The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (8 page)

“Is this . . . is this me?” she asked.

“I-I believe so,” he said, anxiously eying
the page that she held. It fortunately bore only a handful of
markings, nothing that might upset her. Mostly measurements.

“It looks like me. Why am I standing like
that, with my arms held out? Did you draw this?” she asked.

“I didn't,” he said. “Would you like me
to?”

“I'll do it! I am very good!” Ivy twittered
eagerly.

He fetched his book and the stylus and she
quickly set to work. He nearly led the horse off course trying to
watch her, prompting her to scold him to keep it steady. Before
long she was finished and she presented it proudly.

“I made some mistakes. I don't look at myself
very often,” she said.

The work was truly exquisite. She managed to
capture every ounce of the playfulness and innocence he'd been
admiring earlier. More telling, perhaps, was the pair of scribbled
out errors. Each was a barely roughed out form. It was difficult to
determine what they were, but they were not malthropes.

“I must say, it is far better than I could
do. How did you learn to do such fine work?” he asked.

“I don't know, I just can. You should hear me
play . . . oh . . . NO!” Ivy pouted. “My violin. I left it. I . . .
we have to go back.”

Myranda cast a sympathetic glance that at
once soothed Ivy and made it clear that it could not be.

“I really am very good at that too,” she said
dejectedly.

“Well, the least you can do is sign your
work,” he said, offering the book and stylus to her again.

She nodded, hesitating briefly before making
a large stylized I and V.

“It would have been better if I wasn't on
horseback. Can I draw some more when we stop for the day?” she
asked.

“Well, of course,” Deacon said.

With the exception of a brief retreat to the
nearest cover as a black carriage crept along ahead of them and out
of sight, the rest of the night's journey went by without incident.
Their path had taken a fairly sharp westward turn, and they found
themselves at the foot of the mountainside that ran the length of
the North. They were on the western edge of the Low Lands. If the
sun had been up, Ravenwood would be visible to the south. As it
was, a shallow cave would serve as shelter for the night, with food
supplied by Lain's remarkable hunting skill. Ether started a fire
and vanished into it as she always did.

“Do you feel any better?” Deacon asked,
concerned for Myranda, who still seemed distant, the act of taking
a life still heavy on her mind.

After a long pause, Myranda answered. “I will
be alright . . . I just. I can't . . . What if I do it again?”

“Myranda, listen to me. You know yourself
better than I. Do you honestly believe that you will let that
happen? You didn't know that Arden was not to blame, that he was
not Epidime, and now that you know you will not make that mistake
again. You just have to trust yourself,” Deacon said. “I cannot
even imagine you taking the lives of the innocent unless there was
no other choice.”

“I . . . I don't want to be the sort of
person who to whom this sort of thing comes easily,” Myranda
muttered, tears in her eyes threatening to roll down her
cheeks.

“Do not fool yourself,” Lain said.

All eyes turned to him.

“It never becomes easy. It takes tremendous
effort to bring yourself to take a life. The only change that comes
is a keener sense of when it has to be done. It makes the decision
a quicker one to make, not an easier one,” he instructed.

Of all the heroes in attendance, Lain was the
one most experienced in the matter. He was, after all, an assassin.
From time to time Myranda had wondered what type of a man could do
such a thing. Did he have a heart at all? Did he feel any guilt,
any pain when he took a life? This was the first glimpse she'd been
given. As the words began to sink in, Ether stepped from the flames
and spoke. As usual it was anything but helpful.

“Besides. The fact of the next death on your
hands is already established,” Ether said, assuming her human form
once more.

Deacon, Myranda, and Ivy all turned their
heads and cast the same look of anger.

“Ether, when are you going to learn that you
should never, ever talk?” Ivy asked irately.

“Ignore it if you must, but any creature that
curls in Myranda's lap without bearing The Mark is doomed. The
lizard was first and now Deacon,” Ether tossed off casually.

“Don't you
dare
wish death upon him!”
Myranda raged, rushing forward at Ether.

Ivy found herself in the uncommon role of
trying to hold Myranda back.

“Calm down. It is alright. You know she is
too stupid to know what she is saying,” Ivy said.

