“My lady?” one of her guards said worriedly.
“Call for help—” Maia started to say, and suddenly her tongue was swollen in her mouth, her words choked off. She felt as if a hand were squeezing her throat, but it was no physical hand.
The glowing eyes approached faster, and she began to make out a face. A somewhat handsome face, with brownish-gray hair and a close-cropped beard. She recognized him immediately.
Corriveaux.
She panted, struggling for air. The guards continued to approach from behind, and suddenly a wave of panic and terror blasted from the man’s kystrel, knifing through her—and the men behind her. Maia felt her knees buckle, and she dropped to the floor, still struggling to breathe. Her shoulder burned giddily in response to the kystrel’s magic. She felt a sense of triumph and delight that clearly was not hers.
One of her guards was trying to speak, perhaps to yell for help, but his voice was strangled and small. He could not utter any words of warning. Both men behind her collapsed and began gibbering in fear.
Maia could almost feel the abbey beyond her enemy, a mute witness to her struggle.
“You have become too predictable,” Corriveaux said smugly, drawing nearer. The man in the shadows behind him was a brute. They were clearly in this together. Both wore tunics stolen from her guardsmen. She remembered how the Victus liked to impersonate authority. She fought against the surge of panic and fear that engulfed her like drowning waters. She tried to sit up and force her thoughts to obey her.
“But always you flee to the abbeys. When will you learn that they are not a haven for you? A kystrel has more power than a maston could . . . more power than even an abbey. You know that. I saw what you did at Cruix. I admired your . . . handiwork. Did you really think stone walls could protect you from me?” The sheen of light from his eyes revealed the stark lines of his face as he moved toward her.
Maia thought of her grandmother. She thought of their walks in Muirwood. She had many more positive memories to draw on now. She had her friendship with Suzenne. Her tender relationship with Richard Syon, which she cherished. There was Jon Tayt, the faithful hound Argus. Her love for Collier. She summoned the memories, and with them came power. The Leerings in the hall began to glow once more, and Maia pushed herself up, wrapping herself in the warm feelings like they were a cloak to protect her from the cold.
Corriveaux frowned when the Leerings began to glow, and she felt his will slam down on her like a steel bar.
“You challenge me still?” he said, fury smoldering in his voice. “When you wore your kystrel, you were almost a match for me. But even a maston must yield to a stronger power,” he said. “Kishion, kill her.”
The man next to him, the brute, moved forward, and a dagger appeared in his hand.
Maia gritted her teeth and pulled on the power of the Leerings, trying to make them flare too bright to see. She felt the weight of Corriveaux’s will crushing down on her, but she was managing to slowly lift it. The Leerings grew brighter still, their eyes glowing with molten heat. The corridor began to shine.
“You will obey me,” Corriveaux snarled. His eyes were like fires themselves, only cold and silver.
The edges of her vision began to unravel in black flakes. Maia slumped to the floor, unable to bear the strain. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears she could no longer hear the thud of the boots approaching her. She fell into the blackness.
The King of Dahomey is a cunning young man. He slips through his kingdom in a disguise—an identity he forged while a prisoner in Paeiz. He is known to us as Feint Collier. A feint is using trickery to mislead your opponent. By focusing Comoros on defending their capital, we misdirect them to our intended aim. If you destroy the pillar, the house will crash down on its own.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lady Shilton’s Manor
Maia dreamed of an abbey burning. She could smell the cinders in the air, feel the waves of fire dance across the stones. At first she thought it was Cruix Abbey, that this was a buried memory that had finally resurfaced. But this abbey was taller and broader—a formidable presence that blazed in the night sky as it went up in flames. She was awed to see it so consumed. A wicked sense of delight made her shudder.
Slowly the edges of the dream faded, and she became aware of a jostling motion. She was being carried. She wondered if the dream had merely changed and she was now back at Muirwood, trussed up in a canvas bag by the sheriff of Mendenhall. But this felt different. She experienced the sensation of being carried up steps. She could hear the hiss of torches and the soft clip of boots against stone; she could smell a musty, earthen odor. If this were a dream, it was an uncommonly vivid one.
Too weak to move or struggle, Maia drifted out of consciousness again and dreamed nothing at all.