The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #3)

“Then tell me you will swear your betrothal to Lord Dieyre. I will bring you water. I will summon it fresh from a gargouelle. Cold, clean water to soothe your thirst. But you must first swear it. Or drink the cider.”


As the door opened slowly, Lia saw Marciana in a rich crimson gown with black and gold trim. There were ornaments of gold in her hair, which was loose and thick about her shoulders. The bodice of the gown was cut low in the Dahomeyjan style, similar to what Lia had seen the Queen Dowager wear. Marciana looked tortured – her eyes brim with tears. She shook her head, pacing the far side of the chamber where thick curtains blocked the sun. She crushed her fists against her forehead and sobbed, pacing, wracked with her feelings. Lia’s heart burned with anger.

The man in the room wore a black cassock. His hair was short and cropped and he had a disdainful look on his face. His eyes glowed silver as he turned and looked at Lia.

“I gave orders to leave the basket below,” he said in a sulky tone. The Medium swirled around Lia, enveloping her in ribbons made of iron. Fear exuded from the man. It made her think of Almaguer. She shuddered with terror at the feelings swarming her body. The Myriad Ones sniffed about her, so thick it felt the room was bursting with them. They swarmed around Marciana, sending their thoughts into her, willing her to bend to their will. Lia’s heart panged with compassion for Marciana. She knew what it felt like.

“I beg your pardon,” Lia mumbled, bowing her head. She skirted to the side to drop the basket near a brazier. “Would you like me to hang them to dry?” she asked with a quaver in her voice.

“Yes,” the man said impatiently. “If you must. Then leave us.”

There was a changing screen near the brazier and Lia walked to it and discovered several other garments – some thin chemises and another gown. She carefully withdrew the first damp gown and fitted it to the pegs on the changing screen so it could dry by the fire. Sweat ran down her cheeks.

“Will you answer me, Lady Marciana?” he said, turning his attention back. “Will you please explain to me again why you will not marry the Lord Earl? Do you not care for him?”

“I do,” Marciana said, sobbing.

“You think him not clever enough for you? He is too old and doddering for you? There are many a girl from your station who are forced to marry as children. The king orders them to be wed, despite their feelings. Can you imagine that? Being forced to marry a man at fifty as the Queen Dowager was forced to marry your dead king? You are being given a choice! A chance for wealth. A chance for power. A chance to have children who will love you and adore you. To be a mother, as you did not have one. Do you not long for that? To be a mother? To comfort and nurture a sweet baby. Can you imagine holding that son or daughter in your arms? Can you comprehend the joy of hearing its first cry?” The voice was mesmerizing and it filled Lia with hungers she had never experienced before. She slammed the thoughts away because they distracted and ensnared. They wove through the most delicate part of her feelings. But the threads were not pure in their intent.

“He can give that to you,” the man continued, his voice barely a whisper. “Even joys and pleasures you do not comprehend. Is it wrong to crave children, my lady? Can you imagine holding the child. Suckling him. Loving him. Does not your heart crave these things? Your baby. Your own. Will you not accept Lord Dieyre’s offer of marriage? I am not asking you to yield to the binding, just a promise that you will when you reach Dahomey. Let him declare his feelings for you himself. As I told you, he is no longer a prisoner of the Crown. He is not in rebellion against the throne, but a champion of the young king and an enemy of the usurper, Garen Demont. You know this to be true. He is the only one who can save you and thus save your brother. Can you be so selfish?”

Lia looked at Marciana’s eyes. She was tortured, exhausted, and weak. How long had she been captive, living in the Stews, unable to know what happened to those she loved? The air was perfumed and cloying. Lia was sure the cider had been treated with other herbs or had been allowed to spoil and strengthen its flavor. The man in the black cassock, the kishion, manipulated her feelings with deftness and cruelty.

“I am so thirsty,” Marciana said with a tremulous sigh. She was begging.

“Then drink the cider,” came the reply and he poured some from a bottle into a golden cup and offered it to her. His back was to Lia as she started towards him stealthily.

“Water,” she pleaded.

“Just a sip, to quench your thirst,” he promised, holding up the chalice.

Lia pushed the dirk blade into his back. She knew right where to stab, right where his air would spill out. The fabric slit. Blood bloomed on her hand, warm and hot. He gasped, thrashing. His neck jerked around, his silver eyes burning into hers, sending her into a daze of panicked emotions as he died. In that instant, she could see into his frenzied thoughts, full of terror because the Myriad Ones would leave his body now.