The Scourge of Muirwood (7 page)

Hefting the basket of laundry, Lia gripped the gladius hilt again beneath the wrap and started up the stone steps. Her leg throbbed with the effort. Doubts struck at her thoughts, but she batted them away. Having faced a kishion before, she knew that their training exceeded hers. The last time, she had been surprised and unprepared for the encounter. It had ended with her face down, drowning in a bathing tub. She grit her teeth, preparing herself for another fight. Part of her wished Kieran was there. Two against one would make it easier, but the porter door would not have opened if he had seen them both. She did not want to think about Kieran and what he was thinking about her at that moment. His expression was one of disgust when she had revealed her lackluster plan. Follow the Medium. That was all she could do.

As Lia made the loops up the stairwell, the voices grew louder. Torches hung in racks along the wall, lighting the way. At the top of the stairs, a wooden door barred the way. Lia’s hand trembled as she reached for the handle to pull it open. There was no crossbar on it and it opened to her touch. The voices became clear and so did the presence of the Medium. It fluttered in her heart powerfully, bringing tears to her eyes once again. She recognized the powerful feelings, but it felt forced and not tamed.

“You must persuade your brother to join us,” said a man’s voice. “When the kingdom falls, do you think he will be allowed to keep his earldoms if he is on the losing side? Do you think he will keep his head? Lord Dieyre has promised him amnesty in return for your willing consent to be his wife. With his authority, I offer you his plight troth and will accept yours in return. You must promise to marry him when you reach Dahomey. His affection for you is sincere. Do not doubt that.”

“I love him, but I cannot accept him,” Marciana replied. Her voice was throbbing with emotion.

“Why not?” The voice was a sneer.

“He is not a maston.”

“You have sworn to yourself that you will only marry a maston. But what a foolish oath to make to yourself, child. What will you do when there are no mastons left? Marry your brother?” The voice dripped with sarcasm. She heard an accent in the speech, and she recognized it as Dahomeyjan. “You are the price Dieyre demands. You are the only person who can save your brother’s life. Even now, he is under guard at Dochte Abbey in Dahomey. He is being treated fairly and courteously. But should you refuse this arrangement, he will be sent into the dungeons. There are serpents in the dungeons, my lady. If he were to fall asleep, he will be bitten and poisoned. Do not trifle with me, child. You must promise to marry Lord Dieyre. You must say it for it to be binding. You must agree.”

The Medium throbbed even stronger and as Lia opened the door, she heard Marciana sniffling and crying. The only light in the chamber was the light of fire. The air was thick and hot and smelled strongly of incense.

“I am thirsty,” Marciana moaned.

“Then drink some more cider,” the man replied.

“I will not drink it,” she said. “Water – just a little water.”

“Then tell me you will swear your betrothal to Lord Dieyre. I will bring you water. I will summon it fresh from a
gargouelle
. Cold, clean water to soothe your thirst. But you must first swear it. Or drink the cider.”

As the door opened slowly, Lia saw Marciana in a rich crimson gown with black and gold trim. There were ornaments of gold in her hair, which was loose and thick about her shoulders. The bodice of the gown was cut low in the Dahomeyjan style, similar to what Lia had seen the Queen Dowager wear. Marciana looked tortured – her eyes brim with tears. She shook her head, pacing the far side of the chamber where thick curtains blocked the sun. She crushed her fists against her forehead and sobbed, pacing, wracked with her feelings. Lia’s heart burned with anger.

The man in the room wore a black cassock. His hair was short and cropped and he had a disdainful look on his face. His eyes glowed silver as he turned and looked at Lia.

“I gave
orders
to leave the basket below,” he said in a sulky tone. The Medium swirled around Lia, enveloping her in ribbons made of iron. Fear exuded from the man. It made her think of Almaguer. She shuddered with terror at the feelings swarming her body. The Myriad Ones sniffed about her, so thick it felt the room was bursting with them. They swarmed around Marciana, sending their thoughts into her, willing her to bend to their will. Lia’s heart panged with compassion for Marciana. She knew what it felt like.

