Getman’s voice was thick with contempt. “You may dress like a boy all you like. You probably enjoy it! But you will never be the man Jon Hunter was. You will never be as good as him. Why the old man chose you…I have never understood. It should have been me. I should have been chosen. Not you.”
Lia wrestled with her anger and the oath she had taken. She could hardly speak through her fury. “Do not touch that boy,” she warned.
“Or what? Are you going to stop me? No, you will tell the old man like you tell him everything I have ever done. I know he hates me. Might as well leave now. I cannot stand another year in this place.”
“You have no idea what you are saying,” Lia replied, trying to calm herself. “Let us go, Sowe.”
She reached for the other girl’s hand and started to pull her away when Getman grabbed a fistful of her clothes at the shoulder, ready to yank her back and insult her again. In grabbing her gown, he also seized her chaen.
The Medium flared inside her, a wall of blazing ice and fire that stunned her with its intensity and fury. To Getman, she imagined it was like gripping a lightning bolt. His eyes went wide with shock, his fingers paralyzed by the feeling blazing through him. As if something huge and heavy collided with him, he stumbled few steps backwards, his hand as red as if he had pressed it against the inner wall of the forge. It was the Medium that had struck him, not Lia. She had not called it to bear at all. She had not summoned it or even thought about it. All she had done was cool her temper and trample her instinct to humiliate him.
Getman gaped at her.
Lia smiled warningly. “Do not touch me,” she said.
* * *
After Whitsunday each year, the learners returned with their families back to the manors and castles they came from. Teachers who had not seen their families for the duration of the year abandoned the Abbey for a brief season. The cloister was locked and secured. The wretcheds kept working, but had more time to enjoy without the constant fuss of learners. With the Queen Dowager gone like a whirlwind as well, it was quieter on the grounds. A new routine would begin. The end of the season was a quiet time, one that Lia usually relished.
Colvin’s departure crushed her with wistful memories.
Before he had returned, there were places she could go that would remind her of him. The forbidden grounds where Maderos’ lair existed, for example. The loft ladder or the Pilgrim Inn. She could go to those places and remember seeing him there. But since he had stayed at Muirwood, it felt as if his footprints were everywhere – in the grass, near the majestic oak trees, through the Cider Orchard. Especially the orchard. It pained her to walk there now, remembering the look on his face when he had rejected her. The memories surprised her with their vividness and the intensity of feelings.
He was gone and he would never return. Did she truly believe it? That they would never see each other again? The Aldermaston was still ailing and had asked her to stay close to the grounds in case the Queen Dowager returned. She did not know if they were still surrounded or not – their enemies could still be lurking in the woods. She wanted to investigate but would not disobey the Aldermaston.
At least once a day she had to endure the presence of the Earl of Dieyre. He was so different than Colvin. Talkative, witty, shallow – intense. She took him hawking twice and he was courteous and grateful, yet always pressed her to go further from the grounds than she thought wise. She refused and he relented – but he still pushed her. He knew the sport and enjoyed the kills. But she did not trust him. For some reason the Aldermaston had let him stay.
At dusk on the third day after Whitsunday, Lia checked the perimeter of the grounds as she usually did, always on the look for the sign of trespassers. She had passed the grounds on the far side of the fish pond and worked her way around to the far side of the Cider Orchard. The light was beginning to fail, but she saw the matted grass first before she noticed the bootprints.
Lia froze, staring at the ground. Instinctively, she reached for her gladius and drew it. She approached the telltale signs. There was no mistaking it. A man’s step, a man’s stride walking quickly and deliberately up the hillside and into the orchard. Her heart went wild with uncertainty. The prints were fresh.
She stooped, tracing the edge of the print with her finger, her sword hand ready. What to do? She could go straight to the Aldermaston. But he would have her track the prints. Why the orchard? Was someone stealing apples for food?
Lia started along the trail, following the steps into the Cider Orchard, listening to the wind rustling the branches and leaves. It was silent. No thrashing of limbs. No thumping of falling apples shaken loose from the stems. She crossed as quietly as she could, keeping each step soft and deliberate. She smelled the air, listening to the sounds, hoping there would be something to warn her of danger. How had the intruder made it past the Leerings? Each step brought her deeper into the orchard until his voice came from the shadows on her left, startling her.