The Blight of Muirwood (32 page)

Lia looked at him in wonderment.

“You are wondering how I made it past the Leerings,” he said. “Since I am not intending anyone any harm they merely scowled at me. That or they are, after all, only bits of carved rock with angry faces.” His mouth twitched with a smile.

“You have violated the Aldermaston’s hospitality,” Lia said. “He will decide what to do with you.”

“I put myself under his authority and guidance,” Dieyre replied. “I am not a maston and cannot claim the privilege of sanctuary here. But I request it all the same.”

Lia was not sure what to think. Was Dieyre’s change of heart sincere? Could he be sincere about anything? “You will have to appear before the Aldermaston then and petition him in person. He is ailing, as you know, and needs to rest. It may be some time before he will see you.”

Another unconscious smile twitched. “It would amaze you how patient I can be.”

Lia frowned, bothered by his words and some deeper meaning. It was as if the word he meant to have said was
stubborn
instead of
patient
. “Why were you speaking with Reome Lavender?”

“Is that any of your affair?”

“Let me be the judge of that. She was crying.”

“That seems to be a curse most women are afflicted with.”

Lia waited patiently, staring at him. Silence seemed to work best in those situations.

“There was a misunderstanding last night at the maypole dance. With a local smithy who has been carrying a torch for the girl. Completed besotted with her, you see. Did not take it in a friendly way when I earned a kiss.” He held up his hands. “He was acting a bit possessive and the cider had definitely gotten the best of his wits. I am sure you saw more than one broken cask on the green. One had his head in it. Two of his friends tried to help him and ended up wearing wooden crowns as well.” He smirked. “The lad is a fool if he thinks she will pass up my offer in favor of his paltry one. Ask the villagers. I am sure you will. They saw it.”

Lia suspected there was much more to the story. But this was not the time or the place to learn it. “Go to the manor house and ask for Prestwich.”

“The balding, aging fellow with a sour spleen?” he asked derisively.

Lia gritted her teeth. “He will grant you audience with the Aldermaston.”

“Very well.” He started on his way and then stopped, looking back. “The weather is fine. I should like to go hawking today. Please arrange it with your other duties. A falcon or a hawk will do. I am not fond of hunting with kystrels.”

The way he said it made her shiver. The look said much more than his words. He turned and left, marching quickly towards the manor house.

Sowe’s hand slowly found Lia’s. “He is…he is so dangerous,” she whispered.

“Colvin said he was the best swordsman in the realm,” she replied, watching him go. “But I am not sure if his greater talent is not his ability to persuade. Poor Ciana. He is relentless.”

“Let us go back to the kitchen. I feel safer there,” Sowe suggested.

“I need to go by the apothecary first,” Lia answered, remembering her errand.

“I will go with you.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way. As they approached the apothecary, the door opened from the inside and Getman Smith came out, holding his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his face wrinkled with misery. But when he saw Lia and Sowe, his wince turned into a dark scowl.

“Sowe,” he whispered, his face suddenly burning.

Sowe’s sudden squeeze on Lia’s hand shocked her with its intensity. Getman shuffled down the stone steps from the apothecary door, his scalp bandaged. Lia had the strong suspicion that he was one of the young men who had tried to punish Dieyre and failed.

“Why did not you come last night?” Getman said to Sowe, ignoring Lia.

“I was with Pasqua,” Sowe whispered, so faintly that Getman could not hear it.

“What?”

“She was with Pasqua,” Lia said abruptly. “You look terrible, Getman.”

“Was I talking to you?” he said with a snarl. Then back at Sowe he glared. “You did not join the maypole dance last night. It was Astrid, then? He told you? I thought I saw him sneaking. He probably overheard.”

“I…” Sowe said, starting to tremble. “I…did not want to go last night. To leave the Abbey.”

Lia could see that Getman was bitterly disappointed in the turn of events. He was humiliated, furious, and desperate. He had one more year until he was required to leave Muirwood and he had counted on the Whitsunday fair to progress his relationship with Sowe. He was completely blind to her feelings, of course. Most men were afflicted with that curse.

“Astrid,” he muttered savagely as he walked by them. He shook his head in rage.

Lia felt a pang of concern for the boy. She caught Getman’s sleeve. “You leave him alone,” she warned in a low voice.

She was unprepared for the depth of his reaction. A lidded kettle frothing so violently inside that the release let out a scaling hiss of steam. His face contorted with uncontrolled rage. In an instant he was screaming at her.

“Do not touch me! I swear I will thrash you too, hunter or not! You strut around this Abbey with a blade and a bow. I could take you down with one fist. One fist!” His clenched fist quavered high, threateningly. “You are nothing, Lia! You were born nothing and you will die nothing! Like we all will! All of us, each one! I hate this place.” His fist continued to quiver. “If you ever touch me again, I swear I will thrash you until you are black with bruises. You are nothing. Nothing! We are all nothing here. How I hate it.”

A red haze of anger swelled inside Lia. The look in Getman’s eyes – it was horrific. He was so angry, so humiliated he was going to lash out at anyone and everyone. In one move, she could have him face first on the ground. Who was he to talk to her like that? He, who had been a bully to her all her life. She had trained with Martin for almost a year. She had protected the Abbey from the Queen Dowager’s men – had thrown a man off his horse. She had fought a kishion face to face and nearly been drowned. Who was this blacksmith boy with a cracked skull?

“Lia,” Sowe warned in a tremulous voice.

More than anything else, Lia wanted to humiliate Getman Smith. For all the bruises he had left on her arms. For all the tormenting he had done to the wretcheds. What would everyone think when they heard that she, a hunter, had knocked him to the ground? She was not a nothing! She could use the Medium better than Colvin or Edmon. She had defended Muirwood that morning in a way that Getman would never understand. She was not just a wretched, she was a wretched from Pry-Ree. And now she was a maston.

