The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril Page 3

  “It will last for the rest of the week if I don't dismiss it,” he said.

  “Wonderful! I don't suppose you have any food in that bag of yours?” Myranda said.

  “I . . . I hadn't thought to include any . . . Oh! I believe I brought a few of your apples!” He said, quickly rummaging through. “Had I been thinking I would have brought food enough for an army. And something to sleep on! Blast it all, where was my mind?”

  Finally he produced four glossy red apples, tossing one to Myranda.

  “It does seem odd,” said Myranda, taking in the scent of the fresh fruit before taking her first hungry bite.

  “I was focused primarily on what I thought would be the more difficult task of reaching the outside world. The thought of what to do if I actually succeeded barely brushed my mind. I suppose I didn't think it likely enough to plan for,” he explained.

  “You shouldn't have taken so great a risk,” Myranda scolded.

  “I cannot bear to imagine what might have happened if I didn't. You would have been killed. I had to try. All I had to risk was my life. I mean nothing in the grand scheme,” he said.

  “You mean a lot to me,” she said.

  For a time Deacon and Myranda were silent.

  “I . . . you mean a . . . a great deal to me as well,” Deacon struggled.

  He fidgeted a bit, looking as though he would crawl out of his skin if he could.

  “And to the world,” he added uncomfortably, flinching as he said the words, as though he regretted them leaving his lips.

  He crunched nervously at an apple and sheepishly avoided eye contact. After a few more moments, Myranda broke the silence.

  “So, if you failed to bring the necessities, what did you bring?” she offered, sensing a change of subject would be the best thing right now.

  “I, um, I brought a great deal. In fact, I really should have given them to you sooner,” he said, beginning to rummage through his bag. “There was the cloak of course, but aside from that I have a bow and set of arrows. A few daggers . . . Here is my spell primer . . . A few healing potions . . . Where is it? Ah! Here.”

  He drew from the bag a jewel every bit as pure as the one he perpetually held.

  “The day you became a full master, our craftsmen set to work refining a crystal befitting your skill, and a similarly fine staff to mount it in. You left before either was even nearly completed, but work continued. The staff is still incomplete, but this was finished just days ago. I managed to . . . acquire it. I felt it would do more good in your hands than on the shelf awaiting your return,” he said, presenting her with it.

  He touched the head of her shattered staff. The wood that held the crystal in place uncoiled like a living tendril, accepting the replacement and wrapping back into place. He dropped the old crystal, barely more than a bundle of cracks and shards after the trials it had endured, into his bag as Myranda felt the effects of the superior gem wash over her. Holding it lessened the haze that addled her weary mind, as though the staff had taken a portion of the stress of her mind upon itself.

  “Like night and day, isn't it,” Deacon said. “It was not so long ago that I received my full mastery crystal. Just a few years. Wait until morning, when you've more of your strength about you. Things that were impossible to you before are well within reach, and things that were simple are effortless.”

  “It is remarkable,” Myranda said with a yawn.

  She finished the rest of her apple.

  “Deacon, tomorrow we should reach the town. Perchance, did you bring any gold with you?” she asked.

  His expression was answer enough.

  “Don't worry about it. We will work something out,” she said, leaning back and closing her eyes.

  As Myranda drifted off to sleep, Deacon watched. His mind scolded him relentlessly for dozens of missed opportunities and mistakes. Not only things that he had failed to bring, plans he had failed to make, but things he had failed to say, and things that should have been left unsaid. Even now the confounding state of mind that had plagued him since that fateful day when she disappeared from Entwell burned at him. He cast a quick spell to end some aches that had been nagging him from his fall. His left hand tingled slightly, a bit numb from the cold. He flexed it a few times until the feeling passed. Carefully he began to assemble words in his head. Care must be taken. Things must be right. Tomorrow he would make up for his foolishness. Tomorrow…

  The morning sun was still hours away when Myranda stirred. Deacon's eyes had never closed. Each ate the remaining apple allotted to them before the fire was dismissed. Myranda shouldered her quiver of arrows and bow, equipping herself with the other items Deacon had brought for her, and they set off once more. She sensed that something had changed as they continued on their way. Deacon was quiet, and the book and stylus had remained in the bag. He was rolling the crystal in one hand, his eyes distant and pensive.

