The Blight of Muirwood (20 page)

“How could you misunderstand?” Colvin said, nearly shouting. “Because I did not reject you in the tunnel? I interpreted your gesture very differently than you intended it, I can see that now.”

“No, it is a misunderstanding. I was wrong.”

“You believed I could betray my rank, my sister, my duty for someone like you? As a sister, it would be without scorn or shame. As my sister, your world would be expanded without mine being diminished. You could visit the kingdoms we have only talked about. You could learn more than what you know now. As my sister, you could do that. But not more. Never more than that.”

His words were like poison. The look on his face devastated her. She had to make him understand. “You are my dear friend, Colvin. What we went through together, in the Bearden Muir…that night at Winterrowd. I cannot tell it to anyone, nor have I. What our…friendship has meant to me. In my heart…you became…even more dear to me. More than a brother.”

He looked away, his teeth clenched tightly. “I cannot stay here.”

“Please do not leave like this.”

His scorching eyes transfixed hers. “I was afraid this would happen. If we spent too much time together, it would make one of us vulnerable. I should have heeded that inner voice. I never meant to injure you, Lia. Your friendship has been valuable to me as well. You saved my life. But I cannot give you what you wish for. I will not betray my Family in that way. It would be recklessly improper, with your feelings, for you to become part of my family now. It cannot be, Lia.”

“I know what I am, Colvin,” she said, sobbing. “I cannot help being a wretched. It was never my choice. But if I…but if I was Ellowyn Demont instead? Would you…?”

The look he gave her sucked the breath from her lungs.

“But you are not,” he said and stormed away.

Lia ran through the orchard rows with its interlocking branches, through the wet, whipping rain, through the mud and muck until her legs throbbed with pain and her chest heaved with exhaustion. Colvin’s words burned in her ears and filled her with such self-hate she thought she would die of it. The treeline vanished abruptly, and the ground beneath her feet gave way down a small hillside. Down she ran, faster and faster, trying to outrace the wind and her sickened feelings. What had she done! Why had she ruined everything with Colvin? The ground was slick and muddy and there was no one to catch her fall, so she tumbled headlong to the base of the slope. There, in a crumpled heap at the bottom, she sobbed.

The pain of it – the pain of knowing that she had lost him – no, not lost him for she had never
had
him to begin with. The deception was exposed, her deepest secret was bared as a shell…a husk. That somehow the Earl of Forshee would look past her being a wretched, would love her for who she was and accept her. His hand had always been extended in friendship, but never more than that. And she had ruined it. How could she face him again? How could she look at him without the searing pain in her heart choking the thought of any words? Never in her life had she felt so desolate, not even in the midst of the Bearden Muir when she feared she would never see Muirwood again.

The storm howled around her, adding a certain delight to her misery. Yes, this was the kind of day to be spurned by a man. The savagery of the storm paled next to her grieving. Sitting up, clutching herself, she let out a cry of sorrow and pain for the injustice of her birth. The shame of being a wretched had never stung so much.

How could she have misjudged him so badly? She was not angry that he scorned her. She was angry that she had let herself believe he would care for her in the way she did for him. The truth of it frayed away like the dead husks enfolding the core of an onion. Since she had saved his life, the secret had begun inside her, sprouting like a tiny seed. Only now did she focus on the monstrous growth that resulted from her untended thoughts. He had promised to teach her to read, but what hurt more was the broken promise of Whitsunday. How many times had she dreamed about holding his hand as the music played? How often had she lingered on the memory of holding his hand in the tunnels beneath the Abbey – alone, secluded, heeding the forbidden urge to comfort him, warm him, be near him. He had not rejected her then, as she had feared. It emboldened her to believe that his feelings, though masked, matched hers. The mask was gone. In its place, a look of contempt.

Lia opened her swollen eyes at the mud-splattered thing she had become. Mud and grass clogged her hair, mucked her gear, and burrowed beneath her fingernails. Her chest quivered and wheezed from the surge of tears. How could she go back to the Abbey? How could she ever look at him again without blushing a thousand shades of crimson?

“Lia, you fool,” she whimpered. “You stupid, stupid fool.” How she hated herself!

What would Marciana say? In her elegant gowns, freshly combed and braided hair, with her callous-free hands? Lia looked at herself in disgust. A hunter’s life bemired her. The lavenders were always clean and smelled of purple mint. Not Lia. She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering and hugged herself. Marciana had solicited her friendship, her intimacy. She prided herself on noting hints of love. She would be furious to learn Lia deceived her. Edmon’s information was obviously incorrect, regardless of how true he believed it to be.

Then there was the Aldermaston. How could she disguise her feelings from him? Would he pity her? Or would he forbid her to see Colvin again? The thought of never seeing him again tortured her. It would be for the best if he left Muirwood. She knew she would survive it somehow. But the pain – how could she go on with the wrenching ache constantly reminding her of what she had ruined?

She loved him. She loved him more than anything else in her life. Even though it hurt, even though his rejection shattered her, she could not change her feelings for him now that she admitted to herself what they were. He had his faults, but there was so much she had always admired about him. His constant struggle to control himself. His desire to placate the Medium so that it would serve him. His care for his sister and his iron determination to succeed despite his worst fears. He was not driven by the ambition to be rich, had never once mentioned that his actions were motivated by the thought of added reward. Duty drove him. She admired that.

Lia lifted her chin to the sky and felt the water cleanse the mud from her face. She would endure it. Somehow, she would. But how?

It begins with a thought.

The very concept tormented her because Colvin had taught it to her. Yet she knew she could. If she focused on something else, if she pushed her will and all her efforts, it would bloom in her life. She just needed an idea. Something to hold on to, to give her strength.

The sound of hooves clomping in the mud.

