The Blight of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  Whitsunday, he had whispered into her ear. A broken promise to a wretched.

  Ahead, through the screen of dead trees, she could see smoke rising from the boulder as if the fires from a year ago were still smoldering. The feeling was wrong. She held up her hand to Martin, alerting him that something was amiss, and he quietly clasped the hilt of his gladius and tethered the mule with one hand. All of the trees within a dozen paces of the Leering had been charred to ash, so only the budding greenery gave color to the place. The Leering, with the carved side facing east towards the sun, was no longer shaggy with moss.

  A smell hovered in the air – mixed with the aroma of charred oaks. The scent of man. Lia shuddered. All around her, she could feel them. The snuffling shadows that loped like wolves and stared at her – but could not be seen with the eye. The Myriad Ones were thick around her.

  Martin’s voice was flat and wary. “This grove is wicked now.”

  Lia stuffed the orb back into the pouch and withdrew her bow and nocked an arrow which she kept in place with her finger, as Martin had taught her so well. The air was full of sounds, of buzzing gnats and cawing ravens and the twitter of insects. There were no sounds from other people, but holding absolutely still, she could almost feel the muzzles of the Myriad Ones sniffing about her legs. Cautiously, patiently, she waited – watching the woods for the sign of movement, the sound of intruders. The feeling in the air clung like smoke to her skin. Biting her lip, she focused on the source of the feelings and realized, to her shock, that they were emanating from the Leering itself.

  One step closer. Two steps. She ducked around a tree, keeping low to the ground. A single quail flew overhead that might have made a tasty meal, but even the thought of food brought revulsion. Fear filled the blackened grove to the brim. Sickness and disease stalked the woods. As she came closer, even the plant-life began to alter. The charred trunks of the oaks were wreathed in vines with bronzed leaves of a shape Lia had not seen before. The leaves were moist and colorful, which was strange. She touched one gently and the oil stuck to her fingers.

  The mule brayed and Martin hushed it with an apple, his muscles taut as he continued to listen to the surroundings.

  Lia grimaced, feeling the oily wetness on her fingertips. “I have not seen this plant before,” she warned. Bringing her pack around, she withdrew her gloves and an empty pouch. With her short knife, she cut off a small segment of leaves and stuffed them in the pouch.

  “Let us depart, Lia. This is no place for the living. The dead linger here.”

  “No, something is wrong with the Leering,” Lia said. Carefully, she stepped through the tangled vines that tried to grope at her and entered the clearing surrounding the boulder. The vines grew everywhere and wrapped around the base of the boulder. Martin had never seen the depth of her potential with the Medium. If she could get close enough, she might be able to stop the rock from burning. The Aldermaston would want to know as much as possible since he could not travel beyond the Abbey borders.

  She crossed around to the side where her face was and stopped, fearful at what she saw. The Leering was alive, seething with power. The face had once been hers. Now it was unrecognizable as even human. The eye sockets blazed with red-hot heat, but the expression had been charred completely off. The entire face of the rock shimmered with waves of heat. She knew that if she tried to summon water from it, it would only come out as steam.

  The entire boulder was pitted with cracks, as if the stone were about to burst from the force of the Medium’s power.

  Is this my fault? she asked herself. In her memory, the power of the Medium had abandoned her after the fire had destroyed Almaguer and his men. She remembered it ending and feeling weightless. What was causing the Leering to behave in such a way?

  Martin’s voice was worried. “Lia, come away from that stone.”

  “I know what I am doing, Martin,” she said, trusting her willpower. The boulder was blackened, charred. Lia closed her eyes and reached out to it tentatively. At the Abbey, she could summon water from the Leering at the laundry. She could mix it with fire to warm it. She did not really understand how it worked, only that they responded to her thoughts, as Colvin had taught her.

  She quietly willed it to stop burning so she could touch it.

  It refused.

  Fear bloomed in her stomach. The Leering knew she was there. It defied her.

  Stop, she told it in her mind.

  “Lia, come away.” The mule brayed again.

