The Blight of Muirwood (6 page)

“Move aside,” Lia warned.

“I asked you a question.”

Lia’s patience with Reome’s taunting ended. Gritting her teeth, she shoved her basket into Reome’s – not hard, but enough to throw her a little off balance. “I
am
the Aldermaston’s girl,” she said firmly, confidently. In her mind, she pushed the thought at Reome:
stand aside, or you will regret it. Move aside, Reome, or I will humiliate you in front of these girls. I am a hunter.
The tingle of the Medium coursed through her.

Reome stared at her, shocked. She hesitated. For a moment, Lia thought she would have to fulfill her threat. But then Reome took a step backward and moved out of the way. The wall of lavenders crumpled. Holding her basket with one hand, Lia reached into the basket of another girl and took a bunch of purple mint to hang with her leathers while she dried them. “Thank you,” she said stiffly as she walked past them, heading back to the kitchen invisible in the mist ahead.

“I hate her,” came the low-throated voice behind her, but Lia kept walking.

As she went, she realized she was scowling, her heart pounding, and the wicked temptation arose to go back and shove Reome into the trough. She pictured it for a moment, savoring the image of dunking her head into the water. What would the other girls do if she did?

She caught herself, realizing the danger of her thoughts. Martin had trained her to fight – how to grab a man by the wrist, twist him around, and trip him. How to disarm someone with a dagger. How to hobble someone by breaking their foot. She even knew a dozen ways to injure or kill a man quickly, though she never had the cause to use her knowledge that way. It was locked up tight in her mind, coins she hoped she would never have to spend. But thinking ill of Reome and the lavenders was dangerous. Those thoughts could emerge as actions later, in a moment of weakness when her self-control faltered.

The grass was soft beneath her feet. Smells from the flowers and grass surrounded her, as well as snippets of sounds as the learners rose to begin their studies. Geese flew overhead, splitting the stillness with honking. Lia approached the kitchen to ask Sowe or Bryn to hang her leathers by the fires to dry so she could make it to the Aldermaston quickly. Another sound caught her ears, coming from the opposite side of the kitchen. Curious, she followed it and went around the corner to the rear of the kitchen, the side most hidden from view. Her approach was quiet as doves roosting. She peered around the corner and there he was.

Colvin.

She paused, watching him, for his back was to her. His sword was out and he was practicing with it. He moved through a series of intricate maneuvers, as if he fought off ten different men at once. Each thrust and parry was controlled – precise. Memories flooded her. They were so long ago, but she remembered the details precisely. For months she had fallen asleep each night forcing herself to remember everything she could about the days when he had been abandoned during a storm on the floor of the kitchen, bloody and unconscious. One night, he had practiced with a broom and had misjudged the distance of a table and clacked the handle hard. It made her stifle a giggle.

He heard the laughter and turned sharply. The expression on his face was pure annoyance and hostility – she had seen that look a hundred times in her mind. Impatient. Demanding. Wary. Petulant. The look melted when he recognized her. He sheathed his knight-maston sword in the scabbard and approached her.

She stared at him, clutching the basket to her stomach, and wondered if the mist meant it was only a dream. It seemed she noticed every detail. The silver starburst studs on his scabbard belt, the buckles holding the dark leather jerkin closed. The long pale sleeves matching the cuff emerging from his neck. His face, his hands. The scar. Yes, the scar at the corner of his eyebrow. He was close enough now she could see its tiny little pucker and she remembered mopping blood from it.

“Were you laughing at me?” was all he said in greeting. His voice was warm.

It had been a long year – a year of pain and worry and sadness. All of that vanished like a drop of sizzling water on a hot skillet. The look he gave her bespoke friendship and admiration. He was glad to see her, not nervous. He wanted to see her. That made all the difference in the world.

Lia flung down the basket and gave him a fierce hug to prove once and for all that he was real and that she was not stained by poisoned sap any longer. She was nearly as tall as him and could feel his cheek against her hair. He smelled of leather and sweat, but also himself. She had forgotten what he smelled like. That sort of memory was too much like smoke to grasp.

