The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (19 page)

“I don't know what you mean,” she
replied.

“Don't you?” he asked, turning his unseeing
gaze to Deacon.

“I had to save him,” she said.

“No, my dear. You did not. You wanted to,” he
replied.

“I had to. I had to do what was right. If
there was even a chance, then I had to take it. Was it worth it? Is
he alive?” she asked.

“For now,” he replied.

“And am I?” she asked.

“In a sense,” he answered.

“Then why speak to me now,” she asked.

“You are an oddity, Myranda. The powers above
showed great concern when the fallen swordsman, Rasa, passed his
role on to you. He was the intended Chosen One, not you, after all.
Since, you have become a favorite among them. You even coaxed them
to take direct action to bless the water. And it is not the first
time that you have managed to move them so. In your short time as a
weapon of the gods, you have cut deeper than any other. It is a
testament to the greatness to which the people of this world may
rise. In a way, you deserve the honor of The Mark more than any of
your fellow Chosen. Until now, your heart and your judgment have
done more to bring the others closer to their goal than anything I
could have done, but that same heart has also brought you to
death's door time and again. It has done so this time in a struggle
that you needn't have risked,” he said.

“What would you have me do? Shrink from
danger? Protect myself at all costs? Are those the actions of a
hero?” she asked.

“I would have you do as you always have. Let
your heart be your guide, but temper its guidance with the
knowledge that it is not always the place of the hero to do what is
right. It is the place of a hero to do what must be done,” he said.
“Know that not everyone can be saved.”

His last words faded into echoes as the
darkness reclaimed her surroundings. For a time there was nothing.
Only blackness and silence. Slowly the wail of the wind outside
found its way to her ears. The icy chill of the water she had
spilled stinging at her hands was quick to follow. Her eyes opened,
though it made little difference, there was not a hint of light.
She felt for her staff, but it soon became clear that she hadn't
the strength of will to cast a spell even if she did manage to find
it.

She languished in the darkness, her other
senses and sensations slowly returning to her. The penetrating
cold. The gnawing hunger. The paralyzing fatigue. She'd been tired
before, but some aspect of her ordeal had left her with scarcely
the strength to breathe properly. All she could manage was to lie
still, listen, and think. She thought about the weakness she felt.
The fact that it wasn't abating. She thought about the cure. Deacon
was not sure that Ivy would make it until the morning. The
malthrope was far heartier than either of them. If she didn't
survive, there was no hope for them. She thought about Oriech's
words. A warning. If there came a choice between victory and the
life of someone she cared deeply for . . . could she let them
go?

In her mind, the torture of doubt clawed at
her for more time than she could comprehend. Outside, the wind died
slowly, perhaps over minutes, perhaps hours. In its wake was a
stillness that was infinitely worse. The slow, steady beating of
her heart filled her ears. Her eyes shifted. The faint gray light
of reflected sunlight traced long shadows across the stone ceiling.
Daybreak. Suddenly, a sound. Myranda's heart leapt. A weak cough
echoed around her.

“M-Myranda?” came Ivy's harsh voice.

The young wizard tried to answer, but the
strength just wasn't there. The sound of clumsy shuffling motion
drew nearer to her. Finally, a pair of pink eyes stared into her
own.

“Myranda? Are you alright?” she asked, weary
anxiety in her eyes.

Her face was gaunt, worn, but alive. The mask
of death had retreated. It had taken a toll, perhaps, but it was
gone. Her eyes had a heartbreaking mix of fear and urgency.

“Say something, please. Did . . . did
something happen? Did I do this!?” she begged, tears falling on
Myranda's face.

With great effort, Myranda turned her head.
The light of the narrow mouth of the cave fell on her broken staff,
just beyond her reach. She locked her eyes on it and released a
ragged breath.

“Your staff? You need your staff?” Ivy asked,
dragging herself to the fallen tool.

She placed it in Myranda's hand and closed
it. A whisper of clarity came to Myranda's mind. She fought a
breath into her lungs.

“Deacon,” she croaked.

“Deacon,” Ivy repeated, pulling herself now
to his side. “He's breathing.”