“I beg your pardon,” Lia mumbled, bowing her head. She skirted to the side to drop the basket near a brazier. “Would you like me to hang them to dry?” she asked with a quaver in her voice.

“Yes,” the man said impatiently. “If you must. Then leave us.”

There was a changing screen near the brazier and Lia walked to it and discovered several other garments – some thin chemises and another gown. She carefully withdrew the first damp gown and fitted it to the pegs on the changing screen so it could dry by the fire. Sweat ran down her cheeks.

“Will you answer me, Lady Marciana?” he said, turning his attention back. “Will you please explain to me again why you will not marry the Lord Earl? Do you not care for him?”

“I do,” Marciana said, sobbing.

“You think him not clever enough for you? He is too old and doddering for you? There are many a girl from your station who are forced to marry as children. The king orders them to be wed, despite their feelings. Can you imagine that? Being forced to marry a man at fifty as the Queen Dowager was forced to marry your dead king? You are being given a choice! A chance for wealth. A chance for power. A chance to have children who will love you and adore you. To be a mother, as you did not have one. Do you not long for that? To be a mother? To comfort and nurture a sweet baby. Can you imagine holding that son or daughter in your arms? Can you comprehend the joy of hearing its first cry?” The voice was mesmerizing and it filled Lia with hungers she had never experienced before. She slammed the thoughts away because they distracted and ensnared. They wove through the most delicate part of her feelings. But the threads were not pure in their intent.

“He can give that to you,” the man continued, his voice barely a whisper. “Even joys and pleasures you do not comprehend. Is it wrong to crave children, my lady? Can you imagine holding the child. Suckling him. Loving him. Does not your heart crave these things? Your baby. Your own. Will you not accept Lord Dieyre’s offer of marriage? I am not asking you to yield to the binding, just a promise that you will when you reach Dahomey. Let him declare his feelings for you himself. As I told you, he is no longer a prisoner of the Crown. He is not in rebellion against the throne, but a champion of the young king and an enemy of the usurper, Garen Demont. You know this to be true. He is the only one who can save you and thus save your brother. Can you be so selfish?”

Lia looked at Marciana’s eyes. She was tortured, exhausted, and weak. How long had she been captive, living in the Stews, unable to know what happened to those she loved? The air was perfumed and cloying. Lia was sure the cider had been treated with other herbs or had been allowed to spoil and strengthen its flavor. The man in the black cassock, the kishion, manipulated her feelings with deftness and cruelty.

“I am so thirsty,” Marciana said with a tremulous sigh. She was begging.

“Then drink the cider,” came the reply and he poured some from a bottle into a golden cup and offered it to her. His back was to Lia as she started towards him stealthily.

“Water,” she pleaded.

“Just a sip, to quench your thirst,” he promised, holding up the chalice.

Lia pushed the dirk blade into his back. She knew right where to stab, right where his air would spill out. The fabric slit. Blood bloomed on her hand, warm and hot. He gasped, thrashing. His neck jerked around, his silver eyes burning into hers, sending her into a daze of panicked emotions as he died. In that instant, she could see into his frenzied thoughts, full of terror because the Myriad Ones would leave his body now.

He slumped to the floor and Lia let him fall. She lowered the shawl.

Marciana looked at her, puzzled, confused. Then her eyes widened with shock and horror. “The kishion,” she hissed. “Behind you!”

Lia heard the body swing down from the rafters and fall like a sure-footed cat. The kishion blocked the doorway leading out. She realized, too late, that the man in the black cassock was not the kishion after all. She realized also that her gladius was still in the basket.

“Oh Lia, he will kill us both!” Marciana whispered. “He has not left me since Muirwood.”

The hunter is patient. The prey is careless. Lia swallowed, trying to contain her fear. She wished again, pointlessly, that Kieran was with her. Her mind raced as she glanced about the room, looking for a way to shift the balance.