  “Is something wrong, Deacon?” she asked.

  “ . . . There is . . . there is something,” he hesitantly replied.

  “What is it?” she asked, concern in her voice.

  Deacon stopped walking, Myranda stopped and turned to him.

  “I am not sure that this is the time for it, but . . . in the days since I met you . . . I have done a great number of things that I don't understand. Things that didn't make sense to me. Things that I shouldn't do. I knew that they were wrong, foolish, impossible things, but I could not help myself. I was not sure what was happening. You know that my choice of gray magic has led me to have few friends among the wizards in Entwell. Indeed, I had lived there all of my life and there were only a handful of individuals in whom I might confide. I spoke at length to them about this sickness. This affliction of the mind. Some would not listen. Only Calypso seemed to have any insight, but she was vague about it. She seemed to think that I would not accept her advice if she was direct. She was right. It doesn't matter though . . . “ Deacon began, cryptically.

  His words had a measured, rehearsed quality, yet it seemed that it took all of his strength to say them. As he spoke he fiddled with his crystal more and more, shifting it to the other hand, slipping it in the bag to wring his fingers, then pulling it out again.

  “Logic had always ruled my life. Spells followed a graceful order. One thing followed another, and always with a specific cause. Whatever was happening to me was different. It had no cause. My mentor, Gilliam, had spoken to me early in my apprenticeship, warning that there was one thing in the world that followed no rules, obeyed no laws. That thing, he said, was the most powerful force in the world. He never did explain what it was he was talking about, what force he spoke of. I know now. Myranda . . . “ he said, sweat rolling down his brow in spite of the cold.

  The crystal dropped to the ground. Myranda stooped to retrieve it for him. He reached out to stop her. When he did, she gasped and recoiled.

  “Your hand!” she cried.

  “Never mind it, I must finish,” he pleaded.

  “Deacon, your hand!” she repeated, grasping his wrist and raising his left hand.

  “Myranda I . . . that's . . . curious,” he said, now realizing the source of her concern.

  His hand was missing, at least partially. It had faded to nearly nothing, like a weak reflection. He tried to grasp it with the other hand, but it passed through, as though his left hand was not there at all. Quickly he pulled back his sleeve to find that the change was steadily creeping up his arm. Myranda, panicked, grabbed the crystal from the ground and placed it in his other hand. She made use of her own upgraded staff to try to determine what the source of this horrific occurrence was, but nothing presented itself. Mystically, it was as though all was as it should be. As though whatever was happening was natural.

  “What is happening? What should I do?” she asked.

  “I am not certain yet,” he replied.

  There was naught but calm in his voice, and naught but fascination in his eyes. He closed them, gathering his mind into a spell. The
affliction began to slow, and then recede. Just as solidity returned to his palm, however, he cried out, his fingers twitching into an agonized claw and shifting to some sort of pitch black stone.

  “It would seem,” he grimaced through the pain. “That the bag was not the only thing damaged by the incomplete spell.”

  “Tell me what to do!” Myranda pleaded helplessly.

  “I am . . . not certain,” he said.

  His hand suddenly returned from the petrified blackened form and instead sprouted extra fingers. Deacon sighed with relief.

  “The pain is gone. This is . . . this is chaos,” he said, suddenly realizing the answer. “Chaos. Of course. Chaos magic is the one field that Entwell has never had a master for. The manipulation of probability must fall into that realm. Naturally it would!”

  “Can you stop this?” she asked.

  The spare fingers vanished and the hand made it partway to some other form before rebounding back to normal. When it did, he thrust the crystal into the hand. Instantly a sharp glow arose in the heart of the crystal. A moment passed, then another. The hand remained normal.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “I am . . . manually enforcing normality. The manipulation of likelihood, it would seem, has fundamentally altered my hand. It appears that it no longer behaves as logic would dictate. It is bounding from one side of improbable to the other on its own. It is unpredictable by nature now,” he explained.

