The Scourge of Muirwood

Book 3: Legends of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Historical Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy; Sword & Sorcery; Young adult; YA Epic Fantasy; Coming of Age; YA Coming of Age

Synopsis

When a deadly plague is unleashed in the land of Muirwood, the fate of the world is placed in the hands of a young woman named Lia. Charged to be a magical protector, Lia volunteers to be sent on a desperate quest to rescue the squire Colvin, her love, and his pupil Ellowyn Demont, the alleged heir to the fallen kingdom of Pry-Ree. Still recovering from the injuries of her last adventures, Lia sets off across land and sea warning the kingdom of the oncoming plague. The journey leads her to Dochte Abbey, where her friends are supposedly held. Instead, though, a fallen enemy lies in wait for her, as well as an unbearable new truth. The revelation will force Lia to choose between the lives of her closest friends and her deepest desires…

Fantastically epic and at all times engaging, The Scourge of Muirwood is a monumental finish to the Muirwood Trilogy.

Release date: January 15, 2013

Publisher: 47North

Print pages: 353

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Whispers of Death

 

 

They rode on horseback, side by side, down a road overgrown with the twisted limbs of monstrous oak trees. The air was full of gnats and gossamer threads of spider silk that gently tickled the face. Martin wiped his cheek hurriedly, staring into the dark woods on either side. The bend ahead was blind—the perfect location for a trap.

“By Cheshu,” Martin muttered. “I like not the look of that corner. I do not. This forsaken wood is the only road to Comoros, is it?” He hissed softly and then sniffed at the air, listening with keenness for evidence of the warning that throbbed silently in his heart.

At his side was the man Martin served—the king-maston of Pry-Ree. Martin was the older of the two, but the king had a youthful face. He did not look like a king, for he dressed in a simple shirt and an unassuming leather vest. His hair was an untamed mass of gold and was shorn like a sheep at the nape of his neck. There was a somber expression on his face, which was normal, as he was a man who mused silently much of the day and even more since hatching the plot of a secret marriage to Demont’s daughter. But a smile crept almost unnoticed at times to his mouth, betraying some hidden thought of mirth. He was Alluwyn Lleu-Iselin, though Martin never would have called him by his common name. The king was a man Martin respected and trusted above any other, including the band of men known as the Evnissyen who now clustered around their king, halting as Martin and the king had.

In short, the Evnissyen were the king’s protectors, and Martin had trained them all. It was much more than simply that. The Evnissyen were hunters, thieves, schemers, dice-throwers, warriors—the mind in the shadows, whispering advice to their leader. Martin was the man the king turned to after his royal counselors had all argued their positions, blustered for favors and lands, or even plotted his death. The Evnissyen knew all the tangles in the skeins of power, and they ruthlessly plucked at them like harp strings. Martin thought this with satisfaction. It was in his instincts to smell trouble. He smelled it on the road to Comoros.

Lord Alluwyn paused his mount and tugged open the pouch fastened to his wide leather belt. He was a king-maston, showing the glimpse of his chaen just a hint beneath the open collar of his shirt, but he referred to himself as only a Prince in his title. Of the Three Blessed Kings of Pry-Ree, he was the wisest, the youngest, and the worthiest to rule them all. That was why the others had already been assassinated, leaving Alluwyn’s brother and nephew as co-rulers—neither of whom were mastons or very wise.

After digging into the pouch, the Prince removed a small globe made of refined aurichalcum. It glimmered in the shadows, which made Martin impatient, wondering if anyone skulking in the woods would see it. Staring at the orb, the Prince watched as the spindles set in the upper half began to whirl and spin. Writing appeared in the lower half of the orb. Martin squinted at the tiny markings that only mastons could read. “Well?”

The Prince’s face paled. He looked furtively at the road ahead, his face more serious than before. His voice was soft with warning. “A kishion in the shadows ahead. The orb bids me west.”

“Into the swamp?”

“The kishion does not want the others in our train, only me. Send them on after we are gone. You ride with me, Martin. Send the rest on to Muirwood.”

The Prince did not hesitate after that. Wrapping the reins in one fist, he stamped his stallion’s flanks with his spurs and charged into the murky depths of the oak trees. Furious, Martin hissed orders and a warning to the rest of the Evnissyen guard and then rode hard after the Prince. The trees whipped and slashed him as he fought to keep up. The thrill of the chase burned in his stomach. Draw the kishion after them in the moors. Throw him off his original plan—make him react to their movements.

