The Wretched of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  She was helpless, unable to reach her body again. If the dream ended, it would tug her back inside. She willed herself to awaken. She struggled against the chains of sleep. Wake up! Wake up! Almaguer reached the crest, staring down at her body. The smoke-shapes circled around them, eyes greedy. Almaguer took his hand off the amulet. Somehow, she could see beneath his shirt – at the black whorl of tattoos that crisscrossed his chest and even now were inching up his throat, across his shoulders, growing with every use of the medallion.

  The smoke-shapes sniffed at her and Colvin, fingers and muzzles and paws rooting against their clothes, the touch lighter than a gasp of breath. A sick feeling bloomed inside as she watching them, disgusted, polluted, sniffing at her. She tried to pull herself awake in vain.

  Then Almaguer knelt by her. His hand reached out and he touched her hair, running his fingers through its curly tangles. Almost she could feel it, those fingers coiling into her hair, and a worm of sickness spread through her whole soul. She shuddered, she revolted, she cringed from the tender gesture that was not meant with any degree of tenderness. His fingers stiffened around a thick clump of hair. Moonlight blinded her off the edge of his sword as the tip suddenly plunged into her heart.

  “It is your turn.”

  Her eyes opened to the blackness of night. The moon was pale, only half of its brightness. Her arms and legs were sore and cramped with cold.

  “It is your turn,” Colvin repeated, shaking her shoulder even harder. “Come on. Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her heart shriveling in her chest with the vividness of the dream.

  He crouched next to her and then straightened. “It is past midnight. I let you sleep as long as I could. If I do not rest, I will be useless tomorrow.” He groaned. “I have never been this tired in my life. Sit against the tree, but not for long. It helps to stay warm and awake if you keep moving.”

  Lia raised herself on her elbow. Her heart shivered. The feeling, the blackness, was still there. “Almaguer is coming,” she whispered, believing the dream was a warning.

  “I think not,” he answered. “I have watched their camp all night. The fire has burned low, but you can still see it. They make no effort to hide themselves. They have horses and lanterns. Not even they are fool enough to cross the river in the dark.”

  He was not listening to her. She stood, grateful to be awake, but fear roiled in her heart. “He is coming tonight. I felt him.” She glanced around the hillock, looking for his glowing eyes. Nothing. She was terrified. Her heart beat wildly in her chest.

  He snorted with disbelief. “If you see him, let me know. I will keep my sword ready. Now I am going to sleep. Wake me if the lanterns light up again, or you hear something large – I mean larger than a squirrel. There have been deer in the meadow in the night. And I heard a wolf howl once. Have you ever slept out of doors before?”

  “No,” she said, choking back a sob that he did not hear.

  “I used to hunt with my father. The night is full of noises. If a large animal comes up here, wake me. Or the sheriff. Do not wake me otherwise.”

  Without giving her a second look, Colvin lay down on the earth, his back to her, his head resting on the saddle as a pillow, his hand on the hilt of his maston sword. He had no cloak or blanket.

  Around her, in the dark, she felt as if the smoke-shapes were still sniffing against her clothes. She did not sleep. She could not sleep. Dread tormented her the rest of the night.

  * * *

  Before dawn, the lowlands of the Bearden Muir were covered in mist, engulfing even the hillock and its trees. From Lia’s earliest days she had seen the mists and they were comforting to her, but on this morning, they terrified her. Her heart was a throbbing pulp of misery. Her eyes were swollen from all the tears. Colvin awoke with the dawn and set about saddling the horse again, without saying a word of greeting. He chafed his arms constantly, but he did not complain of being cold. His discomfort was plain enough from his expression.

  Coming back up the hill, he handed her another apple.

  “I am thirsty,” she mumbled, taking the fruit from his grimy hand.

  “As am I,” he replied. “I had a thought while I was saddling the stallion. We are still another two days from Winterrowd, if Maderos was right. I doubt we will die of thirst by then, but if there is a safe spring to drink from, the Cruciger orb would know. If not, we will suffer patiently. But if there is one along our path, or close to it, that would be helpful. You could ask the orb.”