  “How could you have come to that conclusion so quickly?” she asked, confused by the degree of detail and certainty with which he spoke.

  “I . . . had determined that this was one possible outcome of such a spell,” he answered.

  “And you still did it? Why would you do such a thing!” she cried.

  “It was the only way to . . . “ Deacon began.

  “Don't tell me that! We both know that all you needed was time! You are brilliant! You risked your life and did this to yourself for what? Because you were impatient? Because you weren't thinking? Because-” Myranda raved.

  “Because I love you!” he cried out.

  Myranda sunk into a stunned silence.

  “That is why I couldn't think clearly! That is the sickness that Calypso had spoken of, the force that Gilliam had spoken of! All I could think of was you! I had to be with you. Nothing else mattered then, and nothing else matters now!” he ranted.

  The words came out with a pressure long waiting to be released. Myranda looked into his eyes. They were alive with emotions, and most of all, relief.

  “If I was not a fool I would have realized it sooner. I would have told you before you left. I would have gone with you. But it wasn't clear to me then. Now it is,” he confessed.

  “Deacon . . . I feel the same way. Of course I do. I have longed all of my life to even know someone like you. I had convinced myself that such a person did not exist. The time I spent with you in Entwell was like paradise. To be with someone caring, intelligent . . . everything I had always hoped for. I suppose I didn't realize it either, or I would have stayed,” she said.

  “No. You had to go. This is the way things had to be. I do not regret my decision for a moment, and nor should you,” he said.

  Myranda stepped forward and embraced him. He warmly returned the gesture. They held each other for a long moment before finally they separated, the task at hand unwilling to wait any longer.

  “Can you cure your hand?” she asked.

  “Well, certainly not in the same way that it was altered. As you might imagine, it is in the nature of chaos magic to be unpredictable. There is very likely a cure, but for now I will have to settle for something a bit more temporary,” he said, reaching down into the bag. “Another enchantment should serve the purpose well enough. I just need something . . . something I won't have to hold onto, or mistakenly leave behind.”

  “One moment . . . perhaps it is time to give this new crystal a test,” Myranda said.

  Pulling free an arrow and a dagger, she cut the lashing that held the sharp tip in place. Then she brandished her staff and released the arrowhead. It hung in front of her with scarcely a thought. Drawing to mind some of the other teachings she'd brought with her from Deacon's home, she quickly raised the temperature of the piece until it was little more than a floating blob of white hot metal. A few more thoughts and it twisted and turned itself into a ring, a simple design embellishing the surface as what little metal was unneeded swirled off into a simpler, more delicate band. A final thought cooled the pair of rings and dropped them into her hand.

  “Brilliant. And masterful,” Deacon said, admiring the piece he was handed. “Worthy of being an exam back in Entwell, I would say. You would have made a fine teacher.”

  “Is it sufficient? Will it hold the enchantment?” she asked.

  “A normal arrowhead might not have been, but those we make in Entwell will be quite sufficient,” he said.

  Deacon thought for a moment before casting the appropriate enchantment upon the ring. He slipped it onto his finger and slowly transferred the crystal to the other hand. Even without his constant counter influence, the afflicted limb remained normal. Both heaved a sigh of relief. Myranda began to slip her own ring on.

  “No. Wait a moment,” he said, taking it from her. “You have given me a gift. The least I can do is return the favor.”

  He cast a second enchantment, then took her hand in his. He slipped it onto her finger with all of the respect and reverence that such an act warrants.

  “There. An ancient spell of protection, one of the most fundamental in Entwell's history. The very same enchantment adorned a pendant around Azriel's neck when she found the land of my birth. May it bring you the same luck and fortune as it brought her,” he said.

