by Jeff Wheeler
He nodded slowly, a smug smile creasing his mouth. “Go on.”
“I desire to read. More than anything else. My desire also brought you to me. Just as I could use the Cruciger orb to help you find Winterrowd, so you could use your wealth and knowledge to help me learn to read. So both of us were harnessing the Medium to achieve our desires. For you, a way to find Demont. For me, the promise to read someday.”
He smiled. “Well said.”
Lia bit her lip, flushing with pleasure at the compliment, and looked down. “It could have happened a thousand other ways! Why did the Medium not lead you to Maderos? He could have shown you the way or he could have taught me to…”
“No!” Colvin said, his eyes flashing with anger. “Do not tangle it into knots! You had the right answer, but then you doubted. You must never, never leave room in your mind for doubt. It chokes the Medium. It starves it. It drowns it. All you must do is believe in those small insights – those little bursts of wisdom that bloom in your mind when your heart is calm, controlled, peaceful. The Medium brought us together, for those very reasons you mentioned. Years from now, we may look back on this moment and realize there were other reasons still that we have not yet discovered. It is enough though, for now. You wanted to read. And yes, even Maderos could feel that burning in you. The Medium cannot help but respond to your desire.”
Lia was not sure, but he seemed convinced. “Should I try the orb again?”
He shook his head. “You are not ready yet.”
“Why not?”
His look was intensely serious. “Because each time you fail will make it that much harder to succeed. Do not pull it out of the pouch until you know you will use it and that it will work. Leave it, until then.”
The sudden sound of mourning doves flapping their wings and shrieking startled them as the birds took flight somewhere behind them. Birds usually acted like that when they sensed a threat.
“We go,” Colvin said, his eyes blazing with worry. “Something startled the birds. Quickly!”
* * *
Hours later, Lia and Colvin reached a sliver of road. The brush and trees had been cleared, the moors drained sufficiently. It was a narrow neck, wide enough for a single wagons or five soldiers to march abreast. By the freshly churned ruts and mashed boot-prints, it was clear that soldiers and wagons had, and recently too.
Colvin’s voice was a dark murmur. “We are behind,” he said, sliding off the saddle. Pulling the reins, he tugged the stallion after him.
“Maderos warned us to shun the road,” Lia said. The trees were skeletal and sickly. The air was oppressed with the stench of sweat and other vicious odors.
Colvin knelt by the edge of the road, looking at the rut-marks. His hand clenched into a fist. “The tracks are fresh. Made earlier today.”
“Someone may see us,” Lia said worriedly.
“Going back is not a good suggestion either,” he said, looking angrier than ever. “We can cover more distance this way, then veer back into the marsh.”
“I think we should go back into the marsh now.”
“The sheriff’s men are behind us, who knows how close. This gives us a chance to outride them a bit.” He came back to the stallion and swung up on the saddle. He held out his hand to her to climb up behind him.
She shook her head. “We should not take the road.”
His hand hung in the hair, fingers hooking. “If the sheriff thinks we took the road, they will ride hard after us. They may not see our tracks shrink back into the Bearden Muir. I know what Maderos said. Trust me.”
Part of her was sick inside. Part of it made sense. Maderos’ warning haunted her. She did not want to see Almaguer again. The very thought of him made her insides twist and revolt, made her skin tingle with dread. It was as if the smoke-shapes were still sniffing at her clothes. Her dream whispered to her and she felt the thrust of steel in her heart.
He leaned closer, his eyes bleary and cragged with veins. “Trust me.”
Reaching up with her shaky hand, she took his. The force in his hand, his arm, was powerful as he pulled her up behind him. She clung to him as he kicked the stallion’s flanks and started at full gallop down the road into the twisty maze of trees, reeds, and brush. She saw dirt and sweat on the flesh of his neck. The scenery was a blur of speed. The stallion chuffed and snorted, shaking its wavy wane as it churned the mud and roared ahead. Too far! They were going too far!
Lia wanted to shriek in his ear. Something was wrong. Something was going to happen to them. Get off the road, it warned. Get off the road. In her mind, Maderos’ voice was scolding. The orb tells many things. If you take the road, you will be captured. And the girl. The road is not safe.
Somehow Maderos knew. Somehow he had known. All along, he had known what they would face in the Bearden Muir. They were flouting his advice.
The road is not safe. The road is dangerous.
Each moment made her heart quaver. Each instant was a torment. They had to leave the road. The moors would be safer, even without the orb.
“Colvin,” she said in his ear. “Please!”
“Not yet,” he shouted.
“Please! Leave the road. Before it is too late.”
“A little further.”
“Please! I feel it. Can you? Can you feel the warning?”
“A little further!”
“We were warned! We do not know how far…”
He looked back, his face a scowl of anger. “Enough! I have heard you. You are nearly blinding me with your thoughts, your fear. Master them! They are not coming from you. These fears come from the sheriff. He is close. He is very close. Somehow he put them inside you. He is plaguing you with them, even now. I will not let him hurt you. Now have faith in me. I know what I am doing. There is a safe path, just ahead. Trust me.”
