Lia tried jerking her arm free, but Almaguer increased his grip with crushing pressure and she nearly shrieked with pain. She tried to speak, but her voice failed. Despair shrouded her, smothering hope.
Jon Hunter!
Almost too late, she remembered him. Where was Jon!
It was as if Almaguer could hear her frantic thoughts. “No one is coming to help you, child. We caught your hunter first and left his body in a ditch. Our hunter is the better shot. He is dead.” A smirk twisted on his mouth. “We made sure of it.”
A feeling of blackness threatened to swallow her whole. Grief filled her nose and mouth. She drowned in it. Four of the sheriff’s men rode away, one holding the stallion’s reins to lead Colvin out of the thicket. The sun sank below the nearby hills, filling the Bearden Muir with shadows. As the light failed, so did her courage.
* * *
After binding Lia’s hands with irons, Almaguer thrust her roughly against the boulder while his men settled in for the night. Darkness descended quickly, but soon a pair of fires crackled and snapped. Horses were unsaddled and they thrashed with weariness and agony. Muddy blankets were spread out, and one of the soldiers set-up a makeshift spit. He had a bow and quiver, and Lia knew he was the one who had killed Jon. His expression was remorseless, and she hated him.
Looking down at the mat of swamp grass, she wondered about Colvin. It was all pointless. It was all in vain. Everything she had tried to do to help him had failed. In the end, the sheriff had captured her, just as Maderos had warned. Her stomach was sick with worry. She thought about escaping, but Almaguer did not lose sight of her, even for a moment. He studied her with an intensity that made her sicker still. He was looking at her in a foul way. He was leering at her.
Even though she could not see them, she knew the smoke shapes were all around her. The Myriad Ones, Colvin had called them. Something awful was going to happen to her. They knew it and were eager to be part of it.
“It is nearly dusk,” one of the soldiers said.
“Past dusk,” another growled.
“Almost,” Almaguer said. “Feed the fires.”
Lia knew somehow that she did not have long. Whatever they were going to do, they were waiting until the sun had set. She leaned her head back against the stone and shut her eyes, not wanting to see anything. Her wrists were heavy, the weight of the irons pressing against her lap.
It begins with a thought.
Those were Colvin’s words. The words his Aldermaston had taught him. What then to think of? As the soldiers bustled about the camp, anxious for the dark of night, Lia drifted inside herself. Muirwood. She focused her mind on the sights and sounds of Muirwood. The cloisters where the learners studied from golden tomes. The manor where she served the Aldermaston his dinner. A bowl of soup – a heel of bread. The fish pond and its oily smell. One of her favorite places - the Cider Orchard. Yes, the Cider Orchard in bloom in the spring, when a hundred thousand apple blossoms danced in the air like snowflakes. She felt the corner of her mouth twitch, as if it wanted to smile through the misery. There were the cemetery ruins where she and Sowe ate shrewberries and teased and talked. Another image - a giant mound of ossuaries left to molder in the woods. Laughter filled her ears as she remembered playing there, knowing that she held a secret other wretcheds did not know. And what of the tunnels beneath the abbey? A maze of tunnels that the Aldermaston used to keep his secrets. She could not wait to explore them, to study the mazes until she knew them by heart.
“It is time, child,” Almaguer said near her ear.
His words jolted her, turning the skies of her imagination black.
Do not fear him. Lia – do not fear him! The Medium will not abandon you, unless you abandon it.
The thoughts sounded like Colvin’s. Was he trying to speak to her?
She focused her thoughts on Muirwood, just as he had told her. She brought the Aldermaston his supper. A crock full of salty soup. He loved Pasqua’s soups, especially the warm broth with melted cheese and diced onions and apples.
“You took something from me,” Almaguer said. “You have been using it. I sense its power coming from you. Have you noticed the shadows it paints on your flesh? It leaves its mark on your breast. Water will not purge it. The stain spreads with time.”
Lia kept her eyes closed, even though his breath gusted on her cheek. The Medium was real. She knew it was. Her memories went further back – to the night of the storm. There was Jon Hunter, dripping wet, muddy from his fall. Pasqua being scolded by the Aldermaston. And there was the Aldermaston, his beard damp from the rain. His will had quenched the storm. How had he done it?