Serve me, and she lives. Serve me, and I spare her.
Maia saw the glimmer of moonlight through the veil of curtains. But she already knew the truth. She already knew her mother would die.
I serve the Medium’s will.
As Maia bowed her head, the furnace door slammed shut against her mind. Blackness. Isolation. Gibbering terror.
You chose foolishly, the voice smirked.
And suddenly, in the midst of the impenetrable darkness, there was a prick of light and a voice. A woman’s voice. Her mother’s voice.
“You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart.”
The prick of light widened, growing brighter and brighter. A groan of pain wrenched from Maia’s lips. She heard another voice, spewing Dahomeyjan. It was her own voice, and the most vile curses blasted from her lips.
Patiently. Calmly. The voice repeated, “You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart.”
Maia shuddered with violent tremors. She felt something jar loose inside her. It was her soul. She was going to die. The pain was horrible. White light blinded her, as if every Leering in the garden had conjured the sun. She was going to vomit. She was going to explode.
In the light, Maia saw someone, but the light was painful to look at. The voice was her mother’s, but the face was not.
“You are Ereshkigal, the Unborn. You will depart!”
The shredding feeling of her soul being ripped out eased, the force of it such that Maia collapsed on the rug, panting. She blinked, still blind, and breathed deeply. The air was unburdening. She took another huge swallow of air and suddenly her chest heaved and she sobbed. The feelings of taint and blackness were gone. The creature’s grip on her mind had finally been broken.
She felt arms wrap around her. “I am here, Maia. I am here.”
Maia could not see through her tears. She looked up and felt a thumb wipe away the moisture from her cheek. “Mother?” she whispered faintly.
“No, Maia. I am your grandmother.” The woman cupped Maia’s face between her palms and stared at her with blue-green eyes the same color as her own. The woman was slight and her wrinkled skin showed her age, but she looked so much like Maia’s mother it was startling. “I am Sabine Demont, High Seer of Pry-Ree.” She smiled with such warmth and love that Maia began to choke again on her tears. Her language switched to Pry-rian. “You are my lost one. My little girl. The Medium forbade me to see you until now. Until you made your choice. I have been holding vigil these last three days to summon enough strength to drive the spirit of Ereshkigal out of you. She is the Queen of the Myriad Ones, and she seeks revenge against our Family. You are my granddaughter.” Tears trickled down the wizened cheeks framed by crinkled gray-gold hair. Then she turned, gazing up at Walraven. “I told you, did I not? I told you she would not falter.”
Walraven’s expression had completely transformed. He came and knelt down by Maia, his face twisting with grief. “I am and always will be your most humble servant, Lady Maia,” he whispered hoarsely. He put his hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Forgive my many deceptions. I have secretly served the mastons since I met your grandmother in Muirwood Abbey. I am a traitor to the Victus, but hopefully my treachery has saved lives. Including yours.” He smiled wanly and then stood and addressed Sabine. “Lady Demont, you must flee Naess. The Dochte Mandar will kill you . . . they are already planning it. I have a ship waiting at the dock. You know the straits are heavily guarded, but I believe you may slip away . . .”
Maia’s grandmother stood and shook her head. “That would compromise you further, dear friend. There is no need; I have made other arrangements.” She looked down at the prostrate Corriveaux. “He will sleep under the Medium’s weight for a while. You must pretend to have been overcome by it as well. Your friendship is still needed. So is your loyalty. Thank you for all you have done.”
Walraven looked concerned. “Lady Demont, how will you escape?”
She smiled and tugged open a pouch hanging from her simple girdle. She plunged her hand inside and withdrew a glimmering golden orb that was the most intricate thing Maia had ever seen. It had strange golden stays and a middle that whirred and spun.
“The Cruciger orb!” Maia gasped, recognizing what it was from the legends she had read.
“But the island . . . the armada,” Walraven said, shaking his head.
“My ship is waiting for us,” she said, touching his arm and patting it patiently. “We will take the Holk to Muirwood, as agreed. Maia will be safe there. You must give us time, Chancellor. You must stall the armada from striking Assinica. Maia is not yet ready to take the maston test. She needs time.” She looked down at the orb. Maia stared at the determination and emotion in her grandmother’s eyes.
“Find Jon Tayt Evnissyen,” Sabine said.
The spindles began to whirl.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE