by Jeff Wheeler
Lia stared in his eyes, saw the intensity there – the deliberateness. How many other knight-mastons had he waylaid?
She reached up and put her thumb on the back of his hand and her fingers around the edge of his palm. With a quick twist and jerk, she yanked his arm around and brought him to his knees with a howl of pain. She bent the wrist backwards, driving him into the tile. She flexed the wrist harder, making him yelp.
“I serve the Aldermaston of Muirwood,” she said tightly. “If any of your people try and stop me, I pity them.”
“I am an Aldermaston!” he quailed, his voice throbbing with pain. “I will invoke the Medium to destroy you!”
There was nothing in the air, not even the faint murmur of the wind.
“By all means try,” she replied, waiting a moment for anything to happen. When nothing did, she shoved him away from her. The older maston was returning with a fresh cup of cider, his eyes popping in shock to see his master handled thus. But he did not approach her.
Lia turned and walked back out the door, flinging it open as she walked. The Aldermaston let out a rush of commands.
“Give me that! You fool! Summon my guards! Do not let her escape. The Earl of Dieyre said he would pay handsomely for her. Get her! Get her!”
Lia ran down the huge corridor, her heart pounding, her stomach thrilling. She reached the doors and yanked them open as the sound of clattering steps echoed throughout the vast maze. The door servants were there, holding the black polished staves. They turned and crossed them, barring her way.
She stomped on one’s foot and wrenched the staff out of his hands and dropped him with a single blow. The other man looked stunned as she whirled the staff around. He deflected it but she switched ends and jabbed the rounded end into his throat. He clutched his neck, dropping his staff with a loud clattering noise and Lia braced herself on the steps. She saw the wretcheds gathering around, the gardeners with spades and pruners with shears, others with brooms and rakes and young girls with polishing rags and tubs of wax. She understood it now – that the Aldermaston of Augustin did not want to see his wretcheds working, so he made them work at night. They labored and toiled so that during the daylight, he would not be bothered with looking at them. Reaching into the pouch at her waist, she withdrew the Cruciger orb and summoned its blinding light. It enveloped her like a blazing sun.
“The Blight is truly coming!” she shouted. “It strikes by Twelfth Night! Flee to Muirwood for safety. Flee this place before it comes!”
In her mind, she willed the orb to work, to guide her to a safe road where she could escape into the woods. That was her domain, her place of strength where her skills would outmatch any of theirs. The light of it was dazzling, so bright it made her wince. The spindles spun and then pointed a clear path towards a giant hedge maze.
CHAPTER TEN:
Doviur Caves
The smells and sounds of the woods were comforting, familiar, and haunting with memories. The scent of pine was strong in the air and Lia’s rushed pace prevented her from being cold. She walked with her hood down, listening for any sound that would betray an enemy. She had walked for a league at least and her feet were tired and sore, but she had endured worst before and knew her strength would last. She had to reach the port of Doviur by morning, and she decided to walk until she could smell the salty air before stopping and resting. The orb guided her, pointing the way through the tangle of trees, stumps, and fallen trunks.
A memory from the Bearden Muir flitted through her mind as she traversed the woods. She remembered the feeling of her filthy dress clinging to her skin, the grit buried underneath each fingernail, her hair a tangled mess. Those were details, but the bud of the memory was Colvin first teaching her how the Medium worked. It was the revelation that all actions in the world originated from the seeds of thought, deliberately sown and nurtured, and then the Medium maneuvered events to bring them to pass. His desire to join Garen Demont’s forces at Winterrowd had brought him Muirwood Abbey and laid him in the care of Lia as a wounded stranger. She recognized, a bit ironically, that his desire to find Ellowyn Demont had unwittingly been fulfilled as well.
It was her turn now to focus her thoughts on reaching him. The desire to find a ship to Dahomey consumed her. She had to hurry for something was going to happen if she did not. The Blight would start at Dochte Abbey and more than anything else, she wanted to protect him from it. She worried about him, so far away. What was he doing at that moment? Asleep and dreaming? What were his dreams? Was he awake at that moment, staring out some window at a night sky, sharing the scene of the moon high above that painted everything silver? Or was he in a dungeon as Marciana suggested, cold and miserable and terrified of the dark confined space.
