The Blight of Muirwood
Page 15
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His expression was thoughtful. He seemed a little uncomfortable by her hug, but not displeased by it. “Contrive your best punishment, Lia. I submit to it. But I must be allowed to explain myself.”
“Of course you can explain yourself, but not right now.” She reached to pick up the basket, but he got to it first and she almost touched his hand. He handed it to her.
“Why not?” he asked, scrutinizing her.
“Because the Aldermaston has instructions I must hear, and he hates repeating himself. I am a hunter now, not a kitchen girl, so I have duties to attend to.”
“When can I see you today?” he asked, taking up the bunch of purple mint from her basket. He smelled it then set it back down.
“When I am free,” she answered stiffly, looking down at the flowers in the basket. “Where can I find you?”
“I have been anxious to read Maderos’ tomes and there is little else I am allowed to do apparently while the learners study.”
“Ah, the forbidden part of the grounds! As the hunter, I could forbid you to wander there. But as the rule is only to prevent other people from finding it, I will give you permission. So, I will bring the apples when we meet?” Lia offered. “The blotchy ones are the sweetest.”
He gazed at her face, seeing the blotches there. “I remember. I have craved those apples since I left. I remember this place differently now.” He looked around at the mist-shrouded trees. “There is no sign of Blight here yet,” he whispered. “I am glad of that.”
* * *
“We should live as if we were in public view, and think, too, as if someone could peer into the inmost recesses of our hearts. The Blight which assails us is not in the localities we inhabit but in ourselves. We are more wicked together than separately. If you are ever forced to be in a crowd, then most of all you should withdraw into yourself. Never trust another to do your thinking. Even a maston.”
- Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE:
Scales
The discussion had already started by the time Lia reached the Aldermaston’s study, but only by a few moments. Martin was nestled in the recessed window, surly as usual, his arms folded across his chest, his chin jutting. His was a cantankerous presence. Prestwich sat near the desk, organizing stacks of parchments and seals and sealing wax, forever patient and precise. A fat candle lay dripping nearby. His crown of white hair looked like fresh-fallen snow. He was older than anyone else in the room, his age showing more each day.
The Aldermaston paced by the mantle, glanced over at Lia’s entrance, but did not stop the thread of his conversation. His voice was soft yet gravelly, as if he were always slightly straining for breath. “The third report from last month. The fourth and fifth from the last fortnight alone. Where were they from, Prestwich?”
The steward lifted his head and poked his earlobe with the stylus. “From the Abbeys at Caneland and Sutton. The latest arrived from Billerbeck with Earl Forshee.”
Lia sat next to Martin at the window seat, listening intently.
“The Blight is spreading,” the Aldermaston said. He rubbed his mouth. “It ravages Dahomey, Paiz, and Hautland. Few mastons travel alone these days. They come in pairs as the earls did. I have not heard of an Abbey succumbing to it yet, but it is only a matter of time. It weighs on me heavily, this threat we face.”
Martin stood, his voice nearly a growl. “Who is infecting the stones then with this Blight? Who is spreading the taint? Is it the Myriad Ones? When Pry-Ree fell, it fell without a whimper. Without burning Leerings and noxious saps. The princes were betrayed by those they trusted. And when trust fails, so does law. When there is no longer law, there is only war and murder.”
“War is only one manifestation of the Blight,” the Aldermaston said. “Sometimes it kills with plague. Sometimes with drought. Sometimes even, Idumea forbid, with water.” He paused and looked at Lia. “I am sure you are confused. Prestwich understands the significance of the events. Martin does as well, for he endured it previously and witnessed his country succumb to the Blight. You are very young, Lia. You have not lived through this awful season before, the foul ripeness and bitter harvest. This will be your first, so I will attempt to explain it to you. Those of us older than you have seen it repeated like a waterwheel churning in a river.”
He turned and went back to his desk. “Prestwich, find the one from Hautland. There it is, with the copper seal. Yes, that one. Thank you.” He opened it and squinted. “In this one, the Blight came as a plant with poisonous sap. It started around a Leering in the woods and the plant spread quickly throughout the forest, inflicting everyone who touched it with itching boils. Attempts to burn it caused smoke to carry the poison inside the victims.” He handed the parchment back to Prestwich. “Strange, is it not? That a plant that is not native to this country can appear from nowhere and begin its work of destruction so rapidly. What brought it? When did it start?”
