Colvin’s voice was firm. “Close your eyes. Both you. You cannot witness the sign.”
Lia straightened her back, though she was still kneeling, and rested her hands in front of her. She closed her eyes, which felt silly. Colvin’s boots trampled the grass near her and she could feel the warmth coming from his body. He knelt down as well, facing her. She could hear the sound of it, felt the shift of his weight. Her heart started pounding and her mouth went dry. She could feel his hand coming down, but not touching her, as if he dared not touch her. In the dream of Almaguer, he had touched her hair. His fingers had coiled in her hair like serpents. Shivering, she waited, barely able to breathe. The image of the sword plunging through her returned to her mind. The sweet reek of his skin. Smoke-shapes sniffing at her, nuzzling against her arms, her back, her legs. She wanted to scream.
Please, do not touch me…do not let him touch me!
Something terrible would happen if he did.
Colvin’s hand gently capped the top of her head. It was gentle – yet firm. There was softness in the way the weight of his hand and fingers pressed down against her hair, bending the kinks, before resting on her scalp. His touch sent new shivers through her.
“Lia Cook…”
It was the first time he had spoken her name. In her ears, there was screaming, raging, cursing, but not from Colvin. It came from inside her. It was as if she opened another set of eyes, eyes that allowed her to look down on herself as a separate person. Colvin was in front of her, but there was a blinding hail of light coming from behind him. Smoke-shapes screamed and fled, loping away with a mist that receded from the hillock like water draining from a cracked keg. There was something still in her chest – something that had lodged there since her dream. It slid out and it was like breathing for the first time. Behind her, she could see Almaguer’s glowing eyes as he backed away from her, his face twisting with agony.
Then she felt it. Each breath she inhaled brought a sob of recognition. The feeling was back again. Not the terrifying feeling, not the horror and shame and loathing, but the feeling of Muirwood. All her life she had felt it. The subtle feeling of safety, of belonging, of being home. She felt it again, even though the abbey was leagues away. She understood now. It was the power of the Medium. All her life, she had lived amidst it – breathed it with the very air yet had never really recognized it before. The same power that defended the abbey was with her, brought to her through Colvin’s warm hand.
She had not heard another word he had said, but it was over and he lifted his hand from her head. Deep inside, she did not want him to snatch it back. She wanted to feel that sense of haven forever. Opening her eyes, she saw him kneel in front of her. His eyes were full of tears.
“They are gone,” she whispered. “The fog and the smoke-shapes. Almaguer. They are gone. I am not afraid any more.”
“I know,” he whispered back, barely able to speak. “The Myriad Ones were all around you. I…I did not know. But they are gone now. They are all gone.”
It started to rain.
* * *
The Cruciger orb led them northwest through the tangled paths of the Bearden Muir. The day was every bit as drab, colorless and uncomfortable as the previous day – but it was no longer soulless. She was still thirsty, but that was no longer a torment. Jon had brought food to share, gathered from the kitchen and assembled in a linen napkin by Pasqua herself. Pasqua, who was worried sick about her. Pasqua who had insisted on following Jon to the porter gates to hunt for Lia herself, only to be called back by the Aldermaston and threatened with dire consequences if she defied him. Sowe, who Jon said was hidden inside the manor by the Aldermaston while the sherrif’s men shouted insults from the gates. He told her how the villagers had finally warned the sheriff’s men with the threat of a riot to make them leave.
“Bring Lia back to Muirwood,” the Aldermaston had said. “Whatever happens in Winterrowd, she must come back. Bring her home, Jon. Bring her home.”
There was no way to describe how that made her feel. That she, a wretched, was worthy of rescue. That the Aldermaston would not only defend her, but continue to defy the sheriff because of
her
choice to steal the Cruciger orb and
her
choice to aid Colvin. All her life, she had never felt much in the way of affection for the old man. It was an alien feeling.
The need for fresh water was paramount in the Bearden Muir, so Lia asked the orb for a safe path to Winterrowd that would put them in the course of fresh water. The spindles had pointed the way clearly and she waited with anticipation for the chance to slake her thirst again.
When it came, before dusk, it startled them all.
The orb led them into a thicket between stark hills. It was thickly wooded with black, mossy oaks, overgrown and filled with stagnant pools with floating clouds of gnats and choruses of frogs. Insects sang and hummed, filling the air with their confusion. Carefully, the orb led them into the midst of the thicket, choked with skeletal trees and brush that clawed at their heads, swatted at their arms, and seemed almost impassable at times, until they reached a boulder in the center. The ground was dry around the stone, and they circled it from both sides. It whispered with power. Sure enough, it was a Leering, with the carved side facing east towards the sun, the western side shaggy with moss and speckled with lichen. There were no other boulders nearby. It seemed out of place, imposing, permanent – lonely. It was as if the thicket had grown up around it.
Colvin and Jon stared at the carving of its face, their eyes widening in unison. They looked at each other and then at her.
“What is it?” Lia asked, staring at the image carved into the stone. It was a human face – a girl’s face fringed with long crinkly hair. She had seen many Leerings before. It did not seem unusual to her, except for the hair which matched her own.
“Idumea’s hand,” Colvin said breathlessly.
Jon looked equally shocked. “I agree.” He looked at it, then at her.
“What?” Lia asked, starting to get angry. The orb pointed to it.
With a grimy finger, Jon reached out and traced the eyes and nose and mouth of the sculpture. “This is the Aldermaston’s work. I swear I would recognize his hand. His waymarkers. The Aldermaston made this one. But when? How long ago?”
“Look at the moss,” Colvin said. “It’s been here for years. Here – a single boulder in the midst of a grove.”
“The Aldermaston made this?” Lia asked. “Is that what troubles you?”
