The Book of Deacon (20 page)

"Only answers, Father. Were you visited,
perhaps two weeks ago, by anyone? Anyone out of the ordinary?" she
asked.

"Mmm. You'd be after the girl, then, I
suppose. What was her name now? Myranda. Myranda Celeste. A
sympathizer," he recalled.

Trigorah hesitated for a moment when she
heard the name.

"You are certain about that?" she asked.

"Quite sure. Up to some mischief, is she?
Stirring things up?" he asked.

"So it would seem," Trigorah replied
quietly.

"Mmm. I feared as much." He nodded.

"I don't suppose you were able to determine
if she was carrying anything," Trigorah pressed.

"I imagine she had a pack. I heard the odd
clink or thunk when she sat down. At least I think I did. It was
quite a few days ago," he answered.

"Thank you. That is all. I appreciate your
time," Trigorah said, turning to leave.

"Anything to lend a hand to the Alliance
Army," the priest said as she closed the door and hurried out.

Trigorah's rigid, analytic mind clashed
against these new developments, churning though them. Some she set
aside for further study, others she tried push to the back of her
mind. Not every fact had been a welcome one. One thing was for
certain, though. The task at hand was now no longer simply a matter
of duty. It was a matter of honor.

#

The first disruption to Myranda's comfortable
routine came at the end of the first week. Just as she was heading
up the stairs, a visitor came to the door. Three rounds of eager
knocks had passed before Wolloff made it from his chair to the
door.

"Finally," he said, pulling the door open to
the familiar visitor. "I was beginning to think I was doing this
for my health."

He took a pair of bags from the young boy at
the door. As Wolloff hefted the bags and peered inside, the boy
lingered, casting excited glances around the wizard.

"What's got you so antsy, boy?" he asked.

"Is she here? Myranda?" he asked.

"These bags seem a bit light, lad. Turn out
your pockets," he said.

The boy heaved a sigh and did so. Wolloff
inspected them, then grumbled about him finding a better hiding
spot.

"Now what are you on about? Marna?" he
asked.

"Myranda! She came here for training," he
said.

"Oh, Aye. The girl. She has retired for the
evening. Why?" he asked.

"I was hoping I could meet her. All of the
other men are talking about her. She singlehandedly put the voice
of the Undermine in everyone's ears and our name on everyone's
tongues. She killed four so--" he gushed.

"Fine, fine. Spray your blasted hero worship
in the girl's direction. DOWNSTAIRS NOW!" he bellowed.

Myranda came down quickly, having already
learned that keeping Wolloff waiting was far from pleasant.

"This little urchin wants a word with you.
Watch yourself. The brat has sticky fingers," he said.

She looked at the youngster at the door.
There was something familiar about him. He was wearing a set of
sparring pads, such as those worn by squires and apprentices in
mock battle. Dirt had found its way, in large patches, to every
piece of exposed skin. He couldn't be more than half of her age,
and was overflowing with the misguided enthusiasm that such youth
afforded. He offered his hand, and when she returned the gesture,
he grasped it in a vigorous and continuous shake.

"Oof. Easy. The shoulder is still a bit
sore," she said.

"Oh, right, the arm. From the fight. She told
me! I can't believe I am meeting you! I'm Henry. And you . . . You
are the one! You did it!" he blurted.

"Calm down. I am only a person" she assured
him.

"Only a person!? Caya said, she's my sister,
she said that it is your fault that all of these orders are flowing
down from the top and, and messages are coming out so fast and so
often that there isn't even time to use codes, and, and, we are
learning where the higher up people are and what their names are
and what they are doing and where troops are coming from, and, and
that means that there are openings and that means that we can hit
them and cause real damage! Not like we've been doing! We can
really hurt them and that means we need all the people we can get,
and she gave me a knife and this great armor and it is all thanks
to you!" the young boy spouted, almost without breathing.

"Right, that will be enough, lad. Just run
off and tell your sister that if any more of this silver finds its
way into your grubby little mitts, I'll be asking for three bags
next time," he said, ushering the boy out the door and slamming it
shut.

