The Wretched of Muirwood (30 page)

She wanted to go with him, but it made sense. She twisted in the saddle to dismount, and he grabbed her hand to help her down.

From the ground, she looked up at him. His face was splotchy with bruises. The corner of his eyebrow was clotted with a scab, his lips cut in several places. The sun sank in the orange sky and only the twinkling winks of campfires prevailed on the fields below. She wanted to kiss him goodbye, but she knew he would flinch away from her again.

“I will find you tomorrow, Colvin.”

He smiled at her, hooked one hand around the hilt of his maston sword, then tapped the stallion’s flanks and started weaving through the trees and brush down the hill towards Demont’s camp.

* * *

It was almost midnight and the reveling of the king’s army continued boisterously. The last of the army arrived to a cheer and hurrah that split the night air and frightened the owls and bats. The laughs and clank of arms rose in waves from the sea of tents and pavilions in the fields near Winterrowd. Demont’s army, on the other hand, was subdued and silent. There were no fires that night, just a piece of earth blacker than the rest.

Lia sat at the base of a thick stunted oak, the ash bow across her lap, waiting and fighting her tiredness. The king’s army made a ruckus on purpose, she knew. She recognized it for what it was. They celebrated victory before it happened to fling doubts at their enemies. To show their confidence that winning was foreordained. There were so few in Demont’s camp. A thousand perhaps? Maybe less. She imagined that many were like Colvin – not even knights yet, though most would be mastons. A storm had raged around the abbey the night Scarseth brought Colvin to the kitchen. How long ago it felt. A different world.

Another cheer went up amidst the king’s army – another wave of triumph and laughter, and it almost disguised the noise of cracking twigs and branches. Lia sat up straight, her ears seeking the source of the sound. It came from behind her, the crunch and crackle of hooves and men. A sickening fear swept into her heart, like a cloud blotting out the moonlight. She recognized it instantly. The sick fear of the Myriad Ones. Some were snuffling near her, drawn by her thoughts.

For a moment, she nearly panicked. She was a blot in the dark, smothered by the tree’s shadow. There was only a sliver of moon in the sky. She focused on memories of Muirwood and drew strength from them. The sturdy walls with their grim-faced Leerings. The smell of the kitchen before the first day of the Whitsun Fair. Sneaking a taste of Gooseberry Fool when Pasqua wasn’t looking. A compliment from the Aldermaston.

With those thoughts and the pleasant feelings they coaxed, it was as if her mind opened and she could see things as they really were. The hillside and valley were choked with Myriad Ones as they skulked with the soldiers, prodding them on with their thoughts. The entire meadow was thick with them as they encircled Demont’s camp, grinning, anxious for the smell of blood that would shower the ground at dawn. Her imagination reeled at the enormity of the scene. There were so many! The smoke-shapes thronged in waves, thousands upon thousands. Millions. Everywhere she looked, she saw them. In every blade of grass, in every fallen acorn. Even worse, she could
feel
them and their thoughts, drunk with the lust for blood and vengeance. They were ready to gorge themselves on the emotions of the battle slaughter.

Lia turned back and looked up the hill, doing her best to stay hidden. Even though it was dark, she could see black riders. Each wore a cloak to hide the glint of their hauberks and breastplates. Each carried a sword – a knight-maston sword – but she could feel the wrongness of it. These were no mastons. They were imposters. The insight came swiftly, like a gulp of air. The king was sending them around to the rear. They would pretend to join Demont’s forces, but turn traitor in the end. The knoll was thick with soldiers and their horses as they lumbered past her solitary hiding place. They moved silently, as silently as they could. Another cheer from the camp rose, and again she realized the purpose. To hide the approach of the traitor-knights. To divert Demont’s attention to the battle in front of him, not the battle behind.

Lia knew she had to warn them. But how?

Gripping the bow, she started down the hillside, moving as quietly as she could. In the dark, it was difficult seeing her footing, and she snapped twigs and brush in her clumsiness.

“Hold. Something is moving down there,” came a whisper from behind. “Morris and Severn, see what it is. Might be a scout. Take your crossbows.”

Lia’s mind blazed with worry. She plunged ahead further, trying only to touch on the grass, but every other step rang out in her ears. The soldiers dismounted and started down the hillside after her.

“I hear it too. Sounds light – like a doe.”

Lia stopped, her heart pounding in her chest. She could not see them in the dark, but she could hear their boots.

“It stopped. Come on then. Go that way, I go this way.”

Lia started again, glanced backwards once, and then nearly walked into a tree. Catching herself, she went around it to hide, but there was no ground on the other side. The hillside gave way to open space and she gasped as she fell into the blackness.

Pain shot up her leg from her ankle as she landed abruptly then fell face first. Fiery darts of agony streaked up her calf and her whole foot throbbed. She clamped her mouth to keep from screaming. She could hardly breathe through the pain.

“Did you hear that? Over there!”

Part of the hillside had been gouged away. Dirt pattered down like rain. She looked up. The once-majestic tree she had nearly stumbled into had been split by lightning and part of it lay shattered around her, exposing some of the roots. The trunk was hollowed out. Rain over the years had washed away part of it, forming a little inlet, a little cave. She had landed in a patch of brush growing at the base, revealing the little opening. There was no way she could crawl to the camp. She needed a place to hide, and there it was. Lia dragged herself and the bow into the inlet, hearing the sounds of the king’s men above.

“Which way? Do you hear it?” Their voices were right above her. She hunkered deep into the shell of the tree, shrinking as small as she could.

“I do not. Sounded like it crashed this way. You think it was a deer?”

Another crackle from the woods came further down the hill. “There it is. Do you see it? A buck, not a doe. Come on.”

