The Wretched of Muirwood (10 page)

“There you are,” he said, rising to his full height. The glow in his eyes began to dim as he approached.

“You are not…” She could barely talk, and swallowed to clear her voice. “…Allowed. To be here. The Aldermaston forbids it.”

“You have your grandmother’s famed beauty. The slope of you nose, your cheeks. It must be hers. The sons were handsome, to be sure. Your father was indeed a handsome man. Did he ever know about you, I wonder?”

Lia could not stop trembling. Breathing was an effort. “I do not believe you.”

He stopped at the bottom of the loft ladder. “So young. So very young.” And he gave her a look, a look that made her stomach sick, her head swim, and that made the floor feel like it was spinning.

“Go,” she whispered. She wanted to scream, but there was something terrible in his dimly glowing eyes. Something warped and black, the color of shadows behind the gleaming silver.

“I was there when your grandfather and uncle died. I fought in that battle. That glorious battle when so many accursed men of your Family fell. I would never have dreamed it possible that one of them would leave a wretched behind. So sanctimonious! So full of pride and their own worth. You must be one of them. Your face…your sweet face. It is staring at me past the brink of death. Child, you are special.”

He put a hand on the ladder and started up.

“Do you wish to know the name? Are you not curious why you were abandoned? The shame of it! Oh, the glorious shame they must have felt.” Each step of his boots shook the ladder, doubling her fear. “How they must have choked on it, a cup of gall spilling over.”

“Go,” Lia whispered huskily again, her voice too dry to speak loud – or scream. Sowe was asleep near her, her back facing them. A spasm of fear went through Lia’s heart as his face crested the loft floor.

“I can tell you all. I know where your father died. I know when he died. The blood of your Family is still on my sword. The moans have never rubbed clean. But I will tell you of them. Of their traitorous hearts. Of their punishment even after death. Your grandfather. Your uncle. Their heads spitted on spikes. How we played with their corpses. Oh, child, how we avenged you!”

His gloved hands gripped the top of the ladder poles, his breath reeked of something fetid. His presence smothered her, like a bell jar encasing a candle and withering the flame. It was the Medium, and it was awful. She saw the thin gleaming chain around his throat.

Like a kitten struggling to survive in a raging river, she clawed at it. Her fingers tightened around the chain, and then she yanked as hard as she could. The medallion slipped loose from his shirt front and the sight of it nearly made her vomit. The chain snapped.

“Little…!”

With the chain still in her fist, Lia shoved him hard, his weight sending the ladder backwards. He was quick, so cruel and quick, and grabbed a fistful of her curly hair as the ladder tottered backwards. He dragged both of them down, and she fell, landed atop the ladder – on him – and he flinched with pain and grunted as they slammed on the floor.

Lia was breathless, stunned, but the gloom had left. The feelings were gone. She clawed her nails into his face, then yanked her hair free. He shoved the ladder off, and she ran for the door. Already he was struggling to his feet, wasting no words on curses or threats. She raised the crossbar, yanked hard on the door, and fled into the night, only to run into one of his soldiers outside.

In a fury, she tried to rake his face with her nails, and only after he caught her wrist did his familiar leathery smell, his scruffy beard, his tangled hair come together in her mind in recognition. It was Jon Hunter, gladius in his hand.

She had never felt more grateful to him than at that moment. The door opened again as the sheriff followed her out. Lia cringed, but Jon thrust her behind him. Looking up, she saw the Aldermaston closing the distance with a glowing orb in his hand. She recognized having seen the orb in his chambers, but had never witnessed it glow with the Medium’s power.

The sheriff’s eyes blazed. Blood dripped from a scratch-mark on his forehead, and he seethed silently, his hands opening and clenching. Jon’s blade was up, the point aiming at the intruder’s heart. His expression said,
draw your blade man, and I will run you through, sheriff or not.

When the Aldermaston reached them, Lia felt another surge of relief and started to cry. He bent over her, taking her chin and forcing her face up. He looked ferocious and concerned. “Did he hurt you, Lia?”

