Surprised, she obeyed, bowing her head as well. She heard the Aldermaston gasp shortly as he reached towards the boy’s head.
“Astrid Page,” he said in a pained voice. He said nothing after that. Lia felt the Medium in the room, it was so full. She clenched her eyes shut, believing the Medium could heal the boy. He was like a little brother to her. But there was something wrong with the Medium. Some hesitance to it.
“Astrid Page,” the Aldermaston said again, as if his voice were choked with an unspent cough.
Lia added her will to his. Let the boy be saved and recovered. Let him live! She burrowed deep within herself. She was dizzy with the lack of sleep and the terrible emotions of the day. Never had she felt so spent, so drained. Yet she shoved the despair and discouragement aside, reaching deep inside herself for hidden wells of strength.
The Aldermaston’s voice interrupted her. “Lia?”
She opened her eyes and saw the Aldermaston looking at her, a peculiar expression on his face. His right hand was resting on the crown of Astrid’s hair. The other hand was lifted skyward, as if pointing to the stars nearest to Idumea.
“Join your hand to mine,” he whispered hoarsely. “It must be so.”
Lia stared at him, then nodded in obedience and approached the bed from the other side. She looked at him curiously, then reached her hand over to Astrid’s head. The Aldermaston’s was knobbed and warm, his veins protruding like old worms. “Make the sign,” he said and she copied him.
As she did, the strength of the Medium flooded through her and into the Aldermaston’s hand. She could not breathe for it burned. Light dazzled her eyes, appearing all around them. It gave her a feeling of warmth and safety.
“Astrid Page, I gift you with life. Live until your work is completed. By Idumea’s hand, may it be so.”
There was a shudder on the bed. Lia glanced down at the boy and his eyes fluttered open. The Aldermaston lowered his hand, his face like gray chalk with the effort. He seemed about to collapse. Lia had never felt such strength and energy in her life. She felt she could run all the way up the Tor and back without pausing for breath. She stared down at Astrid, at his awakening eyes and the recognition in them.
“I…I was dead,” he whispered hoarsely. “I saw you both, crowding around the bed. Just a moment ago. Then there was a light and I felt my breath coming again.” He sat up and Lia started, for the wound was in his back.
She looked at his ripped shirt and it was gone – healed.
Her eyes met the Aldermaston’s over the nest of hair.
“It is time, Lia,” he murmured. “You must face the maston test.”
She stared at him, shocked. “But I do not…know how to read.”
“You must face it still.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO:
Whitsunday
News about the kishion’s attack in the Aldermaston’s manor was hushed and it was forbidden to speak of it. Word began to spread that an untamed fire had happened in the chamber where Ellowyn and Marciana slept and that Lia’s quick-thinking had prevented it from being a disaster. Astrid recuperated slowly, but he was ever obedient to the Aldermaston’s orders. Only a few knew the truth of the attack, including the Earl of Dieyre, who had looked at Lia the next day with guarded respect. The storm blew over the Abbey and the days that followed were humid and bright.
She did not speak to Colvin over the days that followed. He neither sought her out nor avoided her. His expression was taciturn as always, and he seemed to brood over the impending arrival of Whitsunday. When Lia asked Marciana about the visit with Dieyre, she was vague in her reply and said that Dieyre had attempted to persuade them to an alliance with the Queen Dowager, who he affirmed would be victorious in the contest for power chafing the realm.
Duerden had not tried to find her after she had rebuffed him at the kitchen. She thought perhaps he was biding his time until the festival.
On Whitsunday morning, Lia found herself trudging towards the Abbey kitchen to break her fast before sleeping. There had been no disturbances to Ellowyn or Marciana since the kishion attack, and she found herself dozing in the stillness. As she entered the kitchen, she recognized the familiar trove of delights that Pasqua had been slaving over for days. She bustled back and forth, pinching loaves, ladling syrupy treacle, and hollering for the girls who were up in the loft, staring out the window.
“It is the same every year,” Pasqua bellowed. She glanced at Lia with a grunt of disgust, massaging her shoulder. “This is your second year dancing. It is still the same maypole, still the same streamers. Good morrow, Lia. I have a bowl of porridge and some cheese over by the bread oven. You must be starving.”