The Book of Deacon Page 15

  "Right, that will be enough, lad. Just run off and tell your sister that if any more of this silver finds its way into your grubby little mitts, I'll be asking for three bags next time," he said, ushering the boy out the door and slamming it shut.

  "Saints alive! The mouth on that boy. His parents should have just dressed up a monkey and cut off its tail. At least then they would get some peace and quiet now and then. What on earth was that yammering about, anyway? Have I got a celebrity as a pupil?" he asked.

  "I . . . seem to have become something of a rally call for the Undermine. The popular belief is that I stole an artifact from the army and eliminated the four soldiers sent to retrieve it. Now the highest levels are up in arms, which I suppose creates no end of openings for Caya and her people to attack," she said.

  "Am I to take from your tone that you do not fit the role in which you have been cast?" he asked.

  She shook her head slowly.

  "I never killed those men. I only witnessed it, and even that was too much for me. I didn't steal any artifact. I found it on the body of a dead man and thought I could sell it. I never wanted any of this," she said.

  "And how many people know that?" Wolloff asked.

  "Only Caya, Tus, you, and whoever really did it," she said.

  "Right, you keep it that way. If what you say is true, you've stumbled onto something that has finally gotten this group on its feet. It is therefore in all of our best interest that those who you have inspired continue to believe what they have been told," he said, nothing but earnestness in his voice.

  "Do you really believe in this cause?" she asked.

  "Not in the least. It is my honest belief that Caya and all of her high-minded dealings will be crushed underfoot at the earliest convenience of any detachment of the army. Nevertheless, this engagement with the Tressons must come to an end, and the sad truth is this: the pointless, flawed actions that the Undermine has taken are the only steps toward anything resembling peace in years," he said.

  "There are movements toward peace. I am always hearing about missions of peace that are shunned by the south," she said, confused.

  "Aye, you are always hearing about those things because that is what the propaganda mill is churning out. Don't be fooled, lass. They've got about as much truth to them as the yarn Caya is spinning about you. I spent many years in the direct service of many of the officials who are at this very minute wringing their hands over what to do about you. Not once in all of those years did I see, or even hear mention of, a single peace mission. Yet one step into the public and the tale of the latest diplomat slain at the peace table is on everyone's lips.

  "The truth is this is a war without diplomats. A war without negotiation. And such a war can only end in annihilation. Worse, the decisions of the men and women who guide the fate of this alliance seem solely aimed at stalemate. I was released from my position when it was decided that it was simpler to replace a fallen soldier than restore a faltered one. Egad, do you realize that they've actually made it illegal to practice white magic in the service of anyone but the Alliance Army? Even Clerics and those wretched potion-making Alchemists are being shut down. They say it is to make certain that those most in need are treated first, but I cannot name one of my brother healers who has spent even a single tour alongside a front line soldier. And now even schools of magic are being pressured into dropping what little white magic they taught!" he raved.

  "But why?" Myranda gasped.

  "Your guess is as good as mine. Near as I can tell, they are trying to make sure people like the Undermine can't get treatment. Whatever the reason, the proclamations have been made. Since then, the healer's art has all but disappeared from our land. The only end that our leaders seem dedicated to is ruin, and indeed that may well be the only one that is possible for us. With that truth revealed, I made it my goal to bring us to that end swiftly, that from the ashes of our land there may arise something better," he said.

  "I can't believe this . . . all of things I've heard about--the conferences . . . the meetings . . . the betrayals . . ." Myranda said numbly.

  "Fiction. The only northerners the Tressons have met in decades are the ones they are clashing swords with," he said.

  "But how? Why?" she managed through her struggling grasp of the latest revelation.

  "Pride, stubbornness, honor, stupidity? Take your pick; it doesn't matter, the result is the same," he said.

  His tone and composure were that of a man who had come to terms with these truths long ago. For the first time, Myranda began to understand the bitter, cruel exterior he had shown thus far. How could anyone who had learned what he'd learned in the way he'd learned it behave any differently? Wolloff grinned as he saw the look of pained realization come to her face as it had to his long ago.

  "Sorry to burst your bubble, lass, but the truth is important. Unfortunately, wisdom and happiness are old enemies, and where one can be found, the other seldom lingers. You'd best get yourself upstairs. You've learned a bit more than I'd intended to teach today," he said.

  She trudged upstairs, the lessons of the day washed away in a flood of pain and sorrow. As much as she had loathed this war, she'd always assumed that the one common desire of the world was to bring it to an end. Wolloff was right. There was no reason that could justify abandoning any hope of peace in favor of destruction. And what of the people of Tressor? Had they made pleas for peace that fell upon the unwilling ears of the North? So many questions, and no answers.

  So troubled was she by the new knowledge, Myranda did not even notice Myn creeping in for her nightly visit. The little dragon had no way of knowing why Myranda was so dejected, but it was quite clear to her that this was so. She climbed onto the bed beside Myranda and stared into her eyes. A tear of anger and sorrow rolled down her cheek. Myn sniffed it, deciding immediately that she did not like it. She laid her head on Myranda's shoulder. The two did not stir until long after day finished its slip to night. Sleep came, but it was shallow and fitful, offering little in the way of rest and naught in the way of dreams. That, at least, was a blessing, as the images of darkness and desolation that invariably filled her dreams might just have been more than the disillusioned girl could bear.

