The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 1)

“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?

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX:

Trapped

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.