The Blight of Muirwood

“Here,” she whispered, turning back and noticing that Colvin had not followed her in.

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“I do not need a friend who changes when I change and who nods when I nod; my shadow does that much better. Know how to listen, and you will profit even from those who talk badly. Sometimes silence, at the proper season, is wisdom and better than any speech.”

- Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

Fears

“Colvin?” she whispered.

Silence.

The Leering tangled her feelings, so she quelled it with a thought. A pair of deep-set eyes, with the expression of torture, winked once with blue light. She went to the edge of the opening and felt the prowling swarm of Myriad Ones thickly about. Colvin leaned against the gully wall, sword out, staring up at the woods.

“I hear them,” he whispered.

“The door is right here,” she said. “They do not know the words, so they cannot pass. Follow me quickly.”

His breath was ragged. “I cannot.”

“What?”

He was trembling. “I…I cannot go in there.”

“It is just a Leering. I silenced it. The fear is not real but warns away others. Come – it will be all right.”

He closed his eyes, shuddering. “It is not the Leering.”

He was afraid. She could feel it bubbling out of him like a seething stew. Something about the dark, crouched hole terrified him. From the woods above, she heard the snapping of branches, the crunch of dried leaves. Several sets of boots, heading toward them. Stepping out into the gully water, she grabbed his arm, felt the knots of muscles quivering.

She pressed her mouth against his ear. “If they find us, they will kill us. Come, Colvin. The Abbey is just past those trees.” She tugged gently on his arm, whispering soothingly. Another crack snapped and lightning lit the sky again, painting his face with shadows. “This way. Come with me.”

Somehow her urgent whispers lured him into the gloom. Keeping watch on the gully hole, she felt her way further in, pulling Colvin after her. Her hand touched the stone and she pressed close against it. “Eveleth Idumea” she whispered and felt Colvin flinch at her using maston words.

The Leering swung away from her, filling the air with the musty smell of oil and mold. Deeper into the darkness she pressed, tugging Colvin after her until they were in. Something splashed in the water outside. Lia shoved Colvin ahead and turned back to the hole. A man leaned in the tunnel, his eyes glowing silver, sword in hand. She could not see his expression, just the baleful glow of his eyes, reminding her of Almaguer. She swung the Leering shut and willed its defenses back to life, feeding it with her strength. As the doorway sealed, the noise from the storm and gully vanished, replaced by their harsh breathing. The darkness penetrated to their bones. His teeth were chattering.

She paused a moment, appreciating just how close they had been to being captured…or worse.

Lia set down her bow and tugged open the drawstrings to the pouch. She removed the orb and it began to glow, illuminating the narrow tunnel. The orb was brilliant in the dark, revealing their mud-spattered clothes, the twigs and leaves and grime.

She sat down suddenly, exhausted. “You are afraid of confined spaces,” she said softly, though knowing her voice would not carry beyond the thick Leering. “Sit, Colvin. I tested this tunnel recently. It is safe. Here, share my bread. I almost forgot Pasqua gave it to me.” She opened her leather sack and withdrew the small loaf. Twisting it in half, she broke it and handed a portion to him.

Colvin sheathed his sword and slouched against the wall apart from her. He looked pale, streaked with sweat and rain. Reaching over, he took the bread and bit into it, shivering.

“At least your eyebrow is not bleeding,” she said, nibbling her share.

It was quiet and they both ate slowly, she enjoying the sweet crust of the bread, the fresh doughy center. After the run, she was starving and normally would have wished for a warm bath, a clean dress, and a table stacked with treats. But a moment trapped alone with Colvin was worth any deprivation. She waited for him to talk, enjoying Pasqua’s bread, giving him time to master himself.

His voice was ghostly. “Why is it that you must always be witness to my most humiliating moments,” he said darkly, staring at his lap. He sighed, his whole body trembling.

“I thought I was the only one who humiliated myself,” she answered. “Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“You are freezing. Give me your hand.”

“I know it is cold. We should get going.”