Who are you!
She quailed again, panicking, knowing that she only had moments left to live. Myriad Ones smothered her. She could not speak. She could not breathe. In that moment of near-pure panic and fear, she clenched her fists, bowed her head, and let loose another thought as if screaming it.
Be gone from me!
The Medium awoke within her, responding to her feelings with a surge of heat. It flooded her heart, flooded her mind, strengthening her. As if the king were a man kept in dark rooms whose eyes could not bear even a candle flame, his will flinched from the fierceness of hers. She could breathe again and gasped for air, more angry than fearful. The thing gripping her mind loosened. Just as had happened with the Aldermaston and Colvin, she could discern the king’s thoughts for what they really were. What she found squirming inside his mind shocked her. He was afraid. He was afraid of Garen Demont as he had feared being weak like his father. In every war he had fought, in every battlefield he had championed, a dark twisted fear had been there, a blight in his soul. He feared anyone who used the Medium for it would not hearken to him. It would not obey him. Only through a chain and a charm around his neck was he able to light the tiniest of candles or summon the gushing waters from a gargouelle. But even the chain and medallion frightened him too, for he had used them too freely and now the Myriad Ones controlled him, as they had Almaguer. The medallions had made both men into puppets.
Lia raised her head and looked into the sky, into the milky gauze of stars. She opened herself up to the Medium again. She had sacrificed sleep, but somehow she knew that it alone was not enough to save Colvin. To barter for a man’s life required more.
I am only a wretched, she thought, speaking softly in her mind through the Medium. What must I give to achieve what I desire? Colvin is a man of proper Family. He has a sister who loves him and wishes his good health. If justice cannot be satisfied without blood, would my life be enough instead? If one of us must die, can it be me?
She waited, listening to the stillness, thrusting her petition into the stars. As if to answer her, she felt as if she grew into the size of a giant, and the king size of an ant. She saw him clearly in the camp below. He sat in a stuffed chair in his pavilion, staring blankly into a rack of torches, clutching a goblet of cider, his hand trembling so much, the amber pool sloshed.
Who are you? his thoughts pleaded. I know you. I recognize you. Are you a memory or a shade?
His thoughts were gibbering with fear. She realized that he did not know whether she was real or a phantom. His thoughts were so consumed with his own jealousies and needs, he could not see beyond himself, let alone see her hiding place. He could sense her thoughts, hear them almost, but not coherently. Her strength with the Medium, how she had used it to pluck his grip away from her mind, terrified him.
Who are you, girl?
Another thought came to her, so small and still that she hardly heard it at all. Yes, a life would be required to spare Colvin’s. The weight of that thought and the full rush of the Medium crashed down on her like a mountain. She collapsed.
* * *
The earth shook. Lia opened her eyes, realizing it was day. She lay against the inner wall of the burnt-out tree, her cheek itching with the sooty ruff of wood. Her ankle throbbed as she moved. A drumming sound filled the air, the charge of horses and jangle of arms. The hooves caused a murmur like thunder. Lia straightened, eyes filling with tears. She had fallen asleep! The vigil was not complete!
Lia stood awkwardly, her legs trembling. Her ankle was sore, but it supported her. How had it happened? How had she fallen asleep? Her mind was scattered with fragments, with memories all tangled and jostled together. Emerging from the shell of the tree, she stared at the fields near Winterrowd and watched as three walls of mounted knights surged across the clods of earth and grass at the tiny army led by Garen Demont. There were at least five rows of black-clad knights in each wall, lances stark against the dawn sun, charging against Demont’s men from every corner. Every one of Demont’s men were dismounted. She saw their horses tethered beyond their reach.
No! she wanted to scream. The knights charged, closing the gap, as Demont’s men waited for them to come. They were arranged in four lines, a square, each man facing outward, shoulder to shoulder with their swords drawn. The gap in the middle showed no reserves. Thunder churned the air, the thunder of warhorses. Lia bit her lip, watching helplessly at the slaughter about to happen. The slaughter Maderos had predicted.
Let him live, she thought silently. Please, let him live! I am not too late!
Thinking was not enough. She needed to act. To do something to aid him. The flutter and color of a dozen battle flags caught her eye, nearer to her than the charging knights. The flags were large and sweeping, fixed on poles and fluttering in the air like huge forked tongues to rally the king’s soldiers. They were held by mounted soldiers on a solitary hill near the wooded glen where she was hidden. It was near enough that she could see the slope of the helms, the detail on their armor, and hear the nickering of impatient steeds. One battle flag in particular caught her eye. It was red and gold, tattered, and charred black in places. Some fleeting memory darted through her thoughts like watery silver, something she had heard back at Muirwood. That the king taunted his enemies by flashing the banners of his defeated foes, a deliberate design to crush the will of his enemies, to weaken their resolve to fight, to seed their minds with doubts.