The hunter is patient. The prey is careless.

The kishion was being careless. Not long after charging into the woods, Martin heard the crack of limbs, the thud of hooves from behind. The pay must be considerable for the kishion to risk being so noisy. Martin slowed his beast slightly, listening. The sound of pursuit was gaining on him. Grabbing his bow, he shrugged his boot out of the stirrup and flung himself off the horse, rolling into the mud and muck and then flattening himself against a stunted oak tree. Muddy water dripped down his face, and he brushed it away with his hand, cursing. He had an arrow nocked and darted past several other trees, back-tracking. He did not worry about the Prince. He had the orb and could make it to Muirwood without aid from a hunter.

A blur of brown with a milk-stain patch on the nose revealed the pursuer’s horse. The kishion was low against the saddle, his mouth twisted into a scowl.

Martin brought back the arrow and loosed it. The kishion saw the motion and swung around the saddle horn the other way, lurching away as the arrow sank into the horse’s neck. There was a shriek, a spurt of blood, and then the horse went down. Martin sloshed through the swamp water, drawing another arrow.

The kishion emerged, and Martin sailed the arrow at the killer. Kishion were hired for two purposes: to protect or to kill. So quick, the kishion spun aside, and the arrow sank into the tree behind him. A dagger appeared in the kishion’s hand, and it was Martin’s turn to throw himself back as it whistled by his ear.

The two glared at each other, circling, drawn closer. There was no taunting—no attempt to persuade or deny. There was only the imminent conflict of sharp-edged blades. Martin drew his gladius and a dagger. He poked the air in front of him, as if testing the distance separating them. He motioned for the other to attack first.

The kishion obliged and lunged at him, a new blade in his hand, going straight for Martin’s throat. Their bodies locked for a moment, jabs, cuts, feints, thrusts. Then they parted, circling the other way, eyes locked on each other. Martin’s teeth were clenched tight, revealing a sickening half grin. Again the kishion charged him, deftly stabbing at his inner thigh, his fingers clawing toward Martin’s eyes. Their arms and limbs smashed against each other. Then they were separated again. There was blood blooming on the kishion’s sleeve. Both of them were breathing hard.

“You…you trained…among us,” the kishion whispered darkly.

Martin’s grin became more pronounced. “You noticed.”

Maybe the kishion was losing his strength. Maybe he realized he was already a dead man. He struck at Martin one last time, and then he was subdued, arm twisted in a brutal lock behind him, the blade dropping from the agony of the hold. Martin encircled the kishion’s neck with his arm and dropped him like a stone into the murky swamp water until his head was submerged. Martin clenched and squeezed, burying his weight into the man’s back, holding him beneath the water as he flailed and struggled for breath. A few more moments while the kishion was starved for air, thrashing violently and desperately, but Martin shrugged harder, squeezing and holding him. Martin felt something break in the kishion’s neck.

The struggle ended. He waited longer to be sure, not trusting his instincts. Then he released the dead man and fished through the waters for his fallen gladius. He cleaned it and sheathed it and only then noticed the Prince watching him, his face askew with emotion.

Martin looked at him gruffly. “It was foolish to ride back, my Prince. What if I had lost? A kishion can kill even a maston.”

The Prince stared at the corpse, his face in anguish. Martin scowled. He had killed many men in war, and hired killers were no one to feel sympathy for. “Ride on, my Prince. I will search the body for clues as to who hired him.”

The Prince stared in silence and shook his head. “I am not squeamish, Martin. It is just what I saw as you drowned him. I saw a girl being drowned by a kishion.”

Martin looked around in confusion. “He was certainly a man, my lord. Not even I would drown a woman.”

“You might,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “If I asked it of you. If the woman…deserved it. No, what I saw was in the future. A young girl in a dressing gown. The kishion tried to drown her.” He trembled for a moment, shaking his head as if dispelling a nightmare. Then he looked down at the orb.

Martin tugged on the kishion’s collar to hoist him out of the murky waters. The corpse was limp and soaked.

“Leave him,” the Prince said. “We both know who sent him.”

