The Book of Deacon (41 page)

One thing burned at her. In Solomon's
training, she was progressing, though perhaps not as quickly as
Deacon had theorized. Such was not the case with Lain. Her
understanding of staff combat was manifold what it had been when
she began. She knew that her abilities had expanded vastly, but she
had yet to lay a single blow on Lain. Not once did her attack even
approach success. It frustrated her to no end that she could try so
hard, and he could stop her so easily.

What bothered her more was how powerful her
emotions became when she was attacking. She felt an intense anger
that grew with every failed attempt. Lain could sense it and she
knew it. There was no outward indication of it, but the warrior
could feel the change in her, and he enjoyed it. She truly was
sacrificing a part of herself for even a chance to learn what he
knew.

Something changed one day. She had finished
yet another infuriating session with Lain and approached Solomon.
He had, the day before, taught her how to create different types of
flame by "feeding" the fire different types of energy. The results
were remarkable, ranging from a black flame that only consumed,
shedding no light, to a whitish blue flame that burned cold. She
was looking forward to more of the same, but it was not to be.
There was a crowd again, awaiting her arrival, and the dragon had
some equipment in place.

"Today, Myranda, you will be tested. Ready
your staff and follow my instructions," he said.

She clutched the crystal and began to ready
her mind. In the past week or so, she had found that the trance
came easily enough that she could now cast spells while still
remaining aware of her surroundings. She did so now, gathering her
mind while looking nervously about at the onlookers. Solomon
lowered a large, twisted stone into a clay stand with a hole in it.
Below it was another block of clay with a hole in the top, aligned
with one in the stand.

"You will focus as hot a flame as you can
manage onto this piece of ore for as long as it takes to melt it
entirely into the mold below," he said.

No more instructions followed. Myranda took a
deep breath and began to conjure heat. She was already beginning to
tire before the metal had even begun to glow. She found that she
needed to double her efforts and double them again before the stone
began to soften. The draw on her power, even after all of the
improvement she'd had, was unbearable. She could feel the heat she
was generating on her face despite the fact that she was a fair
distance from the ore. Crackles and snaps emanated from the stone
as it began to lose its form. By the time the first fat orange drop
of molten metal flowed into the mold, she could no longer focus her
eyes.

Myranda started to relent, trying to gather
her mind for a renewed effort, but as soon as she did she felt the
heat fade and the stone began to harden again. She couldn't rest,
or she would lose ground. It had to be done all at once. Myranda
poured all that she had into making the heat as intense as
possible.

The second drop fell, followed by a third.
Soon, a steady flow had formed, but she knew she couldn't last much
longer. The stone had settled into a thick pool of bright orange
glowing fluid with a ribbon of the stuff leading from the stand to
the mold. A dizziness was swirling in her head that threatened to
rob her of her consciousness, but she was too close to fail
now.

As she turned to look at the crowd, they
seemed to be moving in slow motion. She could barely muster the
strength to grip the crystal. The pool of metal was now receding
into the center of the stand. Just a few more drops.

After countless eternities, it seemed, the
last drop fell and she released her mind's grip. The world rushed
back in a dizzying swirl of awed whispers and enthralled faces.
Solomon took away the stand and the mold. Had anything but a dragon
done so, they would have been horribly burned. Myranda fought to
remain awake as dry leaves were scattered on the ground before her.
Atop the leaves there was placed a piece of parchment, and atop
that more leaves were spread.

"To complete your test and prove to all that
you have a masterful knowledge of this discipline, you must prove
the dexterity of your mind by burning the paper without touching
the leaves," Solomon said.

Knowing if she did not act quickly, she would
lapse into deep and involuntary sleep, Myranda drew her mind as
tightly as she could to the task. It was impossible to see where
the leaves were below the paper, so keeping her eyes open was of no
use. She closed them and instead looked through her mind's eye.

