“What do you think of those who will not leave, Jayn? Suzenne?” Maia asked, looking to her friends.
“Two in ten is significant,” Jayn said. “But can we truly force them to come? The Medium resists compulsion in any form. They cannot be persuaded to see reason, Lord Mayor?”
Justin threw up his hands. “It is a simple enough argument. If you remain in the city, you will die. We thrust out the Dochte Mandar, if you remember. I imagine they will not be friendly when they return on warships. I do not know how much more motivation I can offer them!”
Maia turned to glance at Suzenne.
It seemed as if they shared the same thought, for suddenly Suzenne quoted the maston proverb that had been running through Maia’s mind. “A gentle answer turns away wrath. Harsh words stir up anger.”
Maia smiled and nodded to Richard. “That is one of the Aldermaston’s favorite ones. I remember it well. Justin, you have done all you can. Continue to oversee the evacuation. This city must be deserted when the Naestors come. Suzenne, Jayn. Gather my handmaidens. Go out into the city and seek to persuade the families to leave. Especially the elderly and those with little children. If their parents will not leave, coax them into letting us help their children escape. This would ease my burden greatly.”
Jayn and Suzenne both rose, holding hands to give each other strength. “We will go,” Jayn promised, and Maia loved her for it.
She had entrusted a message for Collier with Richard and begged him to send someone loyal and reliable to deliver the missive to her husband. She had not expected an answer so soon, as she knew Collier was likely riding with his army against Paeiz rather than waiting behind in Lisyeux. The man next to Richard was almost twice his height, a scarecrow of a man.
“Maia, this is De Vere from Lisyeux Abbey. He is the Aldermaston’s steward.”
The man lowered his hood, revealing a head of close-cropped hair that was pepper colored and well spotted with white. He was lean and long, his complexion weather-beaten, as if he had spent his entire life out of doors instead of inside an abbey.
“My lady,” the man said with a crooked bow and a thick accent. He had a gouty hip joint as he bent and winced. “I bring this from my master, the King of Dahomey. He gave it to me himself and requested that I entrust it to no hand other than your own. As you and I have never met, he bade me to ask you a password to confirm. He asked for the name of your favorite hound.” He gave her a pleasant smile and awaited her answer.
“Argus, who shared a name with a village in the mountains south of Roc-Adamour.” Maia replied softly in Dahomeyjan, smiling warmly at him.
The maston’s face crinkled into a delighted grin. “You do justice to my mother tongue, my lady,” he said jovially. “I heard that you did. You are our true queen, Lady Marciana. If you will have us.” He extended to her a small folded card, sealed with wax.
“Is this an answer to my warning?” Maia asked, taking it with trembling fingers. She could not believe Collier had responded so quickly.
“No, my lady,” De Vere answered. “I was with him this morning and saw him write with his own hand. What warning?”
Maia’s stomach wilted and she broke the seal. As she opened the paper, a tiny blue flower nearly tumbled out, and she caught it before it could flutter to the floor. It was a small flower with dainty blue stems.
My love please wait
Word reached me that the Dochte Mandar annulled our marriage and suitors from Hautland have come seeking your hand. I will not rage against fate or the Medium. I know you have longed for freedom. To marry who you choose by irrevocare sigil. I know you have always desired to marry a maston, and Prince Oderick is truly one. It is my belief that he is sincere. That the alliance with Hautland is real. Simon is dead. I do not trust the messages I am getting about you. Rumors that the Victus are preparing to wage war against all of us. It may last for years. Having Hautland as an ally would be a blessing. But please, my dearest love, please wait for me. Do not decide rashly. Do not promise yourself yet. Wait for me. I will come for you.
Ne-mou-blie
Ne-mou-blie
Ne-mou-blie
Her throat caught with anguish, and tears stung her eyes as she stared at the little flower in her palm.
Forget me not.
Forget me not.
Forget me not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Invasion