Unable to speak, she shook her head no.

His gaze lingered on her face for several moments as the storm of fury built even further across his countenance. He was known for his fierce temper. The rage mounted like a storm. Patting her cheek, he raised to his full height and faced the sheriff.

“Almaguer, you violated my hospitality. How dare you.”

The light from the orb in his hand made the sheriff wince as it flashed brighter. “I was seeking answers from her, Aldermaston. Nothing more. That is my duty to our king.”

“My duty is to protect the inhabitants of Muirwood Abbey. I cannot tolerate anyone polluting the protection these grounds provide. They shield every pilgrim soul from any kingdom. The king will learn how you have abrogated your duties. You will be sharply punished.”

“You may tell him yourself when he arrives!” the sheriff said with a snarl. “It will not be long. The traitors are festering nearby. You can smell it in the air like a kill rotting in the sun. Anyone who has supported them in any fashion will feel the fullness of the king’s wrath. Even you, Aldermaston. Even this ancient place.”

“We have survived many wars and many storms and many such threats. I care only for the proper instruction of the learners here and to preserve this place from the peevish intrigues you waggle at me. Be gone, Almaguer. Be gone at once! Your men with you. Either you or I will die before any unfortunate reunion between us must occur. I revoke your welcome. Jon, escort the sheriff to the gates. I warn you, sheriff, that he has been well trained. Defy him at your peril. Prestwich will evict the rest of your men. Then lock the gates.”

“Yes, Aldermaston,” Jon said, never lowering his blade until the Aldermaston motioned him to.

As Lia watched the sheriff go, he looked back at her one final time. But his eyes were no longer glowing. She could see him looking at the thin thread of chain clutched in her hand.

* * *

There was a loose tile in the kitchen floor where Lia hid all her treasures. So, she hid the sheriff’s medallion and chain there during one of Pasqua’s garderobe visits the next morning. Thankfully for her, she learned, Jon had prowled around the kitchen all through the night and had seen the sheriff intrude. He had rushed to warn the Aldermaston and arrived back at the moment of Lia’s escape. She was so grateful for his timely rescue that she kissed his bearded cheek, which embarrassed him crimson and made Pasqua gasp and rush for a broom to shoo him out, but his exit was hasty.

Sowe, on the other hand, needled Lia constantly about confessing their crime to the Aldermaston before something even more dreadful happened. Lia managed to convince her, after much persuading, that it would only do more harm than good. The Aldermaston could faithfully deny knowing a wounded stranger was being tended at the abbey. It would be best to tell him later after the armiger was gone.

When the afternoon meal was over, Lia was surprised to learn that people were gossiping about the king’s men who had departed in the middle of the night without a word. There was no mention of the attack against Lia in the kitchen. The sheriff Almaguer, it was said, had commanded his men to mount up and ride, which could only mean that their hunt for the wounded soldier continued.

Sowe said she did not feel well, so she stayed in the kitchen while Lia took a cloak to search for Duerden near the duck pond. The day was sunny, though damp. It was clear enough that even the crouch-backed hill known as the Tor was in full view. Many of the learners and helpers had doffed their cloaks and all enjoyed the sunshine. A few children chased butterflies. Most of the learners and helpers used the field in front of the pond as a place to meet and wrestle or play games.

Lia found Duerden sitting beneath the largest oak with a tome in his lap. He carefully turned the thick metal pages, his finger tenderly tracing the etching as he read. All the learners had tomes made of precious aurichalcum, a metal made from blending copper and gold. The gleaming pages were held together by three sturdy rings mounted into a thick, flat base. She looked at it, wishing jealously for one of her own.

As she approached, he gave her a mock frown and carefully closed the record. “Treasa Lavender was churlish with me yesterday. For no reason I can name, she came up to me, poked me in the chest, and said that the next time I needed a shirt washed, I should ask her or one of the other lavenders and not you.”

