The Wretched of Muirwood Read online

  She watched the abbey – her home – fade away into the distance. Her entire life had been spent inside the grounds. Her nights, for as far back as memory spun its webs, she had spent in the kitchen. The face of Pasqua came into her mind, and it brought such a stab of pain and heartsickness that tears came to her eyes. Lia had not said goodbye. The huge oaks of the Abbey grounds could be seen above the wall. The branches of the younger ones swayed, as if waving farewell to her. She would never see Muirwood again. The grief was crushing her heart.

  Turning her face the other way, to shut out the sight that would haunt her days, she saw the Tor rising ahead to the east. The Tor was a nearby hill, the highest point in any direction – a bald, crouch-backed hill with a few rings of trees along the lower fringes of its steep green slopes. As a child, it had always tempted her. But it seemed so far from the abbey walls that she knew she and Sowe would never be able to make it there, climb it, and return before dark. The best she had been able to do was get Jon Hunter’s description of it. He had been to the top many times. It is nothing but a bald, crouch-backed hill, Lia. It is a lonely hill. There are other hills in this Hundred with better views than it. But that made Lia love it even more, even if she believed she would never be able to climb it.

  How long before the sheriff and his men would have their horses saddled? How long before their pursuers came after them? She did not know the land very well but she imagined the road was not safe, not with the king’s army on the way. Being a wretched, she only knew the names of the streets the bordered the Abbey on two sides – High Street and Chalkwell.

  Looking up at the Tor again, she had a thought. If they needed a place to hide – or a direction to ride – the Cruciger orb would guide them.

  “Stop the horse,” Lia said.

  “Are you sick?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “No, remember the king’s army. The orb! I have the orb to guide us.”

  Colvin sharply pulled on the reins and the mount fought him. He tugged harder, several jerking motions, and tamped the flanks with his boots, even though he did not have spurs. The stallion snorted and huffed, still giddy with the thrill of the run. Colvin calmed it with his voice as it finally came to a stop and thrashed its mane. He patted its neck soothingly, while Lia opened the pouch at her waist and with trembling hands, withdrew the Cruciger orb. Her arms shook from holding on to him so tightly, and the orb wobbled in her hand.

  In her mind, she thought the words, Show us a safe path to Winterrowd.

  Again the amazing spindles went to work, spinning deftly and quickly, pointing due east, directly at the Tor.

  Colvin looked back at the direction. “It is pointing east. Winterrowd is the other way. The last time you asked it, it pointed west. This makes no sense.”

  Lia looked at it sternly. “Show me Winterrowd.”

  The spindles swung around and pointed west.

  “Why is it showing us both?”

  “Show us the safe way to Winterrowd,” she answered, and the spindles pointed back to the Tor. Writing appeared on the lower half of the orb.

  “How can Winterrowd be in both directions?” Colvin asked.

  But Lia understood. “Because it knows things that we do not. It knows the way to Winterrowd, but it also knows other things. Like what is down this road. The safe way to Winterrowd brings us to the Tor. Guide us there and if it changes directions, I will tell you.”

  “Should we trust it?”

  “Do you think you can find the way yourself?” she answered sternly.

  Colvin made a clicking sound and tugged gently on the reins, leading the stallion off the road and into the trees. A quick tap and it plunged up ahead into the nest of towering silver birch. The branches were twisted and gnarled, trunks warped and bent and writhing in the breeze. Twigs and leaves churned under the hooves. The shade brought cold and Lia felt a shiver tear through her. Part of her was exhausted from the sheer terror of their escape.

  Past the screen of trees, a gentle hill sloped downwards to the base of the Tor. And there, before their eyes, a walled garden nestled at the base of the hill a short distance away. Jon Hunter had never mentioned its existence before. Lia knew instinctively that it was their destination.

  Colvin looked over his shoulder at her. A ball of sweat trickled down his cheek.

