Lia felt a pulse of warning. “I cannot speak it. I will not say it.”
“Of course not. It is probably a trifling little Abbey hidden in the mountains of Pry-Ree. The warning did not come from Muirwood, the ancient Abbey of your country. It did not come to Dochte of Dahomey. It did not come to Bruge Abbey in Paix. Nor any of the other chief Abbeys. Yes, young Ellowyn gave us the warning when she first arrived. But when pressed as to the facts, she said the warning was given in a language she did not comprehend the nuances of. She was learning a bit of Pry-rian, of course, in her deep studies at Billerbeck. But the Aldermaston spoke the warning to you, and you translated it for her. You, who serve the machinations of Muirwood. You may understand why I am loathe to take your word for it, child. A warning so obviously self-serving. If it is true, then why have not all the other Aldermastons been made aware of it themselves?”
Lia knew the answer. “Because they are drinking your cider, my lord. The poisoned cider that has been so expensive to buy. Only the most wealthy can afford it.”
He smiled tautly. “The cider comes from Muirwood, child,” he reminded her.
“I know what I speak to be the truth. The Medium has confirmed it to me.”
“Yes,” the Aldermaston nodded sympathetically. He paced slowly within the small confines, his brow gleaming with sweat. “You will find, child, that everything you were taught at Muirwood is a lie. The Medium can make anyone feel anything. Even I can make you believe that what I tell you is true.” The force of feelings slammed against her, causing her emotions to well up so quickly and strongly that tears pricked her eyes and she found herself sobbing uncontrollably. Then she was laughing, hysterically and violently, and she fell against the floor, twitching as the mirth and giddiness swarmed against her. Then sadness – a sadness so deep and terrible she drowned in it. She could hardly breathe through the pain, the pain of a thousand deaths, the pain of a million deaths. Of mothers clasping their dead babes, of girls jilted by love, of widows for husbands. The depth and immensity exploded inside her, blinding her mind to everything but the suffering. Then it was gone, and she found herself huddled on the floor, choking on her tears, clawing at the stone. Her entire body was drenched with sweat.
Sniffling and still feeling the dregs of the emotions, she did not have strength to raise her head as the kishion hefted her body and dragged her into an open cell. From the slits in her eyes, she saw the Aldermaston leaving, mopping his brow with a silk kerchief.
As the kishion dumped her on the floor, she proceeded to retch violently, expelling everything within her stomach. The stink was vile and made her thirsty for water. The heat from the Leering had drained her, the millstone of emotions had left little else inside her. As she turned to look for something to drink, the kishion returned with a goblet of cider.
“Water,” she begged him.
His eyes were flat and cold and he set the goblet down near her.
She knew that they would never give her any water. The only thing to drink would be the poisoned cider. She remembered seeing Marciana in the tower, frantic with emotions. She also understood what Dieyre meant about her suffering.
It was only just beginning.
* * *
“All is well and safe. They caught Lia in my chamber in the tower. I knew she would return. I could sense her distrust. They will test her. She will fail. The Aldermaston has told me that she will. She will fail because a maston cannot pass the hetaera test without succumbing to a kystrel. We will leave soon for home. Colvin will take me to Billerbeck Abbey. The thought is already sprouted in his mind. Soon – so very soon.”
- Ellowyn Demont of Dochte Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE:
Ordeal
There was no way to tell if it were night or day. There was no way to distinguish sun or shadow. The only light was the pitch-soaked torches and the incense braziers. The smoke made her mind cloudy and her skin stink. The goblet lay before her, tempting her. Her tongue was dry, her lips aching. Her throat was on fire with the desire for a drink. She was still weak from retching and they had not brought any food. The kishion stood guard within the shadows, occasionally changing position, pacing like a caged animal. He kept glancing at their cells and then he would smile, as if relishing the opportunity to torture them.
“Martin?” Lia whispered.
“Aye, child,” he said, groaning. She heard him shuffle along the floor of his cell.
“I am sorry,” she said.
There was no reply.
The kishion appeared outside her cell. His gaze was full of eagerness. He said nothing, only stared at her. Actually, he leered at her. Prowling the small room, he kept looking over at her, his eyes hungry.