The Scourge of Muirwood (30 page)

Her eyelids were shutting. “It is time. I waited…for you…long as I could.”

“Thank you. I love you, dearest. I love you, my heart.”

“I see it,” she whispered, her eyes shutting. “I see…the Veil…I see…”

His throat constricted and he stifled the moan before it escaped his lips. He kissed her hands, her eyelids. Like water seeping through his fingers, she left him. Her body remained, enshrined in the coverlets and blankets, sheathed in a blood-flecked chaen. But with his other eyes, he saw her, radiant and beautiful, rising from the bed. Tears coursed down his cheeks and he shuddered as she laid a ghost-like hand on his head. With her other hand raised in the maston sign, he heard her ethereal words.

I Gift you, Alluwyn Lleu-Iselin, with the Gift of Death. That you will not suffer fear. That you will not suffer pain. That you will feel nothing but the joy of having served the Medium faithfully. I will wait for you, my love, in the kingdoms of Idumea. Join me there, with my father and mother. With all our ancestors who have gone before. While the Abbeys still stand.

There was a tug as the Medium drew her away. In his mind’s eye, he could see her go, a shaft of light that winked and was gone, passing the Apse Veil into a better world.

“My lord,” Davtian said, his voice choking. “Do you wish to be alone with her? Shall we depart?”

The Prince rose shakily to his feet, using the bedstead to brace himself. “Where is my daughter? Where is Ellowyn?”

The midwife stared at him, her face ravaged with grief. “My lord, I beg your forgiveness. I did my best. There was no one sick in the chamber. I swear it!”

He looked at her with sympathy. “I do not blame you. Thank you for bringing my child safely into this second life. Where is she?”

“With the wetnurse, Myrrha.”

“Thank you.” His heart shuddered with dread. Myrrha was a hetaera.

“Davtian, I would see my child. Take me to her.”

They walked through the chamber and went into an adjoining one where the servants slept. His worry intensified, but he held it in check, trying to calm the rage that bloomed inside. Davtian went ahead and opened the door, then warned the Prince back a moment as Myrrha was suckling the child. The girl covered herself and stood, cradling the little bundle. There was another babe playing by the stool, another girl, but she was a year old and toddling, though she was tiny.

“My lord,” Myrrha said, surprised at the arrival. She gave him a sultry smile. “You have a fine daughter. Your lady said she was to be named Ellowyn. She is Ellowyn Demont, by our customs. She is healthy, my lord. No sign of the milk sickness.”

“Let me hold her,” the Prince murmured softly, approaching the girl as he would a poisonous serpent.

She sidled up next to him, brushing her shoulder against his arm. He grit his teeth, keeping his expression guarded. She wore a perfume that was cloying and sweet. Her mistress lay dead in the other room, but she showed no indication of grief.

“Such a delicate child,” the girl said soothingly. “Each is a gift. She has a special destiny.” With a long finger, she ran it down the babe’s nose. Little Ellowyn tried to nuzzle it.

“Thank you,” the Prince said, carefully taking the babe into his arms. She seemed reluctant to let her go, though her eyes were smiling cheerfully, the look did not match her smile.

The Prince stared down at the flawless little face, the pink skin so warm and soft. He stroked her cheek with his nose, savoring the smell, the wisps of hair, the tiny fingers that curled and reached. As he stared at his daughter, her eyes parted, chalk-gray as most newborns were. There was a serious look in her expression, a contemplative look. His heart broke again with pain.

“You will want to be near her, while you can,” Myrrha said. “The invaders have entered Pry-Ree’s borders. The king of Comoros hunts you. I will be near so that you can see the child often before you return. I will keep her safe, my lord.” Her eyes gleamed like a cobra’s.

The Prince looked from her to Davtian and noticed the Evnissyen had finally caught up to him. They were standing outside, staring at him with smoldering anger and budding concern.

“Leave us,” the Prince said to Davtian.