  When they finally continued on their way it was with spirits higher than they'd been in years. Suddenly the cold seemed to be gone. The blackness of night was no longer oppressive. The countryside was as icy and unforgiving as it had been minutes before, but there was now no place that they would rather be. The conversation flowed easily, as though the months that they had been apart had never happened. Deacon was filled with a sense of wonder at these, his first steps into a vast world entirely new to him. He marveled over the size and isolation, hearing tales of the sights he was sure to see. He looked forward with great anticipation to their arrival in the town.

  Now and again the map was consulted, but not to find their way. The initial glimpse of it had been more than enough to restore Myranda's well practiced sense of direction. It was not the towns on the map that drew their interest, but the other markings. Deacon looked with fascination with the shapes and symbols. It was that rarest of things, a language he knew nothing of. The very same writing covered the books and notes from Demont’s study, occasionally accompanied by familiar words and terms. He launched himself headlong into the task of deciphering these new runes.

  “They differ fundamentally in structure from any other language I've seen . . . “ he said, an array of different notes and books scattered before him, the folded map at their center. “It is used for place names, terminology, spells . . . yes. This is definitely a spell. I think that this may be the true purpose for the symbols. Remarkable . . . a language defined for spells first and communication second.”

  “How is that possible?” Myranda asked.

  “Well, these runes here have unmistakable mystic power. These others are different. Weak . . . it is . . . it is as if this is not one language but several. Five . . . a dozen . . . more than that. A patchwork of languages, none familiar to me. What do we know of this race, the D'karon?” he asked.

  D’karon was the name applied to those they fought. From the start of her saga as a Chosen they had been her foes, though at the time she did not know it. They constructed creatures, commanded armies, and wove twisted and cruel magics. Indeed, of the five generals of her homeland, the Northern Alliance, all but one seemed to be a member of the dark race. Despite their unmistakable influence, and her
repeated confrontations, their origins and their nature remained shrouded, save one small notion.

  “Nothing beyond the fact that they are not of this world,” she said.

  “I dare say they are not from any single world. The way these words collide into uneven, ill fitting phrases implies some fusion of different cultures. Amazing,” he posited.

  “You can tell all of that from their writing?” she remarked.

  “There is nothing so telling as the language of a people. One moment . . . Yes. Patterns are emerging. See? Here. This is a spell book, it must be, and all of the pages end with this symbol or some variation of it. This other book - it looks to be notes - does not bear the mark anywhere. It is unique to the spells. Like some activation phrase. It is possible that this mark, when accompanying any phrase written in this language, will bring about some sort of mystic effect,” he thought aloud.

  “What is this?” Myranda asked, pointing to a shape with some runes beneath it on the map, located deep within a mountain range.

  “I am not certain. Why?” he replied.

  “I don't know of anything there. No town. No fort. Nothing. And it looks the same as this other mark, here in these mountains. That was where I found Ivy. And the same mark here, where we just left,” she said.

  “The D'karon forts!” He said, unfolding the map fully.

  The sight they beheld was chilling. They were everywhere. Like black stains on the map, every valley, every mountain, every place far from prying eyes was marred by one of the marks. Several forts she had known of, Northern Alliance forts, bore the mark. Worst of all, the black mark rested on the capital itself. There was even one far to the north of it, at the very edge of the map. The fort that they had just toppled had nearly taken her life, and now there were dozens more.

  The unfortunate revelation put a renewed urgency in their minds. Deacon was lucky until now. He'd not yet faced one of the generals, and had had only the merest brush with their creations, but Myranda knew all too well the things that they were capable of, and to know that their roots were so deep was terrifying to her. She fairly ran, her mind only on securing the means to catch up with the others. Deacon kept pace, stumbling now and again as he tried to keep one eye on the ground and one on the mound of indecipherable notes. Aside from the assortment of sheets and artifacts orbiting before him, there were a handful of other items he had draped over his shoulders and tucked under his arms, each featuring familiar symbols along side foreign ones. These might prove the key to unlocking the secrets of the language, offering some manner of common ground between the languages.