Lia’s eyes opened as the black forms of three horses appeared from a screen of trees nearby. Each was mounted by a rider wearing a black tunic threaded in silver. She had seen the design before – the Queen Dowager’s men. She rose for they approached at an even canter.

“She moves! After that tumble down the hill, I thought her ankle twisted,” said one rider to another.

“Hush! She can hear us!”

“But she cannot speak Dahomeyjan. She is from the Abbey.”

The third rider hissed. “She is the hunter Dieyre warned of. Fool girl to wander this far. Look – she is poised to fly. Calm her, Renart, while we hedge her retreat.”

The middle rider was a handsome man and tapped the flanks of his stallion. “Are you well?” he asked in her native language but with the same inflection of the Queen Dowager. “We saw you fall. You are from the Abbey, yes?”

Lia’s mind whirled with the danger. She eyed the other two horses as they slowly broke off and started on each side of her. They were backing her towards the hill where their steeds would make it easy to outrun her. If she made it to the Cider Orchard, she would have the advantage, but it would be pointless trying to outrun the steeds when they were so close.

She said nothing, quickly thinking about her options. She had no bow, only the gladius and a dirk. They each had swords belted to their waists, and one had a crossbow dangling from a strap on the saddle horn.

“Do not be frightened,” the rider said, his smile disarming. “Did you hurt your leg in the fall?”

Lia took a tentative step backwards, away from them and then winced with pain and flinched. It was a ruse to make them think she was injured and could not run.

“She is hobbled,” the other said with a wicked grin. “The kishion wanted clothes for a disguise. Let us bring hers.”

“The earl said not to harm her,” the other warned. They were close to Lia, coming at her from three sides.

“Who cares what he thinks!” the other snarled. “She is our prize. The
kishion
wants clothes. He will not care what we do with her.”

“Give me your hand,” the first rider said, leaning forward from the saddle. They clustered around her, the snort of their steeds just shy of her face. “I can take you back to the Abbey. It is a long walk.” The smile did not reach his eyes. The look made her stomach squirm with loathing at the lie. She knew exactly what they were planning to do with her.

“Thank you,” Lia mumbled, wincing still, and hobbled forward a step.

“Why were you running…?” he started to ask when Lia lunged suddenly and grabbed his wrist instead of his hand. With her other hand, she seized his tunic sleeve and then dropped to a low crouch. He toppled straight off the stallion and grunted against the muddy earth. He was stunned for a moment, shaking his head as he wondered how he had fallen off the horse, giving Lia time to draw her gladius. She slammed the pommel into the back of his skull, right where Martin had showed her. He did not get up.

The rider’s horse screamed and flailed, offering distraction. Lia went for the man with the crossbow next, whirling around and cutting the exposed strap so the weapon thumped harmlessly to the ground.

“Grab her! Grab her!” the other shouted, stamping the horse with his spurs.

Lia slipped around the flank and severed the saddle belt, slicing into the horse’s belly with the stroke. It reared in agony and the saddle slid off his back. The rider clutched the reins still, yanking the stallion’s head back further. It twisted and bucked and both rider and stallion crashed into the mud, pinning the man’s leg beneath it. He roared with pain and Dahomeyjan curses. Lia promptly stomped on his face, silencing him.

The sound of metal clearing a sheath made her look up as the last rider dismounted and cleared the blade from the scabbard. His face was mottled with rage.

“I have you all to myself then!” he hissed in Dahomeyjan, stalking her. “Eh? You feel brave with a puny sword?”

He swung high and then low, slipping in gracefully. She was outside his reach and so did not move to parry or counter. She counted his steps in her mind, struggling to subdue her fear. With her left hand, she slipped the dirk free.

“A trencher knife now! You wish to stab me with a trencher knife!” He lunged at her, extending his reach fluidly to close the gap. The blow was aimed at her shoulder, not her heart. She knew he did not want to kill her. That would ruin his purpose. Lia twisted, using her gladius to separate herself from the blade. She deflected the thrust high and stepped inside and locked their hilts together. He was taller than her, stronger by far. In a test of strength, he would win.

Already he twisted his blade free and grabbed her cloak with his free hand, jerking it hard to wrap her in it. Lia stepped the other way and brought her heel down on his foot. His face crumpled with pain, but he was not finished with her and she knew it. She dropped low and pressed the dirk blade into his groin.

“I will castrate you!” she warned in perfect Dahomeyjan. “Drop your sword! Now!”

His eyes bulged at the position he was in. She was low, the dagger already in the motion of stabbing. His fingers opened and the blade thumped into the mud.

“My foot,” he gurgled, his body trembling. “It is broken. I cannot…stand!”

Lia swung the gladius up and nestled the edge of the blade against his throat. “On your knees!” she ordered and watched until he obeyed. Then she moved around behind him, keeping the blade against his flesh.

“My foot!” he wailed, his face wincing.

“If you even twitch towards your sword,” she warned, “I will cut your throat. How many of Pareigis’ men are in the woods? Answer me!”

“How do you speak Dahomeyjan?”

She pressed the blade harder against his skin. “If you do not answer my questions, I have no use for you.”

He swore in vexation. “There are a score of us, her personal knights. The rest are survivors of the battle when her husband met his doom. Three hundred, spreading like a net around the Abbey grounds.”

Lia swallowed. Three hundred? “How does she keep them in line? That many men, how are they kept?”

“You do not know Pareigis.”

“You are not being useful again,” she said sharply.

“The knights keep the rabble in line. And the muted one with the tattoos. But only the kishion is allowed to enter the grounds, for he can move unseen.”

Lia knew she would not have much time to question him. If these three had seen her fall, others hidden in the woods might be running for help. “Why are you here?” she asked.