by Jeff Wheeler
“I know who is going to ask you to dance at the Whitsun Fair,” she said.
Curse her, Lia thought blackly. “Hmmm?” She pretended not to care, but her stomach started to churn.
Reome’s basket rested against her hip. “Everyone knows. The boring one. The one who is always reading, yet never misses the chance to bid a girl hello. Neesha says that he walks around the cloister, greeting only the girls. Never the boys. But he greets us too, even the wretcheds. His shirt is in your basket. Did he ask you to wash it for him? Will he pay you, or are you doing it to be nice?”
Lia wiped her forehead, trying to think quickly. Reome was teasing her about Duerden, one of the first-year learners. He was small for his age, in height and look he appeared to be about ten, instead of thirteen. He was the nicest young man at the Abbey – the most thoughtful and friendly, treating everyone the same way, both wretched, teacher, and other learners. Lia liked him because he explained to her what words really meant. He would not teach her to read or engrave, of course, but he did not mind sharing knowledge with others.
“I would gladly dance with anyone who asks me,” Lia said with a yawn. “Duerden is generous. I should not be ashamed to dance with a learner.” She secretly hoped that Reome would not pull out the shirt, for she would learn very quickly that it was too large for the one she suspected to be its owner.
“Yes, but he is a boy. A very small boy. It makes me laugh. The two of you. He, in his noble shortness, standing near you, all stick and height. You are too tall, Lia. Boys do not like girls who are taller than them. Are you as tall as the Aldermaston yet? I should think so.”
Lia wrung out the dress again and scrubbed a little harder. “If you know a good cure for being tall, I am glad to hear it.”
“Since you are so tall, maybe one or two of the older boys will take pity on you. But they do not care to dance. The teachers force them to ask us. You could pass for sixteen if you were not so skinny. Does Pasqua feed you Gooseberry Fool every night? It must be hideous working for her.”
“Pasqua is very patient with me.” Please go away, Reome. You are finished. Just go!
“She scolds whenever she opens her mouth, which I do not need to say is often enough. Has she prepared you to dance at the maypole this year? Or has she been too busy plotting what to sell to teach you anything else?”
“I already know the maypole dance, Reome,” Lia said, bristling, squeezing the water from her dress and wishing she was back in the kitchen.
“Really? Who taught you? Have you learned watching it while selling cakes? Did graceful Pasqua take your hand and teach you? I should love to see that.”
Lia looked over her shoulder. She was furious inside. It was like being pecked at by a crow. Reome had a gift for making people feel clumsy and foolish. Lia did not say that Jon Hunter taught her the maypole dance when she was ten. Or that he had also taught her to string his bow and hit apples from targets in the orchard. Or that she could make Gooseberry Fool every bit as well as Pasqua could.
“Who taught you the maypole dance?” Lia asked, trying to divert the conversation.
Reome hugged the basket to her stomach. “Before Getmin was learning to be a smith, there was a boy. He is a smith in the village now. He taught me the dance.” There was something in her look, some memory that she savored like treacle sugar. Then the sweetness was gone and she gave Lia a naughty look. “Since you said you would dance with anyone, shall I ask Getmin to dance with you?”
It was a question meant to provoke her even more, for the whole abbey knew how much she and Getmin hated each other.
“You had better not. I do not believe he has forgiven me for not being afraid of him.” In her heart she thought, And I will never forgive him for how he bullies everyone.
Reome started to leave, but stopped again. She reached into her basket and plopped a bunch of purple mint into Lia’s. “You smell strange. Like cardamom or vinegar mixed with smoke. Fold this with the shirt before you dry it, or hang it while you dry it. He may thank you for it. You may or may not want him to.” A sly smile followed, and then she left into the rain.
After Reome was gone and Lia was alone, she reached in and withdrew the fragrant, purple flowers. She would have to warn Duerden in case Reome teased him. That meant she would need to tell another lie before the day was through. For a moment of embarrassed, frustrating rage, she nearly crumpled the flowers in her fist and cast them away. Instead, she placed them gently at the bottom of the basket and took her washed gown to the Leering.
Leering stones could do many things, depending on how they were carved. The ones in the kitchen summoned fire from their mouths. This one by the laundry could summon water while others summoned light. Though they were carved differently – some with faces of lions or horses, men or women, even suns or moons – they all had faces and expressions. Some ferocious, others timid. Some were meek, joyful, or tormented – each showed an emotion.
She looked into the Leering’s eyes, into the curiously bland expression carved into a woman’s face in the stone. She never used them unless she was totally alone or with Sowe. Only learners or mastons could use the Medium to invoke their power. Staring at the eyes, she reached out to it with her mind. The eyes of the Leering flared red and water began gushing from its mouth. The water was scalding hot and steam rose up from the laundry like morning fog in the spring. It burned her hands as she scrubbed, but it cleaned the filthy clothes better and faster than the cold, sour-smelling water.
Only mastons and some learners could coax the Leerings of the abbey to obey them.
And Lia.
CHAPTER SIX:
Leering Stones
“Maybe that sore belly will remind you to think better next time,” Pasqua said in her most scolding tone.
