The Wretched of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  It was as if a key turned inside her thoughts and a new door opened to her. That was the only way to describe it. The door was possibilities. Connections, thoughts, insights, wisdom – a thousand intersecting strands, like a cobweb. It was a moment of clarity. She understood now. It came as a rush.

  The Medium had not abandoned her to the sheriff and his men. It had delivered them into her hands.

  Suddenly, from the silence of her thoughts, she heard screaming – all the screaming like a chanting sound rich with horror and vengeance. The blood of the dead mastons they had slain was screaming to her. Instead of being surrounded by smoke shapes, she felt the blood singing to her. Begging her to act. Pleading with her for justice.

  It was time.

  Another memory came – of a moment she and Colvin shared in the kitchen. Something in his words had caused a rush and heat through her. Leering stones help bring the power out of yourself. The stones represent us. They were exciting words – thrilling words. A great deep thought had brushed against her mind, so large she could not feel the edges of it. After the last few days, she knew more – she could feel the edges now. That somehow, the ability to cause fire, or water, or plague, or life slept inside of her, not the stone.

  Her back pressed against a Leering boulder with her own face carved into it. The Medium had known this time would come to her. It had inspired the Aldermaston to carve what he did years in advance not because the Aldermaston had known it would happen. But because the Medium had brought all the events together for her to act on it.

  Lia opened her eyes as the sheriff fished the ring out.

  There it was, a gleaming gold wedding band, dangling on a string that she had worn since she was nine. Her evidence that the Medium was real.

  Almaguer looked at it, confused, his face twisting with shock and surprise. Then he looked at her.

  I do not even need a Leering to make fire, she thought.

  Flames engulfed her body. The door in her mind was still open. The power of the Medium surged through her, filling the grove with a towering wall of fire. It swept from her like a flood, charring oak, grass, and everything in its path into ash. It burned hotter and hotter – more than any fire she had ever summoned in the ovens of the abbey kitchen. The iron bands around her wrists melted away, her skin and clothes unharmed. There were no screams as the sheriff and his men died. They were just snuffed out by the Medium’s vengeance. It was over in an instant, their intentions spoiled. All along they had believed themselves the master of the moment. Even at the end, Almaguer had been sure she wore his medallion. Flames raged like a storm, filling the starry night sky. Trees were afire, sending columns of smoke into the air. The ground shook from the intensity. The screams of dead mastons fell silent at her triumph – submitting to the roar of the fire. Behind her, even the boulder cracked with the constant blast of heat.

  Lia stood slowly, unharmed by the inferno. Her head was dizzy with the feeling of power. She knew that if the Medium asked her to, she could raise a mountain by lifting her hand. Looking down at her front, she saw the golden ring over her dress and was grateful to the Medium for protecting it. She untied the pouch at her waist and withdrew the Cruciger orb. It shone with radiant light, glowing fiercely with the power of Medium. It was almost too bright to look at.

  Bring me to Colvin, she asked it, squinting, and the orb began whirring. It pointed the way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT:

  Grave

  As Lia walked through the blazing hive of fire, she heard her name shouted. The roar was so loud, it took a moment before realizing it was Colvin screaming it. The door in her mind slammed shut and the power of the Medium rushed back into the void behind her, vanishing into the cracked remains of the hissing boulder. As soon as the power of the Medium fled, all her strength was gone. She stumbled, trying to keep upright. Her hand bit into the charred earth, but it did not burn her.

  Colvin was there, catching her. He cradled her and walked away from the crackling flames of still-burning trees. She looked up at him, amazed to see him. She tried to smile, but there was not enough strength in her mouth to twitch.

  “I have you,” he said, huffing. Sweat dripped down his face, which was pink from the heat. “A little further.”

  Her head dipped against his chest and she slept, still clutching the orb in her hand.

