* * *

“Youth who come to the Abbeys of the realm come with training already in hand and fixed solidly in their minds. Some have exceptional Gifts already with the Medium when they arrive. Some can already summon fire or water or cause a stone to lift and tremble over their palm. But whatever Gifts they bring to the Abbey, we expect more from them. If they bring six, we expect twelve when they leave. If they come with but one talent, we test and try and prove them until we wring two or three more from them. But whether they come with but one or six, a few lose what they have. The rigorous training of the Abbey begins to take its toll on them. Or they submit their thoughts to the subtle poison of doubt. Not even an Aldermaston’s power can cure it, for these students do harm to themselves. The mind, like the body, can be moved from sunshine into shade.”

- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

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CHAPTER TWENTY ONE:

Bearden Muir

The Bearden Muir was a lair of mossy rocks, ravens, green reeds, and stunted skeletal oaks sagging on the occasional lumps of higher ground amidst a swamp that flooded every year. Its air was cloudy with gnats and mosquitoes, and the smell of rotting earth. Ghostly noises wandered by like lost echoes. Every bit of ground was saturated with muck and mud and treacherous pools. There was no road through the Bearden Muir – it changed too often to construct them. The land was raw, savage, and eerily beautiful, like a damp gray moth with flecks of color in its wings.

Several murky rivers slit through the middle of the Bearden Muir, formed by three tributaries that tried in vain to drain the lowlands. One of the tributaries now barred the path to Winterrowd. The Cruciger orb led them south, along its sluggish flank. The other side was choked with reeds, and the throaty growls of bullfrogs were warnings not to cross.

“What did Maderos mean about having a vigil?” Lia asked, while batting another insect away from her face.

“I do not know,” Colvin answered sullenly, scanning the trees. The mud was slippery for the stallion’s hooves, and his full attention was brought to bear on guiding it.

“I have heard of vigils before,” Lia said. “They happen at the abbey. Learners abandon sleep for something they treasure – something they desire. It is common before taking the maston test.”

“You no longer shock me with your knowledge of the mastons’ customs,” he said over his shoulder.

“But surely you have an idea what Maderos meant?”

“He was talking about my sister Marciana in Forshee who does not know I am here. Or he was speaking of you. By all that is…does this river never end? Can we not cross it yet?”

“If he was talking about me, then you need to teach me how,” Lia said. “I have never done one before. I have gone without eating. And some nights I am restless and cannot sleep. But I do not think that is the same as a vigil.”

“It is not.”

“Then will you tell me?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

His voice was rude and annoyed. “Because I am struggling to keep the stallion from faltering! It requires concentration, which you ruin with your persistent questions. Can you never be quiet?”

Anger surged inside Lia again, and she was glad to be seated behind him so as not to see the impatience stamped on his face. That would have made her angrier still. Did he not think she noticed the sucking mud and the exhausting effect on the weary stallion? Her own stomach was in knots. Maderos’ words whispered back and forth in her mind. She wanted to talk about them, to better understand what they were about. Half of what he had said were riddles.

Looking down at the orb, she saw that it had stopped working. For a moment, there was panic in her heart. True, perfect, helpless panic. Show us the safe way to Winterrowd, she pleaded with it. The spindles whirred and moved back, pointing south, following the river. She closed her eyes, grateful.

“I am sorry for distracting you,” she mumbled. In her mind, she added pethet. “The spindles are turning. Hold a moment!”

“Are they? Let me see.” He turned in the saddle and they both watched as the spindles turned and pointed into the river. “Here?” Colvin said warily.

The river was smooth, not choppy, but the depths were indeterminable. A sharp, clacking sound came from upstream, startling them. Then it was gone.

“Hold on tightly,” he said. “If the horse starts to swim, it may throw us off. You hold me, and I will keep hold of the bridle. Tighter – good. Clutch that thing tightly as well. Do not drop it. We may never find it again. Can you swim?”