Lia breathed heavily, feeling the pain in her ankle sharpen as she crouched. She bit her lip, wondering how she was going to get to the camp to warn Colvin.

The Medium.

She remembered something Colvin had taught her. That there were people strong enough in the Medium to share thoughts, no matter how distant. Writhing in pain, she tried to focus her thoughts. To push them through to wherever he was. She pictured his face in her mind, remembering the look of tenderness he gave her. A surge of warmth brought a blush to her cheeks.

Colvin?

She could still feel the sensation of his fingers, his strong hand, as he helped her down from the saddle. She remembered how she had wanted to kiss him goodbye.

Lia?

It was less than a whisper. She was not certain she had even heard it, but she went ahead.

Warn Demont. The king sends traitors behind you in the dark.

Lia?

Warn him, Colvin! Beware!

She felt herself tugged away, snatched by an strong invisible hand as if it grasped the back of her neck. It was not a soldier. It was not physical. But it felt as real as if it were. The jolt came from inside her. A guttural voice whispered in her mind – strong, angry, full of hate.

Who are you?

The thought was loud and crushed against her mind. She was choking. She could not breathe or speak, even if she had wanted to. The Myriad Ones swarmed around her in the hidden knoll, with breathless mewling. Who was this creature hiding in the dark? In
their
dark? The thoughts were bold, hateful. The voice in her mind gripped her like an insect – something he could destroy. She realized who it was, recognized the presence without understanding how. It was a memory she did not own – only borrowed.

It was the king.

The mind of the king was like a festering sore, a wound that would never heal. It tainted everything brushing near it and it expanded like darkness and shadows. Though the sky was clear of clouds, it was as if a storm raged in the valley below, harsh with thunder, hail, and wind. Instead of pelting raindrops, it was a vision of what would happen the next morning. In her mind, Lia could see the dead littering the fields, each wearing the colors of Demont and the stain of blood. In horror, she watched soldiers hacking those already dead, fixing heads on spears to warn others of the fate of those who defy the king. Lia cowered from the strength of the thoughts.

The battle of Winterrowd would not be a battle – it was more akin to butchery than any noble contest. The king would not send the soldiers in three battle lines as Colvin said. No, they would attack from all sides at once, engulfing the smaller army like a flood. No matter which way Demont’s men faced, they would be exposed. After they were all slain, she watched with despair as the butcher-soldiers turned into thieves, stripping the dead of their chaen shirts and tomes and melting them into coins, goblets, or spoons. Colvin would be among the dead. In vain, her eyes searched for him among the indistinguishable corpses. A reaping of corpses.

No!

The violence of her emotions surprised her, especially at how vividly she yearned that Colvin would not die. No, it was stronger than a yearning. She demanded it. She insisted on it. Whatever else would happen on the morrow, no matter how the king’s army engulfed them, Colvin would not die. With all the willpower she could summon, she fixed her mind on that thought. Colvin would live. A choking grip strengthened against her. She was going to die. The king’s thoughts were going to kill her.

Who are you!

She quailed again, panicking, knowing that she only had moments left to live. Myriad Ones smothered her. She could not speak. She could not breathe. In that moment of near-pure panic and fear, she clenched her fists, bowed her head, and let loose another thought as if screaming it.

Be gone from me!

The Medium awoke within her, responding to her feelings with a surge of heat. It flooded her heart, flooded her mind, strengthening her. As if the king were a man kept in dark rooms whose eyes could not bear even a candle flame, his will flinched from the fierceness of hers. She could breathe again and gasped for air, more angry than fearful. The thing gripping her mind loosened. Just as had happened with the Aldermaston and Colvin, she could discern the king’s thoughts for what they really were. What she found squirming inside his mind shocked her. He was afraid. He was afraid of Garen Demont as he had feared being weak like his father. In every war he had fought, in every battlefield he had championed, a dark twisted fear had been there, a blight in his soul. He feared anyone who used the Medium for it would not hearken to him. It would not obey him. Only through a chain and a charm around his neck was he able to light the tiniest of candles or summon the gushing waters from a
gargouelle.
But even the chain and medallion frightened him too, for he had used them too freely and now the Myriad Ones controlled him, as they had Almaguer. The medallions had made both men into puppets.

Lia raised her head and looked into the sky, into the milky gauze of stars. She opened herself up to the Medium again. She had sacrificed sleep, but somehow she knew that it alone was not enough to save Colvin. To barter for a man’s life required more.

I am only a wretched,
she thought, speaking softly in her mind through the Medium.
What must I give to achieve what I desire? Colvin is a man of proper Family. He has a sister who loves him and wishes his good health. If justice cannot be satisfied without blood, would my life be enough instead? If one of us must die, can it be me?

She waited, listening to the stillness, thrusting her petition into the stars. As if to answer her, she felt as if she grew into the size of a giant, and the king size of an ant. She saw him clearly in the camp below. He sat in a stuffed chair in his pavilion, staring blankly into a rack of torches, clutching a goblet of cider, his hand trembling so much, the amber pool sloshed.

Who are you?
his thoughts pleaded.
I know you. I recognize you. Are you a memory or a shade?

His thoughts were gibbering with fear. She realized that he did not know whether she was real or a phantom. His thoughts were so consumed with his own jealousies and needs, he could not see beyond himself, let alone see her hiding place. He could sense her thoughts, hear them almost, but not coherently. Her strength with the Medium, how she had used it to pluck his grip away from her mind, terrified him.

Who are you, girl?

Another thought came to her, so small and still that she hardly heard it at all. Yes, a life would be required to spare Colvin’s. The weight of that thought and the full rush of the Medium crashed down on her like a mountain. She collapsed.