“Of course you can explain yourself, but not right now.” She reached to pick up the basket, but he got to it first and she almost touched his hand. He handed it to her.
“Why not?” he asked, scrutinizing her.
“Because the Aldermaston has instructions I must hear, and he hates repeating himself. I am a hunter now, not a kitchen girl, so I have duties to attend to.”
“When can I see you today?” he asked, taking up the bunch of purple mint from her basket. He smelled it then set it back down.
“When I am free,” she answered stiffly, looking down at the flowers in the basket. “Where can I find you?”
“I have been anxious to read Maderos’ tomes and there is little else I am allowed to do apparently while the learners study.”
“Ah, the forbidden part of the grounds! As the hunter, I could forbid you to wander there. But as the rule is only to prevent other people from finding it, I will give you permission. So, I will bring the apples when we meet?” Lia offered. “The blotchy ones are the sweetest.”
He gazed at her face, seeing the blotches there. “I remember. I have craved those apples since I left. I remember this place differently now.” He looked around at the mist-shrouded trees. “There is no sign of Blight here yet,” he whispered. “I am glad of that.”
* * *
“We should live as if we were in public view, and think, too, as if someone could peer into the inmost recesses of our hearts. The Blight which assails us is not in the localities we inhabit but in ourselves. We are more wicked together than separately. If you are ever forced to be in a crowd, then most of all you should withdraw into yourself. Never trust another to do your thinking. Even a maston.”
- Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE:
Scales
The discussion had already started by the time Lia reached the Aldermaston’s study, but only by a few moments. Martin was nestled in the recessed window, surly as usual, his arms folded across his chest, his chin jutting. His was a cantankerous presence. Prestwich sat near the desk, organizing stacks of parchments and seals and sealing wax, forever patient and precise. A fat candle lay dripping nearby. His crown of white hair looked like fresh-fallen snow. He was older than anyone else in the room, his age showing more each day.
The Aldermaston paced by the mantle, glanced over at Lia’s entrance, but did not stop the thread of his conversation. His voice was soft yet gravelly, as if he were always slightly straining for breath. “The third report from last month. The fourth and fifth from the last fortnight alone. Where were they from, Prestwich?”
The steward lifted his head and poked his earlobe with the stylus. “From the Abbeys at Caneland and Sutton. The latest arrived from Billerbeck with Earl Forshee.”
Lia sat next to Martin at the window seat, listening intently.
“The Blight is spreading,” the Aldermaston said. He rubbed his mouth. “It ravages Dahomey, Paiz, and Hautland. Few mastons travel alone these days. They come in pairs as the earls did. I have not heard of an Abbey succumbing to it yet, but it is only a matter of time. It weighs on me heavily, this threat we face.”
Martin stood, his voice nearly a growl. “Who is infecting the stones then with this Blight? Who is spreading the taint? Is it the Myriad Ones? When Pry-Ree fell, it fell without a whimper. Without burning Leerings and noxious saps. The princes were betrayed by those they trusted. And when trust fails, so does law. When there is no longer law, there is only war and murder.”
“War is only one manifestation of the Blight,” the Aldermaston said. “Sometimes it kills with plague. Sometimes with drought. Sometimes even, Idumea forbid, with water.” He paused and looked at Lia. “I am sure you are confused. Prestwich understands the significance of the events. Martin does as well, for he endured it previously and witnessed his country succumb to the Blight. You are very young, Lia. You have not lived through this awful season before, the foul ripeness and bitter harvest. This will be your first, so I will attempt to explain it to you. Those of us older than you have seen it repeated like a waterwheel churning in a river.”
He turned and went back to his desk. “Prestwich, find the one from Hautland. There it is, with the copper seal. Yes, that one. Thank you.” He opened it and squinted. “In this one, the Blight came as a plant with poisonous sap. It started around a Leering in the woods and the plant spread quickly throughout the forest, inflicting everyone who touched it with itching boils. Attempts to burn it caused smoke to carry the poison inside the victims.” He handed the parchment back to Prestwich. “Strange, is it not? That a plant that is not native to this country can appear from nowhere and begin its work of destruction so rapidly. What brought it? When did it start?”
