The Blight of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 2)

The orb was clear in its direction. It led them out of town, where she found matching bootprints in the dirt that quickly left the road into the scrub and trees. The spindles and the mashed ridges of dirt both pointed towards the Tor, the lopsided hill that could be seen from the Abbey, the highest point of ground in the Hundred.

“I have a question for you,” Lia said, closing the gap between them so she would not have to shout.

“You always have questions,” he replied.

“The Aldermaston called Scarseth’s medallion a kystrel. Is it named after a falcon breed then?”

“You have it right.”

“Why is it, though?”

“What is peculiar about a kystrel when it hunts its prey?”

Lia looked down at the orb, saw that the spindles had not changed, and thought a moment. “I have no idea why it would be named after a bird. It obviously does not help him fly – I can see his trail clear enough.”

“If you have ever hunted with a kystrel, especially when there is wind ripping at you like this, you will notice they hover and wait for their prey. Most falcons like to soar and then swoop down, but kystrels are smaller, more patient and they hover and wait. When they find their prey, they swoop down suddenly and quickly.” He stopped, shielding his face from the wind, then turned to look at her. “Those who force the Medium to obey with a kystrel tend to be subtle, crafty – wary and watchful for someone’s weaknesses before they attack. They are dangerous because of their ability to influence your feelings. That is how the Myriad Ones deceive us. Through emotions.”

“Scarseth is good at deception,” Lia said wryly. “From the moment he banged his fist on the kitchen door, he deceived me. How he wore your maston sword so that I would think he was something other than a thief. Do you remember that night?”

“Yes. I am struggling with the memories. How the past haunts you. I treated you cruelly that night and you were only trying to help.”

Lia bumped into him on accident when the wind shifted and shoved her. She corrected her footing. “At least you admit it now. I often wondered since what you were thinking at that moment. How difficult it must have been to wake up like that, in a place full of strangers, knowing the sheriff was hunting for you. That you would be killed for treason.”

“What made it worse was worrying whether or not I could trust you. I had to make a decision quickly. Were you trustworthy or not? I use anger as a shield to protect myself. You recognize that tendency. Your Aldermaston shares it. I tried to offend you on purpose, to see if you would betray me. When you did not and then saved me from the sheriff’s men when they did come skulking in the Abbey for me, I knew I could trust you.”

Lia glanced at him. “You were testing me?”

“I had to know, Lia. That was the only way I could find out.”

Another gust of sharp wind brought several stinging pricks into their faces. The Tor rose ahead of them like a subtle bulge in the earth, a dome that was bald and looked as if it did not belong with the terrain. That was still the direction the prints were going. It was unmistakable.

“You can see the trampled grass clearly,” Lia said. “He is not far ahead of us. We need to catch him before the storm catches us. When we fled into the Bearden Muir, I wish I knew then what I know now. I have slept many nights out of doors since then. I am sorry I was so useless.”

“You handled yourself well considering the circumstances. Regretting the past serves no purpose.”

The light was beginning to fade as they started up the slope. It would not take long to reach the summit of the Tor. One face of it was far steeper than the other. A bright flash of lightning came from the northern sky followed by thick crackles of thunder.

“It is going to be a beautiful storm,” Lia said, admiring the tremors.

“Only you would call a cold, wet, miserable day a thing of beauty,” he muttered, digging deeper into himself as the rain began pelting them in continuous sheets. It came in a rush, surprising them with its intensity.

“It is why I wear a cloak, Colvin,” she said. “See if you can keep up.”

The two marched up the hillside, following the trail as the rain began turning the slopes muddy and treacherous. Before long, her curly hair was wet and clumped, which kept the wind from blowing it around so viciously. Part-way up the hill, she lost her footing on some wet grass and stumbled, planting her elbows in the mud and jarring her knee. She wanted to curse, but Colvin grabbed her arm and helped her to her feet. His touch warmed her. He tried to conceal a smirk at her stumble but failed.