The Wretched of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Can you read the writing on the orb?” Lia asked him, holding it up in her hand.

  “Let the pethet read it,” he sneered.

  Colvin swallowed. “I cannot.”

  “Eh?”

  “I cannot.”

  “You cannot? Because you think your language is the best language? That because you were born and your parents babbled to you in this tongue, that it is the best language to speak? How small is your mind, pethet. So very tiny. Little ideas. Puny ideas. Let me see it, child. Show it to me.”

  Lia held up the orb and he squinted, looking at the whorl of letters scribed in the lower half.

  He pursed his lips. “Yes…yes…and then what…oh, then I see…I see…very well. Yes, there. I see. Yes”

  “You can read it?” Lia said, hope welling up in her stomach.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head.

  “You cannot?”

  “No, for it is written in the language of the Pry-rian. A fallen people. But it is a good tongue. They had noble ideas in Pry-Ree.”

  “But…but you cannot read it?” Lia said, disappointed.

  He looked up form the orb and angrily into her eyes. “No, no – none of that, child! You make it dark again. No…you must not do that!”

  “What do you mean?” she said, biting her lip, confused by his erratic words.

  “Doubt. Do not doubt. Never doubt. I cannot read Pry-rian. It is a forgotten language by many. Though I cannot read the words, I was understanding what it said, little sister. The Medium whispers it to me as it does many ancient languages. Some have the Gift of speaking languages. I have the gift of reading them.”

  “How?” she asked, frightened and excited.

  “You already know! I heard you whisper it. Because I am a maston and because I believe I can. This is what it said so far. Or what it meant to say but could not tell you because you cannot hear the whispers yet very well. I must give you the sword, the tunic, and the chaen of the maston who died here. These must be taken to the maston’s brother. He is at Winterrowd now. You must go there. You must go there,” he said to Lia, looking deeply into her eyes. “And he must go there. Yes, the pethet. He must go too. Let me read the rest…yes…yes…I can see it. Very well. Very well. The meaning is clear.”

  Gripping his crutch, he turned and started hobbling briskly. “Come, come. When we receive the will of the Medium, we obey it. Obey it prontis. Never delay. Come, to the sword and to the chaen. And the tunic. The pethet will wear the tunic into battle, I think. A battle that will soon rage near Winterrowd.” He grunted as he started up the shallow stone steps. “Then we climb the Tor, for I must show you the safe path. The road is too treacherous. You will not make it on the road. You must go through the Bearden Muir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY:

  Summit

  The staff in Maderos’ hand was a crooked, twisting thing. It was heavy at the top, with a flat mushroom-like head, its stout length gnarled, bent, and tapered at the end. Lia did not recognize the wood, all knobby and veined. He planted his hand on its neck near the crown, and he was off walking at a pace that defied Colvin and Lia to keep up. One of his legs was crooked, but with the staff, it did not seem to slow him at all. In fact, they both had to hurry to keep up with him.

  “This way, this way!” Maderos hissed over his shoulder, bounding down the path. “Hurry along. Always obey, when the Medium asks us. Prontis! The Cruciger speaks to her in Pry-rian. In Pry-rian. Eh! I should have known.”

  The hedge opened up to a meadow, and husky sheep grazed beyond on the grass at the base of the Tor. Several looked up at them as they advanced. Colvin clenched his jaw again, his eyes narrowed into slits. His very posture spoke of distrust and wariness as he yanked the reins to pull the stallion after him.

  Sweat trickled down Lia’s cheek and she wiped it away. Maderos ambled up a small hillock to where a lone tree stood. It was an apple tree, but it looked nothing like ones from the orchard in Muirwood. The width of the trunk, the massive branches whispered of centuries. In fact, to Lia’s eyes, the sturdy branches seemed the same color as Maderos’ staff. As she entered the shade, she nearly stumbled over a stone. Only it was not a stone, she realized as she reached down and lifted a Muirwood apple.

  Maderos looked back at her and their eyes met. “Wise, child. Gather more for the horse. More for you. You will need food where you are going. The fruit will sustain you.”