Myranda's pulled in another breath and heaved
it out as a sigh. She wanted to pull herself up, to place an arm
upon Ivy's shoulder and set her mind at ease. All she could manage
was a weak smile and a profound sense of relief.

Ivy sat, nervous and confused, watching
Myranda slowly recover. She thought back to the times she had
transformed. This did not begin the same way. It was not a racing
heart and a blinding light that she remembered last. Quite the
opposite . . . but the ending was the same. Surrounded by the
people she cared about, the only people who cared about her, weak
and beaten. Could this be some horrible thing she had done?
Something that had never happened before? The thought cut into her.
The crunching footsteps and familiar scent that beckoned her senses
came as a blessing.

“Myranda! Lain is here! He'll take care of
us! Don't worry!” She said, a smile fighting its way to her teary
face.

As Lain forced enough snow from the entrance
to squeeze inside, Ivy dizzily climbed to her feet to greet him
gratefully. The sight that greeted his eyes was a disturbing one.
Myranda was on her back, eyes fluttering weakly. Deacon was slumped
against the wall, eyes shut. Lain dropped the results of the hunt,
a pair of mountain goats, on the ground, but Ivy ignored them,
shuffling past and pulling at his arm.

“You have to help them! I don't know what I
did, but they’re sick!” she cried.

“Stay calm. Are you well?” Lain asked the
frantic creature.

“Never mind about me!” she urged, pulling him
to Myranda's side.

He crouched beside her, touching her face and
listening to her chest and breathing. She was weak, there was no
doubt.

“Has she been worsening?” he asked.

“No. No. I think she's been getting better.
But not much,” Ivy said.

“She needs time,” he said.

“Are you sure? What about Deacon? He hasn't
gotten any better at all,” Ivy asked, now pulling him to the
slumped young wizard.

He was considerably worse, colder to the
touch, a weaker heartbeat, and managing only the shallowest of
breaths. Death was not far off.

“Well? Is he going to be alright?” she
begged.

Lain's silence was telling. Ether stepped
inside of the cave in her human form, dropping a load of gnarled,
dry pieces of wood, no doubt every last bit that was to be had on
the mountainside. She surveyed the others with a cold detached
stare.

“What did that foolish girl do?” she asked
with a sneer.

“Ether! You need to do something!” Ivy
cried.

“What would you have me do?” she replied.

“I don't know! You know magic! Myranda heals
people with magic? Can't you?!” the panicked creature cried.

She glanced over the ailing humans. Her eyes
saw much that others did not. The sorry state of their faltered
spirits was even clearer to her than their worn bodies. Myranda had
always had a soul with respectable power, Deacon's perhaps her
equal. The amount of effort it would have taken to tax them to this
state was considerable, and yet there was no sign of struggle, no
sign of anything that could explain it.

“What happened here?” she asked.

“I don't KNOW! I just . . . I got tired. I
passed out, and when I finally had the strength to stand, this is
what I found. Can't anyone do anything?”

A fire was started and some of the meat
prepared to the best of the rather limited abilities of those who
had any strength. Ivy was starving, as hungry as she'd ever been
before, but the concern for her friends robbed her of any appetite
she might have. Carefully she moved Deacon and Myranda together,
nearer to the fire, and rested their backs against the wall.

“You've restored them before. The yellow
aura,” Ether pointed out.

“That happens when I'm happy,” Ivy said.

“Well then the solution is in your hands,”
Ether stated simply.

“It isn't that easy, Ether. I can't just
be
happy,” Ivy replied.

“That is preposterous. Why?” Ether asked.

Ivy shook her head. “It . . . it is an
emotion. You wouldn't understand.”

Ether bristled with anger. “Don't you
dare
condescend to me!
I
do not understand? I have
watched you tossed about by the seas of emotion since we had the
misfortune of finding you.”

“Stop it!” Ivy barked, the faintest hint of a
red flare accompanying her words.

“There. You see. Anger comes quickly enough.
As does fear. Why should happiness be any different?” the shape
shifter asked.

“ . . . It just is,” Ivy said sternly.

“And what of that noisemaker you seem so
pleased to tug at. That seems to improve your mood,” Ether
asked.

“I don't feel like playing. Anything that I
might play now would be mournful and sad,” Ivy replied.

