The Book of Deacon (39 page)

"Myn, no!" Myranda reprimanded. "Deacon is my
friend. He is not going to hurt me or even try to, so you really
should be nicer to him."

The dragon let a short, sharp puff of air out
of her nostrils and took on a sulky demeanor. Partly because she
was scolded, but mostly because this meant she would have to share
Myranda's attentions with another. This was something Myn was
becoming very impatient with. Deacon's crystal slipped from his
fingers and rolled past Myranda, who turned to pick it up. Myn
seized the opportunity and gave Deacon a swift snap with her
tail.

"Ouch!" Deacon exclaimed, waking with a
start.

"Myn!" Myranda yelled, turning to see the
dragon strut away with a decidedly satisfied look on her face.

"Quite a lash on that one. Now I'll have to
be careful around both ends," Deacon said, yawning and rubbing the
sore area.

"I think you should go get some sleep,"
Myranda said, handing him his crystal.

"Oh, no, no, no. I couldn't sleep now. That
meditation seems to have done you well. Perhaps you would join me?
I have someone who I think you will want to talk to," he said, the
sleepiness slipping away the instant he remembered what he had in
store for her.

"I suppose I am up to it, but are you sure
you are?" Myranda asked.

"Of course! Come along. We really ought to
see him before dawn," he said, ushering her out the door.

As the trio walked, Myn reluctantly walking
beside Myranda rather than between her and Deacon, Deacon's
excitement became contagious.

"What is it you have up your sleeve?" she
asked, as she was led to a portion of the village that had a small
stand of trees. It was deep within the Warrior's Side.

"Well, you have been permitted immediate
Master-level training in all of our mystic disciplines, so I got to
thinking. If it is agreed you have this remarkable propensity for
magic, perhaps you will do equally well in combat. After all, you
told me your father was a particularly successful soldier," Deacon
offered.

The smile left her face.

"I don't want to fight, Deacon," she
warned.

"Now, now. Hear me out. I managed to coax the
Elder into granting you the Master-level trainer of your choosing.
We have a great many. I intend to introduce you to each and every
one until you find the one you feel you might want to spend a
little time with," he said.

"I have no interest in learning how to hurt
people. I want to help people," she said.

"That is fair enough. I can respect that. It
is an important thing to have value for life and the quality
thereof for all living things. Still, there is a bit you could
stand to learn. Particularly from some of our more senior experts,"
he said, urging her on.

"No. I don't want to," she said, remaining
firm.

"Please. Just talk to one. Just one. I think
you will change your mind," he said.

Myranda sighed and continued on, slightly
annoyed that the excitement she felt had been for something she
found so hideous. As she approached a tall, thickly-leafed tree,
Deacon motioned for her to stop. She studied the tree, which seemed
awfully healthy for the time of year. If not for the unnaturally
pleasant weather in this place, the tree would be a sparse
husk.

"I have a student here for you," Deacon
called into the near-pitch-black branches.

"No," answered an all-too-familiar voice.

"You know that when you were sworn as a
Master, you were to take on at least one apprentice in order to
pass on some small part of your knowledge. It is our way," Deacon
reminded him.

"Not her," the voice said, startling all but
the dragon by coming from behind them. Both humans turned quickly
to see the malthrope casting a vicious look at Deacon.

Considering that such a short time ago he was
near death, he was in remarkable condition, though from his
posture, some injuries were still nagging him. His clothes were the
same tunic as most of the others, but his was black. In the
darkness of the night, sheltered by the shadows of the trees, he
could take two steps back and disappear from sight.

"I am afraid that she is presently our only
student not currently engaged with another Master, and you are the
only Master not tutoring at least one student," Deacon said.

"And if I refuse?" he said.

"I had a word with the Elder. She informed me
that if Myranda chooses to study under your tutelage, you are
honor-bound to provide it. You took the oath," Deacon informed.