  An apple so out of season should have been mush – or desiccated. This one was firm and ripe, its yellowish, pinkish skin gleaming. She caught sight of a Leering near the trunk of the ancient tree, but she had felt it before she had seen it. Power emanated from it. If it were fire, she would have been able to warm her hands from the stone. The face carved into it was so old, it was scarcely more than a few wrinkled crags in the nearly-smooth surface. A bearded face. She approached it, drawn in by its eyes. She reached out her hand, but Colvin caught her wrist. He shook his head no, his eyes angry.

  Maderos went around the trunk. “There we are. Right where I left them. Here, pethet. Treasures for you to carry. Gather the apples, sister. There will be more around the base in the grass. There will not be any in the branches. It is not the season yet.”

  As Lia searched and gathered apples, she brought them to the saddle bag of the horse, but paused long enough to feed the beast one first.

  “Ah, the sword,” Maderos told Colvin as she searched the grass. “It belonged to the father. A knight-maston’s sword like yours. Bring it to the brother. And this…this is the chaen. You already wear one, so it is not for you. The lad is almost old enough to be a maston himself. It will be his. You are his father now. And his brother. No, no, that will not do. Do not scowl at this, pethet. This is your trust. Your duty. Now the tunic. Yes, you see the blood. But you do not hear its screams. No, you cannot hear that. Thank the Medium you do not. Take it away from here, that the blood spilled on it does not avenge here at this hill but elsewhere. Wear it, pethet. Yes, you must. Wear it. It is Demont’s. You must!”

  Lia dumped another armful of apples into the saddle bag. The stallion swung its head, its mane grazing her face. She smiled from its nuzzling and watched from the corner of her eye as Colvin released his sword belt, pulled on the tunic, and then belted it again over it. The tunic was of dark fabric, but she could see the slits and stains from a dozen sword wounds. In her mind, she heard the sheriff speaking. The blood of your Family is still on my sword. The moans have never rubbed clean. But I will tell you of them. Of their traitorous hearts. Of their punishment even after death. Your grandfather. Your uncle. Their heads spitted on spikes. How we played with their corpses…

  An ill feeling churned inside her. Looking at the bloodied tunic, seeing the evidence of violence, made her stomach lurch. Dizziness and anger washed through her. She nearly vomited, but clenching her hands around the saddle horn, she waited until it subsided. Somewhere deep in her mind, it was as if she should hear the screams, though no more than whispers.

  “Come, sister. Up the Tor. To the crest! Come!”

  * * *

  Lia did not know how Maderos could speak while climbing so fast, but he did. Her chest was burning, her legs were burning, and without gripping the saddle stirrup, she was sure she would have stumbled with exhaustion already. Colvin’s tattered tunic was soaked with sweat, but he kept up without murmuring.

  “Do you want to ride?” he asked her in a low tone, seeing her face.

  She shook her head no, for she could not speak. Holding the saddle was enough. As long as the horse kept chuffing along, she would make it.

  “You can see the Tor from Kennot Knoll. You can even see it from Haunton – on a clear day. Notice the trees lower down, but not higher up. It is bald. A bald hill. That is because this hill is new. It is new, I tell you! Have you heard how the Tor came to be here? Eh? Have you heard? You cannot speak, so I will speak. This was after the first abbey was built, many years ago. Hundreds of years ago. When all the land you can see there wa
s flooded.” He waved his free arm expansively. “Some soldiers in longboats came. They were from another land, ready to pillage. They had their own tongue, but greed is the language common to all men. When they saw Muirwood, their hearts were full of greed. The long boats came up the river. They destroyed the village folk in the lake. Murdered them. Their blood did sing to the Aldermaston of the abbey. He heard their deaths.” He looked back at them, his eyes gleaming. “Do you know what the Aldermaston did? Can you guess, pethet? No?”

  Maderos stopped talking, for they crested the summit at last. Lia would have sagged to her knees, but she held herself up, gulping air. Her heartbeat was thunder in her ears. Even Colvin looked winded, and he stopped, bending over to struggle for breath.