Again the thought of Almaguer struck her mind. His sword plunging into her chest. Glowing silver eyes. Was it just a dream? A dream, not a vision? Or was it? Should she tell him? Would her mock her again? She squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face in the back of his shirt, clutching him so hard she hoped he would scream. If only she were back at Muirwood, safe in Pasqua’s kitchen. She needed someone to hold her, to soothe her, to tell her it would be all right. When she had terrible nightmares, she always knew that Pasqua would come in the morning, and that it would be all right again. Even Sowe’s presence was a comfort. No matter how a midwinter storm howled, it would be all right.
In her mind, she thought, Dear Pasqua, I never told you how much I needed you. How safe you made me feel as a child. There was her scolding, her pinching, her exasperated airs. But more than anyone else, Lia needed her. Someone who would comfort her and kiss her forehead and speak in whispers.
Somehow she knew that she could never get that from Colvin.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR:
Hunted
It was a high-pitched yowling sound, like the rusty hinges of a gate closing. It came from the night, from the unseen expanse of gullies and ravines, and it went right up Lia’s spine.
“What was that?” she whispered, clutching her knees.
“I have no idea,” Colvin answered, nestling back against the saddle in exhaustion. He hung his head with fatigue, rubbing his eyes on the back of his arm.
“A wolf?” she asked.
He sighed. “If I thought it was a wolf, I would have said that it sounded like a wolf.” His voice was straining with impatience.
“What if it comes here? What if it stumbles on us during the night and decides to eat us?” She hated herself for asking the question. It sounded like something Sowe would whimper.
He rubbed his leg. “It may be a bird. A marsh owl of some sort. I am more worried about being devoured by bats.”
“Bats?”
“Have you not seen them flitting about at night? There are so many insects here, they must feast like kings.” He rose ponderously after a brief rest and then withdrew his sword. After flexing his arms and loosening his neck, he
proceeded with drills with the blade, slicing through the air with a whisper of steel and a hiss of breath. She watched him practice, not secretly as she had when spying him with the broom in the kitchen. The memory alone caused another pang of regret. She watched him, quietly, patiently. Not disturbing him until he was finished.
“You practice for Winterrowd,” Lia said, watching the blade seat snugly into the sheath fastened to his belt.
“I must,” he answered, mopping sweat from his face on his tunic sleeve.
“Why?”
“Because mastery of any skill comes that way. If I hope to defeat a man who has more training and experience than me, then I best drill and drill and drill harder than that man.” He paced restlessly, chafing his hands together. “It also helps me stay awake. I have never felt this tired in my life. My patience is little more than dust when I am tired.”
“I will take the first watch,” she offered. “I am not that tired.”
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“Very. I do not care about being tired. You get used to it. But the kitchen was warm. It was always warm.” Again, a stab of pain went through her heart. She leaned forward, hugging her knees.
He snorted. “Given you summon fire so easily, I would not doubt that you were warm enough. It makes sense that the Aldermaston assigned you to the kitchen. It suits your gifts and passionate disposition. But I would fancy a bread oven right now myself. It is wet and cold in the Bearden Muir.” He said it as a truth, not as a complaint.
Lia hugged her knees tighter, grateful she had a cloak, for Colvin lacked one. It was no use asking if he was cold. In the moonlight, she could see his breath.
He turned suddenly and crouched down near her. “I just remembered something my Aldermaston taught. It just came to me. Let me see if I can phrase it properly without my tome.” He paused, thinking, then said, “Inasmuch as you strip yourselves from jealousies and fears, and humble yourselves before the Medium, for you are not sufficiently humble, the veil over your eyes shall be torn and you will see.”
“A clever verse,” Lia said.
“It is a clever verse. It talks about three of the things that keep us from letting the Medium master us. Jealousy, fear, and pride. You do not seem a jealous girl.”
“I am,” Lia said. “Sometimes.”
“No,” he said. “I have not seen even a spark of that in you. Trust me – I have seen jealous girls. They speak with venom. They claw each other over trifles. You are ambitious, to be sure, but not proud. As a wretched, how could you be proud? You are in a forced state of humility. But even so, your attitude rises above it. Your demeanor is confident, not sullen. So it is fear. That is what is holding you back from the Medium. It is your fear.”
At such a moment, she wished she had a sturdy pan she could clench and crack his head with. Rather than screech at him, she kept her voice calm. “Colvin, I am away from my home in the middle of a swamp with the sheriff’s men chasing after us. Yes…I am afraid. I am terrified! I am cold. Above even those, I am thirsty. If it rained, at least I could wring water from my dress and drink. We have eaten nothing but apples. This is by far the most miserable moment of my life. I am afraid. But nothing you taught me today helps me be unafraid.”
“It begins with a thought,” Colvin said. “As I told you…”
“You do not understand!” she said, cutting him off. “I do not want to feel this way. But I do. You taught me that I need to focus my thoughts, that thoughts create feelings. Why can you not understand that all I have are memories of Muirwood? There is nothing else! Being cold reminds me of being warm. Being hungry reminds me of being fed. Being lonely…”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them, for they brought tears gushing. She hated crying, especially in front of him. He crouched near her, helpless as a dolt. He looked pole axed, impotent, and it made her all the angrier. The tears were hot on her lashes. Why could he never see that she needed someone to comfort her, not gawk at her? Sobs shook her for several minutes, but finally she controlled them again. She would not look at him. Burying her wet cheek against her arm, she looked another way, ashamed and hurting, wishing he would curl up against the saddle and just go to sleep.
