“You weep, child?” he asked her gently. “Why?”
“I did think I would miss it so,” Lia whispered, tears blurring the image.
“There is wisdom climbing mountains,” Maderos said softly. “For they teach us how truly small we are. This is just a pebble within one kingdom. There are higher mountains you must climb, child. Greater views you will yet see.”
“Idumea’s hand, it is the king’s army!” Colvin said, his voice throbbing with awe. “I…I cannot discern its size for all the dust. Look at the pennants though. The columns. They are coming. Look at it!”
Lia mopped her eyes on her sleeve and turned to see as well. He stood on a short outcropping, gazing south, the wind tousling his hair, his tunic. From the distance, like a black snake, the army stretched along the road, a cloud of haze rising up from its back.
“Yes, the king’s army,
pethet!
And that is only a part, from the king’s city itself. Another marches from the south. They join at Bridgewater in three days. Three.”
“You know this?” Colvin asked.
“The orb tells many things. Others the Medium whispers to me. Hearken to my words. If you take the road, you will be captured. And the girl. The road is not safe. The befallen king summons his full strength. He leaves no portion of his mind open for doubt that he will crush Demont’s army. His thoughts are very strong. Always, he tempers his thoughts.”
“How many?” Colvin asked.
“Eh,
pethet
?”
“How many does Demont have?”
Maderos smiled wickedly. “A tenth, if that. A tithing of the king’s men. If that. Does it weaken your will,
pethet?
To know you cannot win?”
“No,” Colvin answered angrily. “Demont must be warned.”
“Yes! You must warn him. Fill his mind with doubt. Yes, that will be helpful,
pethet
. Choke his confidence. Strangle his hope. Let it cease gasping and then die like a fish!”
“I did not say that!”
“You mistrust so easily. You do not even see it before you. Bah! Why should I linger? The road is barred before you. There is no safe road. The safe way to Winterrowd, the only safe way, is through the Bearden Muir. There! See the glistening waters? There – to the south – that is the town of Bridgewater. The hill to the north of the waters, that is Kennot Knoll. The water is the Bearden Muir. It floods when the rains come. Every year. There are few towns or villages, because few can survive its moods. They are the lowlands. The marshes. The Bearden Muir. Winterrowd lays beyond it. Look at the spindles. They show you the way. Fix your eyes on the course. It will lead you to Demont’s camp. Stray from it, and you will be taken by the king’s men. I have warned you.”
Colvin stepped closer. “What land do you hail from, Maderos? Are you from Hautland?”
There was a twinkle in Maderos’ eyes. “I hail from many lands,
pethet.
I have walked as far as Idumea perhaps. From thence came the seeds…and thus the tree. It is a good tree. Tasty fruit.”
“What Family are you?” Colvin asked again.
Again, a cunning smile. “Aye, Family I do have.”
“This girl led me to a cave near the abbey. I have seen the tomes you are keeping. I have read them.”
“Have you? And what think you of those tomes?”
“I should like to read more.”
“How bold are your words! How proud to think you will survive even a fortnight hence! You must survive first the slaughter at Winterrowd. That may yet be, if sister holds vigil that night for you. A vigil, do you hear?”
Colvin’s face twitched. He clenched his fists. “Sister?” he asked, nearly choking.
“Aye, sister indeed. You are a
pethet.
I mourn you. You will get no more counsel from me.” He turned to Lia and put his heavy, callused hand on her forehead, then brushed a finger down her cheek. “When you have learned to read, child, I will show you the abbey tomes.”
Her heart was full to bursting. He did not say
if
she learned to read. He had said
when
.
“Thank you, Maderos,” she whispered, bowing her head to him. Impulsively, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
He smiled at her, a warm smile. “Bah, it is hardly a thing beseeching such a gift. You have set it in your heart to read. Many who serve the Medium wish it. That which you fix your heart to, believing with all your desire you will get, you will. ‘Tis not a prophecy. It is the way the Medium delivers to us the very things we think on. It brought you both together. I see that plainly. Now let the Medium take you hence. Trouble will shadow your steps. See below! Those are the sheriff’s men on the road. The murderers. They will ride back to Muirwood when they realize you are not fools to run headlong into the king’s army. They hunt you still, little sister. But the Bearden Muir will help hide you from them.”
* * *
“Youth who come to the Abbeys of the realm come with training already in hand and fixed solidly in their minds. Some have exceptional Gifts already with the Medium when they arrive. Some can already summon fire or water or cause a stone to lift and tremble over their palm. But whatever Gifts they bring to the Abbey, we expect more from them. If they bring six, we expect twelve when they leave. If they come with but one talent, we test and try and prove them until we wring two or three more from them. But whether they come with but one or six, a few lose what they have. The rigorous training of the Abbey begins to take its toll on them. Or they submit their thoughts to the subtle poison of doubt. Not even an Aldermaston’s power can cure it, for these students do harm to themselves. The mind, like the body, can be moved from sunshine into shade.”
- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
* * *
The Bearden Muir was a lair of mossy rocks, ravens, green reeds, and stunted skeletal oaks sagging on the occasional lumps of higher ground amidst a swamp that flooded every year. Its air was cloudy with gnats and mosquitoes, and the smell of rotting earth. Ghostly noises wandered by like lost echoes. Every bit of ground was saturated with muck and mud and treacherous pools. There was no road through the Bearden Muir – it changed too often to construct them. The land was raw, savage, and eerily beautiful, like a damp gray moth with flecks of color in its wings.
Several murky rivers slit through the middle of the Bearden Muir, formed by three tributaries that tried in vain to drain the lowlands. One of the tributaries now barred the path to Winterrowd. The Cruciger orb led them south, along its sluggish flank. The other side was choked with reeds, and the throaty growls of bullfrogs were warnings not to cross.