“Stay behind me,” Lia said. The kishion started towards them with twin daggers in his hands. He had the same dead eyes she had seen before, a man utterly devoid of feelings. A scar ran down his left cheek. His eyes were blue, his hair cropped short. There was something in the look of his mouth, some rugged quality of his chin that told her he had survived many fights and killed many – even women.

Lia glanced at the nearest brazier, remembering that it was fire that had destroyed her previous enemy. There were no Leerings in the tower, no stone sculptures, but there was fire and she had the Gift of Firetaming. It would not burn her.

She shifted to the right, keeping as much of the room between them as she could. The windows were all blocked by heavy curtains. The idea bloomed in her mind. Force the enemy to react to your plans, instead of reacting to theirs. She was not fully healed and feared the kishion’s skill at knife-fighting eclipsed hers. If she focused on her strengths, it would give her a better chance.

The kishion studied her, weaving closer, watching her feet as she moved, seeing which leg she favored. She grit her teeth, trying to keep from wincing at her throbbing leg. He was judging her abilities.

“I offer terms,” Lia said. “Will you negotiate?” She moved closer to the brazier.

“The challenge lures me,” the kishion replied. “Not the gold. Drop the dirk and I will kill you quickly. You murdered a Dochte Mandar. They will want you dead for that and it will not be a pleasant death.”

Lia darted as he spoke. She had hoped he would respond to her, to distract his mind from her true intent. The brazier glowed with burning coals and the black iron was white with ash. Flames filled its bowels and offered light from between the thick slats. It had four tiny legs keeping it up and Lia gripped the bars and shoved it over, spilling the flaming coals onto the nearest curtain. The metal was warm against her hand, but it did not burn her. The curtain erupted into a sheath of flames.

She tried to use the Medium to control the fire, but there was not even the spark of it in the tower any longer. It could never be forced by a maston, only pleaded with or persuaded. She was on her own yet still. Black smoke began to fill the room. The curtain blazed, sending fire up to the wooden rafters.

The kishion lunged at her.

He was faster than she thought he would be, but there was something new in his eyes – a little hint of fear at the crackling flames. She had changed the balance of the duel. He had experience with fire. He knew how fast it would devastate the room.

Lia watched his feints, refusing to react to them, to be distracted. He suddenly dropped low and tried to sweep her bad leg with his boot, but she moved aside and sliced towards his ear. He deflected it with a dagger and she whirled around behind him, trying to draw him after her. It worked. He had seen how lethal she could be with a dirk and slashed at her with his other hand. Lia jumped away from the cut and saw Marciana backing away from the kishion, towards another curtain.

“Get to the door!” Lia told her, stabbing carefully at the kishion, trying to push him back into the blaze of the curtains. If she could get close enough, she could shove him into the burning mass, but he recognized her plan and went after Marciana.

Lia intervened, slashing at his arm. Smoke swirled in the room, obscuring everything, her movements and his. Suddenly the kishion’s blade lashed out at her, the dagger at her ribs. He stabbed just above the leather girdle she wore, beneath her breast. She felt the point of the blade rip against her shirt, tear it, and then glance away.

There should have been pain. There should have been a cut. She realized to her surprise that the dagger had not penetrated. The shirt was torn but the blade stopped against the chaen beneath.

There was another look in the kishion’s eyes. It was a blow that should have impaled her and instead, had not even harmed her.

“Maston,” he murmured.

Lia clawed at his eyes with her fingers. She felt his skin tear as her fingernails bit into his flesh. With her other hand, she stabbed and managed to land the blade into his arm as he deflected it from his throat. He snarled once and backed away, his eyes burning from the smoke. Red tears tracked down the side of his face with the scar. Blood.

The door opened and Marciana fled the room.

“No!” the kishion bellowed. He hoisted his dagger and threw it after the fleeing girl. Lia watched helplessly as it whistled and spun, end over end. In her mind, she remembered Astrid being cut down by such a stroke, the blade burying itself in his lower back. She willed the blade to stop, she willed it to miss. In Marciana’s place, the dagger was caught mid-air by Kieran.