“No, that is not it.”
“Then why not tell me? If I do not understand, then you can mock me. But why withhold it?”
“Because I am not comfor…because it has to do with the way that some men look at women. A leer is not a flattering look. It is not a look of love.” His hands were trembling. “It is not a look of respect. I have seen this look and when you see it, you will know it. I have seen it in wretcheds and I have seen it in knights.” He stood, clenching and unclenching his hands, his thoughts visibly troubling him. “The stone carvings are merely emblems. Their proper name is gargouelle.”
Lia shook her head, confused. “I do not know that word…”
“No, of course you do not. Gargouelle is from another language, the Dahomeyjan word for ‘throat.’ If you ponder it, maybe you will see why they are named such. Most wretcheds do not know the language of Dahomey exists let alone how to pronounce it properly.”
“You said they were emblems. Explain that word.”
“An emblem is used to represent something else. The carvings are an emblem of the power of the Medium inside us. They bear the face of man – or woman or beast – to show that the link to the power of the Medium is within us. In both of us. You are not bringing fire out of the stone. The stone helps you bring the fire out of yourself. They are powerful emblems – and should not be misunderstood, misused, or mispronounced.”
Something in his words caused heat to rush through her. They were exciting words and thrilled her. A great deep thought brushed against her mind, so large she couldn’t feel the edges of it. That somehow, the ability to cause fire, or water, or plague, or even life slept inside of her, not the stone.
“What you are saying,” she said in a near-whisper, “is that I do not really need the Leering to make fire.”
“No, no. That is a twisted understanding. For you see, you have no control over that. It is the tragedy of your state. Your ability to use the Medium is an inheritance. It is a result of who your parents were, not you. Who your grandparents were, not you. Who your ancestors were back to the original fathers. Not you.”
Lia glanced over at Sowe, who stared at them, her hands idle on the mortar and pestle. She lowered her gaze and started crushing the seeds again. “So even if I did become a learner, it does not mean that it would be easy to practice it. Someone born from a weak lineage would not…”
“…Be able to warm a cup of water,” he replied. “No matter how hard they studied. As a wretched, you will never know your full potential until you know your parentage. Learners spend a great deal of time learning who their forbearers are to understand how their gifts have mingled and been passed along to them.”
Lia wanted to ask what it meant that she was able to do something that some learners could not, when a heavy knock sounded at the kitchen door, startling them.
The wounded young man started for the ladder to the loft, but Lia caught his wrist. “There are windows. You will be seen. There, behind the changing screen!”
He rushed to the wooden screen beneath the loft. She could see part of his boots in the gap beneath the screen and cursed herself. Another heavy knock sounded and she crossed the kitchen to the door.
“What will we do?” Sowe whispered fearfully.
Lia silenced her with a glare, then had an idea. “Take the kettle to the screen and rinse your hair. Tell him to hide in the tub.”
“I am not going to bathe…”
The look Lia gave her must have been more frightening than a grim-visaged Leering, for Sowe snatched the kettle and rushed to the screen without a word. Lia watched the boots disappear and heard him settle into the small wooden tub they used for bathing.
She raised the crossbar and pulled the door open a bit, grateful that the glass was so smudged with soot. Light from the lamps spilled out on Jon Hunter’s bearded face. His clothes were filthy, his shirt loose from the leather girdle, the collar open to a forest of gnarled hair.
“Oats, Lia,” he said and started to push past her, but she held the door and put herself in the gap.
“Sowe is washing her hair. Go to Ailsa’s kitchen for oats if you are hungry.”
He sighed. “Lia, I am not walking to the other kitchen when I am here.”
“Why not? Is she trying to kiss you or something? Or just being stingy with the honey ladle?”
Jon sighed, his eyes flashing. “You have been lingering around Reome too much. The oats are not for me.”
“Who are they for?”
“I am not supposed to tell anyone. Another reason I came here.”
“Very well. And you know Pasqua’s rules about letting anyone into the kitchen but the Aldermaston after she is gone.” She rested her head against the door and raised her eyebrows.
The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)
Jeff Wheeler's books
- The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)
- The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)
- The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)
- Landmoor
- Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen #3)
- Silverkin
- The Lost Abbey (Covenant of Muirwood 0.5)
- Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen #1)
- The Blight of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #2)
- The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #3)