Ether shook her head. “It is nothing short of
remarkable how a being with such considerable potential can manage
to be so paralyzingly useless.”

Ivy sneered and turned her attentions back to
Myranda. After a time, as the fire warmed the cave enough to be
livable, Myranda recovered slightly. Her body still seemed
uncooperative, her fingers barely able to close and her arms too
heavy to lift. Ivy managed to feed her a bit of the cooked food,
and give her some water. It was nearly an hour more before Myranda
was able to speak without slurring and feed herself, albeit with
help. She reluctantly explained what had happened. When she was
through, the result was not a surprising one.

“I wish that I could say that this came as a
surprise, even a slight one, but really, it is typical behavior for
you, isn't it? You endanger your life saving meaningless beings. I
had begun to believe that you were on the verge of grasping your
role in this world, but now I see that such a revelation is FAR
beyond what you can manage. I had thought Ivy was the greatest
threat to our cause, but now I see in even that way she is
inferior,” Ether ranted.

“Even when you are insulting someone else,
you insult me too,” Ivy growled. “Leave both of us alone. Deacon is
a good man. He has helped us, why shouldn't we help him?!”

“No, no. She is right, I . . . “ Myranda
began.

“Don't agree with her!” Ivy scolded. “What
does she know? You just ignore her and get your strength back so
that we can finish making sure that Deacon is healthy, too.”

“Listen, beast, I . . . “ Ether began.

“No, YOU listen! Myranda has a good heart and
a good mind, and if she decided to do this then it was the best
decision. I don't have to listen to you spray your venom at us
every time we show something you consider to be weakness, be it
emotion or compassion or anything like that. You just save your
breath, because I am not paying any attention to you anymore. When
we have to kill something, then you can open your mouth. Until
then, just keep it shut! Understand!?” Ivy lectured.

Her heart was racing, and no doubt if she'd
more of her strength about her she might have been fighting off the
fiery transformation that anger so frequently pulled from her.
Ether was taken aback, holding her tongue as fury and indignation
each fought to have their own words expressed first. Ivy smiled
triumphantly and snatched up her violin. She launched into a
spirited melody that managed to perfectly convey her mood. The
golden aura soon followed, filling the cave with a warm glow. It
was not long before the weariness began to vanish from Myranda's
muscles and her mind began to clear. By the time the final jaunty
notes of the tune rang out, Myranda was nearly herself, albeit
tired, and Deacon was beginning to come around.

Ivy continued to play, though the aura faded
to a dim glow as her mood drifted back to normal. Deacon looked
about, his eyes turning first to Ivy, then to Myranda, each looking
none the worse for the ordeal that they had been through. He then
looked himself over. The effects of the spell lingered, it would
seem. The scrape that was the site of the infection was far worse
than it should have been, and he barely had the force of will to
hold his eyes in focus, but the withering feeling eating at him
from within was gone.

“How did you manage to cure yourself?” he
slurred to Myranda.

“Your method, with a bit of aid from the holy
water,” she replied.

“You must describe it to me,” he said,
searching the area around him for his book and stylus.

“Later. For now you need to eat and get some
real rest,” Myranda said.

“Myranda, I cannot be expected to sleep
knowing that doing so might risk the loss of the facts of this
momentous occasion. The clarity of our recollection is fading as we
speak. To allow information to be lost is the greatest crime I can
commit. I . . . “ Deacon rambled, trying to pull himself to where
the book had fallen.

“Fine. You eat, I will write,” Myranda
offered, adding. “Ivy, make sure he eats something. I haven't got
the strength to argue with him.”

Ivy nodded vigorously.

Reluctantly, he agreed. Myranda began to
record all that she could recall.

Deacon asked questions, directed her
writings, and generally focused on what was written to such a
degree that it was only with the gentle insistence and aid of Ivy
that he managed to eat anything at all. Finally, Deacon seemed
satisfied with Myranda's record and turned his attention to
nourishment. As Myranda flipped through the pages of the book,
looking over Ivy's illustrations, she became aware of the fact that
not a single word of the volumes that Deacon had written was
familiar to her. Her time in Entwell had exposed her to a fair
number of languages, both written and spoken, but save for the
occasional character or symbol, the book bore little resemblance to
any of them.