Slowly, she conjured a precise flame and
guided its spread. Simultaneously, she kept the leaves near the
flame cool. Spreading her mind in so many directions at once would
have been difficult enough with a fresh start, but now it was as
though she was attempting to juggle with her hands tied. The paper
was steadily devoured by the flames, and as it fluttered off as
ash, the weight upon her mind was slightly lessened. So little was
left. Just a bit more.

At last, the final speck of paper was
destroyed. She opened her eyes to find that at some point during
her concentration she had collapsed to the ground without
realizing. She tried to right herself, but her body would not obey.
A thousand miles away, the crowd surrounding her let out a roar of
approval. She was vaguely aware that Deacon was lifting her onto
his shoulders as the onlookers swept in to offer congratulations.
This turned out to be more than Myn could bear, and she let a burst
of flame free to back the crowd away, allowing only Deacon to touch
her.

He thanked the dragon for both the help and
the permission and made his way to Myranda's hut. Tomorrow she
would be told that she had succeeded. Today she would have a very
well deserved sleep. After a trial like that, it would be a slumber
from which it was difficult to awake.

#

A trio of worn and ragged forms rushed
through the night toward a flimsy shack nestled in a stand of
evergreens. When they reached it, the door was flung open and they
tumbled inside. A lamp was clumsily lit, revealing walls covered
with soggy maps and a table heaped with pages of every shade,
quality, and state of repair.

The three figures huddled about the light.
The first, Undermine leader Caya, cleared the table with her arm
and dumped a leather satchel on the table, replacing the notes with
fresher ones. Her partner, Tus, did the same. Their final companion
was casting nervous glances through a slit in the door.

"Kel, don't dally. Show us what you've got,"
Caya said.

Kel was one of the newer recruits and had
ended up as third in command fairly quickly, mostly by virtue of
the rapidly dwindling ranks of the Undermine. The man dug through
his pockets and deposited a few grubby wads of paper on the
table.

"That's it?" Caya asked. "Why didn't you
bring more?"

"That's all there was. The usual places are
empty. All the drop spots. Everything. Half--half of the places
aren't
there
anymore," Kel sputtered nervously. "Commander, I think I heard
something."

"Easy, Kel," she said, looking over the
notes.

After fumbling through the scattered pages
until she unearthed a quill and an ink bottle, Caya attempted to
make a mark on one of the maps, only to find the ink frozen. She
placed the bottle on the lamp and looked at the map.

At its height, the Undermine had agents in
nearly every city. That was when her father had been running
things. In the weeks after Myranda's arrival on the grand stage,
they had very nearly equaled that. Now things were falling apart.
As the ink melted enough to be useful, Caya digested the pages
she'd brought with her. One by one, names were crossed off. Cities,
safe houses, and informants were scribbled off of the map. By the
time all had been considered, there were only a handful of names
left, and only two marks on the map. Caya sagged, but the eyes of
the others looked to her expectantly.

"Well . . ." she began. "Between desertions,
casualties, people turning rat, and all of the arrests . . .
membership is down."

"How far down?" Kel asked, glancing again to
the door.

"We're it," Tus stated, his eyes on the
updated roster.

"Well, not quite, but soon. I suppose we only
were able to exist because the Blues didn't consider us a threat .
. . now they do," she said.

"About time," said Tus.

"Heh. Yes. At least they are taking us
seriously now. Kel, there's too much going on now. My brother Henry
is the one giving Wolloff his supplies. If the Elites are still
prowling around in Ravenwood . . . I would just feel better with a
hand that is a bit firmer on a sword doing the job. I want you to
see to Wolloff," Caya said.

"Yes, Wolloff. Where is he exactly?" he
asked.

Caya hesitated. By virtue of his status as
perhaps the only white wizard not in the employ of the Alliance
Army, Wolloff's exact location was a closely guarded secret. Caya,
Tus, and Caya's younger brother Henry were the only ones who knew,
besides those that he trained. The field healers tended to have a
rather short life expectancy, due to their tendency to attempt to
desert after receiving their training, and Tus's tendency to
silence them when such an attempt was made. Thus it was highly
likely that no one captured had been able to supply that particular
piece of information. As such, someone eager to become a valued
informant to the Alliance Army would be particularly interested in
that fact.

