The Scourge of Muirwood
Page 97
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She reached out, but her hand passed through the haze and smoke, touching nothing. He was there, right beside her.
Aldermaston? She thought the word.
Redeem the Abbey. You are the Aldermaston of Muirwood now.
It was as if he had spoken the thought aloud.
Her throat clenched shut with horror. You are dead? I am too late?
Redeem the Abbey. Your posterity will build it anew.
She wondered how he was in front of her. When she had died, the part of her existence that remained had drifted towards the Apse Veil. But there were no Apse Veils left! With sickening realization, she understood what she had not even conceived of before. The Abbeys were the gateways back to Idumea. They were the gateways for the living and the dead. With no Abbeys left standing, the dead souls would be stranded, unable to return back to the city-gardens.
She saw his eyes, his angry, brooding eyes. He had known all along. Her father had told him, before she was even born, what would happen to him when the Blight came. That his Abbey would be the last to fall and that he would be tortured to death after its fall, unable to return back to Idumea.
Redeem the Abbey and build it again. Build them so the dead can be set free. You are our hope, child. You are our last hope.
He had always known, but the binding sigil prevented him from ever speaking it. He had known that his death would be followed by other deaths. Millions of deaths as the Blight swept across the land. Millions who would not be able to return to Idumea.
Lia’s eyes were wet with tears of sorrow and hatred. This was the work of the hetaera and they had succeeded in destroying all the Abbeys. Their dominion would be short-lived, Lia vowed. Raising her head, she walked towards the burning walls and summoned the power of the Medium to aid her.
* * *
“It is midnight. Twelfth Night. The world is ours.”
- Ellowyn Demont at Billerbeck Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE:
Rage of the Myriad Ones
Lia passed through the burning rubble of Muirwood, immune to the heat and tongues of flame. The fire consumed the stones, leaving stumps and stubble. The Abbey would burn until dawn and there would be nothing left. Unless she stopped it at the source.
She left near the pond, the waters befouled with chunks of ash and floating debris. As she crossed, she saw a huge ring of Dahomeyjan knights inside the cloister. The cloister walls and gates were down and tossed aside. The Leering in the middle of the fountain was in flames, shooting blasts of fire into the night sky. The knights carried tomes to the Leering and heaved them into the fountain, which was now full of molten aurichalcum. Lia gazed in shock as she saw the Leering consuming tome after tome, each one having spent a lifetime engraving. Crouched nearby were goldsmiths, dozens of them, scooping up the molten stream and fashioning them into rings and bracelets and tiaras. The smell of cider was strong in the air. Knights staggered and laughed, clapping each other on the back as they continued the work of destruction.
Lia saw a speck in the distance – in the night sky the direction of the Tor. There was something burning on the crest of the hill. With a sickening dread, she already knew what it meant.
Closing her eyes, she fell deep inside herself. She journeyed through her memories to a night, long ago. It was after her ninth name day, the night of the great storm. She remembered the smells from the kitchen. The plop of the water seeping in from the roof. The Aldermaston and Pasqua were there. Sowe was asleep in the loft. The storm – the flooding of the cemetery. She remembered the sound of lightning, the torrent of rain that had lasted for days. The mud and grass she had tromped in earlier that day. The ring she still wore around her neck, its hard edge still a reminder of that night. A storm. A great storm. A storm greater than any Muirwood had endured for hundreds of years. That was what she desired. Water to put out the flames, the quench them once and for all.
Come to me! she commanded. I invoke a storm to purge the Abbey. To cleanse it from this defilement. Lifting her head, she opened her eyes, her hand up in the maston sign. “Be it thus so. May storms always come to defend this ground should any seek to ruin it again.” She made the sign of the irrevocare sigil.
Someone had seen her. She heard the cautious footsteps approaching.
“Lia? Is it…is it you?”
She turned and saw Duerden, clutching a cider cup. He gaped at her, his eyes wild with astonishment. He looked older. Worse, he looked a stranger to her. There was something more serious in his eyes, an expression of a much older man and not a boy her own age. As she looked at his face, she saw it clearly through the Gift of Seering. He was infected with the plague.
