The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (34 page)

Ivy frowned at an empty burlap sack and poked
about in a few crates she found. She was hungry. More than hungry,
she was starving. They'd offered little in the way of food while
she hung from the chains in the castle, too fearful of loosening
even a single one to feed her. Now her grumbling stomach urged her
to rummage ever deeper into the recesses of the barn. She turned up
a few half frozen potatoes and a head or two of cabbage that had
held up fairly well. She tossed the potatoes to Myn, who snapped
them up gratefully. After carefully setting aside half of what
she'd found for Myranda, Ivy made quick work of the rest. It was
hardly enough to satisfy her. She looked longingly at Myranda's
share, but shook the thoughts away. Her eyes shifted to Myn. The
dragon would probably be able to hunt something down, but she'd
have to wake Myranda, and the two had done enough for her already.
She sniffed at the air. There was something better nearby. Much
better . . .

She fairly floated to the door of the barn to
get another whiff. The smell was heavenly. Sweet and spicy and warm
all at once. A small voice in her head echoed warnings to stay out
of sight, but another smell silenced it quickly. She would be fast,
she would be sure that she was not seen. She'd watched Lain move.
It would be easy.

“You stay here. I'll be right back,” Ivy
mouthed silently amid exaggerated gestures.

With that she was off, dashing out the door
and across the open field outside toward the lone farmhouse nearby.
Myn shifted uneasily, craning her neck in attempts to peek outside.
When she failed to do so she carefully released Myranda and got to
her feet, sidling to the doors and gazing out through the gap
between. She glanced at the sleeping human, then back at the
retreating form, shuffling nervously. It wasn't long before the
anxious fidgeting was enough to wake Myranda. She looked about
groggily. The expression of anxiety on the dragon's face, coupled
with Ivy's conspicuous absence brought her to full wakefulness in a
flash.

“Where is she?” Myranda asked sternly.

Myn looked again to the door. Myranda rushed
to it, peering out just in time to see Ivy disappear into the
farmhouse across the field.

“She knows better than that!” Myranda
snapped.

She pulled open the door and stepped
outside.

“You stay here. Don't leave unless you
absolutely have to,” Myranda warned before rushing after Ivy.

It was broad daylight and the field was
level. There was no way to avoid being seen by any prying eyes that
might turn her way. The crops offered nothing in the way of cover,
either, as the field was planted with potatoes on one side and
cabbages on the other. The two vegetables were virtually the only
ones that would grow in the northern soil, and varieties that would
grow any time the ground wasn't frozen solid were the only reason
most northerners hadn't starved long ago. In the past she'd wished
there were more wheat fields so that there would be more bread. She
never thought she would long for the cover that they could
provide.

She reached the farmhouse. It was a humble
place, somewhat rundown, with two floors. The door was slightly
open. For a moment she considered sifting though her repertoire of
spells for something that might help her to remain unseen, but by
now the damage was done. The only thing that could help now was
speed. She carefully pushed the door wide enough to slip inside.
Instantly there was a gasp.

The whole of the first floor was one large
room centered around a well stoked fireplace. Cowering behind a
cupboard against one wall was a young woman who looked worn well
beyond her years. Her eyes were locked on Myranda. Ivy looked up.
She'd been hunched over a baking dish on the table, in the process
of licking it clean. Her face was covered with its former contents,
and bore a look of disappointment.

“Oh, you're awake. I was hoping I could get
back without disturbing you,” Ivy said, as though she'd done
nothing worse than nudge Myranda in her sleep.

“Ivy, we need to leave, now,” Myranda
scolded.

“I know, but you have to try some of this
first. It is called cobbler, and it is the best thing in the world.
I finished this one, but she said we can have the other one too,”
Ivy said.

“Yes, yes! Take anything you want, just
leave!” the woman cried.

Ivy stood and tried to remove a second baking
dish from over the fire, touching it gingerly with her fingers
before giving up.

“There must be a tool or something for this,
right?” Ivy asked, looking about for the offending item.