  When she awoke later, still tired, the pattern of the stars revealed it was past midnight and the world was still and cold. Mist came from her mouth as she breathed. A calmness settled deep in her bones. Her arms and legs were frigid, but there was no worry at the night noises. All the world seemed contented. Turning her head, she found Colvin asleep near her, his arm pillowing his neck. His mouth was open a little, his face spattered and bruised, lips brittle with scabs. She was still exhausted, but she managed to rise and cover his body with her cloak. He had slept every night without a blanket. Though she had seen him shiver, he never complained of being cold. Nestling closer to him, but not touching him, she shut her eyes again and fell asleep with hardly a thought.

  When she awoke again, it was day. Her strength had returned, so she pushed herself up on her elbow. During the night, he had returned her cloak and it was warm against her body.

  Colvin was nearby, eyes open, propping his head up with one arm, studying her. His face was a mess of dried blood and purple bruises.

  “Are you well, Lia?”

  She nodded, swallowing. The look he gave her was tender.

  “I thought the fire was the sheriff’s doing. I was so afraid I had failed you, that you had perished in those flames. But I knew it was the Medium. It felt like the Medium. You have always been strong with fire, I just did not realize you were that strong.”

  Lia smiled. “Neither did I.”

  “Thank you for sharing your cloak. When I woke this morning, you looked cold. You need it more than I do. I do not mind the cold.”

  “Well, you shiver too,” she said, looking down.

  “Strange though,” he said, rumpling a bit of her cloak that was near his hand. He took a fistful of it and smelled it. “When you emerged from the fire, there was not even the scent of smoke on you or your clothes. I still cannot smell it.”

  Lia sat up, feeling awkward. From their vantage, she could see the nearby thicket. Part of it lay smoldering. “It could not harm me,” she said, looking at his hand so near that it nearly brushed her arm. She wanted to touch his hand, to squeeze it and thank him, but she dared not. “Thank you for teaching me of the Medium, Colvin. Your words saved my life last night.”

  “I do not deserve any praise,” he replied, fidgeting with tufts of swamp grass. “I arrived too late to save you. You saved yourself.”

  “How did you escape the sheriff’s men?”

  “The same way you did. Through the Medium. I awoke after they dumped me on the stallion, trussed up. I knew you were alone and afraid. I had to go back for you. The Medium gave me strength to burst my bonds. The strength I felt, Lia. I have never felt that before, like I could crush a stone in my hand. I slew the sheriff’s men and rode back until I saw the blaze and nearly lost hope.”

  She smiled shyly at him. “Not you. You never lose hope.”

  “Almost,” he said.

  Lia folded her arms, trying to keep from shivering. “I know why the Medium saved us. I understood it last night. It delivered the sheriff into my hands for all the mastons he and his men have murdered. The Medium demanded vengeance for their blood.”

  “It does that. I have studied accounts of it before. It is not chance that it delivered them to you. Your family was probably killed by them. Remember what I taught you about the Medium, Lia. Your strength is not about who you are. Whoever your parents were, they were strong. I think they are dead. Have you asked the orb yet, to confirm it?”

  “No,” she said. “I had not thought of that. Should I?”

  “I do.”

  “Where did I put the orb?” she asked, looking around the folds of the cloak.
>
  “I put it back in your pouch while you slept. It still does not work for me.” He shrugged and grimaced which made her smile.

  She untied the strings and pulled it out. In the daylight, she could look at it without squinting. It rested in her palm, the intricate carvings a little ticklish against her skin.

  If my father is living, show me the way to him, she thought. Writing appeared on the lower half of the orb. She knew the answer, even though she could not understand the writing. My mother? she thought, wondering if she should even hope. The reply was the same. The spindles did not move.

  “I am not surprised,” Colvin said, his expression thoughtful.

  “Why?” Lia asked, disappointed. She had never known her parents, so she did not know whether to assume they were dead or not. She hugged her knees, staring at the writing. Maderos had said the writing was Pry-rian.

