The Wretched of Muirwood (25 page)

“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, then 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

* * *

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.

“Easy, Lia. There is little to share.” He handed it to Colvin, who still glowered and massaged his foot, but took it anyway and sipped.

“How did you find us?” Colvin asked, chafing his hands in the dark then put his boot back on.

Jon snorted, breaking a piece of bread in half and handed them each a crust. “I am a hunter, lad.” The loaf was slightly stale, but soft enough inside to melt in her mouth, while the outside crunched with little seeds. It tasted like Pasqua’s bread. It was delicious beyond words.

“You have no horse?” Colvin asked.

“Easier to follow you on foot. Easier to hide your trail. You took no care to disguise it, so I have followed, concealing it. Almaguer has a hunter too. He is good, because he keeps finding the trail. They would have caught you by now if I did not meddle.”

Lia reached out and grabbed Jon’s arm, just to feel that he was real. The leather bracer on his arm was damp, but it was reassuring. His bow was on the ground nearby. “The Aldermaston sent you?” she asked, daring to hope.

Again, he nodded. “I saw you in the village, as you rode away. I called out to you, but you did not see me.”

“I remember,” Lia said. “That was you?”

Jon rummaged through his pack again. “Oats for the stallion. Not much, but he will not starve. Lia, the Aldermaston wanted me to make sure you were safe. Maderos told us you were taking him to Winterrowd through the Bearden Muir with the orb.” He glanced at Colvin. “There was a big argument about that. My duty is to see that you make it safely home when it is finished. If I do not, Pasqua said she would kill me.”

Lia’s heart spasmed with joy. “I can come back? Even after what I did?”

A half-smile and a nod was his answer. He was never very talkative. Her heart was so full, she nearly started crying again. She clasped her hands in front of her, thinking of it – savoring it. She could return to Muirwood instead of being banished forever.

Colvin’s voice was dark. “Why?”

“Hmm?”

“Why does the Aldermaston help me?” He tugged a tuft of grass from the earth. “Why does he forgive her?”

Jon stowed the waterskin and cinched the pack shut again. “I do not begin to understand the Aldermaston’s reasons. He is far wiser than I will ever be. He sent me to find you. I found you. Lucky for you both. Your first day in the Bearden Muir went well. You went straight towards Winterrowd as if the Medium were guiding your steps. Then yesterday, your trail wandered to and fro like a pig drunken on spoiled cider until you reached the road. If you had stayed on the road much longer, Almaguer would have caught you. His horses are faster and his men are better riders. They do not spare horseflesh hunting a man. I thought they had you, but you came back into the swamp. I caught your trail before they did. Now they have to double-back and see where you came in. I disguised it as best I could. At least I caught you first. What happened? Did you lose the orb?”

“I failed,” Lia said, ashamed.

Jon stood to stretch his legs. “It stopped directing you?”

Lia pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. “It is my fault. I have been too fearful.”

He was silent for a moment as he considered. “I can tell you this. We will not make it through the Bearden Muir without it. We may not make it through the day. I, for one, do not want to risk being caught by them. Fear stops the Medium from hearkening to you.” He looked down at Colvin. “You are a maston though. Why did you not cure her fear?”

Colvin looked up, his jaw set. “Only she can do that. I have been…I have been teaching her about the Medium…”

Jon waved his hand. “She is not a learner! She cannot be a learner. But you
are
a maston. What about a Gifting?”

Colvin looked shocked. “I have never done one before. I…I…it is not that…”

“You are a maston. You can. You have the right to call on the Medium to lay a Gift on someone.”

“But I do not know…the words…the right words…they are written in my tome. I do not have it…”

“It is not exactly a riddle, lad. I have heard the Aldermaston do it. He Gifted me before I came to find you. Gift her with courage.”

Colvin stood, his face twisting with anxiety.

“How long have you been a maston?” Lia asked him.

“Not very long,” he replied, sounding a little ashamed. “I have never done one before. I do not know the right words.”

Jon snorted. “It is not about the words. You already know that. It is the Medium. Let it speak through you. She needs courage. Gift her with it.”

“Give me a moment!” Colvin said harshly. He turned his back to them, his fist tight, his arm taut.

Jon let him alone for a moment. “Lad, I can help you. I have heard the words. As long as you know the maston sign, you can do it. I cannot help you with that.”

Colvin’s voice was strained. “I know it.”

“Then come on, lad. You have the right, despite your youth. Use it. Or else the sheriff and his men will have us tomorrow. I tell you, they cannot be far behind us.”

Colvin turned, his eyes strong like steel.

“What do I do?” Lia asked.

“Just kneel where you are,” Jon said. “Put one hand on her head. Make the maston sign with the other. Then you call her by her wretched name. Lia Cook. Pronounce the Gifting through the Medium. The Aldermaston says they come as thoughts, not words. You have to shape the thoughts into words.”

The wind rustled the trees and the marsh grasses hissed. There was a chorus of cicadas somewhere nearby.