The Book of Deacon (18 page)

The windward side of the tower bore no
window, keeping the stiff breeze mercifully outside. As a result,
the meager heat from the fire below, which ran up a column of
chimney that marked the center of the tower, was quite enough to
heat the room. There was an old bench, a table scattered with
various mystical apparatus and books, and a trio of chairs, one of
which was broken. The entire room was covered with a layer of dust.
It was clear that no one had put this room to use in some time.
There were shutters over the windows, though like everything else
here, they were in various states of disrepair. The southern one
did not even close tightly, instead knocking erratically in the
breeze.

Myranda dropped her packs onto the bed,
coughing at the plume of dust it stirred. She sat down on the bed's
edge and wrestled the nearly worn-through boots from her feet. With
only the use of her left arm, it proved to be quite a task, as
cooking had been. She contemplated asking Wolloff to heal her
shoulder immediately, but the thought of having to deal with him
again bothered her more than the wound, the ever-present pain of
which had come to be bearable simply through familiarity. In truth,
with any luck, the temperament of Wolloff would lose its edge in
the same way.

The tired traveler rubbed her feet. They'd
not felt fresh air in a week. Her knees and hips were sore, as was
her back from the packs she'd had to carry. All things considered,
she had been through an ordeal, and she could tell it would take
some time to recover. A smile came her face as she fell back onto
the bed. She realized that, at least for the time being, she had a
home. Her travels were over. For a time she rested, but it was not
long before her thoughts turned to Myn.

She hoisted herself to her ailing feet and
hobbled to the clattering shutter, pushing it wide open and holding
it. Two stories down, she saw the prone form of the dragon, still
asleep. She seemed to be comfortable enough, perhaps because of the
hint of sun that had broken through the clouds to lend her its
warmth. Even so, the shadow of the mountain was creeping closer as
the sun descended. She resolved to be sure that if the little
dragon had not woken by the time the sun had disappeared entirely,
she would see to it that Myn was brought inside, regardless of what
Wolloff had to say. Until then, she actually had some time with
nothing to fill it.

Myranda took a seat at the table, looking
over the contents of one of the dusty books. The pages were filled
with intricate symbols that she could not understand. Though their
meaning was hidden to her, there was an aura of power about them
that was undeniable. She ran her fingers across the page, feeling
the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She put down the
book and turned her attention to the half-dozen jewel shards that
were scattered here and there. They were similar to the one that
adorned Wolloff's amulet, but varied in color. Most were a dark
blue, though some of the smaller pieces were a murky red. In stark
contrast to the other gems was a single, perfectly clear, colorless
crystal in a cloth-lined case.

Toward the center of the table was a
sophisticated apparatus of glass tubes and vials. Some had
blackness staining them, as though they had spent time over a
flame. Next she looked to the other books. The aged tomes could be
found not only lining the walls, but in mounds on the floor, piled
high in chests, and even under the bed. She approached one of the
bookcases. Hundreds of leather-bound books, the gold leaf or
hand-inked names long since flaked away, stood awaiting the trained
eye of a wizard to unlock their secrets. Finally, she found a book,
apparently a newer one, which had a name that was not only intact,
but also in her native tongue.

She pulled the thin book from its place and
opened it. The title read
The
White
Magics
of
the
Northern
Alliance.
Inside, the pages displayed the very same
runes that had populated the pages of the other books, though these
were drawn with less care, or perhaps less skill. Above the dense
blocks of runes were names accrediting the spell crafters, like
Talia's
Poison
Guard
or
Merick's
Touch
of
Soothing.
Each spell was further accompanied by lengthy descriptions of the
effects, as well as recommendations of when they were to be used.
Her untrained eye could make no sense of the spells themselves, but
she eagerly read over the descriptions of the wondrous
incantations. With each sentence she became more excited about the
months to come. She would be able to produce such effects in
time!

Just when she thought she was as thrilled as
she could be, she came upon a page that seized her attention. It
was labeled
Celeste
Spell
of
Cure
Affliction.
Celeste! In all of her travels, she had
never encountered another person who shared her family name. That
meant that this spell had been crafted by her own flesh and blood!
Some forgotten ancestor or distant cousin. She read over the
description, hungry for more information. Alas, nothing more was
said of the author. However, the indication of the spell was
identical to her shoulder's malady. It told of wounds twice as bad
as hers healed fully in minutes, usefulness restored to limbs
rendered immobile.

Myranda riffled through the pages of the book
in search of other spells bearing her name. Finding none, she
carefully placed the precious book down, opened to the page of
interest. She then rushed to the bookshelf again and pulled the
first book down. Supporting it painfully with her injured arm, she
pored through the pages hoping to find her name again. Failing to
find it, she searched another, and then another. Over the course of
hours, she managed to exhaust the contents of one whole bookshelf.
Most books bore labels in Tresson. It was a language she knew well
enough, but one that would not likely hold information about her
clan, as they had resided in and around Kenvard for countless
generations.

Only when the light from the window had faded
past the point of usefulness did she stop her search. She
dejectedly replaced the book that had stirred her hopes so, turning
to the window. The dim glow of a cloud-shrouded moon made her
realize that she had completely forgotten her dear little Myn! She
ran to the window. The dragon's impromptu bed was empty, a set of
tracks leading off into the woods. The panicked shriek of a pursued
woodland creature, followed by a tree in the distance shaking free
of its blanket of snow assured Myranda that her little dragon was
well occupied and quite healthy. She would be just fine.

Satisfied with Myn's wellbeing, the time had
come to tend to her own. She looked to the bed. If she was to sleep
in the dusty old relic, it would need some preparation. The blanket
had to be shaken out, the mattress checked for unwanted residents,
and the pillow treated similarly. This would be her home for a
while, such as it was, and she would have to make it livable. She
set about her task, and was just dusting off her hands and
contemplating sleep when there came a bellow from Wolloff.