  She nodded and they started down the slope towards a doorway set into the stone wall. On the air behind them, the sound of charging hooves drifted in from a distance. Colvin kicked the stallion hard and Lia clutched him with one arm and pressed the orb against her queasy stomach.

  * * *

  “There is but one way to truly gain mastery over the Medium, and that is to realize you cannot truly master it at all. It masters you. When one attempts to force it, compel it, command it, or otherwise exercise dominion over it – the power flees like a timid bird. That is because the Medium knows our innermost thoughts. It knows how we intend to use it. Man may deceive other men. But one simply does not deceive the Medium. If its will is sought, it will come. If we emulate the principles by which is thrives, it flourishes in us. Pride is poison to it. In reality, there is perhaps not one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as our pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as you please. It is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself. You will see it, perhaps, even within the Abbeys of the realm. For even if I, an Aldermaston, could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility.”

  - Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINETEEN:

  Blood Spring

  The wall of the garden was too high – there was no seeing over it, even while seated on the saddle. Tangled vines and bright green moss marred the surface. The air was fresh with the scent of grass and flowers growing within. Snorts from the stallion came between the churn of earth beneath its hooves, but the wind still threatened with the thunder of horses coming down Chalkwell Street. The orb directed them to the door of the garden – a tall door, bound with rusted iron. Locked.

  Colvin slipped off the saddle and handed the reins up to Lia. There was a handle, and he pulled on it, but it did not open. He put his shoulder to it, but it did not give.

  “There is a crossbar,” he muttered. Stepping back a pace, he stared up at the wall’s height. “We do not have much time. This is where the orb directed us?”

  “Clearly,” she replied, anxious to get out of sight. The sound of hooves drew nearer. “The wall is tall, but I think we can make it over.”

  “The horse is not going to climb, and we need it for our journey. I am not leaving it behind.”

  “I did not suggest that,” she answered crossly. “Then lift me higher and I will raise the bar from the other side.”

  He looked at her, his brow furrowing.

  “I could probably reach it from the saddle. Here, guide the horse closer.” She offered him the reins back, and he took them, guiding the stallion up to the wall.

  It stamped and snorted as Lia set foot on the saddle. She tucked the orb into the pouch dangling from her girdle and cinched it closed. Then carefully, she started to stand, struggling to keep her balance and using the wall to help keep from falling. Standing, she could see into the garden, which was divided into several areas with thick hedges, trees, and pools. Just beyond the wall, some wide stone steps led down, but she did not think the horse would have difficulty descending them. She had always enjoyed climbing trees.

  “They are getting closer!” Colvin warned.

  He steadied the horse and she planted her hands on the rough vines and then hoisted herself up. The ivy vines scratched at her as she swung her legs to the other side, twisted around on her belly, and then hung from her fingertips. She was grateful to land gracefully on the other side, and quickly raised the crossbar and pushed the door open. Yanking the tether, Colvin pulled the stallion after them, secured the door again, and then they both led it
down the broad steps.

  The sound of the sheriff’s men passed from the roadside, heading further away.

  Colvin looked around, warily. “What is this place?”

  “I have never been here,” she replied.

  At the base of the stairs, the path was blocked by several hedges, but it opened up to a view of beautiful pools, flowerbeds, and shade trees. Ahead and above, the Tor rose up in its majesty, dominating the view.

  “Which way?” Colvin asked.

  Lia checked the orb and it pointed to another set of steps, leading up, across the garden.

  Colvin rubbed his cheek and the bristles. “Where is the groundskeeper? Who lives here?”

  “How am I supposed to know that? At least you have the sword. To think, all along, I thought it was his sword. Not yours. I feel such a fool. We go that way.”

  The stallion managed the steps without trouble and they walked, looking at the sights. Birds with bright plumage went from tree to tree, looking at them quizzically. The pools and fountains were charming and secluded. As they reached the top of the steps, the path went two ways. The orb pointed to a thick maze of hedges, but across a short lawn there was a low stone wall with a Leering set into it in the shape of a lion’s head.