Meeting the Aldermaston of Augustin had shoved her inside a new cauldron of worries. She could still see the naked ambition in his eyes, his craving to inherit Muirwood. So much of what he had said was utter nonsense. She had worked closely with the Aldermaston and had never seen even the remotest shadow of opulence that she had witnessed in Augustin. Instinctively, she realized the Queen Dowager’s hand. Augustin was subverted by the hetaera. Some of his words had brought thoughts to her mind, memories of the past. She recalled the sheriff, Almaguer, and his threats to destroy the Aldermaston. It was as if he had known that a change in leadership would happen and was looking forward to it. She shuddered to think of what life at Muirwood would have become under the direction of someone like the Aldermaston of Augustin. Had he not said that the price of cider had tripled in three years? Another memory nagged at her – it was the Queen Dowager’s age. She had been fifteen when she married the old king and come from Dahomey. Three years ago. The webs of spider thread were nearly invisible, but Lia could make them out. Subtle – calculating – coldblooded. She had not succeeded at first in toppling the most ancient Abbey in the realm. But Lia could tell clearly it was her aim.
A fresh breeze brought the telltale musk of seawater. Lia looked up, inhaling the smell. She withdrew the orb again and summoned its power, asking it to find her shelter where she might sleep safely until dawn. She needed a cave, a warren, fallen tree – something that would hide her from sight and allow her a chance to rest before searching for a ship at Doviur. The orb responded to her need, the spindles pointing clearly towards the seashore.
Lia followed the trail it offered, weaving through the last vestiges of forest until it opened into a sweeping range of lush hills. In the distance, she could hear the foam and churning of the surf as the ocean collided with it. The sky was ablaze with myriads of stars and a moon as bright as a torch. The air was cooler and she tugged her cloak around her throat to fend off the chill. She descended the hill, seeing the flat slate of sea in the distance, the moonlight rippling off the crests. The land pitched down lower and she slowed her walk, glancing at the orb to guide her to a safe path. The hill ended abruptly, revealing a jagged cliff down to the thrashing surf below. The orb guided her to a small, steep path down the edge of the rocks. There was enough light to see, but her heart spasmed with worry and she moved stealthily down the edge. The cliffs were made of chalk and flint and crushed easily against her hand and boots. Noises from the ocean echoed off the slabs of stone, filling her with the apprehension of falling. Partway down the hillside, she noticed the giant maw of a cave – black against the silvery cliff. She stumbled slightly in the wet grass and went down but skidded to a halt, her heart thudding in her throat. Carefully she scooted down the hillside towards the exposed cave. The Cruciger orb affirmed it was her destination. The ocean reached the mouth of it on one side, rushing in, swirling, slinking back. A large moss-covered boulder was mired in the thick grassy growth higher up. It was singular seeing the massive boulder there, apart from the cave, apart from the rock. As she approached, she felt the Medium emanating from it and realized, with fascination, that there was a Leering carved into the rock, hidden by the moss.
The ground leveled out in front of her and she approached the hidden g
len quickly. The boulder was taller than her, rounded on one side and flat on the other. Cautiously, she lifted her hand and touched it. To her relief, it was pure – untainted by the Blight. In her mind, through her Gift of Seering, she could see other mastons who had used the cave for shelter. The Leering had been there for hundreds of years, protecting the entrance to the cave which water had hollowed out. Using her thoughts and will, she activated the Leering’s protection and set it to guard the entrance by frightening away anyone who wandered nearby. In her blood, she felt the Medium churn awake and the cave emptied of seawater. The Leering repelled the salty water as it did intruders and she noticed the entrance dry out. The waves crashed further away, against the cliffside instead of at the breach. She was grateful to the Leering and thanked it in her mind before stepping off the grassy hill and into the sand and pebbles of the wash.