“You suspect the treasonous king then? The king you are visiting Comoros to treat with?” Martin said waspishly. “By Cheshu, even with a safe conduct granted, he would try to murder you?”

Prince Alluwyn smirked. “No, the king did not send the kishion. It was his wife.”

“The wife? You say it is she? She must be devious and cunning if you suspect her and not her lord.”

“There are things I know through the maston ways, Martin. I have long suspected this. There are stories that the kings of Dahomey send only their daughters to negotiate treaties. They are notable for their subtlety. There are reasons I cannot explain to you further.”

Martin sighed and let the corpse fall with a splash. He made sure the gladius was snug in its scabbard. Then he fished his blade out of the murk and sheathed it in his belt. “We ride to Muirwood then?”

A curious look and a subtle shake of his head came as the reply. “The orb bids me further west. We must ride, while there is still daylight in this accursed swamp.”

“Not to Muirwood?”

“Trust me, old friend,” he said, his eyes intense. “There is a grove of trees we must visit. Ride with me, Martin. Tell no one what we do.”

“The king is expecting us in Comoros in less than a fortnight.” He scratched his throat and started toward his own mount. “He is not a patient man. He will take it amiss if we are late.”

The Prince was staring westward, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. “I know, Martin. But the way is becoming clearer. The swamp whispers to me. It whispers of death.” He sighed. “It whispers of my death.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

Binding Sigil

 

 

The fragrance of the Cider Orchard enmeshed with Lia’s memories and the churn of feelings she worried would overwhelm her. Throughout her childhood at Muirwood Abbey, she had fled to the Cider Orchard. The tightly clustered rows of trees made it easier to hide and escape kitchen chores. She had plucked hundreds of apples from their stems and nestled in the grass to savor them. She had witnessed the orchard blooming with blossoms or wreathed in smoky mist. The thoughts evoked memories of rushing with Sowe and Colvin to escape the sheriff’s men through the orchard—of Getman Smith finding her there and squeezing her arm. One of her most painful memories happened there as well—when Colvin had rejected her and left her alone in the mud and dripping branches. But it was also the place where he had found her again, later, and asked for her help in saving Ellowyn Demont.

Ellowyn Demont.

The name invoked such tangled feelings—hate, envy, pity, respect, jealousy. Especially jealousy. Lia leaned against a tree trunk in the twilight—sighing deeply, stifling a sob—and clenched her fists. Colvin had found Ellowyn at Sempringfall Abbey, sentenced there as a wretched after the kingdom of Pry-Ree was vanquished. She grew up unaware of her name, known as Hillel Lavender because she worked at the laundry. But things were not as they seemed. Hillel was not the real Ellowyn Demont. For some reason, for some cruel reason, Lia had learned too late that she herself was the missing heir of Pry-Ree. She had sacrificed herself for the other girl, believing that Hillel was the true person who had to leave for Dochte Abbey to warn them of the coming of the Blight. But it was not Hillel who needed to go. It was Lia, her leg still throbbing and healing, her hand still aching from the arrow that had transfixed it. The injuries she had sustained were not what pained her the most. It was jealousy—pure jealousy—that the other girl was traveling by sea to Dahomey to warn the inhabitants of Dochte Abbey. She was not traveling alone but with Colvin.

The ache became worse. It robbed her of her ability to think. She had always known herself as Lia Cook. It was every wretched’s deepest dream to learn of her parentage. Why had events turned out in such a way? Why was it that Colvin had been led to Sempringfall to find the girl and not to Muirwood? What would have happened if she had been allowed to spend a year with Colvin, as Hillel had, learning languages and scriving, being able to participate in the politics of her uncle, Garen Demont, instead of shying away from them, always too fearful? Did the Aldermaston of Muirwood know the truth? Had he always known?

The jealousy coalesced into anger. The Prince of Pry-Ree, her very own father, had visited Muirwood before her birth. The Aldermaston of Tintern knew who she was. She coughed with a half chuckle. He had even promised to tell her when she returned from Dochte Abbey. She remembered the pity in his eyes. But still, he had not told her the truth. It was the Cruciger orb—a gift left with her when she was abandoned as a baby—that had revealed the truth at last. The Aldermaston knew. He must have known. Yet he had deliberately deceived her. The anger boiled. She had to know why. Colvin was escorting the wrong person to Dahomey. The thought made her feel black inside.

