The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 3)

“Thank you,” she replied. “If they ever disturb this place again, I want them to know they will be killed.” She approached the captain of the knights, his eyes full of hate and fear. She reached up and gripped the edge of his sturdy chin, meeting his hateful gaze with her own. “You tell Dieyre that she will not come by boat nor by sea. She is out of his grasp forever. He is nothing but a coward and a fool, and so are you for serving him. May the Blight take you all.”

Reaching down, she glimpsed the chain and pulled the Kystrel out of his shirt and snapped the links with a swift jerk. Then she smacked him with her open palm, so hard her skin stung. His lips quivered with rage and desperation.

“You give that message to your master for me,” she warned. “He would not heed my words in Muirwood. I do not think he will listen now.”

Turning back to Malcolm, she nodded for the sailors to take them away. She listened to the kicking and punching as the crew overwhelmed the knights. Staring at the kystrel cupped in her hand, she remembered Almaguer and Scarseth. She walked to the ovens and tossed the medallion into the pit. She stared at it, amidst the ashes, as if it were a great contorted eye. She summoned the Medium, and it was difficult, like drawing a breath through water. The flames obeyed her though and lit her skin with golden hues as the fire consumed the kystrel and melted it.

Hearing a scuffle of a boot near her, she looked over, seeing Jouvent staring up at her, a trickle of blood coming from his nose and forehead. He stood bravely, gazing at her with admiration. “I will take thee now,” he whispered. “It is not safe in Vezins for thee.”

Lia tousled his dark straight hair and nodded. “Fetch me some woad, Jouvent.”

* * *

“I tremble as I write this. I should not tremble. I must never surrender to my fears. As the Aldermaston of Billerbeck taught me, the soul attracts that which it secretly harbors, that which it loves, and also that which it fears. The Aldermaston of Muirwood taught this. So has the Aldermaston of Dochte. It must be true. If so, then I must proceed with caution. The young king desires to marry me. He said it will end the rift in our kingdom. He wants me to be queen at his side. He has promised me lands, servants, and riches if I accept him. I resist the idea. I do not love him and I do not desire those things. I do not believe that he loves me. He will sacrifice himself for the good of the country, but he will never love me. Therefore, I make this oath to myself. For if it is true that we will always bring to us that which we most secretly love, and if it is true that our thoughts will be set within our reach, then I have but one chance at true happiness. I will marry no other save Colvin Price, the earl of Forshee. I will marry him at Billerbeck Abbey under the hand of his Aldermaston and by irrevocare sigil. We will marry by Twelfth Night. It is written now. I feel strangely calm. Calmness is power. When I go to the dance tonight, I will be calm. Colvin will dance with me tonight. Even if I must ask him.”

- Ellowyn Demont of Dochte Abbey

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

The Water Rite

Dahomey was a strange land with many strange sights. The woods were thick with beeches and oaks, which reminded Lia of Muirwood. At dawn, they reached the edge of the Huelgoat Forest without seeing any sign of Dieyre’s men in pursuit. Lia had used all of the tricks Martin had trained her on to disguise their path and trail and to be wary for any sign of pursuers. Worry throbbed in her heart and she constantly glanced backwards, trying to discern the sound of anything amiss. The forest was crowded with moss-covered boulders, jumbled together for leagues, as if some mighty mountain had been smashed. Some of the rocks were amazingly balanced, huge round heads topping smaller stones that gave them the appearance of mushrooms. It gave them plenty of places to hide, but it also shielded sounds from reaching them. Without the orb or Jouvent, she would have become hopelessly lost amidst the treacherous path, but he knew the way and guided her through the forest by noontime.

“Thou art not from Dahomey,” he said astutely. “I know not where, but not here. Why seekest the Abbey? ‘Tis not safe for mastons there.”

Lia glanced down at him. “Why do you say that?” she pressed.

His nose pinched. “The Dochte Mandar. They be the ones who offer coin for a maston’s telling. Silver eyes and painted faces. They see into your heart. I shudder when I cross one.”

“Who are these Dochte Mandar?” Lia said. “Did they come from the Abbey?”

“Aye, they did. They say that all ‘un should go inside the Abbey. That the secrets should be known by all. In Dahomey, all the Abbeys are opened. And the Dochte Mandar taunt and prod and snare any lad or lass who wander by. Their faces were painted black and they were strange to be seen. Nowaday every person is staining their faces and arms like the Dochte Mandar. There are needles and black ink. Folk get poked and stung. It hurts, so they say. But thou are not painted with ink or shadows.” He looked at her shrewdly. “They at the Abbey are painted. They will see thou art a foreigner.”