The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)

Sowe said she did not feel well, so she stayed in the kitchen while Lia took a cloak to search for Duerden near the duck pond. The day was sunny, though damp. It was clear enough that even the crouch-backed hill known as the Tor was in full view. Many of the learners and helpers had doffed their cloaks and all enjoyed the sunshine. A few children chased butterflies. Most of the learners and helpers used the field in front of the pond as a place to meet and wrestle or play games.

Lia found Duerden sitting beneath the largest oak with a tome in his lap. He carefully turned the thick metal pages, his finger tenderly tracing the etching as he read. All the learners had tomes made of precious aurichalcum, a metal made from blending copper and gold. The gleaming pages were held together by three sturdy rings mounted into a thick, flat base. She looked at it, wishing jealously for one of her own.

As she approached, he gave her a mock frown and carefully closed the record. “Treasa Lavender was churlish with me yesterday. For no reason I can name, she came up to me, poked me in the chest, and said that the next time I needed a shirt washed, I should ask her or one of the other lavenders and not you.”

“She is right, you should,” Lia said. The walk from the kitchen, combined with the sun, had made her very warm, so she unfastened her cloak and used it as a blanket to sit on. She had forgotten to warn him and silently cursed herself. “It is Reome’s fault. She just assumed I was washing yours. I never told her that I was.”

“What affronts me is that she does not think I, or any learner for that matter, ought to wash our own clothes.”

“You are all highborn, Duerden. From a Family.”

“That makes no difference. Aldermaston Willibald who wrote the Hodoeporicon planted his own crops, and served his people instead of himself, and I am quite convinced that he even did his own laundry. It is laziness, pure and simple.”

“You do not bake your own bread,” Lia reminded him. “Or forge your own tome.”

“But laziness does not prevent me from learning any craft. Far from it, I arise the same hour that you do. Mundane tasks are equally relevant for controlling the Medium, and I enjoy fresh air before sunrise. Work has a way of cleansing the mind. One does not grow strong unless one works at where one is weakest.”

Lia yawned. “What did you learn from the king’s men yesterday?”

“Why do you care so much about it, Lia?”

“Because Sowe and I are always the last to hear and the war would be over before anyone decides to tell us anything.”

Duerden laughed and leaned back on his elbows. “Gossip. Fair enough. You probably are still the last to know. Everyone has talked about nothing else all day. Traitors to the realm gather in Winterrowd. They seek those willing to join them in a revolt against the king. And they will be slaughtered. Even with Garen Demont leading them.”

“Who is Garen Demont? Is that a Family name?”

“Only one of the more famous ones. Garen’s father was Sevrin Demont.”

“And who is that?”

“You do not know who Sevrin Demont is?”

“I would not be asking if I did.” Sometimes he was feather-brained.

“How can that be? Everyone knows who he is!”

Lia shrugged, trying to tame her patience. “I have never heard that name before. Who is he?”

“He used to be king in all but name. Never lost a battle, except his last. They say he was brilliant on campaign, knew no fear, yet he held true to his principles. He was a true knight-maston in every way that matters most, and though he was only an earl, he was treated like the crown prince. Our last king, of course, hated him. That was our current king’s father. Our good king, our cruel king, our crowned king was the man who defeated the Demonts in the battle of Maseve. It has been said, at court, the battle was between equal forces. But I was told it was five or six men to one. Usually the highborn of Family are imprisoned and ransomed. Not the Demont Family. They were brutally massacred. That was the end of chivalry in our kingdom, I think. There are few knight-mastons left in this generation. It is easier to serve the king, they say, if you are not a maston.”

“And Garen Demont is the son?” Lia asked, sitting up straight and leaning in.

“He is one of the younger sons. Gravely wounded at Maseve and imprisoned instead of butchered – which one might attribute to many reasons, some of which may involve the Medium. He escaped after his injuries healed and fled to another country. Dahomey, I think.” He sat up, his eyes twinkling. “There is one story about him that I particularly admire. After Maseve, he joined the service of some foreign king and won many battles. One summer, he was visiting an abbey in a distant land and one of his cousins arrived, for they are cousins to our king through marriage. This cousin had fought against his Family at Maseve. Well, Garen drew his sword and nearly beheaded the man right then and there. Yes, in the middle of the Abbey grounds! Everyone gawked, expecting to see blood spilled. Then he paused, spat on the ground, and said, ‘Though you had no mercy for my father and brother, I will grant mercy to you.’”