  “Bah! You are young. Young legs. Young feet. You have no stamina. I have no horse. I must walk where the Medium takes me. Across this country. Across that country. Look at the horizon! Do you see it! Ah, the glory! I never tire of it.”

  Sweat dripped from the tip of Lia’s nose. Her strength began to return.

  “What did…what did the Aldermaston do?” she panted.

  “Eh? What do you say, little sister?”

  “When the soldiers came,” she said.

  “The rest of the tale? It is a grand story. The longboats came, the soldiers charged towards the abbey. Easy prey, just like the villagers.” He snapped his fingers, then held one up to his lips. “But they did not know of the Medium. No, they could not guess at its power. How strong the Aldermaston was. He looked east and saw hills. He looked west and saw hills.” His arms gestured broadly, mimicking the action of his words. “So with the Medium compelling him, he raised his arms high into the air. He had kept the trust to invoke its power thus. A hill from away rose with his hands. Yes! A hill far away rose with his hands. It came. And it crushed the soldiers and their boats.” He slammed a fist down into his palm. “Now the hill is called the Tor. When you are away from here, when you look back at the Tor, you will see that I speak truth. It does not belong here. One day, another Aldermaston will set it back where it came from. We do not live in such times now. Long ago. So very long ago.” His gaze sharpened. “Show us the Cruciger orb, child. Show us where you would go.”

  Lia straightened. She believed every word he had said. The story was fantastic, but no more than a storm causing a landslide, exposing stone ossuaries that were empty save of grave clothes and wedding bands or stones that hung suspended in the air.

  Reaching into her pouch, she withdrew the orb and brought it to Maderos. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it.

  “Believe,” he whispered. “Believe and it will show you the way you seek. Always.”

  In her mind, she thought the words, Show us the safe road to Winterrowd.

  The spindles spun, the inside of the orb whirred to life and it pointed again, away from the Tor – towards the western horizon.

  She looked up to where it was pointing and her heart leapt with what she saw. From the summit, she could see for leagues in every direction. The sight was breathtaking. Groves and glens, mirrored pools and distant hills. Looking down, she saw the abbey and it filled her eyes with tears at how small it was. There was the kitchen cupola rising above a ring of oaks. She thought of Pasqua and it went straight to her heart and brought a cough and a sob together. The Cider Orchard. The fish pond. She could even see the laundry and, staring hard, she could see people walking the grounds.

  “You weep, child?” he asked her gently. “Why?”

  “I did think I would miss it so,” Lia whispered, tears blurring the image.

  “There is wisdom climbing mountains,” Maderos said softly. “For they teach us how truly small we are. This is just a pebble within one kingdom. There are higher mountains you must climb, child. Greater views you will yet see.”

  “Idumea’s hand, it is the king’s army!” Colvin said, his voice throbbing with awe. “I…I cannot discern its size for all the dust. Look at the pennants though. The columns. They are coming. Look at it!”

  Lia mopped her eyes on her sleeve and turned to see as well. He stood on a short outcropping, gazing south, the wind tousling his hair, his tunic. From the distance, like a black snake, the army stretched along the road, a cloud of haze rising up from its back.

  “Yes, the king’s army, pethet! And that is only a part, from the king’s city itself. Another marches from the south. They join at Bridgewater in three days. Three.”

  “You know this?” Colvin asked.

  “The orb tells many things. Others the Medium whispers to me. Hearken to my words. If you take the road, you will be captured. And the girl. The road is not safe. The befallen king summons his full strength. He leaves no portion of his mind open for doubt that he will crush Demont’s army. His thoughts are very strong. Always, he tempers his thoughts.”

  “How many?” Colvin asked.

  “Eh, pethet?”

  “How many does Demont have?”

  Maderos smiled wickedly. “A tenth, if that. A tithing of the king’s men. If that. Does it weaken your will, pethet? To know you cannot win?”

  “No,” Colvin answered angrily. “Demont must be warned.”

  “Yes! You must warn him. Fill his mind with doubt. Yes, that will be helpful, pethet. Choke his confidence. Strangle his hope. Let it cease gasping and then die like a fish!”

  “I did not say that!”

