The Blight of Muirwood

Lia sucked in a strangled breath. Her body ached, her spirit suffered. Yet she knew Martin was right. Jon had misjudged the sheriff’s ruthlessness. Instead of hiding the trail, Jon could have waited to catch them by surprise. A single archer with a full quiver and a steady aim was deadlier than charging knights, for he could kill those knights at a distance.

Martin paced in the woods, waving his arms with his emotions as he typically did. “He could have created false trails with the horse and let you two sneak into the woods on foot. He could have taken another path back to the trail to throw off an ambush. Or he could have waited for the sheriff and his ilk and the three of you fight together. Greater odds fighting alongside a knight-maston than by himself.”

Lia bit her lip. “He was not a knight-maston then.”

Martin snorted and waved his hand in annoyance. “We honor Jon’s grave today, Lia. You said this maston dedicated it already, so there is nothing we can do to hallow it further. The Leering is here so that the Aldermaston can pay his respects when he is no longer bound to Muirwood. Let us return home. You know your lessons. Now let this experience be a teacher to you as well.”

Lia nodded and knelt down by the Leering. She brushed her hand across the face, staring into the silent visage. A year had passed. A year of scornful mocking from Reome for dressing like a boy instead of a woman. A year wandering the woods and valleys and ditches surrounding the Hundred. Of tunnels and passwords, of memorizing faces and messages to be delivered to the Aldermaston’s allies in nearby Abbeys. Her world was a bigger place. Part of her longed to be making Gooseberry fool in Pasqua’s kitchen where life was simpler.

Looking up at Martin, she reached into the pouch at her waist and withdrew the Cruciger orb, her special talisman – her only birthright. She wore it on every journey. She was the only one at the Abbey, other than the Aldermaston, who was strong enough with the Medium to use it. It was found with her when she was abandoned as a wretched and the ball and spindles could be summoned to point the direction of places or people. “I would make one more visit before we go home. There is another Leering nearby. Another memory I need to face.”

He scowled but nodded to her. “Lead the way, lass.”

With a thought, the spindles on the orb began to whirl.

* * *

Lia gazed down at the bed of grass, thicker now and still clinging to the damp of spring. The orb in her hand tingled and writing appeared across its immaculate surface. She could not read it. This was the spot where Colvin had carried her after the blazing fire she summoned with the Medium had destroyed the sherrif and his men. Nearby, the scorched thicket of trees remained. The wood was dead, black and skeletal. The gorse was thriving again, but the thicket had been ravaged and would take years to recover.

Take me to my Leering, she thought and the Cruciger orb spun lazily towards the thicket. Martin followed, coaxing the mule again. As she entered the dead place, she ran her fingers across the twisted blackened trunks as she passed, hearing in her mind the jangle of spurs and armor, the chuckling threats of Almaguer’s men. Part of her recoiled at the memory of the soldiers beating Colvin, and how she had flung herself over his body and used the Medium to keep them away from him. She frowned, wondering why Colvin had never returned to Muirwood. No message were ever sent. No explanation ever given.

She knew that he was alive.

The Earl of Forshee held great favor with Garen Demont and was known to all. Garen Demont, Lord Protector of the Realm, who controlled custody over the young king and ruled the kingdom in his name. The victor of Winterrowd. Oh yes, she had heard Colvin’s name mentioned excitedly after being elevated in rank as an earl. For his service in the battle, he was recognized and rewarded with additional lands. He was part of Demont’s inner circle, a member of the privy council where only knight-mastons were admitted.

Whitsunday, he had whispered into her ear. A broken promise to a wretched.

Ahead, through the screen of dead trees, she could see smoke rising from the boulder as if the fires from a year ago were still smoldering. The feeling was wrong. She held up her hand to Martin, alerting him that something was amiss, and he quietly clasped the hilt of his gladius and tethered the mule with one hand. All of the trees within a dozen paces of the Leering had been charred to ash, so only the budding greenery gave color to the place. The Leering, with the carved side facing east towards the sun, was no longer shaggy with moss.

A smell hovered in the air – mixed with the aroma of charred oaks. The scent of man. Lia shuddered. All around her, she could feel them. The snuffling shadows that loped like wolves and stared at her – but could not be seen with the eye. The Myriad Ones were thick around her.