Pushing away from the smooth bark of the apple tree, she strode toward the manor house. It was dusk and torches shone in sconces on the walls. She walked furiously but with a limp. She knew she should not; her leg would throb that night as she tried to fall asleep, but she did not care. The Abbey’s walls seemed luminous that night, as if the very stones radiated moonlight before the silver orb appeared in the sky. She loved the Abbey with all her heart. It was part of her. Beneath her hunter’s garb, she wore a soft, woven chaen shirt. It reminded her of the maston vows she had made inside. She was a maston, as her father and her mother had been. Being a maston was part of her heritage.

Lia reached the manor house and thrust the door open. Something caught her eye in the corner outside, some movement. She glanced but saw nothing. From the corner of her eye, it had seemed like a person—a man wearing hunter’s garb. She paused, staring at the spot, but she could see nothing. She shook her head, realizing that there were many knight-mastons wandering the grounds since the battle. It probably had been one of them.

She approached the Aldermaston’s door and opened it without knocking first. She regretted it instantly. The Aldermaston looked haggard at his desk, his eyes red with veins and swollen with lack of sleep. His left hand trembled on the desk, a sign of his age and the strain he had endured. He was talking to Garen Demont, her uncle.

“I am sorry,” she offered as their heads turned toward her.

“Is something the matter, Lia?” the Aldermaston said.

“I am sorry for interrupting you,” she said, nodding respectfully at Demont. Her eyes blazed as she stared at the Aldermaston. “I must speak with you.”

“Come in then, child.” His eyes became wary, seeing the flush on her cheeks and the brooding anger in her eyes. “Shut the door. Have you met our hunter, Earl Demont?”

Garen Demont was younger than the Aldermaston, but he was much older than Lia. He was not excessively tall, but he was fit and trim for a man who was nearly fifty. He had survived the battle of Maseve as a young man, escaped the kingdom, and fought for foreign kings in turn. But he had returned at last to challenge the king for his Family’s birthright and defeated him at the battle of Winterrowd. Lia had been there and recalled seeing him there, perched on a wagon the evening of the battle, all blood spattered and filthy as he announced their victory in a humble manner. She had not seen him since then until he had arrived at Muirwood to defeat their enemies. His knights had traveled through the Apse Veil, the barrier within each Abbey that allowed someone to pass from one location to another.

His hair was dark and unruly. A maston sword hung from a scuffed leather belt at his hip. He did not have a beard, though the bristles had reformed already and he looked ready for a shave again. He looked at her curiously and bowed his head toward her.

“We have, Aldermaston. Briefly.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “I hope you are recovering from your injuries?”

Her heart burned inside of her. He was the only family she had left. He was her uncle, by blood, and he did not know it. She started to tremble.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” the Aldermaston asked pointedly.

She glanced at him, seeing his eyebrows fold with intensity. He sat back in his chair, wincing with pain as he moved.

“You wish me to speak it now?” she asked, nodding toward Demont.

He gave her a shrewd smile. “Please do.”

Her heart throbbed in her chest. What would Demont think of her? How would he react to her news? As she began to speak, her mouth would not open. The force of the Medium slammed into her, cleaving her tongue. She could say nothing. Even breathing was difficult. Her mind whirled.

“Lia?” the Aldermaston asked mildly, but she could see knowledge in his eyes. He knew exactly what was happening to her. Was he doing it to her? Or was the Medium preventing her because it did not want Demont knowing?

She shook her head violently, feeling tears prick her eyes. The thought of something else to say loosed her tongue. “Do you have…any word from Colvin?”

“No,” the Earl said, startling her. “Not directly. But we do have word of him and of my niece.” He looked at the Aldermaston, who nodded curtly. “The king of Dahomey sends us word demanding the release of his sister, Pareigis, into his custody. He has informed us that he will keep my niece and the Earl of Forshee as hostages at Dochte Abbey until we relent.” His face hardened with anger. “Our attempts to…contact…the Earl have all been thwarted. If the news you brought from Pry-Ree is true, my dear, that the Blight is coming and it will strike soon, then we must make a decision now on how to save them.”

