He chuckled softly. “I will, Maia. You can expect delegations from the other kingdoms to start arriving after the coronation. There is much to do.”
He smiled and nodded and turned back to his desk as she briskly descended the stairwell, full of energy and hope. She had to prepare herself to face the Privy Council on the morrow. She knew many would be resistant to her new ideas. It would take repetition and determination to change the standards of her father’s court. What had once been acceptable would now be eschewed.
It begins with a thought.
Maia smiled and startled when she saw both her guardsmen were gone. Collier leaned against the wall, arms folded, head cocked at her.
“You surprised me,” she said, brightening. The sight of him sent tingles up her spine, as ever it did.
“I must go,” he said.
Her heart sank. “When do you leave?”
“With the tide tomorrow on one of Simon’s ships,” he answered. He reached over and took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.
“I was going to return to Muirwood to sleep,” she said, glancing down the hall. They were truly alone. “But I want to be there ere you depart.”
“Stay then,” he said, smiling in his roguish way. He squeezed her hand. “I will watch over you while you sleep.” His other hand came up and grazed her temple, smoothing hair over her ear.
“I . . . was hoping you would stay until after the coronation,” she stammered.
He shook his head. “If Dahomey is going to stand with Comoros when the Victus comes, we need to be at our strongest.” He brought her hand up higher and stared down at it as if he were going to kiss it, but he did not. “I must go tomorrow. But I do not want to.”
Fear of death is a terror unequaled. That is why we created the threat of the Void—the extermination of every man, woman, and child. The Medium uses it to enforce obedience. The maston saying is true. Men are swayed more by fear than by reverence.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Parting
Maia trudged through a dense forest, cold and shivering. There were little cuts from the branches across her skin as well as spider bites that itched mercilessly. A chill, rank mist clung to the treetops, sending feathery tendrils down. The crunch of boots against foliage and the short huff of labored breathing filled her ears. She was cold, weary, and weighed down with heavy sorrow, sorrow so thick she could hardly breathe through it.
Flicking her eyes up, she saw a figure before her, swathed in a tattered cloak. It filled her with dread. The march halted at the edge of a clearing. She heard someone else’s voice, a voice with a whine to it, but the words were garbled and impossible to understand. Staring ahead, Maia saw a field of bones and a Leering crowning the heap.
She started, remembering the place vividly. The hooded man turned and she saw the torn ear, the scars. The kishion looked at her knowingly, sharing her remembrance of the place.
Fear shook her to her core. She wanted to flee, to escape, but somehow it was impossible. The mist was raining down upon them. She could see the puffs of breath coming from the kishion’s mouth. I am asleep. This is a dream, she told herself. She wrestled against it, trying to rouse herself. Terror and sorrow battled for domination in her mind. If she were truly asleep, did the cogent quality of the dream mean she was once again being controlled by Ereshkigal? Before, the Myriad One had controlled her while she slept, controlled her while she revisited her most painful memories in her sleep. With anguish, she fought to surface from sleep.
Her eyes blinked open, her heart shuddering beneath her ribs. Cold sweat clung to her skin, and she shivered beneath a thick blanket.
A warm hand touched hers and she flinched, jerking away in fear until she distinguished her husband’s face in the dim light of a small Leering. A spasm of relief flooded her. She looked around, recognizing the room as her private chambers. She was on an elegant four-post bed draped with simple white veils. There were wardrobes and chests and a slightly crooked mirror in the corner. A deep bath was by the wall next to a water Leering. She filled her senses with every small detail, grounding herself in the reality of the place, the moment, and the nightmare slowly faded.
“Was it a dream . . . or something worse?” Collier asked her tenderly, his look serious and intense as he sat at the edge of the bed.
“Hold me,” she whispered, opening her arms and pulling him close. The terror and sadness of the dream still wrenched at her heart. She felt as if she had lost someone dear to her. Her memory raced to find a source. Was she grieving her mother’s death? Her father’s? So many conflicting, tangled emotions writhed inside her.
Collier held her close, wrapping his arms around her and softly stroking her hair. She felt the first sobs bubble up and tried to choke them down.
“Ssshhh,” he soothed, stroking her. “I am here.”