Gripping his crutch, he turned and started hobbling briskly. “Come, come. When we receive the will of the Medium, we obey it. Obey it prontis. Never delay. Come, to the sword and to the chaen. And the tunic. The pethet will wear the tunic into battle, I think. A battle that will soon rage near Winterrowd.” He grunted as he started up the shallow stone steps. “Then we climb the Tor, for I must show you the safe path. The road is too treacherous. You will not make it on the road. You must go through the Bearden Muir.”

CHAPTER TWENTY:

Summit

The staff in Maderos’ hand was a crooked, twisting thing. It was heavy at the top, with a flat mushroom-like head, its stout length gnarled, bent, and tapered at the end. Lia did not recognize the wood, all knobby and veined. He planted his hand on its neck near the crown, and he was off walking at a pace that defied Colvin and Lia to keep up. One of his legs was crooked, but with the staff, it did not seem to slow him at all. In fact, they both had to hurry to keep up with him.

“This way, this way!” Maderos hissed over his shoulder, bounding down the path. “Hurry along. Always obey, when the Medium asks us. Prontis! The Cruciger speaks to her in Pry-rian. In Pry-rian. Eh! I should have known.”

The hedge opened up to a meadow, and husky sheep grazed beyond on the grass at the base of the Tor. Several looked up at them as they advanced. Colvin clenched his jaw again, his eyes narrowed into slits. His very posture spoke of distrust and wariness as he yanked the reins to pull the stallion after him.

Sweat trickled down Lia’s cheek and she wiped it away. Maderos ambled up a small hillock to where a lone tree stood. It was an apple tree, but it looked nothing like ones from the orchard in Muirwood. The width of the trunk, the massive branches whispered of centuries. In fact, to Lia’s eyes, the sturdy branches seemed the same color as Maderos’ staff. As she entered the shade, she nearly stumbled over a stone. Only it was not a stone, she realized as she reached down and lifted a Muirwood apple.

Maderos looked back at her and their eyes met. “Wise, child. Gather more for the horse. More for you. You will need food where you are going. The fruit will sustain you.”

An apple so out of season should have been mush – or desiccated. This one was firm and ripe, its yellowish, pinkish skin gleaming. She caught sight of a Leering near the trunk of the ancient tree, but she had felt it before she had seen it. Power emanated from it. If it were fire, she would have been able to warm her hands from the stone. The face carved into it was so old, it was scarcely more than a few wrinkled crags in the nearly-smooth surface. A bearded face. She approached it, drawn in by its eyes. She reached out her hand, but Colvin caught her wrist. He shook his head no, his eyes angry.

Maderos went around the trunk. “There we are. Right where I left them. Here, pethet. Treasures for you to carry. Gather the apples, sister. There will be more around the base in the grass. There will not be any in the branches. It is not the season yet.”

As Lia searched and gathered apples, she brought them to the saddle bag of the horse, but paused long enough to feed the beast one first.

“Ah, the sword,” Maderos told Colvin as she searched the grass. “It belonged to the father. A knight-maston’s sword like yours. Bring it to the brother. And this…this is the chaen. You already wear one, so it is not for you. The lad is almost old enough to be a maston himself. It will be his. You are his father now. And his brother. No, no, that will not do. Do not scowl at this, pethet. This is your trust. Your duty. Now the tunic. Yes, you see the blood. But you do not hear its screams. No, you cannot hear that. Thank the Medium you do not. Take it away from here, that the blood spilled on it does not avenge here at this hill but elsewhere. Wear it, pethet. Yes, you must. Wear it. It is Demont’s. You must!”

Lia dumped another armful of apples into the saddle bag. The stallion swung its head, its mane grazing her face. She smiled from its nuzzling and watched from the corner of her eye as Colvin released his sword belt, pulled on the tunic, and then belted it again over it. The tunic was of dark fabric, but she could see the slits and stains from a dozen sword wounds. In her mind, she heard the sheriff speaking. The blood of your Family is still on my sword. The moans have never rubbed clean. But I will tell you of them. Of their traitorous hearts. Of their punishment even after death. Your grandfather. Your uncle. Their heads spitted on spikes. How we played with their corpses…

An ill feeling churned inside her. Looking at the bloodied tunic, seeing the evidence of violence, made her stomach lurch. Dizziness and anger washed through her. She nearly vomited, but clenching her hands around the saddle horn, she waited until it subsided. Somewhere deep in her mind, it was as if she should hear the screams, though no more than whispers.