The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (3 page)

“We have to find the others. They were headed
south, for the Tressor. I . . . I don't know which way they are, or
how far they've gone. Can you find them?” she asked.

“I can't, but I can help you to do so. I've
only truly met Lain, and I certainly do not know enough of his soul
to pinpoint it, but I could empower your own search,” he
explained.

“Very well,” she said, immediately closing
her eyes and raising her broken staff, weakly spreading her
mind.

A moment later she felt Deacon's warm fingers
close about her hand. Instantly a cool, steady clarity swept over
her mind, like that brought by a focusing stone, but far more
substantial. She began to reach out, but as she did his hands left
hers and the steadiness withdrew from her mind as quickly as it had
come. She opened her eyes to see a nervousness on Deacon's
face.

“You must never do that. At a time like this
it is the worst thing you could do,” Deacon warned.

“What?” she asked.

“Cast your mind far and wide,” he said.

Myranda blinked. “I know of no other way that
I might find them. What danger is there?”

“To do so is to send up a beacon for all to
see. You may find who you seek, but those who seek you will most
certainly find you,” he explained.

“Then what shall I do?” she asked.

“I will demonstrate,” he said.

He took her hand and both returned to their
concentration. Deacon spoke, his voice as clear in her mind as in
her ears. He told of the very same means he had used to find her.
It was more direct, more targeted, and virtually undetectable.
Before long she felt the presence of the minds of the others, as
clearly and as strongly as if she had been standing beside
them.

“I feel them. I know where they are,” she
said. “Ivy . . . she is . . . I can feel her sorrow. She thinks I
am dead.”

“She will know the truth soon enough,” Deacon
said.

“No . . . you do not understand. Her sadness
is as much a hardship for the others as it is for her. I need to
let her know I am alive,” Myranda explained.

“It would not be possible with the others,
they have minds far too strong to permit a message to be delivered
against their will, but at the moment it would seem that . . . Ivy
. . . is susceptible. I will link you,” Deacon said.

She felt a flex of his will and suddenly the
physical form of Ivy seemed to manifest itself in Myranda's mind.
The malthrope, a half human/half fox creature, stood before her,
seemingly real enough to touch. Her stark white fur and muzzle, her
inquisitive pink eyes, her pointed ears and tail; they all seemed
vivid as life.

“M . . . Myranda?!” Ivy cried joyfully.

“Ivy, I am glad to know that you are
alright,” Myranda said.

“You are glad!? I thought you died. The fort
fell! You were inside!” Ivy gushed tearfully.

With their minds linked, the emotion was like
an earthquake. Myranda had to fight to remain connected.

“Listen, Ivy. I just want you to know that I
will be with you soon. Tell the others. And be careful,” Myranda
said.

“I will, Myranda,” Ivy said, another surge of
joy finally shaking the bond that connected them.

Slowly Myranda allowed her concentration to
wane, the cold whistling of the wind returning to her ears.
Deacon's grasp lingered for a moment before he lowered his
crystal.

“That was remarkable,” Myranda said. “Is that
how you searched for me?”

“Each and every moment of my waking day. With
those blasted mountains between us it took a measure more effort,
but I found you, so it was all worth it,” he said, his eyes
absentmindedly staring at the hand that had touched hers. As his
gaze wandered up and locked briefly with her own, he tried to
continue. “I-I knew that I had to help you. Your cause, it-it is
far too important. Are you confident that you know where the others
are? Can we reach them soon?”

“I know where they are, but I still am not
certain where
we
are,” she said.

“Navigation . . . navigation spells. I . . .
never truly pursued them. They exist, but in a place like Entwell
there is just no need. Foolish of me. All spells have importance.
One moment, I will turn one up,” he said, scolding himself under
his breath as he rummaged through the bag again.

“The map,” Myranda reminded him.

“Yes, yes. I am certain I can create a map, I
just require a few words to refresh my memory. The primer. Where is
my primer?” he replied.

“No, Deacon, you took a map from inside. We
can use that,” Myranda explained.

“Oh . . . oh yes, yes. Of course. Where is my
head?” the wizard replied, quickly drawing the neatly folded sheet
form the bag.

