hand, watching for a moment. Then, shakily, she stood and turned to face the hetaera Leering. The sigil burned and hissed angrily, glowering at her. Her injured arm burned now that the battle was done.
She silenced the Leering with her mind and closed the water Leerings that had summoned and drained the seawater. They obeyed her.
As she stood there in her drenched gown, staring at the cooling sigil of the entwined serpents—the one that had been unwittingly branded on her shoulder—she realized a deep truth. There was only one Family in all the seven kingdoms that was immune to the plague. Collier was a reckless swordsman because he could not be killed by a sword or a dagger. She doubted he even knew the truth. The kishion’s wound had not been mortal. And she realized with sweet joy that she could kiss him, and she could kiss his Family, and she could one day even kiss her own children because they would share in his protection.
Closing her eyes, she sank to the stones on her trembling knees, overcome by an immense feeling of gratitude. The Medium had never deserted her. It had guided her path all along.
Thank you, she whispered in the silence of her mind. Her heart was overflowing. Collier was alive. And he was not as injured as she had supposed. You did not have to bless me this much. I would have served your will regardless.
Rising from her prayer, her arms stinging with pain, she walked up the ramp to the doors, determined to face the kishion and seal the hetaera’s lair forever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Hunted
When Maia emerged from the tunnel after revoking the door Leering’s power, which would prevent others from entering the lair, the sun shone down on her in blinding rays, forcing her to raise her uninjured arm to shield her eyes. She strained for sounds to help her understand what had happened, but the story was laid out before her. There was a dead man guarding the porch. Her kishion had won the battle.
She stepped away from the corpse, sick of death, and wandered a short way from the entrance. The kishion approached her from a distance, his face hardened with determination and strength. In one hand he clutched the chains of several kystrels, the medallions swaying as he walked. She had fastened the one she had taken from Murer to her girdle, and it hung against her leg. His rucksack was slung over his shoulder. The kishion stared at her as he approached, his grave expression shifting to one of worry.
“You are bleeding,” he said, rushing up to her worriedly. He looked over her shoulder at the dark tunnel, as if expecting another enemy to emerge.
“Murer is dead,” Maia said.
The kishion stared at her in astonishment. “You killed her?”
Maia could read his thoughts in his expression. He could not believe she, of anyone, would harm another person. She gripped her cut arm tightly, wincing from the pain. “She fell on her own blade.”
“After stabbing you, it seems,” he said. Then, taking her by the arm, he led her away from the opening, back toward the little garden they had visited on their first journey. “The Dochte Mandar are all dead, even the one who ran away.”
She was appalled by his brutal efficiency. They reached the small stone enclosure, and he quickly knelt in the soft turf and swung his rucksack loose. Inside, she saw a blue-stained leather bag of powdered woad, some needles and gut thread, and small strips of cloth for bandages.
“Sit here.” He gestured next to him.
She obeyed, but she did not feel at ease. As she watched the sinking sun, a feeling of urgency thrummed inside of her. She had to return to Muirwood. Collier was still alive. Her people were in grave danger, and she felt the Medium warning her that it was time for her to leave the kishion.
He looked at the wound on her shoulder first, grunting at the size of it, and told her he would need to stitch it. He offered her a piece of root to dull the pain, but she shook her head no.
“If you will not chew it, then hold perfectly still,” he warned her. “The needle will hurt as it goes through.”
She nodded and shifted so that her back faced him. He undid some of the lacings of her gown and pulled the fabric down to expose the skin of her upper back. Then, with deft and experienced hands, he began to stitch the gut strings through her flesh. She flinched and hissed at first, but he worked quickly, and the pinch of pain became familiar. Once he was finished, he dabbed the area with woad to help stifle the bleeding and covered it with a bandage. He then covered her up with the dress.