Scarseth, his eyes glowing silver.
She had one arrow left and yanked it roughly from her quiver. Her fingers started to tremble as she nocked it and lifted the bow. Everything seemed to freeze around her. His eyes burned into hers. His thoughts whispering in her mind.
Release me! I beg of you!
She pulled the arrow back. It felt like pulling a bucket rope full of stones. His shirt was open, revealing the gleaming kystrel. The reddish brown matt of chest hair did not disguise the whorl of black tattoes on his chest that snaked up to his throat and across his shoulders. A sign that he was fully in its thrall.
You are strong enough, girl! I can help you!
She hesitated, wanting to let the arrow fly. Then she experienced the full force of the Medium slam against her. All her desire gutted out of her. She was tired, exhausted, wasted. The bow string was so heavy, so very heavy. She could not let the shaft loose. Her fingers would not obey her.
Pain.
The crossbow bolt stuck into the side of her leg, deep into the flesh, into the bone. Every thought turned into fire and she cried out in agony and crumpled. Horses crashed through the expanse of oaks and then she saw him, the Earl of Dieyre with a mass of knights. He was garbed in mail, a brown tabard fluttering as he reined in his mount. His eyes were livid, his face a contortion of delight and vindication.
“Caught you at last!” he crowed, swinging off the saddle, sword in hand. Three knights had crossbows trained on her. The fourth was reloading a bolt.
On her knee, her leg throbbing with agony, she stared at Dieyre with hatred. She brought up her last arrow and aimed for his throat. She saw the crossbowmen fire, but she was faster. Pulling back, she let the arrow loose and then twisted her shoulders and collapsed on her back, hoping some of the bolts would miss her.
With reflexes honed by battle, Dieyre swung and shattered the arrow with his sword. Gracefully, his sword arm lowered, his grin defiant. One of the bolts struck her hand, impaling it. The others missed. It was worse agony than the first and she screamed in pain. On her back, she dropped her bow.
The pain made tears swim in her eyes. She could hardly see Dieyre as he approached. Shoving with her legs, despite the pain, she pushed herself closer to the Leering. The entire face of it was burning. If she could only get close enough to touch it. Close enough to touch it with her blood. A maston’s blood screamed when they died. She could hear the sound of her own in her mind. A cry for help, for vengeance, for justice. The cry of one about to be murdered.
Dieyre’s voice was mocking. “You should have joined me when I offered, girl. It was quite a chase, but I am persistent. It would amaze you how patient I can be.”
One of the knights kicked Lia savagely in the ribs. “Can I kill her now, my lord?” he demanded.
“Not yet,” Dieyre answered curtly. “Let her watch Muirwood burn before she dies. Fire the Leerings.”
* * *
“When I first saw the child, that babe in a Pry-rian shawl, I knew that she would be my death. Over all these years as I have watched her grow, steal, tease, and laugh, that knowledge has whispered to my mind many times. That little girl, so full of life and affection, would bring about the fall of Muirwood Abbey. Yet even knowing this, despite how it pained me, I could not resist loving her or honoring the request her father had made me vow.”
- Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR:
Burning
Lia couldn’t breathe through the pain. She tasted blood in her mouth. Determined to fight to the last of her strength, she pulled her dagger free with her uncrippled hand and jammed the blade into the boot of the knight who had kicked her. As he wailed with agony, she struggled on her elbows towards the Leering. It was so close, but not close enough. In her mind, she willed the fire to cease. The flame spasmed and guttered out.
Scarseth swung around violently, staring at her. His eyes were still glowing.
“Summon the fire!” Dieyre ordered.
The two wrestled for control of the Leering. Lia shoved his thoughts as hard as she could, willing the flames to die. If she could only touch it, she could summon the defenses. A boot struck her in the small of her back and she could think of nothing but blinding pain. Her concentration snapped and the fire bloomed again. She could not get a grip on her thoughts, could not collect them past the haze of suffering. She was going to die. Another kick would do it, another crushing blow. She was so tired, so weary. The Leering was too far.
“My lord, a maston!”
“No crossbows. He is mine,” Dieyre said in a low, greedy voice. Then louder, “So you do care for the girl! A true man after all. Her suffering will end quickly. I will not let them play with her first. But you have just wasted her sacrifice. Not that you could have hid for long with all the tunnels blocked.”