"Saints alive! The mouth on that boy. His
parents should have just dressed up a monkey and cut off its tail.
At least then they would get some peace and quiet now and then.
What on earth was that yammering about, anyway? Have I got a
celebrity as a pupil?" he asked.

"I . . . seem to have become something of a
rally call for the Undermine. The popular belief is that I stole an
artifact from the army and eliminated the four soldiers sent to
retrieve it. Now the highest levels are up in arms, which I suppose
creates no end of openings for Caya and her people to attack," she
said.

"Am I to take from your tone that you do not
fit the role in which you have been cast?" he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

"I never killed those men. I only witnessed
it, and even that was too much for me. I didn't steal any artifact.
I found it on the body of a dead man and thought I could sell it. I
never wanted any of this," she said.

"And how many people know that?" Wolloff
asked.

"Only Caya, Tus, you, and whoever really did
it," she said.

"Right, you keep it that way. If what you say
is true, you've stumbled onto something that has finally gotten
this group on its feet. It is therefore in all of our best interest
that those who you have inspired continue to believe what they have
been told," he said, nothing but earnestness in his voice.

"Do you really believe in this cause?" she
asked.

"Not in the least. It is my honest belief
that Caya and all of her high-minded dealings will be crushed
underfoot at the earliest convenience of any detachment of the
army. Nevertheless, this engagement with the Tressons must come to
an end, and the sad truth is this: the pointless, flawed actions
that the Undermine has taken are the only steps toward anything
resembling peace in years," he said.

"There are movements toward peace. I am
always hearing about missions of peace that are shunned by the
south," she said, confused.

"Aye, you are always
hearing
about those things because
that is what the propaganda mill is churning out. Don't be fooled,
lass. They've got about as much truth to them as the yarn Caya is
spinning about you. I spent many years in the direct service of
many of the officials who are at this very minute wringing their
hands over what to do about you. Not once in all of those years did
I see, or even hear mention of, a single peace mission. Yet one
step into the public and the tale of the latest diplomat slain at
the peace table is on everyone's lips.

"The truth is this is a war without
diplomats. A war without negotiation. And such a war can only end
in annihilation. Worse, the decisions of the men and women who
guide the fate of this alliance seem solely aimed at stalemate. I
was released from my position when it was decided that it was
simpler to replace a fallen soldier than restore a faltered one.
Egad, do you realize that they've actually made it illegal to
practice white magic in the service of anyone but the Alliance
Army? Even Clerics and those wretched potion-making Alchemists are
being shut down. They say it is to make certain that those most in
need are treated first, but I cannot name
one
of my brother healers who has
spent even a single tour alongside a front line soldier. And now
even schools of magic are being pressured into dropping what little
white magic they taught!" he raved.

"But why?" Myranda gasped.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Near as I can
tell, they are trying to make sure people like the Undermine can't
get treatment. Whatever the reason, the proclamations have been
made. Since then, the healer's art has all but disappeared from our
land. The only end that our leaders seem dedicated to is ruin, and
indeed that may well be the only one that is possible for us. With
that truth revealed, I made it my goal to bring us to that end
swiftly, that from the ashes of our land there may arise something
better," he said.

"I can't believe this . . . all of things
I've heard about--the conferences . . . the meetings . . . the
betrayals . . ." Myranda said numbly.

"Fiction. The only northerners the Tressons
have met in decades are the ones they are clashing swords with," he
said.

"But how? Why?" she managed through her
struggling grasp of the latest revelation.

"Pride, stubbornness, honor, stupidity? Take
your pick; it doesn't matter, the result is the same," he said.

His tone and composure were that of a man who
had come to terms with these truths long ago. For the first time,
Myranda began to understand the bitter, cruel exterior he had shown
thus far. How could anyone who had learned what he'd learned in the
way he'd learned it behave any differently? Wolloff grinned as he
saw the look of pained realization come to her face as it had to
his long ago.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, lass, but the
truth is important. Unfortunately, wisdom and happiness are old
enemies, and where one can be found, the other seldom lingers.
You'd best get yourself upstairs. You've learned a bit more than
I'd intended to teach today," he said.