Ether scoffed and made ready to retort when
Deacon spoke up.

“Ether is probably right,” Deacon said.

Ivy looked to him with confusion.

“You know you don't
have
to agree with
everything she says,” Ivy huffed.

“The prophesy never explicitly says that the
mortals who aid you will die, but the phrase 'tasks which no mortal
could survive' is not an uncommon one. Indeed, most interpretations
of the prophesy predict that even one of the Chosen will not
survive the journey. I harbor no illusions that I am anything more
than a mortal, and as such I must accept the very real possibility
of my own death,” he explained.

“I won't let that happen. I don't care what
we face. I will not let you die!” Myranda declared.

“This is . . . “ Ether began.

“You shut your mouth before he agrees with
you again! And Deacon! Not another word! Everyone just be quiet for
a while!” Ivy ordered with authority.

Ether crossed her arms and turned to
Lain.

“Surely you agree with . . . “ she
attempted.

“Silence,” he interjected.

When Ether reluctantly complied, Ivy crossed
her arms and huffed again triumphantly. For once she was the one
reining in the emotions of others. Tensions were slow to ease, a
fact that Ivy decided needed work as well. She borrowed Deacon's
book and stylus and directed him to sit beside Myranda.

“I want to show you what a good artist I am,
so help me out by putting a smile on. This will look much better if
the two of you are happy,” she said, carefully positioning them,
placing Deacon's arm across Myranda's shoulder.

“I didn't know you were an artist, Ivy,”
Myranda remarked.

“Oh, yes, an excellent one. You should see
what she . . . “ Deacon eagerly offered.

“Shush. And look at me. This won't take long
and you two can take a look at what I can do when I'm not bopping
around on a horse's back,” Ivy said.

After a few minutes, and number of minor
adjustments and instructions, Ivy was finished. The rendering was
astonishing, even ignoring the fact that it was done in virtually
no time. It had a tremendous amount of detail while still having a
definite style to it. This was a portrait intended to describe not
just what the pair looked like, but who they were, and it did a
remarkable job. She marked the portrait with her name and then
turned to Lain and Ether.

“We may as well capture the other two love
birds,” Ivy said, plopping down before them and quickly setting to
work.

“Love birds?” Myranda questioned.

“Oh, you didn't know? Ether is in love with
Lain,” Ivy said with a smirk as she worked.

“The little beast doesn't know what she is
talking about,” Ether retorted.

“She gave Lain permission to love her instead
of me,” Ivy snorted.

“I was offering Lain an alternative to being
distracted by you,” Ether hissed.

“Well he didn't take you up on it, did he,”
she giggled again.

“Ivy, it isn't nice to make fun,” Myranda
scolded, all the while trying to keep from laughing herself.

Truthfully, this glimpse into the way Ether
truly felt made Myranda respect her much more. They were not so
different after all. By the time the second sketch was through, the
mood had lightened greatly. Ether was, of course, silently furious,
but the remarks she had made were nearly forgotten. The drawing of
the other Chosen was, if anything, even more remarkable than the
one that preceded it. The quiet dignity and nobility of Lain came
through, and somehow Ether's aloofness and transitory nature seemed
to leap out at the viewer.

“Do you mind if I keep drawing?” Ivy asked
after showing off her latest work.

“Don't fill up Deacon's book,” Myranda
said.

“Oh, I assure you she can't do that. Watch,”
Deacon said, taking the book and riffling through the blank
pages.

After a few seconds it became clear that the
stack of fresh pages was not getting any smaller. He then flipped a
few pages back and the artwork that should have been buried in
hundreds of blank pages revealed itself.

“It will never run out. Every note I have
ever written is still in this book, and I have a second that
features every last page of our library, but it is no larger than
this. I used to do much of my research at night, and the library
was off limits at that time, so I received special permission to
create a book that would link to it all. For some reason the spells
that deal with the books and my stylus are virtually the only ones
that will work through that confounded mountainside without any
difficulty,” he explained.

Ivy blinked again.

“So does that mean I can?” Ivy asked.

“Later, when we are into Ravenwood. For now,
rest,” Lain said.