  “A well,” Colvin said, tugging the stallion. “Let us water the horse and ourselves. This is a maston’s garden. Even the hedges are shaped with our emblem.” She had not noticed it until he pointed it out – the eight-pointed star in the stone and hedges.

  He led the way to the Leering which overlooked a stone trough. The stone was mottled in color but dry of water. A gentle rush filled the air, making Lia shiver, and the lion’s mouth began to gush water and fill the basin. The water was clear, but had a pinkish blush coloring it. Colvin led the stallion to the other side and it dropped its head into the pool and began to drink. Holding his hands to the stream, Colvin washed them clean and then cupped some water into his mouth several times.

  “It has a metal taste,” he said. “Strange. It is not offensive though. Drink while we still have fresh water.”

  Lia joined him and also washed her hands. She tasted it – the waters were a little sour with the hint of metal. The stone beneath the Leering had worn away from the constant lapping of the waters, brownish red in color. The water was cold, almost icy, so she thought about warmth as she did at the laundry at Muirwood, and suddenly the water came out gushing with steam. She bathed her arms in the stinging waters, when the flow stopped suddenly.

  “What did you do?” Colvin demanded of her, his face angry.

  “It was too cold. I wanted it warm.”

  “How did you…you cannot do that to a gargouelle. This one summons water. That is all. You are not supposed to bring anything else to the summoning.”

  “I do it at the laundry all the time,” she said, wondering why he was so upset. “Hot water cleans better than cold, dirty water.”

  “You are not supposed to be able to…that is something that few learners even think of…what I mean is…it is just not possible. This one summons water. You are mixing fire with it.”

  “How else do you heat water then?”

  He looked at her sternly. “It is just not done. There are ones for fire and ones for water. Not both.”

  She met his stern look with one of her own. “Do you object because you cannot do it?”

  He stood silently, as if chewing his words behind his clenched teeth so that he would not speak them. “I will not argue with you any longer. If you have drunk enough, let us go.”

  His hard words had wounded her, but she tried not to let it show and motioned towards the other path. Colvin was utterly infuriating sometimes. Checking with the orb, she followed it over to a maze of hedges, with him pulling the stallion after them. Past those, the pointers guided them to a secluded area not far from it. The view was shielded by beautiful yew trees which formed a boundary around it, and the perimeter was offset with a low stone wall, leading to a circular well-hole. Another Leering, like the waymarker near the ruins at the Abbey, stood at the head of the well hole. It was tall and narrow and carved with the face of a man, a weeping man.

  Lia looked down at the Cruciger orb, and it showed the way towards the well.

  Colvin wrapped the reins around a branch, tightened it, and then stepped down three short steps, looking curious and confused. She followed him, running her hand over the green foliage of a bush. The sun was nearly overhead, and there was no wind, so the shadows lay flat and still.

  Lia looked into the eyes of the Leering carved into the waymarker, wondering what purpose it was built for. It seemed ancient, the features rubbed away by countless years. She joined Colvin by the edge of the well and they both stared down into the black depths. The throat of the well made a sound, as if it were alive but merely asleep and breathing softly.

  “Here?” Colvin said, staring into the dark.

  A man’s huskily accented voice came from the trees. “Only a Cruciger orb would have brought you here.” He stepped from the shadows, his dark eyes flashing with intensity. He was taller than Colvin, fat around the middle with skinny legs showing beneath his tunic hem, his black hair just starting to go white above his ears.

  Colvin grabbed for his sword, and the man charged forward, waving a twisting staff.