The instant it was removed the wind tried to
tear it from his grasp, but with a gesture the wind parted around
them. Myranda marveled for a moment at the effortless, casual way
in which Deacon incorporated magic into everything he did. He used
it as one might use one's hand to brush away a hair or tighten a
knot while the mind was busy with other things. She turned to the
map. It was drawn with the same exacting detail as everything that
Demont had put his hand to. The labels were in the mysterious
language that she had seen throughout his laboratory and workshop.
Not a word or symbol of it had any meaning for her, but that was of
little concern. Here was the place she knew the fort to be. There
was the thin line of the tunnel she'd trudged through. And here was
the workshop they'd just left. The place that she'd felt the others
to be was a considerable distance away. Either Lain and the others
had moved very quickly or she'd been unconscious for some time.
Likely both. Regardless, they would not be able to catch up on
foot.

“They are here. Heading toward the mountains,
or there already. I don't know why they are going there. They had
been heading south before,” she said.

“What is our course of action?” Deacon asked
eagerly.

“They are much faster than us, and there is
much distance between us,” Myranda mused out loud. “Is it possible
for you to bring us to him in the same way that you brought
yourself here?”

“No. No, certainly not. The spell is too
rough. Too dangerous. I have neither the strength nor the focus
necessary to transport even one of us safely,” he stated
firmly.

“Then how did you come here?” she asked.

“I required a great deal of aid from Azriel,
as well as more than a little manipulation of likelihood,” he
said.

“Then we shall have to reach this town. With
any luck there will be horses there. While we walk, you must
explain to me what you mean by 'manipulation of likelihood,'“ she
said.

When the map was folded and stowed, and the
wind was permitted to resume its preferred course, the pair headed
off toward the town indicated on the map. As they traveled, Deacon
spoke at length about the methods he had used to find her and to
reach her. He twisted confusing analogies, likening the fabric of
reality one moment to folded paper with a hole pierced through, the
next to a many sided die weighted to fall as one requires. He
claimed that the spell he used was not strong enough to allow him
to be certain he would be transported unless an endless string of
factors turned out in his favor, and he hadn't the strength or
knowledge to manipulate those factors. Instead he had diverted his
strength to twisting and pulling at the rules that governed
reality, turning probability on its head until some spectacularly
unlikely circumstance, whatever it might be, produced the needed
effect at the needed time. Apparently the three lightning bolts she
had seen had been the impossible coincidence he needed. It all
seemed like madness, but he spoke about it plainly as though it was
the utmost in simplicity.

When his lecture was complete he prompted,
indeed, pleaded Myranda to offer up the tale of her journey since
she had left his home. He had seen only precious, fleeting
glimpses, and though there were scattered moments when he caught a
whisper of her thoughts, his mind ached to know every last detail.
Myranda agreed. Instantly, the thick tome that had been perpetually
in his hands when they were in Entwell emerged from the bag. He
recorded her words studiously, now and again requesting details and
hastily sketching the sights she had seen.

His enthusiasm at each new piece of
information mercifully distracted his mind from the cold.
Increasingly, as the short Northern day progressed, he took his
hands from the stylus and book to wring some feeling back into
them. Rather than stop his careful record for even a moment, the
book and pen drifted dutifully before him as he did so, continuing
to record Myranda's words on their own until he was finished.
Myranda, indifferent to the cold, was driven to continue despite
the weariness that cut her to the core. Her 'sleep' in the tunnel
had been anything but refreshing, and though Deacon had spared her
of her injuries, he had done nothing to restore her strength of
mind or body. By the time the light had begun to fail it was clear
that the town would not be reached before her body gave out
completely. Her eyes fixed themselves on a small, tight stand of
trees that would shelter them at least from searching eyes, if not
from the wind or cold. When Myranda settled down on the ground,
leaning against a tree, Deacon did the same, across from her. He
looked anxious, as though there was something he or someone else
had forgotten.

“Is something wrong?” Myranda asked.

“We . . . we will be spending the night
here,” he half asked, half stated.

“I'm afraid so,” she said.

“Oh, not a problem. It is just that the
weather is harsh and I was not certain that sleeping unsheltered
was in our . . . never mind. A fire? Should I start a fire?” he
stumbled.

“There doesn't seem to be much dry wood
about,” She said.

“Not to worry,” he said.

A gesture later and a flame danced a few
inches from the ground with little regard for the fact that there
was no wood to fuel it.

“Will that last until morning?” Myranda
asked, smirking at the latest impossible feat Deacon had performed.
Technically she could do the same, but for him it seemed
effortless.

“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.