His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “When I left Forshee for the first time, I was about your age. I left to be a learner. My pride would never admit it, but I did miss home very much. I missed my sister. I missed my father and his wisdom. I even missed my mother, who I scarcely remember now, since she died when my sister was born. I was five, I think. Billerbeck Hundred is lonely country. I felt it keenly.”
Still, she did not look at him or say anything.
“I cannot say the feelings ever left me, but they did diminish over time. That, I can promise you. Muirwood is a beautiful abbey. I went there once with my father when I was very young. I think we went to the Whitsun Fair. I was only a boy, but I remember watching the maypole dance.”
The Whitsun Fair – the event every wretched in the abbey longed for out of the year. The time when the gates were opened and the villagers and abbey mingled. Visitors from all over the country descended on Muirwood to buy kegs of cider, to trade leather for silk, or to taste the famous dishes that could only be found there. And then when the sun had set, the torches and lanterns would bring a second dawn as the young men and women gathered around the maypole, clasped hands, and danced, weaving colorful sashes down the length of it.
Lia lifted her head, her heart nearly breaking with sorrow. “Colvin, this Whitsunday was to be my first in the dancing circle. My very first. There was a learner…a first-year…I promised…” She blinked away fresh tears. “I promised him I would dance with him. I have broken that promise now, and I will never get that chance again to dance around the maypole.”
Colvin said nothing after that, but his eyes were downcast with sympathy. There really was nothing he could say.
* * *
The crunch of a twig woke her, woke them both. The moon was beyond the horizon. It was dark, and Lia shivered, her body huddled up as tight as a walnut. The horse nickered from the far side of the hill, but the cracking sound had come much closer.
Colvin’s voice was a pale whisper. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” she answered, her heart bulging in her throat.
“Lay still.” In the darkness, she heard the faint sound of Colvin’s sword dragging clear its scabbard.
Her heart beat frantically. The sherrif’s men had found them. Or was is Almaguer alone, as in her dream? Was the dream a shadow of what would happen? Was it a vision? The helplessness of not being able to awaken made her want to run, to flee from the presence sneaking up on them.
She heard the soft hiss of wild grass, of boots coming down delicately on spongy mud, but not quite able to conceal the noise. The sound was close. She trembled, for her back was to it. She could not see. Her ears strained for clues as to how far back. Only one set of boots. Good – that gave Colvin a fighting chance. Suddenly, she was grateful he had practiced earlier, readying his swordsmanship to face this threat.
Part of her back itched, as if its shadow were tickling her. She could hear breathing in the stillness, the huff of breath of someone who climbed a hill. It reminded her of the smoke shapes and she shivered even more. What was she supposed to do? Lay there? What would Colvin do? Her stomach twisted with fear. What if Colvin were killed?
Somewhere far off, a night owl hooted. That was the moment that Colvin struck. She heard him first, but he charged, his body leaping over hers. She rolled the other way and sat up, watching him attack. The blade whistled down, met steel with a spray of sparks, two blades clashing like lightning strokes. A counter strike, then another block, followed by several more, each one ringing into the night with jarring sound. The slick, cracking hiss of the blades frightened her. Then the attack stopped, and both were circling each other, swords raised to guarding positions. Their bodies were shadows in the dark.
The pause lasted a moment, th
en Colvin lunged in, high, low, high – blade arcing in dizzying circles. The defender parried, high, low, high, stepped in and grabbed Colvin’s arm. Their bodies slammed into each other, wrestling for control, then separated. Colvin hobbled slightly, as if the attacker had stomped on his foot. Again they circled each other in defensive position, breathing heavily.
Lia was helpless. What could she do to turn the battle in Colvin’s favor? Nothing would protect her from the cruel edge of the blade. She had no defense, other than distance by keeping away from him.
Colvin lunged the third time – and tripped. It may have been a wet stone, the mud and grass, or maybe the injured foot. Lia gasped as she watched him go down, slamming his elbow then fighting to regain his feet. The adversary’s short blade pressed up against his exposed neck. It was a short blade, and she recognized it. She recognized the scabbard attached high on his girdle.
“Yield,” he said. “I have not come all this way to kill you. Lia – are you near?”
The voice. The gait. The gladius.
It was Jon Hunter.
* * *
“The greatest achievement was at first and for a time only a dream. Just as the oak sleeps in the acorn, and the bird waits in the egg, so dreams are the seedlings of realities. Beware, therefore, what you dream of. For some dreams are given by the Medium to inspire us by what may yet be. Others are planted within us by others, foul seeds, that we harvest to our destruction.”
- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE:
Lia’s Leering
The drink was from a leather waterskin, and yet it tasted to Lia like fresh rainwater from a ladle. She swallowed at first, then gulped, and Jon Hunter yanked it away from her.