Sowe bowed her head to hide her blushing. “Yes, Pasqua,” she whispered.
“Drink another cup of valerianum tea, and you will feel better tomorrow.” Smugly, the cook cleaned her hands on the apron while looking around the preparation table. “Lia, grind some fresh nutmeg before you lay down. In the morning, make some topping with oats, treacle, sugar, and butter for the Aldermaston. I wish it were the season for apples, but we have some other fruit so we will use what we have.”
“Yes, Pasqua,” Lia said with an exaggerated yawn.
“You should very well be tired. I hope you both learn to be wiser, or the Aldermaston will make you wait another year to let you dance around the maypole.” She paused, glancing around the kitchen once more as if she’d forgotten a ladle or something. “Secure the door when I am gone. Now, Lia. No dawdling.”
After snatching her cloak from the peg near the door, Pasqua went into the gloomy darkness and the door thumped shut.
Lia dusted her hands and drew the crossbar in place and turned back to Sowe. “Complain if you must, but it did work.”
The squire’s voice ghosted from the loft. “Will she return?”
“Not tonight. She was fidgeting to use the garderobe again, so she will not walk back through the mud unless she sees the kitchen on fire.”
“Where is my shirt?”
Lia walked to the basket beneath the loft poles and touched it. “Still damp. I could not dry it in front of Pasqua, but I can dry it now. It will not take long by the fire. Come down, if you can manage it.” A thin cord was already stretched taut on the corner wall by the bread oven, the wooden pins still fastened there. The dresses she had washed earlier were already dried and folded, so she withdrew and unfolded the shirt, taking aside the sprig of purple mint in the basket, and fastened both to the line. She stared at the Leering carved into the wall at the rear of the oven. The walls were caked with soot and smoke, the visage black, the mouth twisted open like a scream of pain. She stared into its eyes, waking it with a thought. The eyes blazed orange and fire engulfed the oven from the Leering’s mouth. The heat singed her cheeks, making her smile with satisfaction. With the Leering, it did not need wood to burn.
“What are you d
oing?” Sowe whispered after rushing over. She looked over her shoulder at the squire climbing down the ladder. “You never do that in front of people. Lia, he will see it!”
“And who is he going to tell?” Lia asked smugly. She ducked around the shirt and straightened the fabric.
He reached the bottom and stared at them both, his face twitching with anger. “How did you start a fire so quickly?”
She ignored the question but saw that he had noticed the bright flames. “It will dry your shirt faster,” Lia said, but he walked past her and planted his hand on the stone above the fireplace, looking at it then at her, then back at it again. The flames went out with a whoosh, the Leering tamed.
“Do it again,” he ordered. He had a look on his face, a mixture of fear and anger.
She scratched the side of her neck, stared into the tortured eyes, and the flames flared up, even hotter this time. With a thought, she made them hot enough that he had to retreat or be burned. His chaen shirt glimmered in the firelight. As his eyes were locked on hers, the flames went out again.
His gaze wandered down to her neck. “You wear a charm on your string. Let me see it.”
She had worn the gold ring around her neck since the stormy night long ago. “It is just a trinket. Why?”
“Let me see it.”
She pulled the ring from her bodice and let it hang in front of her gown. He squinted at it, his face filled with a terrible look. The blood was black against his eyebrow, the bandage askew. For a moment, a fish of fear wriggled inside her, and she thought he might try to snatch the ring from her.
“May I handle it?” he asked.
“I never take it off,” she replied. “But you can see it.” She held it up so that the firelight played off its smooth edge. Sowe gulped, her eyes wide with nervousness.
The squire reached out tentatively, cocking his head as he examined it. “Just a ring? A gold band?”
She slid it on and off her small finger to demonstrate, then let it dangle. With a little thought, without the Leering in her direct sight, the fire flared up again and he jumped, startled.
“How long have you practiced taming the Medium?” he asked her, turning around and staring into the flames.
“Now and then. It is not difficult for me.”
He turned back and looked at her, his eyes blazing. “Many third year learners cannot control it so effortlessly!”
“It is not my fault that they have trouble. I have told the Aldermaston that I want to be a learner, but he swears he will never let me.”
“But how did you…I mean, how did you learn if no one…if you were not instructed? How can you do it?”
Lia shrugged and went over to the cook’s table, the only heavy table in the kitchen. The others were trestle tables that could be cleared away easily and stacked. She dragged over the pestle and a stone bowl. “I saw the Aldermaston do it once one winter when I was little. So we could warm our hands when we were cold.”
“You saw him do it once?”
Lia shrugged again. “Once.” She had also seen him calm a storm, but did not mention that.
The flames were gold and orange and waves of heat came from the oven, making the shirt rustle. Sowe quietly padded over and opened a crock and withdrew two nutmeg seeds, as large as walnuts. “I’ll crush them,” she said in a small voice.
Lia smiled at her then turned around to face the squire. “You need a new bandage then. Now sit on the stool near the fire. I will get some warm water.”
He obeyed and sat on the stool while she fetched the kettle and some linen cloths to clean the wound. Standing over him, she untied the knot of the bandage and gently peeled it away from the crusty skin. He winced once, but remained still, though his jaw muscles clenched.
