- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
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CHAPTER THIRTY ONE:
The Fallen
Lia awoke to the prodding of a staff into the small of her back. “Wake up. Wake up, sister. It is over and I am finished scriving. You missed the rest. Can you hear me? Eh? Wake up!”
It was Maderos. Lia sat up slowly, her head a fog of thoughts. Drained – she was completely empty inside. Opening her eyes, she looked over at him, seated on the ground near her on the hillside next to the battlefield. Maderos brushed the crinkled shavings of aurichalcum from the tome on his lap. He looked down at the words again, running his fingers over the etchings, as if savoring some delicious dish. When he saw he had her attention, he spoke softly, clearly.
“The battle of Winterrowd did not last past the morning, and then it was over. The field next to the village was littered with the slaughter. Many from the defeated army of the king escaped into the Bearden Muir, rather than be captured or ransomed, but many were devoured by the moors instead of men. In tales to come, many will ascribe the glory of victory to Garen Demont and to the peculiar arrangement of his soldiers and tactics. How they shied horses and used rings of spears to protect each other. Others will say it was because Demont only allowed mastons to serve him, that they were worthy to call upon the Medium to deliver them from the king’s wrath. These are near to the truth. The husk but not the kernel. The battle of Winterrowd was won by a wretched from Muirwood Abbey. None of the witnesses of the battle ever knew about her or what she did that day, how she used the Medium to defy the army of a king. No one but I alone and those who read this record. The world may never know the secret. But I, Maderos, know the secret just as I know the wretched. I will not reveal her name.”
Then he closed the tome and set it back in the sheepskin with the scriving tools, folded the sheepskin, and lifted the heavy tome back into his pack. Lia watched, a little jealous still of his ability to read. She wanted to read the other things he had written. She eyed the tome with hunger and then the thought slammed against her like a blacksmith’s hammer.
“How many of Demont’s men fell in the battle?” she asked him.
“How many pethets? Perhaps they all deserved to die. But you will learn soon enough, little sister.” He slowly stood, resting his arms on the twisted staff he had poked her with.
“The king’s army - it was defeated then?”
Maderos nodded, then waved his staff at the field. “It was a slaughter, just as I told you. Do not suppose that Demont’s men did not suffer for their victory. There is not a man among them who is not injured, bleeding, or weary. Each fought bravely. But they do not know why they won.” His eyes narrowed pointedly. “They would not believe you, even if you told them.”
“You sound like the Aldermaston,” Lia said grudgingly.
He smirked. “Perhaps that is so. Perhaps I have lingered near Muirwood too long now. I knew when I saw you, sister. The Medium made it clear to me that you would help overthrow the kingdom. It is in your blood, I think. Go find the pethet, child. Go down amidst the corpses.”
“Is he dead?” She didn’t want Maderos to leave her alone. Her stomach turned into ice. She wanted him to stay and answer questions, to calm her sudden panic. But she recognized he would never reveal more than he should.
“Use the orb. He is down there. Then you must return to Muirwood. The Aldermaston expects you. There, I have said it. The Aldermaston expects you. That should be enough.”
Lia rose, sick with worry, and brushed dirt from her skirt, though it was still filthy. She saw soldiers wandering through the mist and fields below. It was littered with the dead.
* * *
Find Colvin.
Lia focused on the orb and her thoughts of him and not on the carnage of the battlefield or her throbbing ankle. She tried calming her raging heart and brushed unwilling tears from her eyes. Wagons from the village lumbered amidst the scene, and bodies were stacked and brought to the center of the field. It was strange seeing little children milling about, gazing at the corpses, unafraid. The morning haze burned away slowly, leaving wisps of smoke and fog about the hinterlands.
The smell in the air – there was no way to describe the smell of death. She had been raised in an Abbey kitchen and knew her work by the way things smelled. The smell of loaves finished baking. The smell of cinders and ash as she swept out the fireplaces. Of fragrant spices and pungent aromas mixed, matched, baked, and burned. The stench of the field was overpowering. She gagged, even after she covered her mouth with her hand.
The spindle on the orb led her into the thickest part of the battlefield. New writing appeared on it. Lia stopped, looked ahead, searching the faces of the dead men, and then saw Colvin approaching through the haze. He walked ponderously, as if he dragged a weight of stones behind him. His face was black with smoke and scabs, his tunic a mess of stains, but his smile when he saw her was radiant. It was the sunrise after an endless night. As he drew near, she saw the gleaming collar, the jeweled necklace dangling from his neck and thumping against the mail of his hauberk.