The Scourge of Muirwood (34 page)

* * *

Maderos had taught her the password to open the slit in the outer wall of the Abbey. Her feelings oppressed her with crushing weight. Colvin was in danger – immediate danger. Muirwood was also facing a threat. She could feel both looming in front of her eyes, a shadow that blinded her to all other thoughts. Thrusting through the dark shaft of stone, she entered the room with the strange basin and oxen and found Maderos standing by the shaft leading to the Blight Leering. The shaft was covered by a length of silk cloth, a narrow sheet that rustled as she disturbed the air with her presence. The shimmering sheet looked like an Apse Veil.

“Maderos!” she cried, joining him around the walkway. “Maderos, where is Colvin?”

The look he gave her was stern. He turned away and smoothed the fabric, letting it settle once again. “Billerbeck Abbey.” He stared up at the length of sheet and stepped back from it. “Yes, your
pethet
is there.”

“Maderos, please tell me. Has he…has he fallen? I know he is with her…”

Maderos waved his hand impatiently. “Do not ask me, little sister. Do not ask me about the pethet. What if he has fallen, eh? What if he has kissed the hetaera? Does that alter what you must do now?”

“Maderos, please!”

His expression was as solemn as stone. “I will not influence you, child. I will not give you the answer you seek. It is your choice.” He gestured towards the shroud. “This is a Veil. An Apse Veil. There are only two Abbeys standing still. You must choose where to go. Both choices have consequences. But I cannot choose for you. It is yours to make.”

Lia stared at the Apse Veil in agony. She knew that Muirwood was threatened. She could feel it deep in her bones. She longed to go back there, even knowing that the Queen Dowager was there. Yet there was also the Abbey at Billerbeck. There was Colvin and Hillel. If she went there first, could she warn Colvin in time and then travel to Muirwood? Was there time to do both?

Maderos’ eyes were fixed on hers.

Colvin thought she was dead. Hillel believed she was dead. Was it already too late to save him? Had he, by error, bound himself to Hillel by irrevocare sigil? Even if he had unwittingly bound himself to the wrong person, would it matter? Was it the name that mattered or the person he had clasped hands with? Would he kiss her, believing her to be his wife, and receive the curse of the Blight as a result?

It was pure agony. Was she already too late?

She could not know the answer to that. In the end, it did not matter. As much as she wanted to save Colvin, it was her duty to save Muirwood. Even though the thought of losing Colvin forever tortured her, she knew she had to do her duty. She could not force the Medium to do her will. She could only submit herself to the Medium’s will.

Tears had pooled again in her eyes, but she brushed them away harshly. “I will obey,” she whispered. She gripped Maderos by the arm. “If I understood the Aldermaston of Tintern properly, once I go to Muirwood, I will not be allowed to leave. I must remain there and help direct others to the safe haven. The Blight will afflict slowly at first. Then it will increase, faster and faster, as more fall to the curse.”

In her mind, she remembered the stories about the maypole dance in Dahomey, how Pareigis had taught the youth to be bound to the pole and then steal kisses when the boys were free. She shuddered, realizing how quickly the traditions would cause the fall.

Maderos eyed her somberly. His cheek muscle twitched.

Lia swallowed and nodded, firming her resolve and her courage. Then with a glint of determination in her eye, she approached the Apse Veil and passed through it to Muirwood.

Prince Alluwyn Lleu-Iselin stroked the baby’s cheek with his finger. Tears welled in his eyes and blurred the image of the child, his daughter. She was asleep, her little mouth puckered and at rest. Little tufts of golden hair crowned her fragile head. Bending low over the basket, he kissed those curls.

“Hold it steady,” he asked. The Evnissyen’s name was Nuric. He was young but he had proven himself trustworthy. He was fluent in three languages and looked like someone from Comoros with his straight dark hair. He would blend in better than the fair-haired Pry-rians. Nuric clenched the basket to his chest and held it still as the Prince placed two fingers on the babe’s head. “Close your eyes, Nuric.”

