Lia gritted her teeth. “He will grant you audience with the Aldermaston.”

“Very well.” He started on his way and then stopped, looking back. “The weather is fine. I should like to go hawking today. Please arrange it with your other duties. A falcon or a hawk will do. I am not fond of hunting with kystrels.”

The way he said it made her shiver. The look said much more than his words. He turned and left, marching quickly towards the manor house.

Sowe’s hand slowly found Lia’s. “He is…he is so dangerous,” she whispered.

“Colvin said he was the best swordsman in the realm,” she replied, watching him go. “But I am not sure if his greater talent is not his ability to persuade. Poor Ciana. He is relentless.”

“Let us go back to the kitchen. I feel safer there,” Sowe suggested.

“I need to go by the apothecary first,” Lia answered, remembering her errand.

“I will go with you.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way. As they approached the apothecary, the door opened from the inside and Getman Smith came out, holding his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his face wrinkled with misery. But when he saw Lia and Sowe, his wince turned into a dark scowl.

“Sowe,” he whispered, his face suddenly burning.

CHAPTER THIRTY:

Betrayed

Sowe’s sudden squeeze on Lia’s hand shocked her with its intensity. Getman shuffled down the stone steps from the apothecary door, his scalp bandaged. Lia had the strong suspicion that he was one of the young men who had tried to punish Dieyre and failed.

“Why did not you come last night?” Getman said to Sowe, ignoring Lia.

“I was with Pasqua,” Sowe whispered, so faintly that Getman could not hear it.

“What?”

“She was with Pasqua,” Lia said abruptly. “You look terrible, Getman.”

“Was I talking to you?” he said with a snarl. Then back at Sowe he glared. “You did not join the maypole dance last night. It was Astrid, then? He told you? I thought I saw him sneaking. He probably overheard.”

“I…” Sowe said, starting to tremble. “I…did not want to go last night. To leave the Abbey.”

Lia could see that Getman was bitterly disappointed in the turn of events. He was humiliated, furious, and desperate. He had one more year until he was required to leave Muirwood and he had counted on the Whitsunday fair to progress his relationship with Sowe. He was completely blind to her feelings, of course. Most men were afflicted with that curse.

“Astrid,” he muttered savagely as he walked by them. He shook his head in rage.

Lia felt a pang of concern for the boy. She caught Getman’s sleeve. “You leave him alone,” she warned in a low voice.

She was unprepared for the depth of his reaction. A lidded kettle frothing so violently inside that the release let out a scaling hiss of steam. His face contorted with uncontrolled rage. In an instant he was screaming at her.

“Do not touch me! I swear I will thrash you too, hunter or not! You strut around this Abbey with a blade and a bow. I could take you down with one fist. One fist!” His clenched fist quavered high, threateningly. “You are nothing, Lia! You were born nothing and you will die nothing! Like we all will! All of us, each one! I hate this place.” His fist continued to quiver. “If you ever touch me again, I swear I will thrash you until you are black with bruises. You are nothing. Nothing! We are all nothing here. How I hate it.”

A red haze of anger swelled inside Lia. The look in Getman’s eyes – it was horrific. He was so angry, so humiliated he was going to lash out at anyone and everyone. In one move, she could have him face first on the ground. Who was he to talk to her like that? He, who had been a bully to her all her life. She had trained with Martin for almost a year. She had protected the Abbey from the Queen Dowager’s men – had thrown a man off his horse. She had fought a kishion face to face and nearly been drowned. Who was this blacksmith boy with a cracked skull?

“Lia,” Sowe warned in a tremulous voice.

More than anything else, Lia wanted to humiliate Getman Smith. For all the bruises he had left on her arms. For all the tormenting he had done to the wretcheds. What would everyone think when they heard that she, a hunter, had knocked him to the ground? She was not a nothing! She could use the Medium better than Colvin or Edmon. She had defended Muirwood that morning in a way that Getman would never understand. She was not just a wretched, she was a wretched from Pry-Ree. And now she was a maston.

Will you observe justice towards all men? Will you do no harm to any one unless the Medium commands you?

Tags: Jeff Wheeler Legends of Muirwood Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net