“Ivy, leave it,” Myranda urged again,
stepping inside and closing the door. “We have to-”

“Oh, look. She has one of those!” Ivy said,
picking up one of the posters the Undermine had been tearing
down.

That explained why the woman was just as
frightened of Myranda as Ivy. She knew who they were. Myranda
looked to the woman, who reacted to the gaze as one might to a
raised weapon.

“Please! I swear to you I will not tell a
soul. Just don't hurt me! I am the only one here! No one ever has
to know,” she hurriedly assured.

“We do not mean you any harm. We just-”
Myranda attempted to explain, only to be interrupted again.

“You aren't the only one here,” Ivy said,
sniffing the air. “There's someone upstairs.”

The woman's eyes shot open.

“No! Please! Leave my father be! He is very
ill! He's no threat to you! And without me he will die!” she
begged, dropping to her knees.

“Ill? What is wrong with him?” Myranda
asked.

“Please, please,” the woman sobbed. “We've
done nothing to you.”

“No, you can tell her. She heals people,” Ivy
explained off hand, looking over the poster critically.

“I may be able to help him,” Myranda
offered.

“You . . . “ she began, her eyes flashing
with hope before distrust rushed back in. “You just leave him
be.”

“Very well,” Myranda said. “Quickly Ivy.”

“But the cobbler!” she objected.

“Leave it,” Myranda said sternly.

Ivy slouched and reluctantly followed as
Myranda opened the door and moved quickly outside. They had gotten
only a few steps into the icy field when the door was pulled
open.

“Wait,” the woman cried.

The heroes turned.

“Can you . . . can you really help him?” she
asked in a shaky voice.

“I can try,” Myranda said.

The woman opened the door. Myranda and Ivy
entered.

“I knew you'd come to your senses,” Ivy said,
picking up the poster again and taking a seat at the table.

Myranda was led up the stairs to the second
floor. The steps were practically worn through by worried
footsteps. At the top she found a number of doors. Behind one was a
bedroom. A thin old man lay in a bed that clearly had not been
empty in weeks. He was at death's door. His skin was gaunt, a
sickly gray. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and dampened the
sheets. The smell of illness permeated the air. At their approach
his face turned weakly to them, clouded gray eyes staring past
them.

“It started a month ago,” the woman said,
nervously. “He was . . . “

“Working by the lake,” Myranda surmised.

“How did you know?” she asked.

Myranda pulled aside the blanket slightly and
lifted his arm. It was wiry, but even shriveled by sickness as it
was it seemed like it could pull a stump from the ground. She
turned his hand. Nothing. She picked up the other. Nothing. Finally
she uncovered his feet. Sure enough, across the ball of his foot
was a hair-thin black scar. The woman's tears began anew at the
sight of it.

“It isn't . . . “ she gasped.

Myranda nodded. Residents of the north knew
it well. There was a plant called the cutleaf. It had broad leaves
with hard, thin, upturned edges. It grew only near water, and was
very rare, but it hadn't always been. For years people who worked
the land had been trying to kill them off. The edges carried a
powerful toxin. Even a few drops of it just under the skin was more
than enough to ensure a withering death. The vision faded, strength
was sapped away. The appetite vanished, and finally a burning fever
set in. It was a terrible, slow, and certain way to die. As a child
she'd heard the lecture a thousand times. Watch for them just
beneath the ice, and if you aren't sure, stay away. In the winter
the leaves would freeze, the ridges standing straight with a
cruelly sharp edge. The larger plants could easily slice through
the sole of a boot. It was likely what happened to the poor soul
before her. The woman was beside herself with despair. Myranda
placed a hand on her shoulder.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Sandra,” the woman managed between sobs.

“Sandra, I am going to try to help him, but
it will take some time, and a great deal of concentration. If you
will leave me to my work, I give you my word that if he can be
saved, he will be,” Myranda said earnestly.

“I won't leave him,” she answered with
resolve.

“Very well,” Myranda replied.