  His voice was soft, his expression consoling. “If they were alive, they would never have abandoned you. The night I gave you the Gifting, I felt it very strongly. When I touched your head, I sensed that your parents were nearby. I sensed their feelings for you. Through the Medium even the dead are near. They loved you fiercely, Lia. You were not abandoned by them.”

  Tears stung her eyes and a sudden swell in her throat, as she tried to swallow. “That is kind of you to say.”

  “And I have been unkind to you since I first awoke in the kitchen. It was a struggle learning to trust you. Worse, I have not slept soundly until last night. For the first time in a fortnight, I really slept and rested.” He shook his head, chuckling, and stood. Extending his hand to her, he helped her up as well. His hand was cold from the morning chill.

  “Where is your hunter?” he asked, looking around. “I thought he would have found us before now.”

  Lia’s stomach lurched, as if Colvin had kicked her.

  * * *

  With the orb’s help, they found the body discarded in a gulch. It was in an unburned portion of the thicket, with three arrow shafts protruding from his chest. Lia knelt by him, staring in disbelief. It was too awful to be real. The stiff, pallid body was not Jon Hunter. No, he was full of life, energy, exuberance. Not this thing – this cracked shell. Then she cried, great wracking sobs. Colvin knelt next to her, his bloodied face sharing her grief. He put his arm around her.

  She loved Jon Hunter. He was part of her earliest memories, especially those of Pasqua’s kitchen. He was one of the Aldermaston’s most trusted servants, trusted enough to be sent into the Bearden Muir to save them. It was not fair. It was not right. Her grief had a sharp edge to it, cutting deeply – so deeply.

  She looked at Colvin in desperation. “You are a maston. Bring him back to life!”

  Colvin was dumbstruck. “Lia, please.”

  She squeezed her hands together as hard as she could. “I know you can do it. It begins with a thought, just like you said. I know the Medium can bring him back.” She frantically pulled the ring out of her dress. “I know it can happen. All those ossuaries were empty. They were empty, Colvin! The Medium can bring him back. He taught you the Gifting. Gift his life back. Please!”

  He looked stricken. “Lia, the Medium is strong enough to revive the dead. I do not doubt that. It is written of in the tomes, but there is rarely an Aldermaston once in a century strong enough in the Medium to do it. Do you understand me? It requires an Aldermaston, I tell you. Not a maston. Not me.”

  “If you believed…”

  He shook his head abruptly. “It is not that, Lia. If the Medium constrained me, I could turn rivers into sand. I know I could. But right now, it whispers in my heart that I should not even attempt it. You cannot force the Medium.”

  Lia knew he was right, but that did not make the taste any less bitter. The Medium had its own will. She covered her mouth as another round of sobs forced their way to her lips. Jon Hunter was someone who had mattered in her life. She enjoyed teasing him, matching wits with him, trying to outsmart him. But he was gone. His beard and hair, always so disheveled, his clothes mud-spattered and wrinkled. Perhaps it was fitting that he died in the middle of the Bearden Muir.

  What would the Aldermaston say? She dreaded having to tell him, that because of her, Jon was dead. How would he react? Would his temper burst into flames or would he be all coldness and regret? He had sent Jon to bring her back. Kneeling by the body, she fidgeted with the end of his leather belt. The Aldermaston would be furious, she decided. He might even banish her from the Abbey permanently.

  She did not want to leave the body in the Bearden Muir, but they lacked the means of transporting it. Instead, she chose to bring something of his back to Muirwood. He was a wretched too, yet she wanted others to remember him as she always would.

  Reaching out, she began untying his belt.

  “What are you doing?” Colvin asked.

  “He died saving us,” Lia said, freeing the buckle. “The abbey needs a new hunter now. I want to bring back with me what I can carry. Part of who he was. We never waste things in the abbey.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “The new hunter will need these things. I will never forget him. Never.” She brushed her eyes.

  “Nor will I.”