Now Myranda understood. This was the only way
that she would be able to learn the truth from the one she knew as
Leo. Deacon was helping her to force him to listen.

"You still owe me an explanation!" Myranda
demanded.

"Do not do this, girl," he warned.

"I choose him," she said.

"You have made a terrible mistake," the
malthrope fumed.

"I have had enough of the lies. It is worth
it to hear the truth," she said.

"Excellent. Superb. I will inform the
appropriate people. As a Master with an apprentice, you naturally
have access to any resources you find necessary to teach. Myranda,
on those days that you are not overly taxed by your lessons in
magic, you will report here and take lessons in combat from our
skilled expert. I will leave you two to get better acquainted for
now and get some much-needed rest," Deacon said, walking away with
a grin.

The malthrope and the girl exchanged long,
angry stares. Myn was aware of the tension, and confused by it.
This was the first time she'd had the two of them to herself since
they left the cave, but they were not the same. For a time, there
was silence, but it was broken when the warrior turned back to the
tree.

"Where do you think you are going?" Myranda
demanded.

"I came here to restore my strength. I intend
to do so," he said, fists and teeth clenched.

"You owe me the truth, Leo--or whatever your
real name is," Myranda said.

"What makes you think I owe you anything?" he
fumed.

"I trusted you, and you betrayed that trust,"
she said.

"That is no fault of mine. If you place your
trust too easily, such can be expected," he said.

"You have been lying to me since you met me,"
she said.

"What does it matter?" he said.

"I saved your life!" she said.

"And I saved yours. You would have been dead
if I hadn't brought you here. Those Elites are relentless. If you
go where they
can
follow, they
will
follow. They would have captured you,
brought you to their superiors, and made an example of you," he
retorted. "You saved my life once, but by bringing you here, I have
saved you a thousand times over."

"Why then? Why save me if when you first met
me it was you that wanted to capture me? And why did you release
me?" Myranda asked.

The malthrope turned away.

"You have done nothing to earn what you seek,
and you have nothing to offer in exchange. Were I you, I would
become accustomed to mystery," he said.

"Don't do this to me, Leo," Myranda said,
almost pleading. "My life has been so empty. So uncertain. You know
everything about me. The fate of my home town. The fate of my
family."

"Seek sympathy elsewhere," he said
emotionlessly.

"I don't want your sympathy. I just want
answers," she said.

"Why do you want to know? Do you really think
that knowing the truth will make you happier? I assure you, it
never does," he said.

"I don't care. I must know what you really
are. I must know what you wanted with me, why you captured me, why
you let me go, why the Elites were after you. What is your name?"
she said. "I cannot bear the secrets any longer. If I must earn the
right to know, then I shall. I will do anything. Just tell me
what," she said. "I am asking you for so little."

"Are you?" he said.

The creature stood silent and cast a judging
stare. After some thought, Myranda could see that he had come to a
decision. He reached behind him and revealed a dagger. Myranda was
a bit unnerved, but held firm. He then tossed it in the air and
caught it expertly by the tip, pointing the handle in her
direction.

"Take it," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"Take the weapon," he ordered.

She did so.

"Now use it," he said.

"How?" Myranda asked.

The malthrope pulled up his sleeve and
clenched his fist.

"No," she said, dropping it to her side.

"Cut me," he said.

"Absolutely not," she said.

"You said that you would do anything. Draw a
single drop of blood and I will tell you every detail," he
said.

Myranda froze. This was what she wanted. She
approached him, gripping the dagger firmly. It was a simple thing.
Just a cut. It needn't be a large one, either. Just enough to show
blood. She passed those words through her mind again and again as
she tried to muster the strength. She put the blade to his arm and
took a deep breath. Just a little pressure. Just a tiny push. Her
hand was shaking. Finally, she dropped the weapon to the
ground.

"There, you see? It isn't in you to hurt
another. Just as it isn't in me to reveal myself. If you truly
expect me to betray who I am and tell what you wish, then I expect
you to do the same," he said. "That is fair."