“What did Maderos mean about having a vigil?” Lia asked, while batting another insect away from her face.
“I do not know,” Colvin answered sullenly, scanning the trees. The mud was slippery for the stallion’s hooves, and his full attention was brought to bear on guiding it.
“I have heard of vigils before,” Lia said. “They happen at the abbey. Learners abandon sleep for something they treasure – something they desire. It is common before taking the maston test.”
“You no longer shock me with your knowledge of the mastons’ customs,” he said over his shoulder.
“But surely you have an idea what Maderos meant?”
“He was talking about my sister Marciana in Forshee who does not know I am here. Or he was speaking of you. By all that is…does this river never end? Can we not cross it yet?”
“If he was talking about me, then you need to teach me how,” Lia said. “I have never done one before. I have gone without eating. And some nights I am restless and cannot sleep. But I do not think that is the same as a vigil.”
“It is not.”
“Then will you tell me?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
His voice was rude and annoyed. “Because I am struggling to keep the stallion from faltering! It requires concentration, which you ruin with your persistent questions. Can you never be quiet?”
Anger surged inside Lia again, and she was glad to be seated behind him so as not to see the impatience stamped on his face. That would have made her angrier still. Did he not think she noticed the sucking mud and the exhausting effect on the weary stallion? Her own stomach was in knots. Maderos’ words whispered back and forth in her mind. She wanted to talk about them, to better understand what they were about. Half of what he had said were riddles.
Looking down at the orb, she saw that it had stopped working. For a moment, there was panic in her heart. True, perfect, helpless panic.
Show us the safe way to Winterrowd,
she pleaded with it. The spindles whirred and moved back, pointing south, following the river. She closed her eyes, grateful.
“I am sorry for distracting you,” she mumbled. In her mind, she added
pethet.
“The spindles are turning. Hold a moment!”
“Are they? Let me see.” He turned in the saddle and they both watched as the spindles turned and pointed into the river. “Here?” Colvin said warily.
The river was smooth, not choppy, but the depths were indeterminable. A sharp, clacking sound came from upstream, startling them. Then it was gone.
“Hold on tightly,” he said. “If the horse starts to swim, it may throw us off. You hold me, and I will keep hold of the bridle. Tighter – good. Clutch that thing tightly as well. Do not drop it. We may never find it again. Can you swim?”
“No,” Lia said, her stomach fluttering.
“There is a first - something I can do that you cannot. If we go under, do not panic. Do not cling to me too hard. I can bring you to the other side. If you squeeze me too hard, I will not be able to swim myself. Do you understand?”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“Then we cross,” he said, tapping the stallion’s flanks and nudging it into the water. It balked, snorting warily at the scum-flecked pool. Colvin tisked with his tongue and stamped harder, guiding the stallion off the riverbank. The mud was loose and slick and Lia felt her insides churn like butter as the horse began thrashing. With a splash and heave, her legs were soaked, then up to her waist. The gritty dress clung to her, the weight of the water crushed against her hips. She squeezed Colvin in a panic.
“It is all right!” he shouted. “Just hold the orb! Hold it tight!”
“
Can
horses swim?” she said, nearly choking with fear. The saddle was slippery and she felt herself going off the back.
“Of course they can! Hold tighter, you are slipping. Slipping!”
He caught her arm as the motion and lapping waves swept her. His fingers dug into her bones and it hurt, but he managed to pull her back up on the saddle.
“Just do not drop the orb! Do you have it? Good. The water is cold. It is all right. There we are, it is not that deep after all. Do you feel steady?”
“I am,” Lia whispered, feeling ashamed of her fear. The stallion bucked a little, but the river was not that deep at the point and it was soon churning through the muddy gap without swimming. After crossing the midpoint of the river, the stallion lunged up the far bank, and again Lia had to hold tight or fall off. The reeds slapped at them as they advanced up the slope to slightly more stable ground.
Colvin sighed with relief. “We will rest here a moment. Climb down.” He followed and landed in the squishy mud. His pants and tunic were soaked as well. “Let us walk a ways and let the horse rest,” he said, patting the stallion’s neck. “He will need his strength if the sheriff’s men catch up to us. Though how they would find us in this swamp is beyond me. Are you all right?” he said, noticing her scowl finally.
Lia looked down at her skirt. The lower half was no longer blue, nor was her cloak, but dark with brownish, grayish sludge, and clung to her uncomfortably. Part of her sleeve was torn, probably when he grabbed her arm to keep her from sliding off. Her shoes were filling with ooze. Looking back, she could no longer see Muirwood, though she thought she could see the Tor saluting them in the distance.
“Well enough,” she said with as much tartness as she could muster and stamped past him.
* * *
Lia was exhausted, cold, miserable, and above all, thirsty. There was no clean water to drink, nothing but brackish, cloudy pools that even the stallion avoided. In her mind, she thought of the lion’s head Leering and wished she had drank more from it. The thought of the clear, cool water tormented her. The sun was setting, and they had reached a small hillock to pass the night above the ankle-deep waters permeating the Bearden Muir. The vast swamp stretched in every direction. The land looked inhospitable. There were no signs of human life, other than their own. The hillock had three gnarled and diseased oaks crowning it and the turf was thick with sharp-pointed desiccated leaves laying beyond the reach of the foul waters.
Colvin huffed the saddle off the stallion and carried it up the hillock, straining with the weight of it. Lia would have helped, but she sat against the trunk of one of the oaks, hugging her knees and trying not to cry again. She hated crying, and she had succumbed to tears during the day. Silently, her loneliness and grief dropped from her lashes unnoticed on Colvin’s shirt. He might die at Winterrowd, and then where would she go? Not back to the abbey. Never to Muirwood. She had stolen the Cruciger orb. The Aldermaston would never forgive her.