In the rare and brief discussions she'd had
with the healers of Entwell, cutleaf poisoning had come up more
than once. To many it was considered one of the most difficult
maladies to cure. The poison nestled itself deep in the body of the
victim, soaking into every tissue. As she searched with her mind
for the toxin, it appeared in her mind's eye as a thin haze across
his entire body. It clung to him, entwined with the very fibers of
his being. Myranda knelt and put her mind to the task. Immediately
she saw why it was so great a challenge. Separating the poison from
his flesh was infinitely more complex than any of the tests she'd
had to endure in Entwell. If there was a spell to do it, she did
not know it. That meant she would have to do so consciously. There
could not have been more than a drop of the vile stuff in his
entire body, and it slipped easily from her will and settled back
each time her concentration wavered even slightly. She had to move
all of it, and all at once, without doing any further damage. It
had to move against the flow of blood here, with the flow of blood
there, and never mixing. Progress was slow and painstaking.

After a few minutes, the elderly man had
stirred once or twice. Myranda managed to allow for it, but the
sight had brought hope to Sandra, who grasped at Myranda's
shoulders encouragingly. It broke her concentration and cost her a
great deal of ground. When it happened a third time Myranda's
frustrated sigh convinced Sandra she would serve her father better
elsewhere. She slowly descended the stairs.

Ivy was rummaging through a cabinet. Seeing
her host, she stopped and smiled sheepishly.

“I'm sorry. I was, um, looking for something.
I don't mean to overstep my bounds. How is it going up there?” she
asked.

“I am not sure. But she is trying,” Sandra
said, giving Ivy a wide berth as she made her way to the table.

“She'll do it. She can do anything. We are
the Chosen, you know,” Ivy said with pride.

Sandra's eyes rested unsteadily on the
poster. The woman upstairs had earned a slice of her trust, but
this creature was another matter. She was a beast, a malthrope.
Even if the Alliance Army had not marked her as an enemy of the
state she would have been terrified. They were murderers, thieves,
and worse. She looked up to find that the monster was standing
right beside her, looking over the poster again.

“It is an awful picture, isn't it? Look at
me. So lifeless. So bland,” Ivy said with a frown.

Sandra slid her chair away a bit and locked
her eyes on Ivy.

“It does the job,” Sandra said.

“That it most certainly does not!” Ivy
objected, her raised voice startling the woman, who pressed back
into her chair. “Art is supposed to tell a story. It is supposed to
be a piece of the soul that created it. Art is supposed to be
alive, vibrant. It is supposed to speak directly to the spirit. To
say things words alone could never say. Art is the essence of
being. This just
looks
like something. This is just a
picture. It is a shame.”

Her words had carried a passion of which
Sandra hadn't thought a beast of her ilk was capable. She ventured
a peek into the crude, animal eyes and found them bright and
friendly. It didn't mean anything. She'd managed to survive this
long, she must know all sorts of tricks to lower people's defenses.
The childishness was an act. She would
not
be fooled by this
beast. As the eyes stared questioningly into hers, Sandra felt a
nervousness at the deepening silence growing in the pit of her
stomach.

“What was it that you were looking for?” she
asked, eager for something to push the silence back.

“Well, um . . . “ Ivy began, looking down at
the floor as she spoke. “I realize you just offered us whatever we
wanted because you were afraid of us but . . . I need something to
eat. Rather a lot, actually.”

She was standing self consciously, her hands
clutched behind her back. She was ashamed that she'd scared this
woman so. It was something of a reversal for her, and knowing how
terrible fear could be filled her face with hot shame and
embarrassment.

“The cobbler wasn't enough for you?” Sandra
replied, somewhat accusingly.

“Oh, it was wonderful! But even if you are
willing to part with the other one it is for my friend. She hasn't
had one yet. This food isn't even for me, though,” Ivy explained.
“It is for Myn.”

“Myn? I . . . I thought the woman's name was
Myranda,” she said, casting her eyes again at the poster and
scanning it for the name.

“Eh? Oh, no,” Ivy replied, smiling and
shaking her head. “No, Myn is still outside. She's the dragon in
your barn.”

Sandra drew in a sharp breath and held it.
She could not have truly said that. No one could say such a thing
in so casual a manner.