Read The Ciphers of Muirwood Online
Authors: Jeff Wheeler
The Ciphers of Muirwood
Books by Jeff Wheeler
The Covenant of Muirwood Trilogy
The Banished of Muirwood
The Ciphers of Muirwood
The Void of Muirwood
The Legends of Muirwood Trilogy
The Wretched of Muirwood
The Blight of Muirwood
The Scourge of Muirwood
Whispers from Mirrowen Trilogy
Fireblood
Dryad-Born
Poisonwell
Landmoor Series
Landmoor
Silverkin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Jeff Wheeler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503947115
ISBN-10: 1503947114
Cover design by Ray Lundgren
Illustrated by Magali Villeneuve
To Gina
CONTENTS
“There was never an angry man who thought his anger was unjust.”
—Richard Syon, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER ONE
Execution
S
anford Price was a bull of a man even in his sixtieth year, and his time as a prisoner in Pent Tower had not broken him. He was tall, fit, and had a restless energy that drove him to pace and mutter to himself—habits that annoyed the sons who shared his prison. He had been the Earl of Forshee and a member of the Privy Council until his title and lands had been stripped away for his outspoken denunciation of the King of Comoros’s bad example to the realm. As if being stripped of his birthright were not punishment enough, the king’s guard had arrested and imprisoned him.
He did not regret his words, which were true.
What he did regret was that he had not realized how vengeful the king was or how far he had fallen from his maston oaths. And he regretted that his words had not only impacted himself, but also his sons. They had been one of the premier Families in power, reputation, and wealth. While the earldom had been stripped from him, Sanford knew that the people in his Hundred were loyal to the man, not the rank. Yes, another might be parading the title in his place, but if Sanford Price were to escape Pent Tower and ride north, all would see the meaning of true loyalty.
The prison that held him and his sons had once been furnished to house nobility. Traditionally, the highborn who were punished were still allowed splendid food, comfortable clothes, and occasional privileges like hawking or hunting. That had changed under the rule of King Brannon. The chambers had been converted into dungeons more terrible than a bleak underground cavern would be. From the towers one could see the parks, the river, the bustle and jostle of the markets beyond the palace walls. To view the frenzy of life but not be able to participate in it—that was a mental torture, to be sure. Pent Tower had been transformed into such a miserable place that the curtains had been removed for fear of fabric being used as ropes to escape through the windows. They were high enough up from the greenyard below that any attempt to descend would be fatal.
Sanford’s anger and brooding temperament were legendary, inherited from his forefather Colvin Price. His Family had a long history of valuing respect and duty, a legacy in which he took pride. As he had watched King Brannon flout the maston beliefs and customs at every turn, he had grown increasingly angry and restless. Someone needed to stand up to the man, and so Sanford had chosen himself to play that role, believing that if he did, others would follow his example.
It was shameful, truly, that a king would seek to disavow his lawful wife, bound to him by irrevocare sigil, for a strumpet. He ground his teeth in anger and frustration. When sacred things were mocked, it would bring disaster upon the realm.
And it had.
It reminded Sanford, darkly, of the days of his ancestor. Colvin had lived under the reign of a brutal king as well. The one man who had dared to stand up to him, Sevrin Demont, had been killed in battle. His son, Garen Demont, had continued the rebellion and eventually defeated the cruel king at a field called Winterrowd.
He stopped by the window, brooding, rubbing strands of his growing gray beard. Did there come a time when rebellion was the only course of action left to men of honor? Colvin had felt that emotion. He had joined Garen Demont’s rebellion against the king after learning that mastons were being secretly murdered throughout the realm. The king and his hetaera wife had sought to destroy the maston order subtly. Even though joining the rebellion had meant risking his own life and the future of his sister, Colvin had not hesitated.
Had such a time come to Comoros? An evil king could cause much suffering. If Sanford managed to escape Pent Tower, or—if the Medium willed it—he was set free, was this the moment to start a civil war? War always brought death, disease, and suffering for the people. Though the loss of his rank, wealth, and position was felt grievously, this was not about regaining what he had personally lost. It was about justice. It was about fairness. It was about the rule of law.
