A firm knock sounded on the rear kitchen door, making Lia jump with fright. She rushed to the door, expecting to see Colvin. Hurryingly, she raised the crossbar and pulled the door handle.
But it was not the armiger. It was not the sheriff.
It was the knight-maston who had brought Colvin to the Abbey days ago, still haggard and mud-splattered and wearing the magnificent sword belted to his waist.
“Look at you, lass. You seem surprised I came back. Why is that?”
“You came,” Lia nearly gasped. “I did not think…the sheriff’s men…I thought they had captured you.”
“The sheriff’s men? Unimaginable. They do not have enough brains between them to fill the husk of a nut, but that is neither here nor there. From what I heard in the village yesterday, you have done your part with great cleverness. He is safe?”
Lia nodded triumphantly.
He smiled broadly at her. “There is a good lass. I knew you were a clever girl. So young to be so clever.” He nudged the door with the tip of his boot. “He is not hiding in here, is he?”
“No, the sheriff ransacked the place looking for him. Sowe and I – she is my companion you know – we took him to a safe place.”
“Is he far?”
“Not very. I was going to fetch him at dawn and steal his horse back and…”
“His horse? It wandered here too?”
“Yes, days ago. We are trying to help him find Winterrowd. But now that you are here, you can take him with you and…”
He shook his head, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. “No, it is nearly dawn. I must flee before the other helpers awaken. Tell him to meet me at the Pilgrim Inn. I will be waiting for him. The sheriff’s men are leagues from here by now.”
“The Pilgrim,” Lia echoed. “It is nearby. I will tell him. You are a brave knight. Garen Demont is lucky to have you. Do you suspect the sheriff is watching the road?”
He smiled, appearing flattered. “It is you who are brave. Oh, I am sure the road is being watched. Sheriff Almaguer is not as clever as you, but he is still a fearful man. Did you see him when he came to the abbey?”
“He came to the kitchen looking for…” She almost said his name and stopped herself, not knowing if the knight maston already knew who he was escorting. “For him.”
“That must have frightened you.”
“He is a frightful man. But the Aldermaston sent him away.”
“Brave lass. I am proud of you. Here – for your bravery and for the risks you have taken.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin pouch that jingled when he shook it. “I would do more, and I will after he is delivered safely to the Pilgrim. Perhaps it will be of use to you when you are eighteen and ready to make your way in this harsh world. Hide it where you put you other treasures.” He handed it to her. As she tentatively took it, his other hand clasped on top of hers, warm and rough – a soldier’s hand. “I will not forget. Thank you, lass. Now hurry, hide it before the cook comes and ruins our plan. You remember the name of the inn?”
“The Pilgrim,” Lia said, bursting with pleasure inside.
He let her hand go after a gentle pat. “First the Pilgrim. Then to Winterrowd. We may have a chance yet, with him on our side.”
* * *
“Learners question why faces are carved into stone as a means of preserving the magic of the Medium. There are many levels of symbolism involved that can be shared openly. Stone symbolizes permanence. The faces represent mankind’s ultimate and eventual dominion over the elements of nature and even time itself. Nature continues on its course, a continuing cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. But one, acting under the proper authority of the Medium, can alter that course. The likeness of the sun, moon, and stars symbolizes that great power exists beyond this world that can control this one. We are, after all, living on only one of the worlds inhabited by the Family. Any deeper meaning of the symbolism, along with instruction for creating them – the uninitiated mockingly call them ‘leering stones’ – can only be had through the rites of the Abbey. All mastons know this, and they do not share it outside their order.”
- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
* * *
Fog shrouded the abbey grounds with fleecy wisps and dew. Lia and Sowe wore their cloaks and hugged themselves for warmth as they crossed the Cider Orchard towards the waymarker near the rock cleft. In one hand, Lia clutched the metal orb and used it to point the way in the mist. She kept in her mind the image of the armiger, his brow mottled with a scab, his cheeks and chin scruffy with whiskers. Sowe said nothing as she carried the linen bundle with the foodstuffs. Ahead, in the gloom, they spied the burning eyes of the Leering.
Colvin must have heard them approach, for he appeared out of the gloom, his hair damp with dewdrops. He met them in their approach, his face eager, intense, worried. His arms were folded tightly, as if he were very cold.
“What is that?” he asked Lia, staring at the sphere as the spindles pointed directly at him. He looked at it, his eyes widening with recognition. “I cannot believe it. Where did you get that? From the Aldermaston?”
“Yes,” Lia answered. “You know what it is?”
“I do – but I have never handled one before. They are rare.” He examined it, squinting in the darkness. “I cannot see it well. Bring it to the waymarker.” They did and the eyes suddenly shone more brightly, revealing the surface of the beautiful implement. “I cannot believe it. A Cruciger orb. But then I should not be surprised. Muirwood is the oldest abbey in the realm. May I?”
Lia extended it to him and the spindles spun around once and then stopped.
He held it in his hand and stared at it. Nothing happened.
“You think about where you want to go…” Lia suggested.
“I know that,” he snapped. “It is precisely what I am trying to do.” His brow furrowed. Nothing.
Lia wanted to laugh. A soon-to-be earl from a Family could not work it. But
she
could. The fiery feeling of triumph blazed inside her. “Like this,” she offered and took it from him. “Show me the way to Winterrowd.” The spindles spun, the inner circle whirring deftly, and the way was made clear – westbound though slightly north. Writing appeared on the lower half of the orb. “What does the writing mean?”
She brought it closer to the light emanating from the waymarker’s eyes, and he squinted again. He stopped, swallowed, and shook his head. “I cannot read it. I do not know this language. It is an older text…an ancient text. It may even be Idumean. I have never seen this style of script before.”