“My lord?” the steward asked. He never allowed himself to be alone with other women, no matter the circumstance.

“Leave us,” he repeated.

Davtian obeyed, his face betraying his alarm. The door shut softly, but it caused the baby to startle.

The Prince turned and looked at her coldly.

Her expression turned from anticipation to alarm. She stroked the ridge of the chair with her finger. “It is normal, my lord, to feel the loss keenly. She was a great lady. A noble lady in every way. If I may be any comfort to you..?”

A spasm of lust went through his body. With ice-like control, he turned his thoughts to Tintern Abbey. He remembered the oaths he made, one by one, when passing the maston test. One by one, he recommitted himself to them. She stared at him, curiously, her face ranging through complex emotions.

“Where is your kystrel?” he asked her. “Who wears it?”

It was as if he had thrust a goblet of chilled water on her face.

“My lord?” she asked, pretending to be confused.

“Your thoughts betray you, daughter of Ereshkigal,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “So do your fears.”

“I fear nothing,” she replied, her eyes darting one way and then another.

“Who wears your kystrel?” he asked again, tauntingly.

He could feel the Myriad Ones now, mewling and hissing throughout the chamber. They skulked and glared at him, at the child out of their grasp. He clutched the baby close. “Who wears it? Speak – I command you by the Medium.”

Her voice came out unnaturally. It was full of loathing and more of a snake’s hiss than a voice. “Your brother.” Her fingers, which a moment before had gently stroked the baby’s nose and the smooth wood of the chair, were hooked like claws as if she were preparing to strike him.

“Which of my Envissyen will betray me?” he asked. “Speak!”

“Tethys,” came the hissing voice.

He stared at her coldly. “I speak your true name. You are Chione, the Unborn. You will depart.”

The hissing sound turned into a rush of wind and a screech. The Prince made the maston sign. “You are Chione, the Unborn. Depart.”

The girl’s face was stricken with fury and rage. The Myriad Ones howled with torment as the wind blasted against them.

“You are Chione, the Unborn. Depart!”

On the third command, the wind stopped. The Myriad Ones were gone and Myrrha slumped to the floor. Her body convulsed and then she slowly, shakily, lifted herself up on her arms. She looked confused, bewildered by her location. She looked up at the Prince, her face a mixture of dread and sickness. She looked around quickly, scanning the floor.

“Was I…dreaming?” she whispered. “Where is the babe? Oh, you hold her. Was I asleep?”

The Prince stared at her. “Yes…in a way. What do you remember?”

“A room was full of serpents. One of them bit me. Where am I? My lord? Is this Dahomey?” She glanced around the room. “These are Pry-rian curtains. The rushes are from our moors.” She looked up at him, then her face quivered with horror. “What have I done,” she whispered, gasping.

“You are a hetaera,” the Prince answered sadly. “How can you use your power without your kystrel?”

Her hand went to her shoulder, as if it burned her. She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “What have I done?”

“I will tell you, Myrrha. You will not wish to hear it. You killed your mistress, my wife, the Princess of Pry-Ree.” His voice was thick with emotion. “You killed her with your hands. Days before, you murdered a man with a dagger. His body was found, but no one knew who had done it. It created suspicion. It caused distrust amidst my servants. After this child was born, you went to the corpse and handled it. The bodies of the dead bring diseases. You carried those diseases on your hands and touched my wife as you washed her. She is dead from the milk fever because of your hands and what you touched. Why do the Myriad Ones want my daughter?”

Myrrha’s eyes blazed with terror at the Prince’s words. As he spoke, it was as if she had witnessed everything she had done but from another’s perspective. The horror of it made her face twist with pain and dread.

“Answer me,” the Prince said forcefully.

The girl doubled over and vomited on the rushes. She trembled and quivered, her face turning as white as milk. “I am undone,” she moaned. “They will kill me if I betray their secrets. I will die if I do not, for I am a vessel of the Myriad Ones.” She looked up at him fiercely. “Save me, my Prince! I beg of you, save me!”

