The Blight of Muirwood (3 page)

“I know little about Pry-Ree,” she said, glancing through the throng surrounding the circle for a sign of Colvin.

Duerden kept going as if he had not heard her. “Pry-Ree was defeated before we were born, Lia. It used to be its own kingdom, but now it is a vassalage of the Crown. They have always hated us. Some are saying that Demont did not win Winterrowd because of the Medium as the mastons claim. They say that there was an ambush and a slaughter to avenge the death of Demont’s father and the overthrow of Pry-Ree. They say Demont was in Pry-Ree before crossing with his men. Now that he controls the king’s privy council, we may never know the truth. Strange days, Lia. So very strange. I am not sure what to believe myself.”

They danced, weaving the sashes and avoiding stepping on each other’s toes. Smiles and cheers and claps heralded them, but Lia’s heart was dark. She knew the truth, but she could say nothing of it. Not of the murderous sheriff of Mendenhall and his death by the Medium’s fire. Of Colvin and his fear of a battle where Demont’s men were hopelessly outnumbered. There were no Pry-rian archers there…except for herself and she was not even trained as an archer. Duerden held her hand and wove the sashes with her, but there was a gulf between them now, of secrets that could never be shared.

After the dance, Lia met Duerden’s family and they were gracious to her. Pasqua embarrassed her by giving her a crushing hug in front of everyone and mumbled incoherently while weeping about losing her again. Sowe was asked to dance every time and had blisters on her feet by the end of the night and a smile on her face that shone like burning oil. As they limped back to the kitchen sometime after midnight, carrying empty platters and trays from Pasqua’s booth, Lia’s heart grew heavier and heavier with those secrets and with disappointment that seemed to mount with each step on the grass and each trip back.

For Colvin Price, the Earl of Forshee, never came.

Lia wrestled with her emotions, even though she had determined in advance to master them. The Bearden Muir was different, yet the same – oppressive, haunting, thick with memories that could not be banished or tamped down. Standing over Jon Hunter’s grave, she fought down the urge to sob, to scream, the desire to undo everything she had done so long ago. It was a year since his death, a year since that awful Whitsunday fair. A year wearing hunter boots, hunter leathers, dealing in a hunter’s errands. She bit her lip, willing the memories to dull, the emotions to fade. Jon had died because of her.

Leaves and brush choked the small glen where she and Colvin had buried him beneath a pile of rocks. Had he died at the Abbey, his bones would have been interred in an ossuary and laid to rest with the Aldermaston’s blessing. She stared at the Leering stone the Aldermaston had carved, a stump-like block, hewn with a man’s bearded face on it, reposing, silent. She and Martin had finished digging a small hole for it at the head of the rock mound and set it firmly in place, kicking dirt in to fill the gaps. Their mule would have an easier journey back to the Abbey now that its weight was gone. At least the beast was relieved of its burden. Lia wondered if she ever would be.

“He was a good lad,” said Martin sternly, brushing his hands together. He sniffed and grimaced, controlling his emotions. “We will greet him again, you and I. In the next life. In a fair country where no knaves can do him harm. Where no blood is ever spilt.” He stopped and wiped his nose, but his eyes were dry and full of fire. He brooded with anger constantly, his temper shorter than even the Aldermaston’s.

Lia fidgeted with the leather bracer tight against her forearm. “I will be ashamed to face him.”

He snorted. “Did you loose the arrows that slew him? No. Did you murder mastons and spill their blood? No, by Cheshu! There are debts we all owe, Lia. But you owe him nothing for what happened. You paid your fair share in recompense, learning the ways and doing his work, which he can no longer do himself.”

Lia closed her eyes. The memories were still bitter. “If I had known then what I know now. The mistakes we made crossing the swamp. The risks we took without realizing it…”

He grabbed her arm and forced her to look at him. His finger jabbed near her nose. “It is a cruel fact, child. Wisdom comes after the moment when it is most needed. I have warned you of the doom of Pry-Ree. We failed to learn from the changing times. Failed to act when we should have acted. Instead, we were crushed, our princes butchered like hogs. So what have you learned from this journey? Hmm? If you were Jon in that moment, what would
you
have done differently? Knowing what you know
now
.”

“I do not know, Martin,” she answered, jerking her arm away from his crushing grip.

The blue fire in his eyes blazed hotter. “You
do
know.”

“He trained with you for much longer.”

He snorted and spat.

Anger flushed her cheeks, but she kept it from rising to her voice. “What do you want me to say?”

He pointed at her again. “Only the truth. He was a hunter, yes. He was trained, yes. But you know as much as he ever did. I have never trained a boy or man who learns as fast as you do. From rabbit snares to naming all the little insects in the wood. You know them all and remember it the first time.”