Lia was deeply disappointed. “I thought all mastons knew how to read and scribe. I want to know what it says.”
He shook his head, looking at the curving, elliptical markings. “I cannot make it out without knowing the language. I do not know
all
languages. I certainly do not know Idumean. I am not even sure my own Aldermaston knows it. Let me hold it again.” He held out his hand.
As she gave it to him the second time, the spindles behaved the same way, returning to their idle state and refused him. The writing vanished as well, as the groove etchings filled in. He paused, he scowled, he waited – nothing happened. “What is wrong with me?” he grumbled.
“Thankfully, this is not the only news we brought,” Lia said. “I should have said it first. The knight-maston who brought you to Muirwood came back. He knocked on the kitchen doors not long ago looking for you.”
He straightened, his expression shocked. “I am all amazement. Did he?”
Lia nodded, giving him a smile. “He eluded the sheriff’s men.”
“Where is he now? At the kitchen?”
“He said he would wait for you in the village. At the Pilgrim inn – it is the biggest one in town, on the main way not far from the abbey walls. He will be watching for you and will take you to Demont.”
Sowe held out the bundle. “We bundled some food for you,” she said in a voice so small a mouse might have whispered it.
Colvin accepted it and smoothed the top of the linen. “There is no doubt you will both earn a scolding for helping me. Were it possible, I would forbid Pasqua to scold either of you ever again. I heard enough of it hiding in the loft. I pity you.” He let out a pent-up breath. “My gratitude though exceeds my words. Think of what reward you desire. If it is within my power, I will grant it. You are both so very young, but before long, you will have repaid your debt to Muirwood. I will and shall honor my debt to you.”
Sowe blushed furiously and looked at her feet. Lia was not so shy.
“I know what I would ask for,” she said, squeezing the orb tightly.
“What is it?”
Lia could not help a blushing smile. “Sowe already knows what I want. Beyond any gift or treasure, I desire to learn to read.” She swallowed, building her courage, nurturing hope like sparks from drowsy ashes. “When I saw you…reading from the tomes…I was so jealous. I am always jealous of that craft. The Aldermaston refuses to let me learn. He has said…he has said more than once, that as long as he is the Aldermaston of Muirwood, he will not let me. Please, sir – I want it more than anything else.”
He studied her, his eyes deep with shadows, his face dispassionate. It was a heavy expression, as if he were weighing in his mind how much it would cost – and whether her service to him truly deserved such a princely sum. She held her breath. She held back her fears. She hoped in her heart, she yearned with her being, she stared at his face, wishing to scald him with her need.
He was silent. It was not an easy answer to give. Had he tossed out an answer with less than a thought, she would have doubted the sincerity of it. He was brooding over his answer – brooding over the request. It was not given lightly. Silence fell on the woods. Then for a moment, it seemed as if the world stood still and held its breath with her.
“You shall have it,” he whispered. “Even if I must teach you myself.”
Sowe gasped at the immensity of the promise.
It was the best day, the best moment, the best instant in Lia’s life. She would remember it all the rest of her days. Lia wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek, but she knew from her previous demonstrations of friendliness that he would shun it and detest her. The surge and storm of gratitude in her heart brought tears to her eyes, but she willed them not to fall. She must not cry in front of him. She must not show how much she was indebted to his kindness. He could have asked anything from her, and she would have done it, without flinching.
Barely able to get the words out, she whispered, “Thank you, sir. I thank you.”
He stood motionless and hard, like a waymarker himself. His mouth was terse, his expression grave. Then he dropped his hand to his belt and hooked his thumb there. He looked at Sowe and said somberly, “Leave us a moment.”
Sowe, nervous, backed down the road towards the Cider Orchard.
Lia drew closer, worried now that he had changed his mind.
“I pray I have not made a vain promise. I did not make it lightly, nor seek to cheapen it with excuses.” He stared down at his boots, then met her gaze. “As you know, I go to war. Should I fall…” he paused, choking for a moment, “Seek my steward. His name is Theobald. Tell him of the promise I made to you. If I do not live to fulfill it in person, he will do so on my behalf. Does that satisfy you?”
Shocked, Lia swallowed and nodded. Then she saw it, she saw through the façade and into his soul. It had happened to her before on a stormy night when she was nine. That night she had read the Aldermaston’s soul. Today, she saw a stiff lip, a scowl, a rigid demeanor. And she recognized it for what it truly was. Colvin was afraid. He feared what would happen to him at Winterrowd as much as his honor compelled him on that road. They were tangled feelings. Since he had left on his journey, he had been worrying about his death and its effect on his sister, his uncle, and those who loved him. Now he was beholden to yet another creature – a lowly wretched. The thought of disappointing them all was almost too much for him to bear.
The insight came in a moment, a blink. At that moment, she knew him better than anyone else did. He was afraid of dying at Winterrowd, his blood-spattered body twisted and bent, crumpled with others older and more war-wise than himself. Of his sister and how she would worry and grieve, for he had not told her what he was going to do. Yet despite the guilty fear of what would happen if they failed to depose the ruthless king, he forced every footstep on the path leading to the fate that terrified him. In that moment of clarity, in that breach into his soul, she learned a little of the true meaning of courage.
In that moment, as she blinked back fresh tears, she knew that who she danced with at the Whitsun Fair would be the least of her worries. She would worry about him, Colvin, since even his own sister could not.
“Your horse is penned up at Jon Hunter’s lodge,” she said thickly, struggling to speak through a clenched throat. “We will take you there.”
She did not know any other way to say goodbye at such a moment.