Jon Tayt scratched the back of his neck. “We’re leaving marks a blind man could follow,” he said with disgust. “I will do my best.”
The chair the hunter sat on creaked as he rose and then shuffled from the tent.
Suzenne paused from reading the tome, her eyes red and shadowed. Their fingers entwined, and Maia squeezed firmly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You helped me get through the worst of it. At least I hope that was the worst of it.” She stared down at the gleaming aurichalcum page and traced one finger across the engravings. “I cannot help but think that the men and women who carved these tomes must have faced the same impossible situations and heartaches we do. And these very words helped them endure it.”
Suzenne nodded and stroked Maia’s arm. “To endure suffering patiently. It is no easy thing.”
Staring into her friend’s sad eyes, Maia said, “Do you fear the worst about Dodd?”
“That he is dead?”
“No . . . that he betrayed you.”
Suzenne’s lips tightened into a small frown. “I do not believe he is dead. I think I would know that, somehow. But do I think he succumbed? At first I could not bear the thought. But . . . I see now that it is possible. A kystrel is so powerful. You know that for yourself. The maston test warns us to beware them. If he did, I am sure he feels . . . racked with shame and guilt. He may be afraid to come to me. To face me with that stain.” She sighed and looked down. “But I love him, Maia, and I fear what it will do to my heart to learn the truth. It is a difficult burden. Each day I have not heard from him is a dagger in my breast. I long to see him again. To forgive him if he is contrite. I hope he is not wounded, languishing somewhere all alone.”
Maia squeezed harder, trying to communicate comfort through her touch. She had to believe the same about Collier. When she had approached his tent those many months ago, he had been expecting her to be a hetaera and to use her kystrel against him. He had seemed to relish the notion, in fact. But his shaming of Murer and Muirwood came at a cost. The girl would be revenged on him. The notion made Maia sick inside. The fact Murer was only now traveling to Dahomey told her something else—her stepsister was not a full hetaera . . . yet.
There was a rustle from the tent wall, and the kishion slipped inside. In his presence, the small comfort she had derived from the tome faded. When Suzenne saw him, she grew pale with fear and the tendons in her hands stiffened.
The kishion looked from the two of them to the tome, and a smirk hovered on his mouth. He looked restless, full of energy. She had not seen him throughout the journey, but she had sensed he was there, lurking in the shadows. Always just out of sight. Always watching her.
“Out,” he said dismissively to Suzenne.
She did not move, her eyes staring into his cold ones with fear and resolve.
“I wish her to stay,” Maia said softly, firmly, keeping her grip on Suzenne’s hands.
“If you wish her to hear what I have to tell you, so be it,” he replied with a scowl. “It matters not.”
“Say what you must,” Maia sighed, forcing herself to be patient. She stared up at him, feeling the mood in the tent shift. He looked edgy and nervous. He kept glancing back at the tent door as if he expected soldiers to come rushing in.
“We should go. Tonight,” he said to her.
“Where?” she demanded. “To Muirwood?”
He snorted with laughter. “Do you really think an abbey will save you? Of course you do, look at that tome.” He scrubbed his gloved hand through his mass of hair, as if trying to scratch a violent itch. “The end is nigh, Maia. The Naestors are almost here, and they did not leave their victory to chance. They will not stop until you are dead and your people are murdered. I know you cannot abide this thought. That you cannot dwell on the fact that so many will be slain in cold blood. But believe me, I know these people. I am a Naestor.”