The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)

“He is a frightful man. But the Aldermaston sent him away.”


“Brave lass. I am proud of you. Here – for your bravery and for the risks you have taken.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin pouch that jingled when he shook it. “I would do more, and I will after he is delivered safely to the Pilgrim. Perhaps it will be of use to you when you are eighteen and ready to make your way in this harsh world. Hide it where you put you other treasures.” He handed it to her. As she tentatively took it, his other hand clasped on top of hers, warm and rough – a soldier’s hand. “I will not forget. Thank you, lass. Now hurry, hide it before the cook comes and ruins our plan. You remember the name of the inn?”

“The Pilgrim,” Lia said, bursting with pleasure inside.

He let her hand go after a gentle pat. “First the Pilgrim. Then to Winterrowd. We may have a chance yet, with him on our side.”



“Learners question why faces are carved into stone as a means of preserving the magic of the Medium. There are many levels of symbolism involved that can be shared openly. Stone symbolizes permanence. The faces represent mankind’s ultimate and eventual dominion over the elements of nature and even time itself. Nature continues on its course, a continuing cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. But one, acting under the proper authority of the Medium, can alter that course. The likeness of the sun, moon, and stars symbolizes that great power exists beyond this world that can control this one. We are, after all, living on only one of the worlds inhabited by the Family. Any deeper meaning of the symbolism, along with instruction for creating them – the uninitiated mockingly call them ‘leering stones’ – can only be had through the rites of the Abbey. All mastons know this, and they do not share it outside their order.”





- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey



*





CHAPTER THIRTEEN:


The Cruciger Orb





Fog shrouded the abbey grounds with fleecy wisps and dew. Lia and Sowe wore their cloaks and hugged themselves for warmth as they crossed the Cider Orchard towards the waymarker near the rock cleft. In one hand, Lia clutched the metal orb and used it to point the way in the mist. She kept in her mind the image of the armiger, his brow mottled with a scab, his cheeks and chin scruffy with whiskers. Sowe said nothing as she carried the linen bundle with the foodstuffs. Ahead, in the gloom, they spied the burning eyes of the Leering.

Colvin must have heard them approach, for he appeared out of the gloom, his hair damp with dewdrops. He met them in their approach, his face eager, intense, worried. His arms were folded tightly, as if he were very cold.

“What is that?” he asked Lia, staring at the sphere as the spindles pointed directly at him. He looked at it, his eyes widening with recognition. “I cannot believe it. Where did you get that? From the Aldermaston?”

“Yes,” Lia answered. “You know what it is?”

“I do – but I have never handled one before. They are rare.” He examined it, squinting in the darkness. “I cannot see it well. Bring it to the waymarker.” They did and the eyes suddenly shone more brightly, revealing the surface of the beautiful implement. “I cannot believe it. A Cruciger orb. But then I should not be surprised. Muirwood is the oldest abbey in the realm. May I?”

Lia extended it to him and the spindles spun around once and then stopped.

He held it in his hand and stared at it. Nothing happened.

“You think about where you want to go…” Lia suggested.

“I know that,” he snapped. “It is precisely what I am trying to do.” His brow furrowed. Nothing.

Lia wanted to laugh. A soon-to-be earl from a Family could not work it. But she could. The fiery feeling of triumph blazed inside her. “Like this,” she offered and took it from him. “Show me the way to Winterrowd.” The spindles spun, the inner circle whirring deftly, and the way was made clear – westbound though slightly north. Writing appeared on the lower half of the orb. “What does the writing mean?”

She brought it closer to the light emanating from the waymarker’s eyes, and he squinted again. He stopped, swallowed, and shook his head. “I cannot read it. I do not know this language. It is an older text…an ancient text. It may even be Idumean. I have never seen this style of script before.”

Lia was deeply disappointed. “I thought all mastons knew how to read and scribe. I want to know what it says.”

He shook his head, looking at the curving, elliptical markings. “I cannot make it out without knowing the language. I do not know all languages. I certainly do not know Idumean. I am not even sure my own Aldermaston knows it. Let me hold it again.” He held out his hand.