  Lia took the parts that made him a hunter in her eyes. The leather girdle and belt he always wore. The gladius and ash bow. A home-made leather quiver stuffed with arrows. Even the shooting glove and bracers that protected his arms from the bowstring. She garbed herself in his implements, for there was no other way to carry the items. It was strange, wearing those things that made him who he was. The gladius had a certain feel in her hand. The leather had a smell. On summer days he had let her and Sowe practice archery in the orchard which resulted in huge purple bruises on their elbows. Tears stung her eyes again. It was too much to bear.

  While she dressed, Colvin took his rucksack with the food and then gently removed the arrows sticking into the body and cast them aside. He arranged the body on higher ground, and then knelt by it.

  “Close your eyes,” he told Lia.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Colvin sighed. “I am going to give him a maston’s burial. You should not see the sign.”

  Lia approached and stood near him and shut her eyes. A part of her heart burned with pain, as if the thicket from the night before was still blazing inside her. There was so much about mastons and their customs she did not know. As a wretched, she never would. It was unfair, but such was the way of the world. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, because part of her was just rebellious enough to be tempted to peek.

  His voice was thick with emotion, but grew stronger. “By Idumea’s hand, I do not know all the words. I am a young maston still. But I kneel and through the Medium dedicate this ground in the Bearden Muir as the final resting place of Jon Hunter. By the Medium I invoke this, that when the time of his reviving has come, at some future dawn, he may be restored, every whit. May we always remember this final spot that others may remember what he did for us. That they may remember him through our words. Make it thus so.”

  “Make it so,” Lia whispered. She opened her eyes and stared once again at the ashen face. Tenderly, she knelt and kissed his bearded cheek. Then they began fetching stones to cover him up.

  * * *

  “One of my favorites passages is found in the Tome of Isius. I encourage all my learners to memorize it, for it holds secrets even I struggle to comprehend: ‘Let a maston be humble before the Medium, without guile, and he will receive of its fullness. Power which shall manifest unto him the truth of all things, and shall give him, in the very hour, what he should say. And these signs shall follow him—he shall heal the sick, banish the Myriad Ones, and be delivered from those who administer deadly poison. He shall be led on paths where serpents cannot sting his heel. And he shall mount up in the imagination of his thoughts as upon eagles’ wings. And if the Medium wills that he should raise the dead, let him not withhold his voice. But only if the Medium wills it.’”

  - Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Ab
bey

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE:

  Eve of Winterrowd

  Winterrowd was a ill-looking fishing village surrounded by water on three sides, nestled within the convergence of two strong rivers that emptied into the sea. Lia had never seen the sea before. She had never imagined an expanse of water so vast and blue and never-ending. The harbor was thronged with small vessels.

  Haze filled the sky above Winterrowd, and Lia realized it was from a hundred cookfires. Thousands of soldiers swarmed in the town.

  “Is it over?” Colvin whispered in shock, turning the horse’s head with a subtle jerk to the reins. “Are we too late?”

  “No, I do not think so,” Lia said, training her eye on the road south. From the vantage of the hilltop, they could see south to the town of Bridgewater. A long, coiled snake – the king’s army – still marched on Winterrowd though much of it was penned up outside. “The town is not burning. It must be Demont’s camp in the field there.”

  Colvin whistled softly. “Yes, and that is the king’s army still advancing. They have camped at the outskirts of the village. Look there – you can see the pickets. That is the vanguard of the king’s army. Each army will break into thirds. One is the vanguard. They lead the battle. Then comes the main, and it is usually the largest. Then comes the rearguard, the reserve. The vanguard has already arrived. Sweet Idumea, they must have marched faster than the wind! Before midnight, the main and the rear will have arrived. There battle will happen on the morrow.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes, so soon.” His expression twisted into its familiar scowl. “I had hoped to make it here earlier to warn Demont.” He shook his head, his face flushed with emotions. “Look at the size of Demont’s army. Maderos was right. A tithing…if that. A tenth.” He swallowed.