  Lia had not thought of that herself, and she was angry that Colvin had first. After untying the pouch, she emptied the orb into her hand. It was cold and heavy. In her mind, she repeated his request. If there is safe water along the journey, show us the way.

  Nothing happened.

  Colvin looked up at her.

  “I do not think there is safe water,” she said huskily, her throat raw. “Show us the way to Winterrowd,” she then said.

  Nothing happened.

  Colvin’s brow furrowed.

  Dread joined the fear in Lia’s heart. Then anger. She focused her thoughts – she stared at the intricate spindles and willed them to move. Show us a safe road! she screamed at it inside her mind.

  Nothing.

  “Let me try,” Colvin said, holding out his hand. For a moment, she wanted to shove him away, to hunch over and protect it. His hand was extended, his fingernails black with mud and dirt. Reluctantly, she gave it to him.

  His brow furrowed even more and he looked sternly at the orb, saying nothing. But it did not obey him either. “Vexing,” he muttered, giving it back to her. “Is the orb not working, or is there no longer a safe road? We must determine that. Ask it to show you the direction of Muirwood. Not a safe road there, just the direction.”

  Lia focused on it, hoping the spindles would whir again. But as she thought about Muirwood, she was met with despair. The orb was silent. “I do not understand,” she whispered. “It…it was working yesterday…it…it…”

  His face was a struggle to read as he battled to control his feelings. He looked furious, but determined to conquer the emotion. It took several moments for him to master himself enough to speak, and when he did, his voice was more like a bark than a man’s voice.

  “We do not have time for this!” He turned away, still struggling to contain himself. She was wounded by his reaction, hurt by the anger in his voice. She had no idea why the orb had failed them.

  Looking at the beautiful surface, she willed it to heed her. Show us the road. Show us safety. Show us a way to escape the sheriff. Please!

  “I am sorry,” he said over his shoulder. “I am sorry. I am doing the best I can.” He turned back to her, his face still twisting with various emotions, none of which she understood. “I am trying to protect you. I am trying to get to Winterrowd. I am trying not to worry about my sister. I am failing at all three. I promise, I never intended to drag you away from your home. Believe me, if I could have done it over again, I would not have let you help me. I should have left on my own as soon as I could stand. I should have gone!” He sighed mournfully.

  “Why will it not work?” Lia said, crying openly. “I do not know why it is not. I…I…I do not know what to do. The mist. Winterrowd could be anywhere.”

  He shook his head violently, his fingers clenching like talons. “No, you are not to blame. I am. Believe me. I am. I know what is wrong. I know why it is not working.”

  “Why then?” she pleaded, clutching his arm. She needed to touch something to keep the dizziness from making her collapse.

  “Because you cannot force the Medium. It knows your thoughts. It knows when you have lost your courage. There is something in your mind that is stopping it from working. It could be your longing for the Abbey. It could be fear. It could be misery.” He did not shake off her grip, but she could see him flinch, see his eyes glance at her hand and narrow coldly. “I have seen this before. When I was a learner, it happened now and then among us, especially
when something terrible happened. It even happened to me when my father died. I could not use the Medium because I was too angry that he had been taken away, that my sister and I were orphans, that I had to be both father and mother as well as brother. The Medium knew my feelings and abandoned me to my resentment.”

  “How long before…how long before you could use it again?” she asked, her hope withering with the look in his eyes.

  “Months,” he answered bitterly. His jaw clenched. “We cannot dwell here that long. The sheriff’s men are hunting us. This is a swamp, not a road. We have no water.” He rubbed his mouth on his arm. His look hardened. “Whatever it is, we must discover it. We must not abandon hope. You get what you secretly desire. You claim a right to use the Medium by expecting to receive it. You are strong in the Medium. Very strong. But as strong as you are, you are still bound by its laws and impeded by your own doubts. You must overcome whatever is hindering you.”