Will you observe justice towards all men? Will you do no harm to any one unless the Medium commands you?

Getman’s voice was thick with contempt. “You may dress like a boy all you like. You probably enjoy it! But you will never be the man Jon Hunter was. You will never be as good as him. Why the old man chose you…I have never understood. It should have been me. I should have been chosen. Not you.”

Lia wrestled with her anger and the oath she had taken. She could hardly speak through her fury. “Do not touch that boy,” she warned.

“Or what? Are you going to stop me? No, you will tell the old man like you tell him everything I have ever done. I know he hates me. Might as well leave now. I cannot stand another year in this place.”

“You have no idea what you are saying,” Lia replied, trying to calm herself. “Let us go, Sowe.”

She reached for the other girl’s hand and started to pull her away when Getman grabbed a fistful of her clothes at the shoulder, ready to yank her back and insult her again. In grabbing her gown, he also seized her chaen.

The Medium flared inside her, a wall of blazing ice and fire that stunned her with its intensity and fury. To Getman, she imagined it was like gripping a lightning bolt. His eyes went wide with shock, his fingers paralyzed by the feeling blazing through him. As if something huge and heavy collided with him, he stumbled few steps backwards, his hand as red as if he had pressed it against the inner wall of the forge. It was the Medium that had struck him, not Lia. She had not called it to bear at all. She had not summoned it or even thought about it. All she had done was cool her temper and trample her instinct to humiliate him.

Getman gaped at her.

Lia smiled warningly. “Do not touch me,” she said.

* * *

After Whitsunday each year, the learners returned with their families back to the manors and castles they came from. Teachers who had not seen their families for the duration of the year abandoned the Abbey for a brief season. The cloister was locked and secured. The wretcheds kept working, but had more time to enjoy without the constant fuss of learners. With the Queen Dowager gone like a whirlwind as well, it was quieter on the grounds. A new routine would begin. The end of the season was a quiet time, one that Lia usually relished.

Colvin’s departure crushed her with wistful memories.

Before he had returned, there were places she could go that would remind her of him. The forbidden grounds where Maderos’ lair existed, for example. The loft ladder or the Pilgrim Inn. She could go to those places and remember seeing him there. But since he had stayed at Muirwood, it felt as if his footprints were everywhere – in the grass, near the majestic oak trees, through the Cider Orchard. Especially the orchard. It pained her to walk there now, remembering the look on his face when he had rejected her. The memories surprised her with their vividness and the intensity of feelings.

He was gone and he would never return. Did she truly believe it? That they would never see each other again? The Aldermaston was still ailing and had asked her to stay close to the grounds in case the Queen Dowager returned. She did not know if they were still surrounded or not – their enemies could still be lurking in the woods. She wanted to investigate but would not disobey the Aldermaston.

At least once a day she had to endure the presence of the Earl of Dieyre. He was so different than Colvin. Talkative, witty, shallow – intense. She took him hawking twice and he was courteous and grateful, yet always pressed her to go further from the grounds than she thought wise. She refused and he relented – but he still pushed her. He knew the sport and enjoyed the kills. But she did not trust him. For some reason the Aldermaston had let him stay.

At dusk on the third day after Whitsunday, Lia checked the perimeter of the grounds as she usually did, always on the look for the sign of trespassers. She had passed the grounds on the far side of the fish pond and worked her way around to the far side of the Cider Orchard. The light was beginning to fail, but she saw the matted grass first before she noticed the bootprints.

Lia froze, staring at the ground. Instinctively, she reached for her gladius and drew it. She approached the telltale signs. There was no mistaking it. A man’s step, a man’s stride walking quickly and deliberately up the hillside and into the orchard. Her heart went wild with uncertainty. The prints were fresh.

She stooped, tracing the edge of the print with her finger, her sword hand ready. What to do? She could go straight to the Aldermaston. But he would have her track the prints. Why the orchard? Was someone stealing apples for food?

Lia started along the trail, following the steps into the Cider Orchard, listening to the wind rustling the branches and leaves. It was silent. No thrashing of limbs. No thumping of falling apples shaken loose from the stems. She crossed as quietly as she could, keeping each step soft and deliberate. She smelled the air, listening to the sounds, hoping there would be something to warn her of danger. How had the intruder made it past the Leerings? Each step brought her deeper into the orchard until his voice came from the shadows on her left, startling her.

“You found me quickly.”

It was Colvin.

Lia’s thoughts spun with surprise and shock. She turned on her heel, staring as he emerged from around the trunk. His face was mud-spattered. His leather jerkin soiled and damp, his fingers stained with mud. Bits of bark and nettles stuck in his clothes. He looked like she usually did after a foray into the Bearden Muir.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Colvin, what is wrong? Are you hurt?”

“You seem surprised to see me,” he answered, his face a mask of intensity and anger.

“Of course I am surprised. Why are you here?”

“You truly do not know?” his voice was thick with disbelief.

“I would never lie to you. You know that. I never have. Where are Marciana and Ellowyn? Are they nearby? I only saw one set of steps to follow.”

“I was hoping, Lia, that you would tell me,” he replied stiffly. His face contorted with rage. “The Aldermaston betrayed us. Martin led us into a trap.”

He may have well punched her in the stomach. She shook her head. “No, that cannot be true.”

“Would I lie about this?” he snapped impatiently. His eyes burned with fury and another look – desperation. “Please. I need your help. I did not know where else to go. You can help me, Lia. You are the only one who can.”