  Again, it resisted her. A mewling sound filled her ears. The Myriad Ones crowded against her, drawn to the stone, to its powerful summons. They fed on the fear it exuded. Some hissed at her.

  Obey me, she thought fiercely, pushing her will against it.

  The rock groaned. The mewling turned into howling. A breeze blowing through the grove turned into a gust, then into a gale. Lia’s mass of hair whipped about her face along with tendrils of vines coiled around the boulder like little snakes. She held her thought firm. A sensation of illness wrenched through her, making her head spin and she nearly collapsed into the bed of oily leaves.

  She heard Martin shouting, but she could not hear his words through the blast of winds. Her thoughts focused. She could see in her mind the stone’s heat quenching. Another groan, another furious storm. Dead oak branches crashed to the forest floor, unable to cling to the trunks. A memory came to her mind.

  “The rains have plagued us enough. They will quit. Now.”

  As the memory of the Aldermaston’s words filled her mind, she mimicked the force of his will. Now, she told the Leering. You will stop now.

  It did, but grudgingly. The burning withdrew. The flames were tamped. But she could feel it hunkering deep inside the stone, diminished but not quenched. But that was enough for Lia. The rock cooled enough to touch it.

  When she did, an image came to her mind. Soldiers camping around the stone wearing blood-spattered armor and shivering. Not the sheriff – for it had happened during the winter months when snow covered much of the Bearden Muir. A man, devoid of speech and clutching a snail-shaped medallion, had touched the Leering and summoned the flames to warm them. He communed with it in his mind, for he could not speak and the Leering had told him who last had touched it. It had shown him her face. Lia’s stomach clenched and twisted, for she recognized the man and knew his name.

  * * *

  “A desire to be observed, considered, esteemed, praised, beloved, and admired by his fellows is one of the earliest as well as the keenest dispositions discovered in the heart of man. My advice to new learners is to squelch it all their days for those desires lead to ruin.”

  - Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Blight

  Lia stifled a sob of joy as they crossed the final ring of oaks and entered the grounds of Muirwood. Splotches of violently itching sores covered her face, hands, and legs and had plagued her the entire way back. Washing the plant’s oil from her hands did nothing to ease her suffering or prevent the poisonous sap from spreading to other parts of her body. As she and Martin wove through the treacherous marshland, the itching inflamed her hands and face and then spread further. Martin drove her hard, hardly stopping to rest, warning her to stop scratching, but she could not stop. The itch was maddening and unquenchable. They reached the Abbey a day earlier than expected. The sunset colored the sky a rich violet and the first stars began winking into view.

  Martin coughed to clear his hoarse throat. Their water had run out earlier that day. “I will find someone to stable the beast. You hurry to the Aldermaston, lass.”

  The air was warm with spring, and the Abbey seemed abuzz with life. Lia raised her hood to hide the blistering skin on her face and dug her nails into her ribs to keep from scratching her arms. Laughter bubbled from the yard by the cloister where the learners were gathered. She kept her head low and walked quickly, not even glancing at the kitchen until she had passed it and entered the ma
nor house from the rear. The housekeeper would be aghast that she had not brushed her boots before coming in, but she did not care. Was the poison killing her? Would it kill her?

  She grasped the handle of the Aldermaston’s study and yanked it open.

  “Lia?”

  It was the Aldermaston’s voice, but the sound came from behind her. Turning, she saw him approaching down the hall. When he finally saw her face, his eyes widened with shock. “Prestwich! Send for Siara Healer.”

  Her jaw hurt from clenching it for three days. The itching burned across her body. Its persistence nearly made her scream. She turned to look at the Aldermaston as he motioned her inside his study and shut the door.

  “Lower your hood.” She did and he examined her face without touching her. “Is it across all your flesh as well or just parts?”

  Lia bit her lip to keep from crying out. “It itches and it burns. My hands and arms. My legs too. It is…it is everywhere. It came from a plant. Martin does not know what it is. I cannot bear this itching! I brought some…to show you.” She fumbled with the pouch and set down her pack. With palsied fingers, she struggled to open it and withdrew a small cluster of leaves.