"You are cruel," she said.

"I am just. And to prove it, I will offer you
a second chance. Show up for training tomorrow. I will be your
opponent. For every solid blow that you land, I will answer a
single question," he said.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said.

"I doubt that you could, even if you wanted
to. But if you do not wish to receive my training, then have that
obsequious wizard of yours tell the Elder that you waive your
right," he said.

Myranda turned away in disgust and left the
creature behind. After a dozen or so steps, the lack of constant
clicking footsteps behind her drew her attention. As she looked
back to find Myn, in the darkness of the trees, she could just
barely make out malthrope crouching, scratching the dragon's head.
A moment later, he seemed to vanish from sight and the dragon came
prancing to her side. Myranda crouched to scratch her head as
well.

"I wish I could see him as you do," she
whispered.

The sun was beginning to rise, which, in her
new routine, meant soon it would be time for bed. After a swift
detour to Deacon's hut to affirm that he indeed was asleep, Myranda
found herself with time to herself without her guide. She walked
about, trying to clear her head before she retired for the evening.
Here and there, a curious villager would stop to speak with her,
sometimes willingly speaking her language, other times lacking the
patience to do so.

Those who did speak to her seemed to treat
her as a novelty or oddity, except for the handful who were her
age, who had feelings ranging from thinly veiled jealousy to
outright resentment. Mostly, though, she was ignored. Everyone here
was passionately pursuing one interest or another, and they found
in that pursuit all that they needed. By the time morning had come
in earnest, Myranda had gone to bed, drifting off to a troubled
sleep.

#

General Trigorah paced across a courtyard.
There were soldiers here, standing at attention, but they were
Demont's men, not her own. Cold eyes stared at her through slits in
face-concealing helmets. She long ago had come to the conclusion
that these men obeyed her not because they respected her or because
of any chain of command, but because Demont had instructed them to
do so. The fact made her uneasy in their presence.

The doors of the low, stone building before
her creaked open. A pair of individuals stepped out. The first was
Arden. There was a dash of confusion and impatience mixed with his
usual expression of mindless cruelty. Beside him was a young woman,
one who Trigorah was unfamiliar with, clutching the halberd. She
nodded at the general as she dropped a bag into Arden's hand with
the telltale jingle of coins.

"Excellent work as always, my good sir. I do
so enjoy our associations. Keep your schedule open. I expect we
shall need your services again quite soon," the woman remarked.

"What're
you
lookin at, elf?" Arden barked at
Trigorah as he passed.

"You are wanted inside," the young woman
remarked to the general, ignoring the outburst.

General Teloran shrugged off Arden's glare
and stepped inside, beginning her long trek downward. This was one
of the various "deep forts" that the other generals were so fond
of. All but the topmost level was below ground. Staircases were
placed at alternating ends of each level, making the journey
downward and upward a long and time-consuming endeavor by design.
Wall after wall of cells passed by her as she descended deeper.
Finally, she came to the final door and opened it.

Inside, she found a tall, pale woman dressed
in a black cloak embroidered with sigils of unquestionably mystic
origin. In her hand was a silver rod, embossed in a manner similar
to the cloak and topped with an expertly-cut gem. At the sight of
her visitor, the woman's face lit up with an almost manic look of
excitement.

"General Trigorah, so good of you to come
quickly," the woman said.

"I try to be prompt, General Teht," Trigorah
replied.

Teht was unique among the other generals in
that Trigorah did not dread dealing with her. This was partially
due to the fact that General Teht, despite having been a general at
the time Trigorah was promoted, was not granted the same royal
privilege that the other generals enjoyed. As a result, Teht was
Trigorah's one fellow general that could not give her orders.
Another reason was that she was, in many ways, Trigorah's mystic
counterpart, sent to the far corners of the kingdom on tasks not
unlike her own.