“Yes, you idiot,” she said, squeezing him hard and then pulled back, embarrassed a little at herself for hugging him, but unrepentant. She looked at his face. “I was laughing at a memory. There are many of you that make me laugh. Others that have made me cry. You did not come when you promised. I am upset with you about that. But here you are now, and I am told you are staying a season or two, so I suppose I could learn to forgive you.”

His expression was thoughtful. He seemed a little uncomfortable by her hug, but not displeased by it. “Contrive your best punishment, Lia. I submit to it. But I must be allowed to explain myself.”

“Of course you can explain yourself, but not right now.” She reached to pick up the basket, but he got to it first and she almost touched his hand. He handed it to her.

“Why not?” he asked, scrutinizing her.

“Because the Aldermaston has instructions I must hear, and he hates repeating himself. I am a hunter now, not a kitchen girl, so I have duties to attend to.”

“When can I see you today?” he asked, taking up the bunch of purple mint from her basket. He smelled it then set it back down.

“When I am free,” she answered stiffly, looking down at the flowers in the basket. “Where can I find you?”

“I have been anxious to read Maderos’ tomes and there is little else I am allowed to do apparently while the learners study.”

“Ah, the forbidden part of the grounds! As the hunter, I could forbid you to wander there. But as the rule is only to prevent other people from finding it, I will give you permission. So, I will bring the apples when we meet?” Lia offered. “The blotchy ones are the sweetest.”

He gazed at her face, seeing the blotches there. “I remember. I have craved those apples since I left. I remember this place differently now.” He looked around at the mist-shrouded trees. “There is no sign of Blight here yet,” he whispered. “I am glad of that.”

* * *

“We should live as if we were in public view, and think, too, as if someone could peer into the inmost recesses of our hearts. The Blight which assails us is not in the localities we inhabit but in ourselves. We are more wicked together than separately. If you are ever forced to be in a crowd, then most of all you should withdraw into yourself. Never trust another to do your thinking. Even a maston.”

- Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey

* * *

The discussion had already started by the time Lia reached the Aldermaston’s study, but only by a few moments. Martin was nestled in the recessed window, surly as usual, his arms folded across his chest, his chin jutting. His was a cantankerous presence. Prestwich sat near the desk, organizing stacks of parchments and seals and sealing wax, forever patient and precise. A fat candle lay dripping nearby. His crown of white hair looked like fresh-fallen snow. He was older than anyone else in the room, his age showing more each day.

The Aldermaston paced by the mantle, glanced over at Lia’s entrance, but did not stop the thread of his conversation. His voice was soft yet gravelly, as if he were always slightly straining for breath. “The third report from last month. The fourth and fifth from the last fortnight alone. Where were they from, Prestwich?”

The steward lifted his head and poked his earlobe with the stylus. “From the Abbeys at Caneland and Sutton. The latest arrived from Billerbeck with Earl Forshee.”

Lia sat next to Martin at the window seat, listening intently.

“The Blight is spreading,” the Aldermaston said. He rubbed his mouth. “It ravages Dahomey, Paiz, and Hautland. Few mastons travel alone these days. They come in pairs as the earls did. I have not heard of an Abbey succumbing to it yet, but it is only a matter of time. It weighs on me heavily, this threat we face.”

Martin stood, his voice nearly a growl. “Who is infecting the stones then with this Blight? Who is spreading the taint? Is it the Myriad Ones? When Pry-Ree fell, it fell without a whimper. Without burning Leerings and noxious saps. The princes were betrayed by those they trusted. And when trust fails, so does law. When there is no longer law, there is only war and murder.”

“War is only one manifestation of the Blight,” the Aldermaston said. “Sometimes it kills with plague. Sometimes with drought. Sometimes even, Idumea forbid, with water.” He paused and looked at Lia. “I am sure you are confused. Prestwich understands the significance of the events. Martin does as well, for he endured it previously and witnessed his country succumb to the Blight. You are very young, Lia. You have not lived through this awful season before, the foul ripeness and bitter harvest. This will be your first, so I will attempt to explain it to you. Those of us older than you have seen it repeated like a waterwheel churning in a river.”