  “You reach first for a weapon! In my home? In this sacred place?” He was there by the time Colvin’s sword left its sheath and aimed it at the man’s chest. His eyes blazed. “And what are you going to do with it, you miserable little pethet! Eh? Are you going to thrust me through? Eh? You are so brave with a teeny sliver of steel. Braver than the sheriff’s men, even. Go ahead! Spill my entrails to the stones. Let my blood wail to the Medium for vengeance upon you. You little pethet! A limping man’s crutch has made you so fearful? Eh?” He pushed his chest against the tip of Colvin’s sword. “Eh? I cannot hear you. Eh? Why not kill me now and be done. Eh!”

  Lia stared at the crazed eyes, sickened by the reek of his foul breath. Reaching out, she put her hand on Colvin’s arm. “Put it away,” she whispered.

  His arm remained firm, his eyes distrustful. His jaw muscles throbbed from clenching his teeth.

  “Put it away,” she repeated, pushing gently.

  “Sound advice, pethet! The wisdom of youth! Listen to the child. Listen to the one who holds the Cruciger orb and makes it spin. Eh! You wish to fight me still? Very well. Then I will fight you. I do not like to fight. But you do not show me proper respect. If I must shame you in front of this little sister, then I must. Vancrola, pethet! Simoin!”

  “Put it down,” Lia said more firmly. Then she whispered, “He will not harm us. He is a maston.” She knew it to be true, even though he wore no markings.

  Colvin wavered, his arm trembling slightly, then he swept the sword point down.

  “I am disappointed in you, pethet. I would have relished shaming you in front of her. Defeated by a cripple!” He struck the staff down in front of him, then leaned on it. “Eh! Well, if you do not wish to fight, then we can talk. Talk is useful sometimes. For that is why you are here. Eh? I did not hear you. You were going to tell me why did you come to the gardens. Eh?”

  “We sought shelter from the sheriff’s men,” Lia said, stepping in front of Colvin. “The orb led us here.”

  “Of course it did!” he bellowed, waggling the crutch at her. “Because it can hear the blood still screaming. As I can hear it. Shaolic.”

  A shiver went down Lia’s back at the word.

  “Who are you?” Colvin asked warily.

  “I am Maderos. I do not want your names, so do not tell me. They would be filthy to me, since you are not of my country. Filthy to speak. Bah! I do not like the names from this country. And I do not want your blood also on these stones. Besides, I already know why you are here.”

  “How do you know that?” Lia asked.

  Maderos gave her a crooked smile. “Because you came with a maston, little sister. They always bury their own.”


  Lia swallowed. “There is another maston here?”

  “Only a part of him, child. His blood has already been spilt. So the spring weeps again. It weeps with his blood.”

  Colvin slid the sword back into its scabbard. Anger stormed across his face. “Where? Where is the body?”

  “You stand on it, pethet. I hid it in the well where they would not find it again to carve it like butchers. He did not name you, for he did not know your name. That saved you, I think. But he did name Demont. Gack! A horrid name to pronounce. Like speaking with worms on my tongue. Demont’s man. He came looking for you. But he found one who cannot be trusted. Who betrayed him to the sheriff’s men. He was a pethet too. Demont’s man did not know your name. But he knew enough. He knew the name of Winterrowd. Now the king’s army comes, and all the mastons gathering there will spill their blood in the fields. If you were a faithful maston, like the Aldermaston of Muirwood, you could stop them.” His eyes widened with laughter. “You could lift up the Tor! Then drop it down on them!” He laughed, a sickening booming laugh. “But you are not a faithful maston yet. You are a pethet.”

  All the while the crazy man spoke, Lia realized something. His accent was foreign. He was not from their country. Perhaps he knew the language written on the orb. Perhaps he was the one who could read it. Not only did the orb bring them to a place of safety, it brought them to someone who could help them.

  “You can read?” Lia asked him.

  “Of a truth, I can!” he said, looking offended. “I read many languages. And speak them. And engrave them. I visit many lands and write their stories.”

  Lia and Colvin looked at each other. She could see it in his eyes – they were both thinking the same thing. Maderos was the one who had lived in the caves where the old cemetery had been. He was the one writing the record and recording the history in the tome.