The Scourge of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  The pain of the decision was excruciating. Jealousy, greed, hatred, and worst of all fear – all of the negative feelings swarmed her. She crushed them beneath the heel of her mind. No, she would not give in. With her hand still on the Leering, she set the torch down on the ground and stretched to reach to the final Leering. Its crushing weight slammed upon her.

  The fear of betrayal.

  Oh yes, she was expecting it. She saw Hillel for who she was. She saw that she had visited the hetaera garden already. Each visit, she had slowly given away her fears, one at a time. Her last act was betraying someone. She had chosen to betray Lia.

  Caught in the crushing grip of two ancient Leerings, Lia experienced the salty sweat streaking down her body. The agony was unbearable. Fear of betrayal was worse than the fear of death. Colvin would succumb to Hillel. After all, he was only a man. The Aldermaston had taught her that women were more powerful. It would take time to wear him down. But if Lia died in the pit, would he keep faith to her memory?

  The choice is yours. Join us, and you can avert this fate. Join us, and live forever!

  You are a daughter of Ereshkigal.

  When the mastons are dead, the hetaera will rule the kingdoms.

  Lia bowed her head, knowing what would happen.

  I will not fear death. I will not fear betrayal. I will do the Medium’s will.

  The two Leerings released her. The serpents surrounded her, eyes and forked tongues probing her. There was only one more Leering, the one she could not see. The one beyond the wall. Lia stood, heart heavy but feelings firm.

  She left the small cone of light and wandered into the dark, no longer caring what the serpents did. The Leering pulled her forward, beckoning her with its power.

  The stone wall blocked the way. She reached out and touched it. Immediately she was overwhelmed by a force so powerful it dropped her to her knees. There was a rush of pain and pleasure, a jolt so violent and heavy that she was overwhelmed by its power.

  A voice thundered in the stillness of her mind. She recognized the voice from the night before the battle of Winterrowd.

  Speak your true name and enter. Give me power over you. Speak your true name!

  Lia stared, dumbfounded, paralyzed by the weight and ferocity. She tried to open her mouth, but the binding sigil prevented her. She could not say it. She would have. Her will was so small and frail next to the strength she faced. It was Ereshkigal’s voice. She had never experienced something so powerful before, something that was ancient beyond anything. A presence stirred in the room.

  Speak your true name!

  But Lia could not. Of course it would be this way. The hetaera would never risk their lair to any maston. They would not risk it without the assurety that any who entered would fail.

  Lia’s mind burned. She could not let go of the stone. She saw the burning image of the twin serpents, just beyond the wall, mocking her.

  You thought to tame me? I, the mother of hetaera? You are nothing compared to my power. You will give your body to my minions. You will surrender who you are to me. You will surrender your will to mine. Speak your true name!

  Lia could not.

  The fire from the torch guttered out.

  The first fangs bit the flesh of her legs as she knelt near the stone. Then another bite. Then another. The poison rushed through her, burning from her legs up to her waist. It was quick and painful. Then there was blackness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT:

  Birth

  The horse was lathered in sweat and foam as Prince Alluwyn crossed the threshold of his ridgetop palace. He had not slept since learning that Elle was laboring with the child, too early. They were not expecting the babe to be full term for another cycle of the moon and the news had shocked him. As someone with the Gift of Seering, he knew that he would die shortly after the babe’s birth. He had hoped for another fortnight or more. Clutching the leather reins, he swiveled off the saddle as his steward, Davtian, approached.

  “Where is your escort?” Davtian said, his eyes wide with outrage. “Did you leave the Evnissyen behind?”

  “They are not far behind,” the Prince said, tossing the reins to a stableboy. “How fares my lady?”

  “My lord, there are traitors to Pry-Ree lurking everywhere, some even in your own household. You should not have risked riding alone, even a short distance. Your enemies seek to ambush you.”

  “How fares my lady?” the Prince repeated, striding towards the keep.

  “My lord, a moment first.” There was a firm tug at his sleeve.

  “What is it?”

  “My lord,” the voice was full of pain. “The birthing was early, but she did well. She was healthy yesterday. Her cheeks full of color. She was anxious to greet you with your daughter. But my lord, during the night, she fell sick. A raving fever has taken her. The milk fever. The Aldermaston has laid hand on her, but she will not recover. There is no Gift of Healing to be given. She is so weak, my lord. Every moment we fear is her last, but she strains to stay alive. To see you.” The steward’s lip quivered. “My lord, I am so sorry. She awaits you in your bedchamber.”

  The Prince had prepared his heart for this. But even then, when the hour was come, he shrank from it. The pain of losing her sent shards of agony piercing him like arrows. His vision blurred with the rush of tears, but he shook his head and stumbled forward, dizzy with the news. His temples throbbed with thunder. A cleft had opened up inside him, gaping and savage. Nothing could have prepared him for that moment. The weight of it amazed him.

  He took the tower stairs, rushing past servants until he shoved his way into the bedchamber, dark with shutters and curtains, only sputtering torchlight to see. The smell of the room was death and blood. The midwife was there, her face ashen when the Prince entered. She fell to her knees, sobbing.

  The Prince walked past her, touching the crown of her head tenderly, patting her hair. Then he knelt by the bedside and gazed at the colorless face of his wife, her skin glistening with sweat. Her fevered lips were panting.

  The urge to heal her was so strong, he nearly could not control himself. She was alive, barely. She clung to the threads. Beneath the coverlets, she only wore her chaen. Her sweat-soaked chaen. It was torture seeing her ravaged by the fever. A word of rebuke and the fever would depart. By raising his hand to the maston sign, he could preserve her life.

  But the Medium forbade it. He knew what he wanted to do, yet he also knew what he was meant to do. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  Elle’s eyes fluttered open. “You…came.”

  His throat was too tight to speak. Her hair was listless, the color draining from it. He took her frail hand in his and kissed it. “I will not leave you,” he whispered huskily.

  “She is…so beautiful. Our child.”

  “From her mother,” the Prince said. He smoothed the clumps of hair from her forehead.

  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 Me
dium 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

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE:

  Ereshkigal

  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.