He turned and went back to his desk. “Prestwich, find the one from Hautland. There it is, with the copper seal. Yes, that one. Thank you.” He opened it and squinted. “In this one, the Blight came as a plant with poisonous sap. It started around a Leering in the woods and the plant spread quickly throughout the forest, inflicting everyone who touched it with itching boils. Attempts to burn it caused smoke to carry the poison inside the victims.” He handed the parchment back to Prestwich. “Strange, is it not? That a plant that is not native to this country can appear from nowhere and begin its work of destruction so rapidly. What brought it? When did it start?”

Her stomach twisted and lurched when she thought about Colvin being in danger. “Aldermaston,” she said. “I know who ruined the Leering in the wood.”

He paused, cocking his head and stared at her in disbelief. “How, child?”

“When I calmed the stone, I touched it. When I did, I saw them in my mind. There were soldiers from Winterrowd – the king’s men. They slept near the stone during the winter for warmth. I could see the snow around them. One came and touched the stone and he is the one who made it start burning. I recognized him because he is the man who tricked me. He brought Colvin to the kitchen and then went to find the sheriff.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “When I returned from Winterrowd, remember I told you of him. He is called Scarseth and he has the sheriff’s medallion. He cannot speak, but he knows about me. He knows I was at that Leering. He knows what I did to the sheriff’s men there.”

The Aldermaston’s face darkened with anger. “Martin, he must be found. The medallion he wears is dangerous. He may not yet realize its powers or what he does with it. But one Leering can lead him to the rest and compromise the Abbey if he penetrates the boundaries I put in place. Find him, Martin. Bring him to me if you can. If not, then do what you must. He must be stopped.”

Lia stood firmly. “I can find him, Aldermaston. The Cruciger orb can lead us right to him.”

He shook his head, equally firmly. “No, Lia. I cannot afford to let both of you leave. I am in need of two hunters right now.” He held up his hand before the protest escaped her lips. “Hush, child. Do as I say. I act with reasons you do not always understand. Have faith in me a bit longer. I need you and your orb here because of the guest the earls brought to Muirwood. Her name is Ellowyn Demont, the niece of Garen Demont and the heir of Pry-Ree, the daughter of the prince of the Pry-Ree who died shortly after she was born. The birthing killed her mother. In the customs of that land, children are named after their mother’s family. Her mother was the only daughter of Sevrin Demont who died at Maseve, and she was Garen Demont’s young sister. It is no secret that the king’s entire family still hates the Demonts. The child was reared in Sempringfall Abbey as a wretched. After Winterrowd, her location was discovered. Pay close attention, for this is important. To the Pry-rians, she is the legitimate heir to their kingdom. They have petitioned Demont to have her returned and to study at their Abbeys. So far, he has not consented. There is great fear that they will attempt to abduct her.”

Martin snorted and Lia noticed his eyes were burning with anger. “Abducted, Aldermaston? You mean
returned
to her rightful place. She was
abducted
from Pry-Ree and treated worse than an orphan instead of given her due right. It is wrong to say otherwise.”

The Aldermaston’s face hardened. “I will not argue the point, Martin. I certainly do not have the authority to determine her whereabouts. She resides at Muirwood for a time but then we will move her again to another Abbey. The rumor is spreading that she will linger here for a year. The utmost secrecy is required in this matter. When it is time to move her, we will assist. No one must know where she is going or when. As I mentioned, the king’s family hate the Demonts. While her existence was primarily forgotten, by design, it is in the open now. Friends of the old king may seek her life. That is why, Lia, you must stay here. You are needed to protect the Abbey, protect the earls, and protect this girl. I trust Martin’s abilities. If Scarseth is still lurking in the Bearden Muir, he will be found. But I feel impressions that you must stay near the Abbey.”