She trudged upstairs, the lessons of the day
washed away in a flood of pain and sorrow. As much as she had
loathed this war, she'd always assumed that the one common desire
of the world was to bring it to an end. Wolloff was right. There
was no reason that could justify abandoning any hope of peace in
favor of destruction. And what of the people of Tressor? Had they
made pleas for peace that fell upon the unwilling ears of the
North? So many questions, and no answers.

So troubled was she by the new knowledge,
Myranda did not even notice Myn creeping in for her nightly visit.
The little dragon had no way of knowing why Myranda was so
dejected, but it was quite clear to her that this was so. She
climbed onto the bed beside Myranda and stared into her eyes. A
tear of anger and sorrow rolled down her cheek. Myn sniffed it,
deciding immediately that she did not like it. She laid her head on
Myranda's shoulder. The two did not stir until long after day
finished its slip to night. Sleep came, but it was shallow and
fitful, offering little in the way of rest and naught in the way of
dreams. That, at least, was a blessing, as the images of darkness
and desolation that invariably filled her dreams might just have
been more than the disillusioned girl could bear.

It was not until the approaching footsteps of
Wolloff stirred Myn to leave that the trance-like sorrow was
broken.

"Morning, lass. Today we learn the last few
runes for your cure, and the techniques to cast it," he said.

She pulled herself from the bed and eagerly
set her mind to the task of learning--anything to push the
poisonous thoughts from her mind. Myranda threw herself headlong
into the process, and managed to memorize all that needed to be
learned before midday.

"You are a person of many faults, lass, but
slow to learn is not one of them," said the old wizard, in as near
to a compliment as he had yet uttered. "Now it is time to learn how
to cast your first spell."

"Learn to cast it? What have I spent the
whole of this week doing?" she asked.

"Learning the spell," he said.

"But not how to cast it?" she wondered.

"No. Where is that spell book?" he said,
looking over the cluttered table. He spotted the book Myranda had
set aside--the one that contained the spell that bore her name. He
flipped it open to that very spell. "There. It is a bit sloppier,
but a passable spell. Read it. Only substitute this rune for this
one to cast it on yourself."

She looked over the spell, but there was no
need. With the exception of the last few runes, she had memorized
it. The last pieces of the puzzle let her finally speak it aloud.
Slowly, carefully, she pronounced every last word of the arcane
phrase. As she spoke she felt a soothing warmth grow beneath the
dull pain of her wound, but the moment she finished casting the
spell, the warmth quickly faded, leaving the swollen wound as it
had been.

"Not terribly effective, was it?" the wizard
said with a knowing grin.

"No, it didn't last," she said.

"Didn't last?" he asked with the tiniest hint
of surprise in his voice. "I'll wager you feel a bit tired now.
Don't you."

"Well, more so," she said. The sleepless
night had left her quite weary, but there was a different feeling,
a deeper one, that came when she finished speaking the words. It
lingered in the back of her head, like a yawn that wouldn't
come.

"Exactly," he said. "It is because you lack
focus. With the exception of the very best written of spells, the
forces and spirits around us will take little notice of what you
say. The words must be spoken, but past that, the spectral realm
cares little if it is a whisper or a cry. It is the state of the
mind that speaks the word that interests them. It is only when your
mind is tightly gathered to the task that you are likely to be
granted your whims in any meaningful way.

"Furthermore, magic is not free. Regardless
of how you bring about the desired effect, you give a little of
yourself. If you entreat a spirit, it will draw its payment from
your own spirit. A focused mind satisfies their appetite far more
swiftly and thus spares you much of the fatigue that would normally
come. More importantly, not all of the forces of this world are
benevolent. Many will attempt to take a far greater toll than is
their right--or, worse, may take a more substantial payment that
you are not willing or able to give. Focus protects you from such
treachery."