Using the orb for light, she entered the cave and found a spot of dry sand where she stretched out after removing her rucksack and bow and settled down with her cloak as a blanket. She set the orb in the sand and summoned fire into it, using its glowing surface to warm her hands and body. Weariness engulfed her and she lay her head down, banishing the light from the orb with a thought and felt the darkness shroud her. She could not see, not even her hands before her face, but she could hear the murmur of the sea foam. In the darkness, she thought of Colvin.
Her memories flitted this way and that, like little butterflies scattering over a well-known patch of sunny grass. The first journey was through the mist to the cave where Maderos lived, a spot where the boulders floated in the air, suspended by the Medium’s power, where she had helped him find shelter from the sheriff of Mendenhall. She remembered next crouching over his body as Almaguer’s men had kicked him and abused him. In her mind, she saw Colvin as she walked away from the fire consuming a stand of oak trees after summoning it to destroy the evil men. He had caught her and carried her to a safe place where she slept. She remembered the promise of meeting again at Whitsunday, a whispered promise that he had not fulfilled because of his duty to find and protect Ellowyn Demont. She sighed deeply, jealous of the year the two had spent together, and jealous now of the time they were together in Dahomey.
Colvin had returned at last, surprising her one night in the kitchen. She squirmed at the memory of shouting at him, itching and healing from a poisonous sap that had stained her. Another memory – despite the dirt, the tattered hunters garb, the spots of mud and grime, he had let her hold his hands to warm and comfort him in a cave beneath the Muirwood grounds. She savored the memory, the intimacy of the moment. But not as much as she savored another cave, made of ash and charred wood – high in the mountains of Pry-Ree. She would never forget that dark frigid night, huddled together in the husk of a fallen tree so huge its roots had forged a cave. It was a moment she would always remember – the night he had finally confessed his love.
Closing her eyes, she reached out to him with her thoughts. Colvin?
He was so far away, in another country, in an Abbey that could no longer be reached by the Apse Veil. If the Medium could connect worlds, could it not bridge such a distance?
There was nothing in reply. No flicker of thought or awareness other than her own. Her heart twisted with pain at being away from him. She would have given all she possessed to find a way to be with him at that moment. It was a desperate yearning, a craving so strong it stung her eyes with tears. In the quiet of the cave, it felt as if she were all alone in the world.
Lia shifted in the sand, sitting up and feeling her emotions swell inside her. The weight of it came crashing down on her. What if they failed? What if she failed? What was she supposed to do at Dochte Abbey? Warn them that the Blight was coming? But would they listen to her as a wretched and not Ellowyn, who had the appearance of a lady of rank? In her mind, she had clung to a secret wish that after rescuing Colvin and Ellowyn, they would return to Muirwood and ask the Aldermaston to marry them and bind that marriage with an irrevocare sigil before the end came. The binding would last forever and Colvin would be hers. That is what she wanted, even more than learning to read and engrave.
The doubts began to play with her then. The sneaking doubts that poked at her, jabbed her with icy fingers.
What if Colvin changed his mind? What if Pareigis won and managed to turn over Muirwood to the Aldermaston of Augustin before she returned? What if there were no Abbeys left by the time she and Colvin met?
Her heart raced. Her blood pounded in her ears. She had not known who she truly was when he had left her. He had been in love with her for most of his life – at least in love with the idea of her. She would be sixteen. He was twenty. In her mind, she had imagined there being time to marry. If not Muirwood, then Tintern surely. The Aldermaston in Pry-Ree knew her true identity. Would he perform the binding ceremony? But what if the Queen Dowager learned of Tintern’s existence? What if there were no Abbeys left in the world?
Lia squeezed her hands together, pushing another thought into the aether. Colvin, can you hear me? Colvin, my love, can you hear my thoughts? I am Ellowyn Demont. Please hear me – I am she. I am coming, my love. I am coming for you.
She paused, holding her breath – listening to her thoughts, her insights, her connection and strength with the Medium.
She heard nothing save the crashing of the waves.
