As the memory of the Aldermaston’s words filled her mind, she mimicked the force of his will. Now, she told the Leering. You will stop now.

It did, but grudgingly. The burning withdrew. The flames were tamped. But she could feel it hunkering deep inside the stone, diminished but not quenched. But that was enough for Lia. The rock cooled enough to touch it.

When she did, an image came to her mind. Soldiers camping around the stone wearing blood-spattered armor and shivering. Not the sheriff – for it had happened during the winter months when snow covered much of the Bearden Muir. A man, devoid of speech and clutching a snail-shaped medallion, had touched the Leering and summoned the flames to warm them. He communed with it in his mind, for he could not speak and the Leering had told him who last had touched it. It had shown him her face. Lia’s stomach clenched and twisted, for she recognized the man and knew his name.

* * *

“A desire to be observed, considered, esteemed, praised, beloved, and admired by his fellows is one of the earliest as well as the keenest dispositions discovered in the heart of man. My advice to new learners is to squelch it all their days for those desires lead to ruin.”

- Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey

* * *

CHAPTER THREE:

Blight

Lia stifled a sob of joy as they crossed the final ring of oaks and entered the grounds of Muirwood. Splotches of violently itching sores covered her face, hands, and legs and had plagued her the entire way back. Washing the plant’s oil from her hands did nothing to ease her suffering or prevent the poisonous sap from spreading to other parts of her body. As she and Martin wove through the treacherous marshland, the itching inflamed her hands and face and then spread further. Martin drove her hard, hardly stopping to rest, warning her to stop scratching, but she could not stop. The itch was maddening and unquenchable. They reached the Abbey a day earlier than expected. The sunset colored the sky a rich violet and the first stars began winking into view.

Martin coughed to clear his hoarse throat. Their water had run out earlier that day. “I will find someone to stable the beast. You hurry to the Aldermaston, lass.”

The air was warm with spring, and the Abbey seemed abuzz with life. Lia raised her hood to hide the blistering skin on her face and dug her nails into her ribs to keep from scratching her arms. Laughter bubbled from the yard by the cloister where the learners were gathered. She kept her head low and walked quickly, not even glancing at the kitchen until she had passed it and entered the manor house from the rear. The housekeeper would be aghast that she had not brushed her boots before coming in, but she did not care. Was the poison killing her? Would it kill her?

She grasped the handle of the Aldermaston’s study and yanked it open.

“Lia?”

It was the Aldermaston’s voice, but the sound came from behind her. Turning, she saw him approaching down the hall. When he finally saw her face, his eyes widened with shock. “Prestwich! Send for Siara Healer.”

Her jaw hurt from clenching it for three days. The itching burned across her body. Its persistence nearly made her scream. She turned to look at the Aldermaston as he motioned her inside his study and shut the door.

“Lower your hood.” She did and he examined her face without touching her. “Is it across all your flesh as well or just parts?”

Lia bit her lip to keep from crying out. “It itches and it burns. My hands and arms. My legs too. It is…it is everywhere. It came from a plant. Martin does not know what it is. I cannot bear this itching! I brought some…to show you.” She fumbled with the pouch and set down her pack. With palsied fingers, she struggled to open it and withdrew a small cluster of leaves.

The Aldermaston looked at it carefully but did not touch. “Where did you find it?”

“In the Bearden Muir at the boulder with the Leering that had my face. The grove was choked with it. The Leering was burning – burning since winter.”

“Burning?” he asked, his voice low and concerned. “With no one near it?”

“Not a soul. But someone touched it in the winter. I saw it in my mind.”

“Was the stone itself pocked? Was it discolored?”

“Yes. The stone was sick. The Leering’s face was nearly burned all the way off. Only slits for eyes.”

He looked shocked and concerned, and his expression sent chills through her. He was worried. He was deathly worried.

“Am I going to die, Aldermaston?” she asked.

“The Blight,” he whispered. Then seizing control of himself, he faced her. “Put that weed away, Lia. Kneel. Shut your eyes.”