The Blight of Muirwood by Jeff Wheeler Page B

nervous.
    “Not very large. Shelves and stores mostly. The Leering is on that side,” she said. “I will go down first.”
    But he was already ahead of her, jumping into the pit from the ridge, landing with a thud.
    Angrily, she started down the ladder and entered after him. It felt wrong – foreboding. The feeling came from the Leering carved into the stone door, and she silenced it with her mind. After untying the strings, she withdrew the Cruciger orb from the pouch and it flared brightly, casting away the shadows. Colvin looked behind some barrels and then motioned her over. His jaw was clenched.
    From the position of the barrels, a space had been cleared away. There were chicken bones, crumbs, and holes in the barrels, spilling food. Bootprints were all over the floor and milled grain.
    “He is not here,” Colvin said. “He knew you were coming.”
    “True, but he does not know that I have this,” Lia said, holding up the orb. In her mind, she focused on his face, the image and smells of him that she remembered – scruffy chin, bloodshot eyes, the stink of sweat and onions. The spindles on the orb began to whir.
     
     

CHAPTER TEN:
Storm on the Tor
     
     
    Thunder rumbled in the distance. Gusts of cold wind knifed through Lia’s cloak, chilling her skin. An occasional drop of rain splattered against her face, but the brunt of the storm was still looming in the sky. Her cloak flapped behind her with the wind, as if it would be torn away, so she clutched it at her throat and marched on. Colvin scowled, not wearing a cloak himself, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his look determined.
    The orb was clear in its direction. It led them out of town, where she found matching bootprints in the dirt that quickly left the road into the scrub and trees. The spindles and the mashed ridges of dirt both pointed towards the Tor, the lopsided hill that could be seen from the Abbey, the highest point of ground in the Hundred.
    “I have a question for you,” Lia said, closing the gap between them so she would not have to shout.
    “You always have questions,” he replied.
    “The Aldermaston called Scarseth’s medallion a kystrel . Is it named after a falcon breed then?”
    “You have it right.”
    “Why is it, though?”
    “What is peculiar about a kystrel when it hunts its prey?”
    Lia looked down at the orb, saw that the spindles had not changed, and thought a moment. “I have no idea why it would be named after a bird. It obviously does not help him fly – I can see his trail clear enough.”
    “If you have ever hunted with a kystrel, especially when there is wind ripping at you like this, you will notice they hover and wait for their prey. Most falcons like to soar and then swoop down, but kystrels are smaller, more patient and they hover and wait. When they find their prey, they swoop down suddenly and quickly.” He stopped, shielding his face from the wind, then turned to look at her. “Those who force the Medium to obey with a kystrel tend to be subtle, crafty – wary and watchful for someone’s weaknesses before they attack. They are dangerous because of their ability to influence your feelings. That is how the Myriad Ones deceive us. Through emotions.”
    “Scarseth is good at deception,” Lia said wryly. “From the moment he banged his fist on the kitchen door, he deceived me. How he wore your maston sword so that I would think he was something other than a thief. Do you remember that night?”
    “Yes. I am struggling with the memories. How the past haunts you. I treated you cruelly that night and you were only trying to help.”
    Lia bumped into him on accident when the wind shifted and shoved her. She corrected her footing. “At least you admit it now. I often wondered since what you were thinking at that moment. How difficult it must have been to wake up like that, in a place full of strangers, knowing the sheriff was hunting for you. That you would be killed for treason.”
    “What