The rage smoldered inside of him. Four of his sons were trapped in the tower with him. Two of them—Tobias and Mennion—had been forced to part with their wives. Tobias had a baby who did not know his father’s face. He had heard they were all living in a cottage deep in Forshee, where they endured the persecution of the new earl. A sympathetic guard brought occasional reports, so at least they knew their Family was not going hungry. Many of the villagers throughout the Hundred regularly brought them cheese, sheep, and cows. Sanford himself had been known as a stern but compassionate earl; he had always erred on the side of giving too much instead of too little.
“You look angry, Father,” said his firstborn, Tobias. He joined him at the window and put a hand on his shoulder.
“I was thinking about our womenfolk,” he replied. “It is unjust that they suffer for my words.”
“When I think on how the king treats his own daughter,” Tobias said, “I can hardly be surprised that he treats us so ill.”
“Yes, he treats his daughter shamefully, but this is not how you reward loyal service. His actions encourage sycophants,” said Mennion from the trestle table where he was scooping up the remains of their breakfast. He was always hungry.
“Anyone who served him honestly was put to shame,” Tobias said. “Look no further than the Privy Council. None of the older advisors are left.”
“Like Morton,” said Sanford. “He is here in Pent Tower with us.”
“I wonder what Dodd is doing?” said Elder, who was sitting at the table too, leafing through a book with obvious boredom.
Sanford felt a stab of pain and pride at the thought of his youngest boy, Dodd. He shook his head and sighed gruffly. “He is every bit a prisoner as we are.”
“I would gladly exchange cells with the lad,” Mennion said, tapping his spoon on the table. “The best pastries in the
world
are at Muirwood Abbey.”
“Only on Whitsunday,” Elder said, grabbing his brother by the neck and throttling him gently. “Whitsunday,” he sighed after the mock abuse. “Do you think we will be out of here by then? Missing it last year made me dreadfully melancholy.”
“You truly miss the maypole dance?” said Gates, Sanford’s fourth son. He had been quiet up to that point, leaning against the wall and watching them, but he could not pass up the opportunity to tease.
“And you do not, Gates?” said Elder.
“No! I hate dancing.”
“Then how will you pick a wife?” put in Mennion, grinning.
“You are all fools,” Gates said. “I want to fight in at least two wars before I even think about choosing a wife. I swear, I hope Dahomey invades and we are released to draw arms. When it is time for a wife, I will let Father and Mother choose for me. Any girl will do, even a wretched lass. If she cooks anything like our ancestor Lia . . . I could not be happier! Now save some of that pie for later, Mennion. You will eat yourself sick.”
That earned a chorus of laughter from the brothers. It was a good sound to hear, and it soothed the worst of Sanford’s blistering anger. There were moments when the ribbing was not so good-natured. Five men cramped together in a single cell was enough to drive any one of them mad. Sanford had always detested cramped spaces.
“Do you think Dodd is well?” Tobias asked at his shoulder, pitching his voice lower. “I worry we have heard nothing from him of late.”
Sanford folded his arms, leaning back against the wall next to the window. Dodd was clever and loyal to his Family. He was a learner at Muirwood, and after Sanford and his other boys were arrested, riders from Comoros had gone to fetch him to the dungeon, little expecting the truth. Dodd had felt impressed by the Medium to take the maston test a year early, so when they arrived to arrest him, he was able to claim sanctuary at Muirwood as a maston. They had left empty-handed, thwarting the king’s will. There was a bounty on his head if he were even caught wandering outside the abbey grounds. So far the lad had harkened to Sanford’s wishes for him to stay in Muirwood. He knew his youngest son wished to join his mother and other Family back in Forshee, but any attempt to escape to Billerbeck Abbey would be fraught with peril.
“He is young and has much to learn,” Sanford said, brushing his hands together. “I only hope he does not do something foolish. If he listens to the Aldermaston and his wife, he will do well. If he were impetuous like Mennion, I would be more worried.” He grinned.
Tobias smiled as well. “I miss Dodd. Do you know, Father, why he chose to study at Muirwood instead of Billerbeck?”