“I agree that we must do something,” the Aldermaston said and then paused as a racking cough exploded from his lips. It took several moments for him to regain his composure. He slammed his elbow on the table and leaned forward, expelling his breath roughly. “But releasing the Queen Dowager will do more harm than good. It is a ploy. If what your allies in Hautland have said is true, there is an invasion army assembling. The negotiations are an attempt to distract us from their true aim. We must send word through every village in the kingdom. We must forsake these shores before it is too late.”

Demont’s brow furrowed with consternation. “Is there nothing, then, that can halt the Blight?”

The reply came as a deep chuckle, wet with phlegm. “Certainly there is. We must abandon all pride. Share our food with the poor. We must act, in a word, with one heart and one mind. But as you well know, that has not happened since the days of King Zedakah. Too many mastons have been killed. Too many abbeys have fallen. How does one stop a rockslide, my lord Earl? We must flee from it before it engulfs us. Lia can guide us to the safe haven in Pry-Ree. There is an abbey there. They know the way.”

“Yet you will not tell me where it is,” Demont stated simply, his look piercing.

“Not yet, my lord Earl. Continue to send your knights throughout the realm. Those who will listen must come to Muirwood. If our enemies learned where the rallying point was, our escape would be compromised. Bring them to Muirwood.”

“What of my niece?” Demont asked, stepping closer, his voice more firm.

Lia’s heart throbbed painfully.

“Lord Colvin is an able maston. He is her guardian.”

Demont said nothing for a moment. He rubbed his jaw, causing a scratching sound from the bristles on his chin. “Until tomorrow then, Aldermaston. I beg leave of you. It is time to rotate the guard over Pareigis. Even without the kystrel, she is dangerous.”

The Aldermaston nodded. “You are wise not to underestimate her. Until tomorrow.”

Demont strode from the room and shut the door softly behind him. Lia watched him go, her stomach sick with worry. She turned back to the Aldermaston.

“Send me to Dochte Abbey,” she said in a low voice.

“You are not fully recovered, Lia. It is a long journey.”

She frowned deeply and approached his desk. “I will use the Apse Veil. I can be there tonight and warn him. The orb would show me the way.”

The Aldermaston studied her carefully, his expression guarded. “None of Demont’s mastons have successfully crossed the Apse Veil to Dochte Abbey. If it were a matter of strength in the Medium, I would suggest you try yourself. But my heart tells me that Dochte has already fallen.”

“What?” Lia demanded, planting her palms on the desk. “It is the oldest abbey in Dahomey. If it has fallen, why have we not heard?”

He twisted the tips of his beard. “I have asked myself that question. If the Abbey were burned, we would have heard. But if it were corrupted from within?” He raised his eyebrow at her. “If the Aldermaston succumbed? Dahomey is an ancient kingdom. If Pareigis is a hetaera, then we must assume her Family is as well and that the king of Dahomey has been seduced, as well as the royal Family. Their show of ability with the Medium is done by kystrels. The missives I have received may have been sent deliberately to put my mind at ease—to assure me that they have not fallen when they already have. Perhaps I have been ignoring the signs all along.” His words sent a chill through her body, and she shivered. “Perhaps we are the last kingdom to fall.”

“The last?” she whispered.

“I fear it may be,” he replied softly.

She swallowed, bewildered. Then she looked at him pointedly. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Tell you what, Lia?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

She was about to say Ellowyn Demont, but her jaw froze and her tongue clove in her mouth again. She struggled against the surge of the Medium. But moving her mouth was like trying to lift a boulder with a spoon. She gritted her teeth in frustration, unable to say the words.

The Aldermaston leaned back in his chair, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. “Now do you understand?” he whispered. “I cannot speak of what we both know to be true. Neither can you.”

Lia surrendered against the feeling. “But you are an aldermaston,” she said. “Why would the Medium bind us in such a way? It is not…natural.”

“Is it any less natural than how Colvin used the Medium to bind Seth’s tongue? The curse was removed eventually, but he went without speaking for a year. Imagine what Martin and I endured these many long years. Seth should be grateful that an irrevocare sigil was not used with the binding, or he would never have spoken again, in this life or the next.” His eyes were serious.

Lia wanted to ask who had performed the binding sigil, but again she was prevented. Angrily, she thought of another question. “How is a binding performed?”