* * *

“We buried Lia this morning. We covered her body with stones, just as the vision showed me. There were serpent bites all over her body and she was black and bloated. Colvin wept silently, crouching before the makeshift ossuary. He kissed her forehead, despite the threat of venom there. I thought he was going to take the kystrel from her bodice, but he did not. The knowledge that she had succumbed to the hetaera test crushed his spirits. It is dusk now and the fete is about to begin. Tonight we will depart Dahomey, arm in arm. We are lovers now, in secret. He will defy them. He will betray the young king and forswear his oath of fealty. Together, we will sail for home where we can marry at Billerbeck Abbey, bound together for all the ages to come. My work here is complete.”

- Ellowyn Demont of Dochte Abbey

* * *

The struggle for Lia’s soul began with the serpent’s bite. When the venom from the fangs entered her blood, she collapsed in agony. The snakes engulfed her, slithering around her, biting, striking, piercing her skin with their poison. Her body convulsed and she became rigid, paralyzed by the venom but still awake. She could sense the Myriad Ones snuffling around her, she could hear the eager whine in their voices. Lia could not move, but she could hear everything. Another bite, another sting in her flesh. The venom overwhelmed her physical senses.

Darkness engulfed the room as the torch finally failed. Strangely, she could see. There was something in the dark, a form shifting, coalescing from the blackness and rising up until it formed the image of a woman. She had felt the presence before the venom had made her fall. The Leerings in the room shuddered with power as the woman appeared, their carved faces distorting, the stones glowing white hot. She wore a violet robe, decked with gold and jewels and precious stones. She was devastatingly beautiful, the sheer essence of her drew Lia in with admiration. A child of Idumea, a presence and a force that went beyond anything Lia had felt. She felt ashamed looking at her, for the woman was staring at her, eyes silver-white. In her hand she clasped a golden cup. Mist wreathed the rim.

Daughter.

Lia shuddered at the greeting, for it was full of warmth and empathy, not the anger of before.

“I am not your daughter,” Lia whispered, staring at the woman. The gold gleamed about her wrists and throat. The violet shape of the robe clung to her tightly, swaying as she approached. She paused to stroke the side of a Leering and it burned even hotter.

You are my daughter. I am your mistress. I am Ereshkigal, mother of the Unborn. Serve me.

“I will not,” Lia said, trembling with dread.

The white-silver eyes flashed with anger. Gracefully, she lifted the cup and swallowed some of its misty contents. The drink smelled inviting, like cider and sugar and sent pangs of cravings inside Lia.

You will serve me, daughter. All who enter this sanctuary serve me or perish.

“Then I perish,” Lia said.

The woman’s will lashed against Lia’s, so strong and vicious it seemed to pluck her by the head and wag her against the walls of her own mind. She remembered the feeling, the night before Winterrowd, when she had stumbled against the king’s thoughts. She was insignificant next to this power. It could crush her mind with a simple flex of thought. It could reduce her to a gibbering mass of flesh.

Behold!

The scene changed and Lia was suddenly back at Muirwood, within the cloisters. It was night time and the two of them were alone. Row after row of shelves, mound after mound of tomes. The wisdom of the ages, compiled in a single Abbey. They were written in different languages, from hundreds of Aldermastons. Each one contained specks of wisdom and the knowledge of how to interact with the Medium.

All these are yours, if you join me. My daughters speak every language. They read and engrave. It would take a lifetime to master all of the knowledge amassed here. But as my daughter, you would be able to read them all. My gift to you, child. I give you this. Serve me.

Lia hungered when she saw the stacks of tomes. All her life she had wanted to study at Muirwood. She had wished to learn its many secrets. All were laid before her. The entire collection would be hers.

“It is a lie,” Lia said, shaking her head. “You offer what is not yours to give. What use would the tomes be without the Abbeys?”