“Of all you lads, Dodd is closest with the Medium,” Sanford said. “Sometimes it seems as if he is in a daydream. Billerbeck Abbey serves our Hundred, which is why all of you studied there, but Dodd felt that he needed to be in Muirwood. I had no reason to refuse him.”
Gates ambled up to join them. He always wanted to be included. He walked to the window and pressed his fingers against the glass.
“What day is it?” Gates asked, gazing out the window. “Does anyone remember?”
“It is Twelfth Night,” Mennion said, chewing and talking at the same time. “I heard a guard say that several days ago. It is the winter festival. What does it matter, they will not share any of the pastries with us.”
“It looks like they set up a maypole.”
“Really?” said Elder.
Gates pulled on the window latch and then shoved the window open. The wind outside was cold and knife-sharp. It was midmorning already, though due to the late season, the sun was having trouble breaching the height of the walls. With the window open, noises from the greenyard filtered up. People were gathering below, and Sanford noticed the gates were open. A scaffold had been erected, which was the shape his son had seen.
“What is happening?” Tobias asked, staring down.
“I know not,” Sanford replied.
“I cannot see,” said Mennion, who had finally abandoned his bowl and was shoving at his brothers. “Make room!”
“Be still!” snapped Sanford angrily. His sons quieted.
The crowd slowly filled the greenyard just below their room. Those in attendance reflected many different social classes. They were milling about, their voices murmuring with a thousand discussions. The scaffold was wide enough to fit no more than a dozen people.
A trumpet sounded and the noise suddenly hushed. There was a creak of wagon wheels, and the crowd jostled enough to open up a path, permitting a small wagon to pass through it.
“Who is that?” asked Gates.
“I cannot see,” Mennion growled.
It was not a full wagon, just a small cart that would normally be used to transport vegetables or the like. Standing in the cart was a man with a faded brown cloak and tattered pants. The hair was unkempt, but Sanford recognized him.
“It is Tomas Morton,” he said in dismay.
“The king’s chancellor?” Elder gasped.
“Was, not any longer. He resigned his post. Crabwell is chancellor now. There he is.” He pointed. “I did not see him before, wearing the black cloak and gold stole. Do you see him?”
“He’s an ugly man,” Gates said. “Give me a sword and I will—”
“Silence!” Sanford hissed.
The crowd parted to create a path to the scaffold. That was when Sanford noticed the man in a black hood standing by the short ladder that led to the top of the scaffold. His blood went to ice in his veins. There were several members of the king’s guard gathered around who helped lift Morton from the cart. He walked, a little drunkenly, to the edge and went to the ladder, which wobbled when he tried to climb it.
“Is he . . . is he . . . ?” gasped Tobias.
Sanford stared in dumbstruck amazement. The crowd had fallen silent below as a hush settled over it.
A woman pushed through the crowd and approached Morton, her voice pitched with anger and scolding. “Sir! Sir! There were papers my husband left in your hands when you were chancellor. Please, sir! Where are they?”
The prisoner looked confused. “Good woman,” he replied, “have a little patience. Give me an hour, and the king will rid me of any care I have about lost papers. And everything else, for that matter!” He shook his head at her in disbelief and then made another attempt to climb the ladder, which rattled in place.
Sanford’s sons were silent, their eyes widening with growing terror as they took in the scene unfolding below them.
Morton turned to one of the soldiers. “Good sir, can you see me safely up the ladder? As for coming down, I daresay I will need your help again.”
The soldier helped steady the ladder and several men assisted Morton in climbing to the top of the scaffold, and a few clambered up after him. One of the soldiers who had stayed below handed up a huge block of wood with a notch cut out of it.
“By Idumea,” Sanford whispered.
Tomas Morton stood before the assembled crowd and started to speak. “I am here to face justice and the king’s will,” he said in a firm, loud voice. “I have been tried and—”
“No speeches!” shouted a man in armor astride a huge warhorse. “I am the sheriff of this Hundred. No speeches, Morton. You refused to sign the Act of Submission in a court full of witnesses. Lay your head down and suffer a traitor’s fate. If you be man enough.”