“You seemed surprised that it was only a ring. Why?” Lia asked.
“Not surprised really. Perhaps the ring was left with you when you were abandoned here.”
“Then why did you wish to see it?”
“You are too curious, girl.”
“Life is curious, is it not? I like to ask questions. Now give me an answer. Why should it alarm you that I can use the Medium? Not because it is difficult. You were frightened that I could do it.”
“Because there are only two ways to affect the Medium. One way is through inheritance and learning about your potential and letting it work through you. The other way…forces it – controls it. I wanted to be sure you were not doing the latter. Those who were not born into the power wear a medallion to force it to obey.”
“What does the medallion look like? The one you fear?”
“I do not fear it. I am wary of it as I have trained to be. Any way I could describe it to you would not be suitable, but I have seen its likeness. It resembles a braided rope – flat though, like leaves or the sashes on a maypole woven together into a circle.”
“I see – so it does not look like a wedding band. Since you do not fear them, what if I had been wearing one?”
“I would have ripped it from your neck instantly.” He looked up at her, his eyes deadly earnest. “With it, you may have sought to control me.”
She pinched the ring between her fingers and looked at it again. “Then we are both grateful it is only a plain ring. You would not have enjoyed me scratching your face and leaving more scars.”
Sowe coughed over at the table and dropped the mortar with a thud.
Lia pretended she did not care and continued to clean his wound. “You said most second or third year learners cannot summon fire,” she said, dabbing his eyebrow with a soaked piece of linen. “When did you first do it?”
“By my first year,” he answered.
“Why are you so surprised that I can? As I told you, I saw the Aldermaston do it.”
“I could do it because my father had taught me for years before I even went to the abbey in my Hundred to learn. My Family is strong in the Medium. That is important. As with his father and his father before him, he started teaching me as a small boy. I have used the Medium before I became an armiger.”
“What is an armiger?”
He closed his eyes, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “I bear the arms of the knight-maston I serve.”
She sensed his discomfort and wondered at it. “I see. Since I cannot study the tomes, I like using Leering stones when no one is around to practice. They do so many different things.” The scab was softened by the moist linen, but it did not start to bleed again. She sponged his forehead and cleaned away dried blood.
“I have always hated that your kind calls them that. It is not the proper name.”
“It is a very proper name.”
“I doubt you know what the word ‘leering’ means.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. “It means a sly or cunning look.” Bending closer, she squinted at the wound and patted it dry with a clean linen. She took the dirty ones and tossed them into the fire and watched them shrivel. “There is a learner here who tells me what words mean. Leering stones are faces carved in rock. Some are carved into suns. Some into the moon at different degrees of fullness. Some seem to be carved out of stars. But they each have faces. And they always stare at us.”
“Then why not name them Staring stones then? The word leering has other meanings.”
“Such as?”
“I do not want to discuss it.”
“Why? Are you too proud to tell me?”
“The connotation – what it represents – is not modest.”
“What do you mean?”
He was getting even more impatient. His eyes blazed with anger. “Words have specific meanings, yet they can have multiple meanings. The word ‘leer’ is to stare at. But it also means to stare at someone in a certain way.”
She looked at him pointedly, raising her eyebrows to ask the question.
His expression clouded over, as if he were nearly frantic with discomfort. His hands clenched in his lap. “I should not be discussing this with you like this.”
She fol
ded another linen into a padded square and pressed it against his wound. With a long length of linen, she secured it to his head and then tied off the knot.
“What a riddle you are,” she said with contempt. “Most learners are. You study the true meaning of words and how to engrave them. How to use them. How to understand them. Yet you keep that knowledge to yourselves and then get proud when someone like me gets it wrong. Do you think that because I am a wretched, I cannot understand difficult things?”
“No, that is not it.”
“Then why not tell me? If I do not understand, then you can mock me. But why withhold it?”
“Because I am not comfor…because it has to do with the way that some men look at women. A leer is not a flattering look. It is not a look of love.” His hands were trembling. “It is not a look of respect. I have seen this look and when you see it, you will know it. I have seen it in wretcheds and I have seen it in knights.” He stood, clenching and unclenching his hands, his thoughts visibly troubling him. “The stone carvings are merely emblems. Their proper name is gargouelle.”
Lia shook her head, confused. “I do not know that word…”
“No, of course you do not. Gargouelle is from another language, the Dahomeyjan word for ‘throat.’ If you ponder it, maybe you will see why they are named such. Most wretcheds do not know the language of Dahomey exists let alone how to pronounce it properly.”
“You said they were emblems. Explain that word.”
“An emblem is used to represent something else. The carvings are an emblem of the power of the Medium inside us. They bear the face of man – or woman or beast – to show that the link to the power of the Medium is within us. In both of us. You are not bringing fire out of the stone. The stone helps you bring the fire out of yourself. They are powerful emblems – and should not be misunderstood, misused, or mispronounced.”
Something in his words caused heat to rush through her. They were exciting words and thrilled her. A great deep thought brushed against her mind, so large she couldn’t feel the edges of it. That somehow, the ability to cause fire, or water, or plague, or even life slept inside of her, not the stone.