  “You mistrust so easily. You do not even see it before you. Bah! Why should I linger? The road is barred before you. There is no safe road. The safe way to Winterrowd, the only safe way, is through the Bearden Muir. There! See the glistening waters? There – to the south – that is the town of Bridgewater. The hill to the north of the waters, that is Kennot Knoll. The water is the Bearden Muir. It floods when the rains come. Every year. There are few towns or villages, because few can survive its moods. They are the lowlands. The marshes. The Bearden Muir. Winterrowd lays beyond it. Look at the spindles. They show you the way. Fix your eyes on the course. It will lead you to Demont’s camp. Stray from it, and you will be taken by the king’s men. I have warned you.”

  Colvin stepped closer. “What land do you hail from, Maderos? Are you from Hautland?”

  There was a twinkle in Maderos’ eyes. “I hail from many lands, pethet. I have walked as far as Idumea perhaps. From thence came the seeds…and thus the tree. It is a good tree. Tasty fruit.”

  “What Family are you?” Colvin asked again.

  Again, a cunning smile. “Aye, Family I do have.”

  “This girl led me to a cave near the abbey. I have seen the tomes you are keeping. I have read them.”

  “Have you? And what think you of those tomes?”

  “I should like to read more.”

  “How bold are your words! How proud to think you will survive even a fortnight hence! You must survive first the slaughter at Winterrowd. That may yet be, if sister holds vigil that night for you. A vigil, do you hear?”

  Colvin’s face twitched. He clenched his fists. “Sister?” he asked, nearly choking.

  “Aye, sister indeed. You are a pethet. I mourn you. You will get no more counsel from me.” He turned to Lia and put his heavy, callused hand on her forehead, then brushed a finger down her cheek. “When you have learned to read, child, I will show you the abbey tomes.”

  Her heart was full to bursting. He did not say if she learned to read. He had said when.

  “Thank you, Maderos,” she whispered, bowing her head to him. Impulsively, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  He smiled at her, a warm smile. “Bah, it is hardly a thing beseeching such a gift. You have set it in your heart to read. Many who serve the Medium wish it. That which you fix your heart to, believing with all your desire you will get, you will. ‘Tis not a prophecy. It is the way the Medium delivers to us the very things we think on. It brought you both together. I see that plainly. Now let the Medium take you hence. Trouble will shadow your steps. See below! Those are the sheriff’s men on the road. The murderers. They w
ill ride back to Muirwood when they realize you are not fools to run headlong into the king’s army. They hunt you still, little sister. But the Bearden Muir will help hide you from them.”

  * * *

  “Youth who come to the Abbeys of the realm come with training already in hand and fixed solidly in their minds. Some have exceptional Gifts already with the Medium when they arrive. Some can already summon fire or water or cause a stone to lift and tremble over their palm. But whatever Gifts they bring to the Abbey, we expect more from them. If they bring six, we expect twelve when they leave. If they come with but one talent, we test and try and prove them until we wring two or three more from them. But whether they come with but one or six, a few lose what they have. The rigorous training of the Abbey begins to take its toll on them. Or they submit their thoughts to the subtle poison of doubt. Not even an Aldermaston’s power can cure it, for these students do harm to themselves. The mind, like the body, can be moved from sunshine into shade.”

  - Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE:

  Bearden Muir

  The Bearden Muir was a lair of mossy rocks, ravens, green reeds, and stunted skeletal oaks sagging on the occasional lumps of higher ground amidst a swamp that flooded every year. Its air was cloudy with gnats and mosquitoes, and the smell of rotting earth. Ghostly noises wandered by like lost echoes. Every bit of ground was saturated with muck and mud and treacherous pools. There was no road through the Bearden Muir – it changed too often to construct them. The land was raw, savage, and eerily beautiful, like a damp gray moth with flecks of color in its wings.

  Several murky rivers slit through the middle of the Bearden Muir, formed by three tributaries that tried in vain to drain the lowlands. One of the tributaries now barred the path to Winterrowd. The Cruciger orb led them south, along its sluggish flank. The other side was choked with reeds, and the throaty growls of bullfrogs were warnings not to cross.