  “How?” Lia asked, confused. “I have never not been able to use it. I have sensed the Medium since…that night of the storm. I know it is real.” She let go of his arm and fished the ring out of her dress and pinched it hard between her fingers, letting the edge bite into her skin as she shook it at him. “I know it is real! I do not doubt it!”

  “Yes, but you are a wretched. In one way it is a privilege because you have lived inside an abbey. You have never faced the thousand mutable fears that roam the lands outside those walls. Spirits of aether you cannot see that make you fear and doubt and crave the things that will only do you harm.” His eyes burned with passion and he uttered a cough, almost a chuckle. “You are so innocent. I doubt you have ever been fully tempted by the Myriad Ones.” He waved his hand around at the trees and the mist. “They live in the world among us, feeding our most selfish selves with their thoughts. This is the world outside the safety of Muirwood. It is a world ripe with things poisonous to the Medium. I know I speak vaguely, for there are things mastons are taught that we cannot share. It is forbidden to speak of certain knowledge outside of an abbey. Trust me, girl. You lived within borders that have protected you from them, where gargouelles watch day and night and drive the Myriad Ones away.”

  He stepped even closer to her. “I studied at Billerbeck Abbey. The Aldermaston there taught every first year learner these words from the tome of Hadrion - ‘we wrestle not against blood and bone, but against kingdoms, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world. Against brooding wickedness in high places, and even their puppets called kings.’” His voice changed, softened. “Sevrin Demont fought against the Myriad Ones his whole life and even against his own king when he realized he was but a puppet. Demont failed at Maseve because he gave up hope. The Medium…it abandoned him. Darkness has veiled the land ever since. Mastons are being put to death in secret. I ride to Winterrowd to change that. The orb knows our need. But it also recognizes your fears and doubts. Your feelings are what is stopping it.”

  Lia stared at him, wondering what to believe. She knew a great deal about mastons, but she had never heard of Myriad Ones or invisible things that could influence her thoughts. She did know this. She was cold and miserable. She was afraid.

  After a period of silence, she said, “I feel what I feel, Colvin. I cannot just change my feelings, like a dirty cloak or a new dress, can I?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Yes, you can. It all begins here, with a thought.” His finger grazed the center of her forehead. She shivered at his touch.

  * * *

  “The soul attracts that which it secretly harbors – that which it loves, and also that which it fears. Thus circumstances do not make the maston; they only reveal him to himself. It means that blessedness, and not wealth, is the measure of right thought; wretchedness, not poverty or lack of Family, is the measure of wrong thought. A maston will find that as he alters his thoughts towards things and other people, things and other people will alter towards him. For you will always draw near towards that which you, secretly, most love. Humanity surges with uncontrolled passion, is tumultuous with ungoverned grief, is blown about by anxiety and doubt. Only the wise maston, only he whose thoughts are controlled and purified, can make the winds and the storms of the soul obey him.”

  - Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE:

  The Road

  They wandered through the Bearden Muir, lost. Even the sun forsook them. Alternately, they walked and rode, giving the stallion as much rest as they could afford. Not that a horse could gallop through a swamp, theirs or the sheriff’s. Obstacles faced them constantly – wide gullies and ditches choked with foul-smelling waters, too broad to cross. Often they had to go east to find a way west. Thirst was a constant tormenter.

  All the day long, Colvin spoke to her, instructing her in the ways of the Medium. He did it from memory, quoting from the teachings of the Aldermaston of Billerbeck Abbey and the tomes he had studied there. Lia had many questions, and he answered them – oftentimes impatiently – but he answered. Learners started out acquiring the skill of reading and engraving so they could translate ancient tomes containing the words of Aldermastons of the past as well as their own Family. Only through studying these words, often thick and impenetrable with multiple meanings, could a learner begin to unravel the mysteries of the mastons. Language that was rich with symbols. Reading something again and again, year after year, could bring nuances and understandings that a younger learner could not even grasp. She discovered that all the years of learning at an Abbey as a youth was merely preparation for a life-long journey of self-discipline and improvement. It was clear to Lia that Colvin was exceptional. His memory for detail, for example, the exactness by which he quoted his teacher showed that he had studied hard – the knowledge was written in his heart and not just on his tongue.