  It was not until the approaching footsteps of Wolloff stirred Myn to leave that the trance-like sorrow was broken.

  "Morning, lass. Today we learn the last few runes for your cure, and the techniques to cast it," he said.

  She pulled herself from the bed and eagerly set her mind to the task of learning--anything to push the poisonous thoughts from her mind. Myranda threw herself headlong into the process, and managed to memorize all that needed to be learned before midday.

  "You are a person of many faults, lass, but slow to learn is not one of them," said the old wizard, in as near to a compliment as he had yet uttered. "Now it is time to learn how to cast your first spell."

  "Learn to cast it? What have I spent the whole of this week doing?" she asked.

  "Learning the spell," he said.

  "But not how to cast it?" she wondered.

  "No. Where is that spell book?" he said, looking over the cluttered table. He spotted the book Myranda had set aside--the one that contained the spell that bore her name. He flipped it open to that very spell. "There. It is a bit sloppier, but a passable spell. Read it. Only substitute this rune for this one to cast it on yourself."

  She looked over the spell, but there was no need. With the exception of the last few runes, she had memorized it. The last pieces of the puzzle let her finally speak it aloud. Slowly, carefully, she pronounced every last word of the arcane phrase. As she spoke she felt a soothing warmth grow beneath the dull pain of her wound, but the moment she finished casting the spell, the warmth quickly faded, leaving the swollen wound as it had been.

  "Not terribly effective, was it?" the wizard said with a knowing grin.

  "No, it didn't last," she said.

  "Didn't last?" he asked with the tiniest hint of surprise in his voic
e. "I'll wager you feel a bit tired now. Don't you."

  "Well, more so," she said. The sleepless night had left her quite weary, but there was a different feeling, a deeper one, that came when she finished speaking the words. It lingered in the back of her head, like a yawn that wouldn't come.

  "Exactly," he said. "It is because you lack focus. With the exception of the very best written of spells, the forces and spirits around us will take little notice of what you say. The words must be spoken, but past that, the spectral realm cares little if it is a whisper or a cry. It is the state of the mind that speaks the word that interests them. It is only when your mind is tightly gathered to the task that you are likely to be granted your whims in any meaningful way.

  "Furthermore, magic is not free. Regardless of how you bring about the desired effect, you give a little of yourself. If you entreat a spirit, it will draw its payment from your own spirit. A focused mind satisfies their appetite far more swiftly and thus spares you much of the fatigue that would normally come. More importantly, not all of the forces of this world are benevolent. Many will attempt to take a far greater toll than is their right--or, worse, may take a more substantial payment that you are not willing or able to give. Focus protects you from such treachery."

  "How do I focus?" she asked.

  "Ah, therein lies the crux of the art of wizardry," he said.

  He rummaged about on the cluttered table, gathering up all of the crystals before selecting a slightly cloudy, pale yellow gem.

  "Give me your hand," he said.

  She offered her left hand. Wolloff furrowed his brow at the odd scar before placing the gem in her hand and closing her fingers around it.

  "Now, close your eyes and concentrate on the crystal. All that exists is my voice and the crystal. All other thoughts must be silenced. That crystal is very impure. It will grow warmer and glow as you devote more and more of your mind to it," he said.

  It was no simple task to do as he said. The temperature of the crystal did change as she drew more of her mind toward it, but even the merest distraction dropped the piece to cold. There was no telling how long it had been before she was finally interrupted, but it must have been some time, because the shadows were casting differently than they had when she began. Her concentration had been broken when Wolloff snatched the gem from her hand. He had a stern look on his face.

  "You wouldn't be trying to make a fool of old Wolloff, would you?" he asked, angrily.

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  The wizard's face twisted briefly with concentration, the crystal taking on the same glow as a candle.

  "You managed this degree of concentration," he said, the light wavering slightly as he spoke.

  "I don't understand," she said.

  "I've been at this since I was nearly your age. When I was learning what I have just taught you, I had to practice it for just shy of two months to achieve this degree of consistent concentration. In all of my years, I have met but a handful of colleagues that had done so more quickly than I. The fastest was my mentor, who managed it in two weeks. You've done it upon your first day of trial, and in less than two hours!" He growled.

  "What have I done wrong? Why are you yelling?" she asked.

  "Done wrong? You've wasted my time and your own by allowing me to teach you things you must already know!" he said.

  "I didn't know anything, I swear! The only knowledge I have of magic is what you have taught me!" she assured him.

  "We shall know for sure in a moment," he fumed, grasping his amulet.

