As she approached her tent, which was smaller than Collier’s, her thoughts continued to cling to that night . . . the night she had learned about the brand on her shoulder. Collier had insisted on seeing her shoulder, and eventually she had relented.
The memory brought a queasy, guilty feeling to her heart. A chill rippled through her back, her vision began to fray at the edges, and she started breathing hard. The whispers of the smokeshapes began to hiss sibilantly around her. She struggled to control her thoughts, to bring them toward cheerier domains. It was night. Was it nearly midnight? She could not tell through the web of trees above.
Maia.
She immediately recognized Murer’s voice in her mind. Panic and fear followed fast behind. In her mind, she began summoning images of Muirwood, of her mother’s garden. She thought of Thewliss and his white mustache and soft-spoken ways. She thought of Aloia and Davi in the kitchen, imagining them prattling and teasing each other.
“Are you all right?” Jon Tayt asked, nudging her elbow.
I thought you would wish to know where I am right now.
Murer’s voice sliced through her thoughts. She began to feel what Murer was feeling. A giddy anticipation of triumph. The desire for revenge. Part of her vision began to slough away, and Maia could see through Murer’s eyes. Her stepsister was also walking in a camp of soldiers. It was night. The same moon hung in the sky.
And then Maia saw Collier’s tent, stiff and impassive. It was dark, and there were soldiers guarding it.
As she approached, one of the guards held out his hand. “The king is asleep,” he said gruffly in Dahomeyjan. “Begone, strumpet.”
Murer hit him with a blast of fear and desire, and the hand instantly dropped. He backed away, looking at her with astonished amazement. “Your . . . Your Majesty!” he whispered in shock. “I . . . I beg your pardon! I thought you were another camp follower!”
“He will wish to see me, I think,” Murer said with a seductive purr, in flawless Dahomeyjan. Maia could feel the heat radiating from her bones. Tongues of fire licked at her insides—fire that consumed and would never fail to burn.
“Yes, yes at once!” the guard said, holding open the tent flap. It was dark within, but Maia could just make out the familiar scene. She had been there herself, after all.
Yes, child, murmured Ereshkigal. All men submit to me. And you will watch it. This is my revenge on you as well.
“Maia!”
Firm hands grabbed her, and the vision shattered. She was back at her camp, crouched at the door of her pavilion. She had swooned, and Jon Tayt had caught her. The force of the hetaera’s thoughts thudded against her mind.
“Help me,” Maia whimpered, and Jon Tayt led her dazed into the tent. Suzenne was waiting in there, and her eyes grew huge with concern. But it was impossible for Maia to process what was going on around her. She felt the tears squeeze through her lashes as she trembled and shook. No, not Collier, no . . . please! Her heart burned and ached, and she wanted to scream out in rage and desperation.
“What is it?” Suzenne asked, rushing to her side. “She looks awful. What happened?”
Maia covered her face and started to weep.
Quickness is the essence of war. Strike where you are least expected. Overwhelm with terror and force. The resistance will shatter, and your enemies will flee. It is easier to destroy a man who is running away. It has been many years since the full force of the Naestors has been used. The kingdoms we have long enslaved will remember this Void for years to come. They will remember it, and they will fear us. I write these words from the Privy Council chambers in Comoros. We have destroyed the northern army. We are forcing Caspur’s army to retreat. From our station in Comoros, we will lead the assault into the hinterlands and destroy the young queen at Muirwood.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Defenders
It was midnight. Suzenne sat with Maia, a tome spread on the table before them, and she read from it softly, using the words to drive away the terrors of the night. Maia shuddered helplessly, feeling her enemies prowling around her, seeking to stave their way into her mind and crush her. The soothing words from the tome provided just enough sparks of light to keep the darkness at bay.
“You should sleep,” Jon Tayt said, offering her a cup of valerianum tea. Even though it was midnight, the camp was still noisy with crackling and snapping fires and the soft coughing and murmuring of the populace around them. The scent of smoke lingered in the air.
“I will,” Maia said, patting his hand. Her heart was heavy with the knowledge of what Murer was doing in Dahomey. With Suzenne’s help, she had been able to keep the evil from intruding on her thoughts again, which at least meant she would not have to witness the horrible scene herself. “You must get some sleep as well. I will need you tomorrow. You must teach people to cover our trail, to make it difficult to find us.”