The Aldermaston smirked at her persistence. “A binding sigil, or a binding rune, can be engraved in a tome. A band of aurichalcum is then forged that seals the pages together. The band cannot be opened except by the password. What is written on those pages cannot be spoken. They cannot be uttered by anyone. When someone has the Gift of Seering, they employ the binding runes on their tomes to prevent others from learning the future. Some with the gift write their visions in language that is difficult to understand or that can be interpreted in more than one way. That protects the knowledge from those who cannot use the Medium. But when the words are plain and easy to understand, they can be sealed with a binding rune to protect them.”

Lia studied him carefully. “Do you know how to do this yourself, or were you taught?”

He smiled, as if he were proud of her question. He looked at her deliberately. “I was taught by the Prince of Pry-Ree. Most of what I know of the hidden power of the Medium was taught to me by him. He had a unique way of carving Leerings, for example. He was younger than me but more powerful in the Medium in every way.” He paused. “His visit to Muirwood changed my life. Prior to his visit, I was a trifle more concerned with the harvesting of apples and the making of spiced cider.”

Lia’s heart surged with emotions, and she felt the tears stinging her eyes. More than anything she wanted to ask about her father, but she could not ask it openly. The Medium forbade it. She hung her head, recognizing the truth. The Aldermaston had never intended to hide from her what he knew. For some reason, her father had felt the secrecy was so important that he had prevented the knowledge from being shared.

“Why?” she said, struggling to find her voice through the tears. “Why must it be secret? Martin knew?” Her heart ached to tell Colvin, but she realized with despair that even if he stood before her, she would not be able to tell him.

The Aldermaston’s look was full of sympathy. He nodded curtly. “Martin struggled with it. He always did. He looked for ways to circumvent the binding rune. He is defiant by nature. When you…” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “…were abandoned at the Abbey, as a wretched, I was expecting there to be a tome with you. Instead there was the orb. No one ever learned what happened to the Prince’s tome. It is still missing. I can use the orb, but I cannot leave the grounds. My office requires me to be here, at Muirwood. I think…the Prince…protected this information in such a way to prevent it from being told to the wrong person. Or people. You see, even if I wanted to tell the truth, I could not.” His eyes gave her a meaningful look that said much she did not understand. He knew, she realized, even more than he had said, more secrets he was powerless to reveal.

Lia sighed, feeling exhausted suddenly. “Then what must I do? What does the Medium expect from me?”

His look was full of sorrow. “You already know, Lia.” His voice was soft and firm. “Ellowyn Demont must go to Dochte Abbey to warn them. Get some sleep, child. You must rest and heal. The Abbey will continue to heal you. You have made good progress each day. But still, there is little time left to us.”

She nodded and went to the door. Pausing at the threshold, she studied his face, and he studied hers. There was no anger or resentment within her any longer, only determination to find a way to tell Colvin who she really was. She sighed, realizing how thickheaded he could be. But she would try. She had to try.

After shutting the door gently, she walked down the hall and joined the cool night air. Her leg throbbed from the punishing pace she had allowed herself that day. Her temples clanged like kettles. She was so distracted that she did not see the shadow of the man until it mixed with hers. Whirling, she caught sight of a man detaching himself from the darkness to approach her. His hand rested on a gladius blade.

“You are the Pry-rian lass?” he asked softly in the language of her deceased father, her heritage, her homeland.

She had seen him before and recognized the face from Tintern Abbey.

 

 

 

***

 

I failed at the Leerings again today. There is one that frightens me more than the others. Let me describe it. The image is of two serpents woven together, their heads facing each other. It forms a circle. Most of the Leerings I see are shaped like faces, but this one is different. It is small. I see this symbol everywhere in Dochte. The Aldermaston says it is an ancient rune, that the serpent is one of the manifestations of Idumea. There are seven manifestations of Idumea. Dahomey embraces the manifestation of the serpent. I believe him, but it makes me afraid. There are serpents engraved everywhere. People keep serpents as pets here. There are no rats or voles. I will try again tomorrow to speak to the Leerings. There is one that will stop the Blight. Colvin said I must hurry. There are things he will not tell me. If Lia were here, he would tell her.

 

—Ellowyn Demont of Dochte Abbey

 

***