He obeyed and the Prince made the maston sign.

“I cannot speak your name, child. My tome is sealed. I cannot claim you as kin in words, but my heart is full. From this moment, you are a wretched. I Gift you that you may accomplish the work the Medium plans for you. This little hand, this tiny little hand will change the world. It will destroy. It will also build. You are dear to me, little one. I face my fate with courage that you may face yours. I Gift you with courage. I Gift you with faith. You will be strong in the Medium, child. Stronger than I. Until we rejoin at that day to come in Idumea, I give you all that I have and all that I am. My life for yours, dearest one. I die that you may live. Be it thus so.”

As the Prince lowered his hand, he saw wetness in Nuric’s eyes. The Medium was strong in the room. The Prince had not felt it very much of late. His heart was heavy with sorrow at the death of Elle and the devastation throughout Pry-Ree. Reaching out, he clasped Nuric’s shoulder. “Guard her, Nuric. Bear her safely to Muirwood.”

“I do not know the way,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I will find it.”

The Prince opened the pouch dangling from his belt and withdrew the Cruciger orb. “The Abbey is surrounded by marshland. It is desolate country, but it has its own beauty. When you are lost, and you
will
be, put the babe’s hand on the orb and the spindles will point the way for you.”

Nuric nodded and watched as the Prince tucked the orb within the blankets in the basket. Afterwards, he clenched the rim of the basket.

“It is crucial that she has the orb when she is older,” the Prince said, looking deep in his eyes. “She must have the orb. Only an Aldermaston can command it, or one of my blood. She will need it to find her way to safety. Without it, she will fail in her mission. I trust you, Nuric. I trust you to deliver her and the orb safely to Muirwood.”

“I will, my lord,” he promised. “I will do as you have commanded me.”

The Prince’s hand was still clenched around the basket. “Be faithful to me, Nuric. You must do all that I commanded you. If you fail, then we have no hope.”

“I will not fail you, my Prince,” he promised soberly.

“Go then. Take the secret tunnel so that no one sees you. The household is moving to Dungeurth castle for protection. The king’s army is nearing the river crossing. There is little time remaining. The orb will guide you past the army safely.”

With a nod, Nuric hugged the basket tightly against his chest. The Prince reached down and hoisted the trapdoor, exposing the ladder below. With a cautious step, Nuric managed his way down into the darkness. He looked up once, his eyes meeting the Prince’s. He nodded firmly. The Prince closed it and kicked the rushes back into place.

The ache in his heart deepened. A wretched – his daughter, the princess of Pry-Ree, soon to be the only heir of the kingdom – she was only a wretched now.

* * *

Prince Alluwyn reined in his stallion as they approached the turn that would lead to the river shallows. The path was obscured by enormous trees, towering redwoods that were wreathed in mist. The ferns swayed in the gentle breeze and the buzzing and cackle of birds and insects filled the air with chatter. Four Evnissyen flanked him, also mounted, each peering keenly into the mist.

“Do you hear the river?” said Braide. “We should hear it by now.”

“Too far,” muttered Tethys. He glanced back into the woods the way they had come. He seemed to be looking for something.

The Prince noticed the tightness of his jaw. The brooding expression. He had the sullen look of a guilty man. He would not meet the Prince’s eyes.

“After they cross the river,” the Prince asked, “How long can we hold them in these woods?”

Braide sniffed the air. “Two days at most, my lord.”

“Two days!” argued Kent. “We could hold them here a fortnight if we had a mind to do so. You speak rubbish, Braide.”

Braide shrugged, but did not change his answer.

“A fortnight,” Kent continued. “This is unfamiliar ground. They will move warily, expecting us to strike their flanks, which we shall. If we harass them, striking and fleeing, striking and fleeing, we can twist and pull their army in several directions. A smaller force, striking hard and fast, can convince an enemy it is larger than it is.”