  The Aldermaston looked at it carefully but did not touch. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the Bearden Muir at the boulder with the Leering that had my face. The grove was choked with it. The Leering was burning – burning since winter.”

  “Burning?” he asked, his voice low and concerned. “With no one near it?”

  “Not a soul. But someone touched it in the winter. I saw it in my mind.”

  “Was the stone itself pocked? Was it discolored?”

  “Yes. The stone was sick. The Leering’s face was nearly burned all the way off. Only slits for eyes.”

  He looked shocked and concerned, and his expression sent chills through her. He was worried. He was deathly worried.

  “Am I going to die, Aldermaston?” she asked.

  “The Blight,” he whispered. Then seizing control of himself, he faced her. “Put that weed away, Lia. Kneel. Shut your eyes.”

  Lia obeyed and dropped to her knees and he placed his heavy hand on top of her head. The fiery itches made her tremble, but the weight of his hand brought a trickle of comfort. She felt the Medium strongly within him, a lake of power lapping at the banks. He was full of it – so full of its strength.

  “The poison is not mortal. I rebuke it within your body. Be comforted. Be still.” The itching flared up even worse, a spasm that made her gasp. The Aldermaston’s voice grew firmer. “Be comforted. Be at peace. I rebuke the poison. It will not afflict you.” The words no sooner left his mouth when the itching became even worse. Her skin burned as if afire. Tears came down her cheeks and she started to sob and tremble. She clenched her eyes, clenched her jaw again to quell it. His other hand came down on her head. “By Idumea’s Gift, be comforted. Be still. Be cleansed from this affliction.”

  A rushing sound filled her ears as the Medium jolted through his hands into her. The pain and itching vanished away, leaving her gasping for breath and weeping with relief. The feeling of well-being, safety, and comfort returned. Slowly, shakily, she drew in a fresh breath and was not tortured by it.

  Lia opened her eyes as the Aldermaston stepped away from her and noticed Martin in the doorway, his eyes wide with wonder. Her nose was running, and embarrassed, she covered it with her sleeve.

  Martin’s voice was thick with accent and emotion. “I warned you about the calling. I told you the work was too dangerous, by Cheshu!” His eyes glittered with anger. “How is she?”

  The Aldermaston walked slowly to his chair and settled in it wearily. He looked aged by the ordeal. “The poison will not kill her. Considering her penchant for dangerous circumstances, is it not wise to train her the best we can?” He looked to Lia. “Be wary not to burn the plant,” he said hoarsely. “The smoke can carry the oils into the air. It would be harmful to breathe those vapors. It has no roots, so bury it outside the Abbey grounds tomorrow. Touch it not, for even the stems are poisoned.”

  Martin shut the door and came inside. He went to help Lia stand, but the Aldermaston held out his hand.

  “Do not touch her, Martin. Her clothes are soiled with it. You may need to bury them as well if they cannot be cleansed at the laundry. Some strong soap. Wood ash lye should do, you can get it from the lavenders. Bathe everything, including yourself.”

  Martin hovered near her. His voice was low and tender. “I worried for you, lass. More so than I declared. That plant, Aldermaston. I have not seen its breed before. I have not seen it in any of the woods I have travelled. Not here or in Pry-Ree.”

  The Aldermaston massaged his temples, his eyes squeezed shut. “No, you would not have seen it before. It did not originate from this land.”

  Lia looked down at her hands. The rash and sores were still there, but they were no longer itching.

  As if reading her thoughts, the Aldermaston said, “Your body will heal now. In a few days, the remnant of the poison will be gone. Siara Healer can give you a salve to aid the blisters in healing.”

  “Is it the Blight then?” Lia asked. “This plant?”

  “No, the Blight is not a plant or a plague, but it can bring either. We will speak of it tomorrow. You are both wearied from your journey. Eat and rest and see me at first light. We had visitors while you were gone and expect more before Whitsunday this fortnight. The Queen Dowager is coming to Muirwood.”

