The Blight of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 2)

“Lia, you fool,” she whimpered. “You stupid, stupid fool.” How she hated herself!

What would Marciana say? In her elegant gowns, freshly combed and braided hair, with her callous-free hands? Lia looked at herself in disgust. A hunter’s life bemired her. The lavenders were always clean and smelled of purple mint. Not Lia. She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering and hugged herself. Marciana had solicited her friendship, her intimacy. She prided herself on noting hints of love. She would be furious to learn Lia deceived her. Edmon’s information was obviously incorrect, regardless of how true he believed it to be.

Then there was the Aldermaston. How could she disguise her feelings from him? Would he pity her? Or would he forbid her to see Colvin again? The thought of never seeing him again tortured her. It would be for the best if he left Muirwood. She knew she would survive it somehow. But the pain – how could she go on with the wrenching ache constantly reminding her of what she had ruined?

She loved him. She loved him more than anything else in her life. Even though it hurt, even though his rejection shattered her, she could not change her feelings for him now that she admitted to herself what they were. He had his faults, but there was so much she had always admired about him. His constant struggle to control himself. His desire to placate the Medium so that it would serve him. His care for his sister and his iron determination to succeed despite his worst fears. He was not driven by the ambition to be rich, had never once mentioned that his actions were motivated by the thought of added reward. Duty drove him. She admired that.

Lia lifted her chin to the sky and felt the water cleanse the mud from her face. She would endure it. Somehow, she would. But how?

It begins with a thought.

The very concept tormented her because Colvin had taught it to her. Yet she knew she could. If she focused on something else, if she pushed her will and all her efforts, it would bloom in her life. She just needed an idea. Something to hold on to, to give her strength.

The sound of hooves clomping in the mud.

Lia’s eyes opened as the black forms of three horses appeared from a screen of trees nearby. Each was mounted by a rider wearing a black tunic threaded in silver. She had seen the design before – the Queen Dowager’s men. She rose for they approached at an even canter.

“She moves! After that tumble down the hill, I thought her ankle twisted,” said one rider to another.

“Hush! She can hear us!”

“But she cannot speak Dahomeyjan. She is from the Abbey.”

The third rider hissed. “She is the hunter Dieyre warned of. Fool girl to wander this far. Look – she is poised to fly. Calm her, Renart, while we hedge her retreat.”

The middle rider was a handsome man and tapped the flanks of his stallion. “Are you well?” he asked in her native language but with the same inflection of the Queen Dowager. “We saw you fall. You are from the Abbey, yes?”

Lia’s mind whirled with the danger. She eyed the other two horses as they slowly broke off and started on each side of her. They were backing her towards the hill where their steeds would make it easy to outrun her. If she made it to the Cider Orchard, she would have the advantage, but it would be pointless trying to outrun the steeds when they were so close.

She said nothing, quickly thinking about her options. She had no bow, only the gladius and a dirk. They each had swords belted to their waists, and one had a crossbow dangling from a strap on the saddle horn.

“Do not be frightened,” the rider said, his smile disarming. “Did you hurt your leg in the fall?”

Lia took a tentative step backwards, away from them and then winced with pain and flinched. It was a ruse to make them think she was injured and could not run.

“She is hobbled,” the other said with a wicked grin. “The kishion wanted clothes for a disguise. Let us bring hers.”

“The earl said not to harm her,” the other warned. They were close to Lia, coming at her from three sides.

“Who cares what he thinks!” the other snarled. “She is our prize. The kishion wants clothes. He will not care what we do with her.”

“Give me your hand,” the first rider said, leaning forward from the saddle. They clustered around her, the snort of their steeds just shy of her face. “I can take you back to the Abbey. It is a long walk.” The smile did not reach his eyes. The look made her stomach squirm with loathing at the lie. She knew exactly what they were planning to do with her.

“Thank you,” Lia mumbled, wincing still, and hobbled forward a step.

“Why were you running…?” he started to ask when Lia lunged suddenly and grabbed his wrist instead of his hand. With her other hand, she seized his tunic sleeve and then dropped to a low crouch. He toppled straight off the stallion and grunted against the muddy earth. He was stunned for a moment, shaking his head as he wondered how he had fallen off the horse, giving Lia time to draw her gladius. She slammed the pommel into the back of his skull, right where Martin had showed her. He did not get up.