“Oh. Alright,” Ivy reluctantly said.

That day passed quickly, rest finally coming
easily to all. When they mounted and set off the next day, it was
with renewed speed. As before, the denseness and size of Ravenwood
would make tracking them difficult, and discovering them all but
impossible. It was, indeed, just less than an hour away when they
had sought shelter the night before. In no time they were among the
trees. As the thicket closed behind them, a tenseness was lifted.
The nagging feeling of fear, that any corner hid eyes that might
betray them to their enemies, quickly faded away. When Myranda
first set foot in this place, it was with fear. The forest itself
held the dangers that she shrunk away from. Now it was a
savior.

Ivy seemed excited by the new surroundings.
For her there was much more to experience. There was a symphony of
sounds and a banquet of smells that was lost to Myranda and Deacon.
This was the first she'd seen of a true forest. She was a bundle of
energy, switching between riding with Myranda and riding with
Deacon, and even occasionally running up to be with Lain from time
to time. Lain tended to ignore her. He was far too engaged with his
diligent watch for anything that might threaten them. Ether,
however, was quite the opposite. She typically took her human form
when the young creature drew near and delivered a short but
scalding string of threats and insults to chase her away.

There was certainly something to that talk
about her affection for Lain. She'd become downright possessive of
him. She had even taken to remaining among the flames only as long
as necessary so that she might sit beside him during the times that
the others rested. He would drift into his warrior's sleep and she
would stare at him with eyes that, despite her considerable
efforts, betrayed the tiniest hint of longing.

It was late in the second day's travel in
Ravenwood when Myranda began to feel uneasy. There was something
she recognized about this place. It was madness to suppose that she
was able to recognize the trees and stones, and yet, this stretch
of the woods seemed familiar. Soon, she knew why. Four swords
stood, mostly buried in the snow. Three still bore helmets, a forth
with one nearby. She'd spent a night here. She'd found Myn here
once, ages ago. It was during her first brush with mystic training.
The dragon had run off from the tower where the girl was being
taught. Despite the urging of her teacher, she’d gone after the
little creature, and found her near death in this very stretch of
forest. She’d managed to save the creature that day, but only just.
A shudder went through her. It did not go unnoticed by Deacon.

“Wolloff is near here,” Myranda said, hoping
to deflect the question that would surely come.

“Wolloff . . . the white wizard. The
gentleman who gave you your introduction to magic,” Deacon
recalled.

“I wouldn't call him a gentleman, but yes,
that is him,” She said.

Deacon raised his eyebrows, remarking. “I do
wish we weren't in such a hurry. It might be interesting to visit
with a fellow spell caster. At the very least he deserves
congratulations for starting you off so well.”

“He isn't the type to welcome visitors,” she
said.

“That's just fine with me. I like having this
time alone with my family,” Ivy said, as she finished off another
sketch and returned Deacon's book to him.

“Family?” Myranda asked with a grin.

“Well, what would you call it?” Ivy said. “We
travel together, we help each other, and if we are all Chosen, then
that means that all of us can trace ourselves back to the gods. So
that means we are all related, sort of. Except Deacon.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Myranda
quipped.

“And nor should you. The gods
created
me. I was not born. Thus I have no parents, no siblings, no family.
I am unique,” Ether objected.

“You just don't want to admit that you and I
have something in common,” Ivy said tauntingly.

“We share nothing but a common purpose,”
Ether growled.

Ivy rolled her eyes. As she opened her mouth
to retort, Lain raised his hand to silence her. He began to stalk
slowly into the woods, motioning for the others to follow. Minutes
passed before the others noticed anything out of the ordinary.
First came the tracks. Fresh. A pair of horses. Then, emerging from
the darkness as they approached it, a tree with a sheet of paper
nailed to it. Lain approached it. As his eyes scanned over it, a
visible fury came over him. He tore the paper from the tree and
threw it to the ground, rushing ahead. The others followed. There
was another paper, and another. Before long every tree in sight had
a page affixed. Lain was shaking with anger, his clawed fingers
scoring deep gashes in the tree as he tore away another page.
Myranda tore down a page of her own and read it.