* * *
Lia abandoned the shelter at dawn. She used the Leering at the mouth of the cave to summon water to drink and bathe in. Her hair was an impossible mess, but she held it up and let the water splash on her neck and then soak her hair. Long ago, Colvin had held up her hair while she bathed. The memory made it difficult to think. She wiped the soot from her face, cleansed the ash from her hair and brought fire to summoning, enough to make the water steam. A seagull looped in the sky above her, as if curious about the human invading its cliffs.
Lia squeezed the water from her hair, arranged her cloak and rucksack. She found some bread that Pasqua had packed and ate it hungrily along with strips of cool beef and broke off some cheese from the small slab. In her rucksack, she saw the bundle she had packed and opened it quickly, staring at the apple she was saving for Colvin. She stared at it, studying the splotches on the skin and then held it to her nose and smelled it. There was the scent, the reminder of Muirwood. Her thoughts turned to the Cider Orchard, at the trees which produced the fruit she held in her hand. Somehow the Queen Dowager was claiming Muirwood through its fruit. The price of cider had tripled. Perhaps she was arranging that – buying up all the casks after it left the grounds. She had come to Muirwood for Whitsunday and had offered free cider to those who had been allowed to dance around the maypole. The Aldermaston of Augustin had been drinking the cider. It was the drink that Marciana was offered in the tower in Lambeth.
In her mind, the pieces clove together making a whole. The Queen Dowager was corrupting the kingdom through Muirwood’s cider. Was there a poison she was adding to it which enabled her to control the minds of others? Such a harmless thing, a cup of cider, an innocent thing. But what if it was being twisted to serve her purposes?
The Medium whispered to her as she stared at the Leering. Yes, there were poisons. Dahomey was the land of poisons and serpents and subtlety. In her mind, she saw a symbol – two intertwining serpents forming a circle. She had seen it before, in her mind, when Kieran Ven had shared with her when the Blight would strike. In the deepest reaches of her thoughts, she realized that the symbol was connected to the coming of the Blight.
Just as clearly, she realized that she was going to where that symbol would be found.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
The Cider Orchard
The middle of an orchard of apple trees was a peculiar place to hold a meeting, but Martin did as he was told and patrolled the edges of it, alert for signs of intruders, while the Prince and the Aldermaston inspected the fruit and conferred quietly together. A few awkward learners had ventured towards the rows of trees to spy, but Martin waved them on with a gro
wl in his voice and a curt nod to move on. After making the rounds twice, he ventured back into the trees and easily found them.
The look on the Aldermaston’s face alarmed Martin. He had a chalky pallor, his eyes intense on the Prince’s face. As Martin approached, the Aldermaston gave him a look full of daggers, his teeth baring into a hiss. “We are not finished speaking,” he said tightly, unable to control his anger at the interruption.
“It is all right,” the Prince said. “I wish him to know.”
“But I do not wish it,” the Aldermaston replied stiffly. His face was warped with angles and wrinkles, with an expression of emotions flashing hot and cool across his brow. “I have never encountered someone so Gifted in the Medium. If what you say is true…”
The Prince gave him an arch look, then a twisted smile. “If? You doubt already? That does not bode well for me, Aldermaston.”
He clenched his jaw and his fists. “I am reeling from what you have told me. The preciseness of your visions. The way you describe events that have not occurred as though they were in the past. I am unfamiliar with the Gift of Seering. I do not mean that I doubt your word.”
The Prince approached a thin tree and rubbed his hand along the bark. He stared from the base and up the trunk to the first crown of limbs. “My grandfather had this Gift. My own father did not or else he would not have plummeted to his death from Pent Tower. I cannot imagine choosing that fate.”
“But to know of your own death…beforehand. How have you endured it?”
The Prince stared at the bark closely, his fingers slowly stroking it. “The same way you will learn to,” he answered softly. “It is a burden to know the future. And a blessing. Look at this tree, Aldermaston. The fruit is nearly ripe. Soon you will harvest it. You have that knowledge because you have seen it before. The ripening and the harvest is a familiar experience. So it is with the future.” His voice grew husky. “This grove will be a place dear to her heart.” He winced saying the words and Martin caught the glint of an unshed tear in his eye, invisible to the Aldermaston.