  The Aldermaston and Martin exchanged a look – a look full of dread.

  * * *

  The smell of the salve was horrible and it stung Lia’s nose. Her body throbbed as if she had been trampled by a stallion and looked the part. She was grateful it was fully dark when she left the apothecary and started towards the kitchen, anxious for a crust of bread to sate her hunger and a place she could hide her face and rest. Pasty chalk-colored salve decorated her arms, legs, and face and she walked with her hood up to hide the white splotches from the few still wandering about. Whatever news the Aldermaston had, she wanted to hear it, especially if it involved the Queen Dowager – the woman whose husband Lia had killed with an arrow at Winterrowd.

  Smoke drifted from the bread ovens and Lia inhaled it. Her stomach was in knots with hunger. It was late, so Bryn was likely still with Sowe instead of back at the village with her family. Lia liked Bryn and was pleased the Aldermaston had chosen her to fill her place in the kitchen to help Pasqua. Usually that was something left to a younger wretched to learn, but the Aldermaston had chosen someone nearly their own age. It meant that Pasqua was likely bedded down and the crossbar in place.

  Lia scratched her neck, longing for a bath. Siara had given her some special salts to bathe with which would also help with the healing. Thoughts jumbled through her mind. If she had time the next day, she would seek out Duerden and ask what he knew about the Queen Dowager. She had avoided the learner lately because he was so enraptured with his studies about the Medium and wanted to boast to her what he was learning. He did not realize that she already knew it – that someone else had already taught her the basics he was struggling to comprehend. It was so frustrating having to keep secrets from him, to pretend she knew nothing about it. That the Medium obeyed her in ways he could not even imagine.

  As she approached the kitchen, she noticed the light in the upper windows were full, so she realized Sowe and Bryn were still awake. Exhaustedly, she pulled at the handle and it opened easily, filling her with the breath of baked bread, some roast in the spit, and fragrant cloves and spices. A man’s voice was telling a story – a voice she recognized instantly and it caused her stomach to drop down to her toes.

  It was Edmon’s voice. They had met at the battlefield of Winterrowd in Colvin’s tent. “…No, it is true! Do not laugh – it was the perfect depiction of stubbornness you could imagine. Picture this - the king’s council and there was Demont, red-faced and shouting…” He stopped suddenly, turning to the opening door.


  Lia stood for a moment in utter shock. Edmon, the Earl of Norris-York, was telling stories in the kitchen – her kitchen – as if that were completely normal. There was Pasqua, grinning and serving up a bowl of tarterelles. Sowe and Bryn were hanging on his every word, their eyes lit by the lantern light.

  Then she heard another voice as he emerged from the shadows beneath the loft. “Lia?”

  There was Colvin.

  It was too much. All eyes fastened to her standing in the doorway. Could they see her ravaged face in the shadows? She was completely overwhelmed. Colvin approached, wearing clothes elegant enough for a prince of the realm. His maston-sword was belted to his waist. She looked at his face as he approached, saw the little scar near his eyebrow and her blood began pounding inside her ears. Not tonight. Not like this! She was ashamed at her appearance, her muddy clothes, the rash and salve. She could not swallow. She could not breathe. She could not even think properly.

  “Lia?” Edmon asked, straightening and then smiling. “Lia! You returned early!”

  She slammed the door and started away, walking briskly then started to run, but she was so tired she only made it a few steps before walking again. The kitchen door opened and she heard his boots on the grass behind her. She was mortified beyond anything. This was worse than Reome’s teasing her about Duerden over and over. Worse than Getman’s contempt towards her and his grinning leers at Sowe. She kept walking as fast as she could, but he caught up with her before she made it around the corner of the kitchen into the shadows where the moon could not reveal her disfigurement.

  “Lia, wait!”

  His voice. She had starved to hear his voice again. For nearly a year, she had waited for him to return to Muirwood, to explain himself. To apologize. For weeks after Whitsunday, she had prepared little speeches in her mind. Not a single word from any of them came to her.