Colvin shook his head, also reaching out and grazing his fingers across it. “No. It is the face.” He looked back at her, his eyes open in wonder. “It is your face.”
She looked at Jon.
“It is you, Lia. Even the hair…”
Her world began spinning. Like the games of children when they stand and spin around, arms waving out as they twirl until they are too dizzy to stand. The Aldermaston had carved it. Her face…or her mother’s face? Why could she use the Cruciger orb and Colvin could not? Why was she so strong in the Medium?
It was a strange, sickly feeling, but her mind asked it ruthlessly anyway. Was the Aldermaston, then, her father?
There were no mirrors in Muirwood, they said, except inside a secret chamber in the abbey. Mirrors encouraged haughtiness, and so they were banned throughout the grounds. Lia did not care so much about that. As most girls did, she had a companion like Sowe who could tame her hair or daub dough off her cheek. For the most part, Lia had only seen her reflection in the dirty trough of water at the laundry, or reflected in the duck pond, or off a gleaming spoon.
The Leering bore her face. She ran her finger down its nose, under its chin, then stroked its cheek with the back of her hand. The stone was smooth, cold to the touch, yet power seethed within it. With little more than a thought, water gushed from the eyes of the Leering, bathing her hands. Water – fresh water. After scrubbing her fingers clean, she cupped the water and drank deeply. It was cool, clean and sent tingles down to her toes. The water puddled at the base of the boulder, then started down a worn track into the bushes, thick with sedge and decaying trees. She drank until her thirst was finally slaked. Colvin rinsed his hands then followed, and then Jon took out the waterskin and filled it to the brim. Then he drank.
“Rest here, but only a little while,” Jon said after wiping his mouth. “I will cover our trail. Do not wait for me. I know how to find you.”
He started to leave, but Lia caught his arm. “Why did the Aldermaston carve my face, Jon?”
“I do not know, Lia.”
She kept her voice pitched low. “Do you think…would he have been my father?”
His eyes were serious. “He is the last man in the world who would father a wretched. No, I do not know how he knew to carve this. But I have seen his carvings before. This one looks like his.”
“How did it come to be here then?”
“Perhaps he knew you would be here someday and would need it. He knows many things before they happen because he is strong with the Medium.” He smirked. “Probably why he is an Aldermaston. Let me hide our trail.” He tousled her wild hair. “If Pasqua could see you now. Bathe your face ‘ere you leave. You are filthy.”
“You are rude to mention it, Jon Hunter. I do not know what Ailsa Cook sees in you.”
He suffered her insolence with a grin, shaking his head, then loped back through the twisted oaks the way they came, holding his bow close against his body with an arrow ready.
She turned back and found Colvin kneeling at the Leering, his head under its gushing waters, nearly shivering while scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand. The stallion grazed at the stiff grass. With a thought, she brought a little fire to the water – not too much – not to scald him.
“Hot,” he said, his fingers scouring through his hair.
“Hot cleans better,” she replied with a grin, approaching the other way. Water pattered on the muddy ground, taking his dirt and grime away. She knew him better – knew of his jealousy, his impatience. Something had changed between them. His compassion towards her – the tears in his eyes as he stared at her. Something was different. But still she hesitated near him, afraid he might recoil at her again.
“Here, it will go faster if I help you,” she said, scrubbing the top of his head as she did for Sowe. He froze for a moment, the water dripping down his face from his nose. It was warm water. What they needed was some soap.
He hiked up his sleeves and scrubbed his arms while she combed his hair with her fingers and tried to chafe away layers of dirt, scaly skin, and chalky crusts from his neck. His shirt and tunic were soon soaked as well, hugging against the chaen beneath.
“Let me see your eyebrow, Colvin.”
He looked up at her, swept his dripping hair back, and he looked like someone else. A thin half-formed beard outlined his jaw and mouth. Using the hem of her cloak, she sponged up some hot water and then wiped at the scab along his eyebrow. He winced, clenched his teeth, as she cleaned the wound. It did not bleed, but it would scar. The woad had kept it closed.
“There. You smell better too,” she said, smiling. “I am pleased it is healing. Your sister will hardly notice the scar when you return.”
“She has a gift for astuteness. As do you.”
“I like to think I am shrewd. My pride does anyway. I am filthy as well, so help me wash so we can go. We should not tarry long.”
“Help you?” he said, swallowing. His eyes looked panicked.
She coiled up her hair. “Hold this up. That is all. Sowe normally helps me, but you will have to do. If you are not too proud to serve a wretched girl.”
The water was warm and pleasant, but she liked it hotter still and thought more on the fire. Steam rose from the Leering. Its eyes glowed red. Washing was something she was good at, and quick, and it did not take long to chafe her arms and her neck while Colvin held her hair up. She wiped her face furiously, hoping to get away the smudges and dirt caked in the seams.
“Let my hair fall,” she said finally, enjoying the burn of the water as it ran down her scalp. She fussed her hair, smoothing it down with the water until the water dripping from the ends ran clear. Then fishing the ring from her bodice, she washed it until the gold gleamed and sparkled, then stuffed it away again. The metal band was warm against her skin.
“If only Pasqua had packed my other dress,” she said, squeezing excess water from wavy hair. Hers was ripped, tattered at the hem, and filthy. It used to be blue. Now it was a grayish green color. “You have hardly spoken today,” Lia said as they walked around to the stallion. “You have hardly said ten words since we left this morning and it is nearly dusk.”
“You were talking to your friend,” he replied, gathering the reins and stroking the mane. “I did not want to intrude.”
“You can trust Jon,” Lia said.
“Trusting anyone does not come easily to me. Even you – it took time before I did trust you, remember?”
“So you admit you trust me now?”
“You have proven your faithfulness, Lia. I require that before I give my trust to anyone. I will requite it in my own way, I promise you.”