  “Why is it then,” she asked him as they stopped to rest at mid-day, “that I can use the orb and you cannot? You have studied the tomes all your life. You know the rules of the Medium far better than I. Yet you cannot use it?”

  He took a bite from an apple and chewed it slowly. “There are two reasons. Perhaps more.”

  “And they are?”

  He paused and coughed against his arm. “Strength in the Medium is inherited. It matters not as much as who you are as who your parents were. By this principle, I propose that both of your parents, whoever they were, had great strength in the Medium. If their love was illicit…”

  “Which means?”

  “Unlawful. It was not sanctioned by propriety. They were probably not wedded. Two learners, perhaps, from strong families. If they were ashamed at what they had done, one or both could have decided to give you up as a wretched to hide that shame. It does happen. Every abbey has wretcheds. Bitter shame and the fear of scorn motivate people to commit acts they would not ordinarily do. That is one theory. You are strong in the Medium because of your parents. Stronger than I, even with my legitimate ancestry. If your parents were nothing more than laborers, you would have no skill in the Medium at all. The other reason I can think of is jealousy.”

  “Jealousy? Whose?”

  “Mine, naturally. I have struggled with jealousy since I met you, for I have had to work hard to earn my mastery of the Medium. You can do things that I lack even the imagination to try. Mixing fire with water, for example. It never occurred to me to do that. I have focused so much on learning the prohibitions, to maintain my thoughts perfectly within the proper bounds, that it never occurred to me to explore. Hence, my jealousy. The Medium knows our innermost thoughts. We cannot hide them from it. When I saw you use the Cruciger orb, I wanted to believe that I could as well because my lineage was purer than yours. That belief born of jealousy was not enough to coax the orb to obey.”

  Sitting on a fallen log, Lia regarded him curiously, then took a bite from her apple. There was so much evidence of the Medium in her life. The ring she wore around her neck. The very apple in her hand – an apple that should not be f
or it was not even the season. Yet something about the Leering near the tree – something about that Leering kept the fallen apples from decaying. She looked at her torn sleeve. She had never torn a dress before. In her memory, she could not think of a single instance where someone had torn their clothes. New clothes were made for those who grew, their older ones handed down to the younger ones. But repairing garments was foreign to her. She realized, intuitively, that it also had to do with the Medium. There were other Leerings on the abbey grounds that kept shoes from failing, dresses and shirts from being ripped. They preserved things. Being away from Muirwood, she was no longer under their protection. Perhaps that was what she feared the most, the lack of safety.

  “You have an enigmatic look,” he said.

  Lia eyed him. “My mind is so full, yet I hunger to know more. You have tried to teach me four years of learning and it is barely noonday. I do not know how to think any more. There are so many possibilities.”

  “Then let me test you,” he answered. “How did you and I come to meet?”

  “Our first meeting? The night of the storm?”

  “The night of the storm. Examine the principles. Let them guide you to the answer.” He took another bite from his apple and stared at her while he chewed.

  “I will…try,” she said, wincing. Her mind was jumbled with thoughts. “You are looking for an answer more subtle than Scarseth dragging you there and dumping you at the door. Let me think. You gain what you desire the most. Or should I say, you gain the results of your thoughts. You must desire something, then think on it. Determine to have it. You left your home because you desired to unite with Garen Demont’s rebellion. You had to sacrifice something to get it – you sacrificed telling your family. The Medium did the rest. It even intervened when you were betrayed by Scarseth. It led you to Muirwood. It led you to the kitchen because it knew I could help you.”