“But you forget,” said the Prince, “that our enemies have joined forces. They have Pry-rian hunters among them. They know our tricks. They know our tactics. In a matter of force, we cannot prevail. We can only forstall them.”

Kent angrily scowled, not willing to concede the point. “Where is Campion? It is nearly dusk. The river is not far.”

“Coming,” Braide said, tightening his grip on the reins and nudging his stallion forward.

The sound of galloping was heard a moment later, piercing the cluck of birds and sending several keening into the wind as they flew away. Around the bend came an Evnissyen, hunched low over the saddle. His face was streaked with sweat, his eyes wide with terror.

“Ambush!” he shouted when he saw them.

The Prince saw the arrow protruding from the meat of his massive arm as he reined in next to them.

“Ride, my lord!” Campion gasped. “They have already crossed the river. They were waiting for me in the woods, silent and still. Two hundred knights, if not more. They tried to shake me from the saddle, but I fought my way through.”

His hands were bloody. Campion looked backwards at the road. “They ride hard behind me. We will be hard pressed to make it back to the castle. Ride, my lord!”

“Crossed the river!” Kent seethed. “No one knows of the shallows here. No one save one of us. How could they have found it?”

“Ride to the castle,” the Prince ordered, his heart beginning to shudder with anticipation. His breath came in little gulps. “Ride hard while you can. They will be without the walls by morning. The women and children, make sure they are…”

The arrow struck him in the center of his back. The pain was excruciating, a hot fire that stole his breath and made him gasp. Already his fingers and legs were useless, seized up in a fit of agony. They would not respond.

“By Cheshu!” Kent roared. The Prince was facing the river. The arrow had come from behind.

“In the trees!” Tethys shouted, pointing. “I saw a man! Over there!”

The Prince fell from the saddle and struck the ground with a jolt that smashed his arm and stunned him. The pain in his back burned hotter and hotter. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He could not move. He could not scratch an itch on his nose.

“My lord!” Braide was off his saddle in an instant, gladius in hand.

“Ride,” the Prince wheezed. “They…come…”

The sound of hooves, a chorus of hooves, an avalanche of hooves sounded from the trail ahead.

“Carry him!” Kent ordered. “Toss him on my saddle. We can ride with him.”

Braide looked at the Prince’s eyes. His face turned as hard as stone. “I had hoped you were wrong, my lord,” he whispered.

“Go…” the Prince moaned, shutting his eyes as the pain overwhelmed him.

He heard the sound of stirrups, the creaking of leather. “Ride hard,” Braide ordered.

“But we cannot leave him!” Kent shouted.

Braide whistled crisply and his stallion plunged into the forest.

“There he is!” Tethys warned. “I will draw his fire. He must be a kishion!”

The others rode hard, their hooves thundering in the loam. It was not long before the knights of Comoros arrived. Not long before they were assembled to stare at their fallen foe, jostling and jeering with each other, trying to get a better look at him. The Prince listened to the mocking laughter, at the boot jabs that nudged his body this way and that.

“Roll him over,” said a voice. It was a voice he recognized and knew. A voice he had not heard in person since the day of his wedding to Elle. It was the king’s own voice.

“The arrow,” someone said. “In his back.”

“Well, you had best pull it out first,” came a chuckled reply.

The prince readied himself for the pain, but he was not prepared for it when the arrow was yanked from his back. He nearly choked on the vomit the pain caused. Someone twisted him roughly on his back, facing the sky. He blinked, teeth clenched, and tried to see or even breathe. There was the king of Comoros, on his war horse, in full armor. The Prince could sense the power of the kystrel around his neck. He could sense the despair and hopelessness that were showered on him, thrust on him, swirling around him. The king wanted him to feel every awful emotion before he died.

“Where is the traitor?” the king asked.

Tethys approached, flanked by several knights. The king looked at him disdainfully. “Give him his pay,” he said. “I keep my promises. Of that you can be sure.”