"Dinner!" he cried in more of a demand than
an alert.

As she made her way down the treacherously
darkened staircase, she reconsidered her situation. She would be
eating a second warm meal in the same day, a rare occurrence in her
nomadic lifestyle. Better yet, she had a soft bed in a room away
from the cold waiting for her. In comparison to what she'd become
accustomed to, this was utter luxury. If she had only to cook a
meal or two to afford such a paradise, it was a bargain. This
thought was still in her mind when she encountered Wolloff at the
bottom of the staircase, candle in hand and a scowl on his
face.

"Oh, by all means, take your time! I would
hate for you to break a sweat! It would be a bloody travesty!" he
said with a practiced tone of false concern.

"I am sorry. It is just that I have a rather
serious shoulder injury," she explained, as she felt a few
exertion-fueled throbs.

"The last I checked, climbing the stairs was
more in the realm of the leg's operation," he said.

"I know, I know," she said, not eager to
prompt another biting comment. One followed regardless.

"That's fine. What's say we get some meat in
this meal, shall we? I do not take the trouble to keep the cupboard
stocked with rabbits so that I can eat like one!" he said.

In the kitchen, she found he had left out a
smoked rabbit for her to cook. She roasted it and brought him a
plate, lacking the strength in her right arm to carry her own plate
at the same time. When she finally set down her own serving and
took her first bite, she noticed her host casting a glance or two
at the afflicted shoulder. Apparently it was clear that cutting the
meat required more of her arm than it was willing to give. When
both were through eating, he pushed his plate aside and gave her a
stern look.

"Right, let's see it then," he said.

"See what?" she asked.

"See what?" he said, rolling his eyes. "A
song and dance. Your shoulder, you dullard! What do you think I
mean!?"

Myranda rolled up her sleeve, cringing at the
pain. Wolloff began to unfasten the blood-soaked bandage.

"This looks to be a week old," he said.

"It is. How did you know?" she asked.

"I have been at this for some time, lass. Has
it looked this way from the start?" he asked.

"The morning after," she said, cringing again
as he prodded at the wound with a small metal hook he had
produced.

"Hold still, this will be over soon," he said
as his probing became more vigorous.

"What are you--ow--OW!" she cried.

He showed her the end of the hook. There was
a small piece of blood-soaked wood clinging to the end.

"That was in my arm?" she said.

"Aye," he said. "Were I you, I would have
removed that. Clean the wound in the kitchen and we will get a
fresh bandage on it. First thing in the morning, we will get you
started on that arm."

"Get
me
started on it? You mean that
I
will be the one healing it?"
she said.

"Aye. To a layman, that injury is a curse,
but to a budding white wizard, it is motivation. The sooner you
learn the art, the sooner you end your suffering," he said, turning
back to the book he had been reading.

Myranda's head was spinning. It was only now
striking her how near she was to achieving what had been a lifelong
dream. Ever since that terrible day when she lost her family to the
siege of Kenvard, she had longed to find some way to undo some of
the damage the war had done.

After carefully rinsing the injury clean, she
returned to the main room where Wolloff stopped his reading just
long enough to apply the first real bandage the gash had seen. The
difference between the proper dressing and the coarse makeshift
counterparts she'd been using was quite clear. Aside from doing a
far better job of protecting the wound, it was worlds more
comfortable, as it did its job without needing to be tied so tight
that it numbed her fingers.

"Right, first light we begin with your
training. Get rest," Wolloff said.

Myranda fairly ran up the stairs. Tomorrow!
Tomorrow she would take the first steps toward a new life! Imagine!
In a few short months she would be able to save lives! Her mere
touch would soon restore the stricken! She slid into bed with these
thoughts and more rendering sleep all but impossible. The clouds
outside hid the moon, casting her room into utter blackness. Eyes
closed or open, images of a war-torn landscape hung in the air,
with herself, dressed in white, one by one bringing the fallen back
to health.

The aspiring wizard was suddenly torn from
her reverie by the loud clatter of one of the shutters. She turned
her head to the source of the sound. In the darkness, she could
only just make out the open window to the south. Myranda stumbled
to the shutter and inspected it. She could swear she'd wedged it
closed earlier. Pulling it shut, she took more care to see to it
that the window would not come open again. After making her way
blindly to the bed, she slipped under the covers once more and
tried to get to sleep. In a few moments, though, she felt a
familiar weight drop on top of her.

"Oof. Myn! You know you aren't supposed to be
here! Get out of here now!" Myranda reprimanded.

In response, the dragon simply made herself a
bit more comfortable.

"No?" Myranda said with a sigh. "Well, I
tried."

Now reunited with her constant companion, she
tried valiantly to get some rest. The thoughts of the wonders to
come kept her mind racing long after sleep should have come.

#

After what felt like mere moments of true
slumber, Myranda was jarred from her rest by a gentle prodding on
her uninjured shoulder. She opened her eyes, expecting to see Myn
standing over her, wanting breakfast or some such. Instead she saw
Wolloff.

"Good morning," he said with forced
gentility.

"Good morning," she said, yawning and
stretching.

"Oh, please, don't get up. Are you aware that
you've a dragon on your lap?" he asked.

"Oh, my, I am sorry. She must have climbed in
the window last night. I tried to get her to leave, but--" she
hurriedly explained.

"Never mind that. No harm done," he said
quietly.

"I thought you would have been angrier,"
Myranda said, slightly concerned by the rare and excessive showing
of civility she was experiencing.

"Oh, aye. I am
particularly
perturbed, but it is my
considered opinion that when dealing with a wild beast, it is best
not to provoke it with harsh words," he said.