Lia wanted to shut the door on her thoughts, but she could not in time. The whisper was there. It was always there. The pulsing of the Medium, giving her thoughts and teasing hints. It probably frightened others how quickly she knew things. What they did not know was how the Medium taught her with silent whispers. She grit her teeth, because she did not want to speak it.

“Say it, Lia!”

Her body trembled, flushed and overflowing with emotions. She was afraid of the truth. Which was perhaps the very reason the Aldermaston had sent her back into the Bearden Muir to settle the Leering and face the past.

Martin stepped even closer, his nose poking up at her. Even though she had grown more the last year and he only came up to her chin, his force of personality towered hers. “Say it, Lia. Cast out the shadows you cringe behind. Say it.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “He was careless.”

“Careless? Yes! Can you taste that word? It tastes like ash in your mouth. It should. Have I not taught you this when you first started to train with me? The hunter is patient. The prey is careless.” He stormed away from her, stamping his boot in the muck. He spat. “An elk returns to the same place of water because it is the place of water. A patient hunter waits in the bushes. Waits until the elk is thirsty. That way, he has a clean shot. The closer he gets, the better aim. But a man is not an elk.” He tapped his finger on his forehead then pointed to the mound of stones. “He was careless.”

Lia sucked in a strangled breath. Her body ached, her spirit suffered. Yet she knew Martin was right. Jon had misjudged the sheriff’s ruthlessness. Instead of hiding the trail, Jon could have waited to catch them by surprise. A single archer with a full quiver and a steady aim was deadlier than charging knights, for he could kill those knights at a distance.

Martin paced in the woods, waving his arms with his emotions as he typically did. “He could have created false trails with the horse and let you two sneak into the woods on foot. He could have taken another path back to the trail to throw off an ambush. Or he could have waited for the sheriff and his ilk and the three of you fight together. Greater odds fighting alongside a knight-maston than by himself.”

Lia bit her lip. “He was not a knight-maston then.”

Martin snorted and waved his hand in annoyance. “We honor Jon’s grave today, Lia. You said this maston dedicated it already, so there is nothing we can do to hallow it further. The Leering is here so that the Aldermaston can pay his respects when he is no longer bound to Muirwood. Let us return home. You know your lessons. Now let this experience be a teacher to you as well.”

Lia nodded and knelt down by the Leering. She brushed her hand across the face, staring into the silent visage. A year had passed. A year of scornful mocking from Reome for dressing like a boy instead of a woman. A year wandering the woods and valleys and ditches surrounding the Hundred. Of tunnels and passwords, of memorizing faces and messages to be delivered to the Aldermaston’s allies in nearby Abbeys. Her world was a bigger place. Part of her longed to be making Gooseberry fool in Pasqua’s kitchen where life was simpler.

Looking up at Martin, she reached into the pouch at her waist and withdrew the Cruciger orb, her special talisman – her only birthright. She wore it on every journey. She was the only one at the Abbey, other than the Aldermaston, who was strong enough with the Medium to use it. It was found with her when she was abandoned as a wretched and the ball and spindles could be summoned to point the direction of places or people. “I would make one more visit before we go home. There is another Leering nearby. Another memory I need to face.”

He scowled but nodded to her. “Lead the way, lass.”

With a thought, the spindles on the orb began to whirl.

* * *

Lia gazed down at the bed of grass, thicker now and still clinging to the damp of spring. The orb in her hand tingled and writing appeared across its immaculate surface. She could not read it. This was the spot where Colvin had carried her after the blazing fire she summoned with the Medium had destroyed the sherrif and his men. Nearby, the scorched thicket of trees remained. The wood was dead, black and skeletal. The gorse was thriving again, but the thicket had been ravaged and would take years to recover.

Take me to my Leering
, she thought and the Cruciger orb spun lazily towards the thicket. Martin followed, coaxing the mule again. As she entered the dead place, she ran her fingers across the twisted blackened trunks as she passed, hearing in her mind the jangle of spurs and armor, the chuckling threats of Almaguer’s men. Part of her recoiled at the memory of the soldiers beating Colvin, and how she had flung herself over his body and used the Medium to keep them away from him. She frowned, wondering why Colvin had never returned to Muirwood. No message were ever sent. No explanation ever given.

She knew that he was alive.

The Earl of Forshee held great favor with Garen Demont and was known to all. Garen Demont, Lord Protector of the Realm, who controlled custody over the young king and ruled the kingdom in his name. The victor of Winterrowd. Oh yes, she had heard Colvin’s name mentioned excitedly after being elevated in rank as an earl. For his service in the battle, he was recognized and rewarded with additional lands. He was part of Demont’s inner circle, a member of the privy council where only knight-mastons were admitted.

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.”