The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (4 page)

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.