“Oh, Duerden,” she murmured with a throb in her voice. “What have you done?”
Aldermaston? She thought the word.
Redeem the Abbey. You are the Aldermaston of Muirwood now.
It was as if he had spoken the thought aloud.
Her throat clenched shut with horror. You are dead? I am too late?
Redeem the Abbey. Your posterity will build it anew.
She wondered how he was in front of her. When she had died, the part of her existence that remained had drifted towards the Apse Veil. But there were no Apse Veils left! With sickening realization, she understood what she had not even conceived of before. The Abbeys were the gateways back to Idumea. They were the gateways for the living and the dead. With no Abbeys left standing, the dead souls would be stranded, unable to return back to the city-gardens.
She saw his eyes, his angry, brooding eyes. He had known all along. Her father had told him, before she was even born, what would happen to him when the Blight came. That his Abbey would be the last to fall and that he would be tortured to death after its fall, unable to return back to Idumea.
Redeem the Abbey and build it again. Build them so the dead can be set free. You are our hope, child. You are our last hope.
He had always known, but the binding sigil prevented him from ever speaking it. He had known that his death would be followed by other deaths. Millions of deaths as the Blight swept across the land. Millions who would not be able to return to Idumea.
Lia’s eyes were wet with tears of sorrow and hatred. This was the work of the hetaera and they had succeeded in destroying all the Abbeys. Their dominion would be short-lived, Lia vowed. Raising her head, she walked towards the burning walls and summoned the power of the Medium to aid her.
* * *
“It is midnight. Twelfth Night. The world is ours.”
- Ellowyn Demont at Billerbeck Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE:
Rage of the Myriad Ones
Lia passed through the burning rubble of Muirwood, immune to the heat and tongues of flame. The fire consumed the stones, leaving stumps and stubble. The Abbey would burn until dawn and there would be nothing left. Unless she stopped it at the source.
She left near the pond, the waters befouled with chunks of ash and floating debris. As she crossed, she saw a huge ring of Dahomeyjan knights inside the cloister. The cloister walls and gates were down and tossed aside. The Leering in the middle of the fountain was in flames, shooting blasts of fire into the night sky. The knights carried tomes to the Leering and heaved them into the fountain, which was now full of molten aurichalcum. Lia gazed in shock as she saw the Leering consuming tome after tome, each one having spent a lifetime engraving. Crouched nearby were goldsmiths, dozens of them, scooping up the molten stream and fashioning them into rings and bracelets and tiaras. The smell of cider was strong in the air. Knights staggered and laughed, clapping each other on the back as they continued the work of destruction.
Lia saw a speck in the distance – in the night sky the direction of the Tor. There was something burning on the crest of the hill. With a sickening dread, she already knew what it meant.
Closing her eyes, she fell deep inside herself. She journeyed through her memories to a night, long ago. It was after her ninth name day, the night of the great storm. She remembered the smells from the kitchen. The plop of the water seeping in from the roof. The Aldermaston and Pasqua were there. Sowe was asleep in the loft. The storm – the flooding of the cemetery. She remembered the sound of lightning, the torrent of rain that had lasted for days. The mud and grass she had tromped in earlier that day. The ring she still wore around her neck, its hard edge still a reminder of that night. A storm. A great storm. A storm greater than any Muirwood had endured for hundreds of years. That was what she desired. Water to put out the flames, the quench them once and for all.
Come to me! she commanded. I invoke a storm to purge the Abbey. To cleanse it from this defilement. Lifting her head, she opened her eyes, her hand up in the maston sign. “Be it thus so. May storms always come to defend this ground should any seek to ruin it again.” She made the sign of the irrevocare sigil.
Someone had seen her. She heard the cautious footsteps approaching.
“Lia? Is it…is it you?”
She turned and saw Duerden, clutching a cider cup. He gaped at her, his eyes wild with astonishment. He looked older. Worse, he looked a stranger to her. There was something more serious in his eyes, an expression of a much older man and not a boy her own age. As she looked at his face, she saw it clearly through the Gift of Seering. He was infected with the plague.
“Oh, Duerden,” she murmured with a throb in her voice. “What have you done?”