“She is right, you should,” Lia said. The walk from the kitchen, combined with the sun, had made her very warm, so she unfastened her cloak and used it as a blanket to sit on. She had forgotten to warn him and silently cursed herself. “It is Reome’s fault. She just assumed I was washing yours. I never told her that I was.”

“What affronts me is that she does not think I, or any learner for that matter, ought to wash our own clothes.”

“You are all highborn, Duerden. From a Family.”

“That makes no difference. Aldermaston Willibald who wrote the Hodoeporicon planted his own crops, and served his people instead of himself, and I am quite convinced that he even did his own laundry. It is laziness, pure and simple.”

“You do not bake your own bread,” Lia reminded him. “Or forge your own tome.”

“But laziness does not prevent me from learning any craft. Far from it, I arise the same hour that you do. Mundane tasks are equally relevant for controlling the Medium, and I enjoy fresh air before sunrise. Work has a way of cleansing the mind. One does not grow strong unless one works at where one is weakest.”

Lia yawned. “What did you learn from the king’s men yesterday?”

“Why do you care so much about it, Lia?”

“Because Sowe and I are always the last to hear and the war would be over before anyone decides to tell us anything.”

Duerden laughed and leaned back on his elbows. “Gossip. Fair enough. You probably are still the last to know. Everyone has talked about nothing else all day. Traitors to the realm gather in Winterrowd. They seek those willing to join them in a revolt against the king. And they will be slaughtered. Even with Garen Demont leading them.”

“Who is Garen Demont? Is that a Family name?”

“Only one of the more famous ones. Garen’s father was Sevrin Demont.”

“And who is that?”

“You do not know who Sevrin Demont is?”

“I would not be asking if I did.” Sometimes he was feather-brained.

“How can that be? Everyone knows who he is!”

Lia shrugged, trying to tame her patience. “I have never heard that name before. Who is he?”

“He used to be king in all but name. Never lost a battle, except his last. They say he was brilliant on campaign, knew no fear, yet he held true to his principles. He was a true knight-maston in every way that matters most, and though he was only an earl, he was treated like the crown prince. Our last king, of course, hated him. That was our current king’s father. Our good king, our cruel king, our
crowned
king was the man who defeated the Demonts in the battle of Maseve. It has been said, at court, the battle was between equal forces. But I was told it was five or six men to one. Usually the highborn of Family are imprisoned and ransomed. Not the Demont Family. They were brutally massacred. That was the end of chivalry in our kingdom, I think. There are few knight-mastons left in this generation. It is easier to serve the king, they say, if you are not a maston.”

“And Garen Demont is the son?” Lia asked, sitting up straight and leaning in.

“He is one of the younger sons. Gravely wounded at Maseve and imprisoned instead of butchered – which one might attribute to many reasons, some of which may involve the Medium. He escaped after his injuries healed and fled to another country. Dahomey, I think.” He sat up, his eyes twinkling. “There is one story about him that I particularly admire. After Maseve, he joined the service of some foreign king and won many battles. One summer, he was visiting an abbey in a distant land and one of his cousins arrived, for they are cousins to our king through marriage. This cousin had fought against his Family at Maseve. Well, Garen drew his sword and nearly beheaded the man right then and there. Yes, in the middle of the Abbey grounds! Everyone gawked, expecting to see blood spilled. Then he paused, spat on the ground, and said, ‘Though you had no mercy for my father and brother, I will grant mercy to you.’”

“That was very generous of him,” Lia said, wide-eyed.

“An act of clemency that made him practically as famous as his father. Rumor has it, Lia, that he is back from fighting foreign wars, that he has come to raise an army to topple the king who killed his father. The thought of Sevrin Demont’s son, like his father revived, coming to our realm has the whole kingdom ablaze with a thousand different rumors. So this may be rumor only. He may still be leagues and leagues away serving a foreign king. But from what I heard the sheriff’s men say, they are not treating it as an idle report. The full host of the king’s army musters and marches on Winterrowd. As I told you before, there will be another slaughter.”