"He is . . ." Caya began.

The distant thud of hooves drew her
attention. Tus looked as well.

"Where!?" Kel insisted.

"Someone is coming . . . and from the wrong
way. We weren't followed here. We were--" Caya said, before being
cut off.

"Tell me where Wolloff is!" Kel cried.

They turned to him. His sword was drawn. Caya
looked more disappointed than afraid.

"Every time . . .
every
time!
You know something, Tus? It is a sad
fact, but the only sort of people we manage to attract to the
Undermine these days are traitors," Caya groaned.

"Tell me and I will see to it that they go
easy on you!" Kel demanded.

"Tus, would you?" Caya sighed.

In a one smooth motion, Tus slapped the blade
from Kel's hands, wrapped his hand around the traitor's face, and
thrust his head into the rickety wall of the shack. The would-be
informant crumpled dizzily to the ground and caught one final
glimpse of the massive Undermine soldier before being brought to a
mercifully swift end with his own sword.

Caya and Tus stepped into the cold night, the
commander holding the lamp. Sure enough, in a few moments the pair
was surrounded by soldiers in crisp, fresh Elites armor, but the
men were no Elites. The mismatch of weaponry made it clear what
they really were. Caya sighed again.

"Mercenaries? We don't even warrant the true
Elites? So be it," she said, casting the lamp into the shack.

As the flames swiftly consumed the contents
of the temporary headquarters, Tus and Caya drew their blades. The
hired Elites closed in. The battle was spectacular, though brief.
One expected strength from a man such as Tus. One did not expect
speed. Thus, the massive warrior managed to drive his weapon to the
hilt in the chest of a still-mounted soldier before he could react.
The subsequent swings struck a more prepared soldier's shield,
eventually cleaving it in two.

By the time his initial rush was through,
he'd managed to shatter his own sword, killing a second soldier and
its horse in the process. Caya raised her single-handed sword,
prompting the man who targeted her to raise his own. A moment
later, a crossbow bolt punched through his armor. Caya dropped the
weapon she'd concealed in her cloak and made ready to put her blade
to work, but by then the troops had recovered. Tus managed to burst
between the ranks and tear free a piece of the burning shack to use
as a weapon, but Caya shook her head.

She was a capable warrior, but a better
leader, and as she stared at the wrong end of a trio of mercenary
crossbows, she knew the fight was over. She dropped her weapon, and
Tus did the same. Prison offered the chance of escape. The same
could not be said for death.

#

Myranda tried to focus herself. Slowly, she
felt the darkness lessen. Sensations returned to her. She opened
her eyes. It was night, Myn asleep on top of her. She managed to
turn her eyes to the side, where she spotted Deacon in a chair
beside the bed, also asleep. Her eyes lifted in time to see a dark
form vanish from the window. Lain? She tried to move, causing Myn
to stir. The dragon caught a glimpse of the girl's fluttering eyes
lids and sprang to her feet, still on top of her. Myn looked to the
sleeping Deacon and gave a sharp lash with her tail, jerking him to
wakefulness.

"What, what?" he said, before gathering his
wits enough to realized that Myranda was awake. "Thank
heavens."

"What is wrong?" Myranda asked.

"We lost you for two days. I was afraid we
might have another Hollow on our hands," he said.

"Two days. I was asleep for two days?" she
said, scratching her head and sitting up.

"Actually, two and a half. You may have given
a bit more than you should have to pass that test," he said.

"But I passed?" she said.

"Flawlessly," he remarked. "Your place is
secured in our records. You have gone from zero knowledge to
mastery of a magic in one month. I doubt such a feat will be
matched ever again."

"I am honored," she said.

"It is I who should be honored. Stay here. I
will fetch you some food. When I return, I must discuss something
with you that is of great importance," he said, hurrying off before
she could object.