  Myranda quickly stood, knocking the chair down as she tried to back away. The wizard had a menacing look in his eye that chilled her to her spine. He spoke a string of mystic words, only a few of which were familiar. The spell was a mystery to her, save that the last few words targeted it upon her, and bound the effects to her flesh. Just as soon as the final word had left his lips, she felt the muscles in her arm clench tightly. All feeling left her fingers, and the numbness began to spread quickly up her arm. In a few moments, the arm hung loosely at her side. She tried to move it, but it would not obey, not even a twitch.

  "What did you do?" she asked desperately, clutching at the lifeless arm.

  "As if you don't know," he said.

  Myranda's numbness spread, her panic spreading with it. Her right leg was quickly claimed and she was left unable to stand. Soon the whole of her right side was lifeless, and what little feeling she had left in the left side was draining away. By the end of a minute she was collapsed on the floor like a rag doll, utterly numb and scarcely breathing. Wolloff walked over to her, but she lacked even the control to focus her eyes on him. He leaned down to inspect her breathing, then slowly left the room.

  She heard the door slip shut. He had left her. Hours passed with only her thoughts to keep her company. Her eyes offered only blurred blobs of color and light. She could hear clearly, but there was nothing for her to listen to aside from the passing breeze. All other senses were gone. The feeling of complete helplessness was maddening. She devoted every ounce of her apparently considerable concentration to moving even a single finger, but failed. The light blurs turned to dark ones before the footsteps could be heard returning.

  "Right. I am quite convinced. Had you received the education I'd accused you of, you would certainly have learned to defend against a little hex like that," he said.

  He swept his hand through the air and spoke a few words. Myranda instantly regained the feeling she was robbed of.

  "And no one would allow such a spell to take effect if they could avoid it," he said.

  "You could have just believed me," she said, pulling herself from the floor with much difficulty. Unbeknownst to her, the time on the floor had caused her muscles to cramp.

  "I have a personal rule that has served me quite well in the past: never take at face value that which can be proved," he said, taking a clear, rose-colored gem from the table.

  "Well?" she asked, hoping for an apology.

  "Well take this. This gem has been fairly well-refined. It will aid your concentration. Take a few moments to pull your mind together, focus on the gem, then cast the spell again, as I told you to before," he said, as though the hours of paralysis he had caused had simply never occurred.

  Myranda clutched the new gem. She ought to have known better than to expect him to make amends for his distrust. That didn't matter, though. She had a very important task at hand. Not only did she have the opportunity to rid herself of the crippling injury, but she was about to take the first real step toward becoming a healer. Without the warmth of the gem to guide her, it was difficult to know when she had reached the appropriate level of concentration. When she felt that her mind was similar to the way it had been that morning, she spoke the words.

  Even the simple task of pronouncing the words was difficult to do without causing her mind to lose focus. Just as before, she felt a soothing warmth in her wound that served to distract her further. As the last few words were spoken, the warmth increased greatly.

  "Right. You may relax now. Let the spell do its work," Wolloff said.

  She let the outside world flow back in. Instantly, the strange weariness that she had felt before was back, and far stronger. She felt dizzy, and nearly fell off of her chair. Her arm, though, felt wonderful. The terrible pain she'd come to live with was replaced with a gentle tingle. She pulled up the sleeve and loosened the bandage. Before her eyes the redness and swelling subsided. In moments, the debilitating injury was returned to the state it had been in when she received it. A simple, albeit severe, gash. Much to her chagrin, though, it was there that the spell seemed to stop its work.

  "Fine. That will be all for today," he said.

  "Wait! What happened?" she asked, trying to stand. The dizziness that swirled in her mind forced her back into the chair.

  "You cast the spell, the spell worked," he said, irritated by the need to explain the obvious.

  "But my arm. It isn't healed," she said.


  "No. The spell you cast was simply to remove the affliction that had been worsening the wound. The actual healing spell is quite different. We will begin learning that one tomorrow. It is significantly longer, and it contains a few runes that you have yet to learn. If you get your wits about you by the time I've made supper, we will work a bit after."

  "Supper . . . you mean you don't expect me to prepare it?" she said.

  "As entertaining as it would be to see you run in a screaming conflagration from my kitchen after falling face-first into the fire, I am in no mood to clean it up. Rest for a bit. When you've coordinated yourself enough to risk the stairs, you will find some of yesterday's dinner waiting for you," he said, taking his leave.

  The young woman took his advice, though she'd hardly needed to be told. It was late afternoon, but it may as well have been midnight. As soon as he'd left, Myranda dragged herself to the bed and collapsed. This was the most bizarre weariness she had ever felt. Her body felt fine. It was neither sore nor weak. In truth, it was the first time in weeks that she could say she felt virtually no pain whatsoever. And yet she could barely move. It was as though she lacked the will to command her muscles.

  Perhaps because of this, the sleep she yearned for simply would not come. Her mind badly needed it, but her body would not oblige. Instead, she remained in a daze for several hours, fully awake, but mentally drained. Finally, more out of boredom than refreshment, she opened her eyes to a darkened room. It must have become night only recently, as there was a bit of rosiness to the sky at the tip of the mountains. She wondered, as she gazed out, where her little dragon was. It was not like her to be gone much past sundown.