The Book of Deacon (50 page)

"I am not putting on a show. Off with you and
leave us in peace," Cresh warned the onlookers as he emerged from
within. He was speaking his own language. It was the same he'd
spoken on their only other meeting, the same she had failed to
decipher in his books.

The eager onlookers shuffled away, much to
the relief of Myn. Cresh looked at the creature for a moment, then
shrugged.

"A cave-dweller is a welcome visitor any day,
but no one else, if you don't mind. This is serious business. Mine
is the most important of magics, you know," he informed her.

Myranda took a moment to attempt to translate
his words. After managing to understand only a few she requested
that he address her in Northern, or Tresson. He answered with what
would be the first and last word she would easily understand for
the duration of her training. No. He then launched into a
speech.

It was rather entertaining to watch him
speak. He was fully two feet shorter than she, and perpetually
encrusted with dust and dirt. In addition, he tended to gesture
enthusiastically while speaking. This was fortunate, as it helped
her to understand his meaning. She could tell by the chest thumping
and smiling of the speech that he was bragging about himself. He
gestured for her to follow as he entered his hut.

The inside was as unique as the outside.
There was no floor, only bare earth. There was also no furniture to
speak of, save the shelves of books and jars. Even his staff was
sticking into the soft earth rather than sitting carefully in a
rack, as was the habit of the other wizards she'd met. He plucked
it and held it in one hand while the other reached into one of the
jars. He tossed a few grains of the substance within to the ground
at her feet, and a few more at his own feet. A sweep of the staff
sprouted the seeds instantly into stout vines that obligingly wove
themselves into a rather inviting chair for each of them.

"That was very impressive," she said as she
took a seat.

The dwarf waved off the compliment and sat as
well. He began to talk again. It was apparently one of his favorite
pastimes. After ten minutes of listening, she was able to
understand enough to know that he was responsible for growing all
of the food for the village, in addition to drawing up all of the
crystal, metal, and stone that they might need. She had often
wondered how a moderately-sized village like this could satisfy its
demand for resources without any apparent source. Now she knew.

Suddenly, the time for idle chitchat was
over. He first gestured at her feet, clearly indicating that her
boots had to be removed. He said something about a sculptor wearing
mittens, if Myranda pieced together the words correctly. She obeyed
and copied him as he dug his toes into the dirt. He launched into
another long speech, cupping his hand to his ear and pounding the
ground with his feet. After receiving a puzzled look from Myranda,
Cresh indicated that she should close her eyes and cover her ears.
He then tapped the ground again. When she responded that she could
feel the footfalls, he indicated that she should focus and discover
what else she could find.

Focusing and searching with her mind was, at
least, familiar to her. Before long, she found that she could sense
the footfalls of the other people of Entwell. He seemed pleased and
encouraged her to continue. More time passed and she realized that
she could feel the constant flow of the waterfall. Again she was
encouraged to deepen her search. It was truly remarkable the
information that the earth could give her in the absence of all of
her other senses. As she revealed everything from the movement of
insects in the earth to the wind rustling the grass, he entreated
her to speak up when she discovered something that she could not
identify, rather than those things she could.

This assignment left her silent for some
time. She quickly identified all of the new things she could
detect, and gradually ceased to locate anything new. Her mind
delved deeper and deeper. The thing that Cresh had been waiting for
her to find came slowly. It was barely anything. At first, she was
unsure she'd felt it at all. However, slowly she was able to push
aside all else. Soon it was undeniable. There was something there.
Something she'd never felt before.

"It is a rhythm. I can feel it. Like a
heartbeat," she said.

Cresh nodded enthusiastically. He stood and
took her outside, scolding her when she instinctively reached for
her boots. She stood in front of the hut, dug her toes into the
ground, and found the pulse again. Once in the stance that would be
commonplace in the days to come, she was able to lock onto it and
hold it in the back of her mind. In this way, she would be able to
listen--or, at least, attempt to listen--to her instructor. The
procedure he seemed to describe was familiar to her as well. She
was to allow the rhythm to mingle with her own strength. The fire
and wind methods were similar. Different, though, was the way that
she was to do so. The rhythm was to ripple up through her feet, and
later her staff, and into her body. Once she was a part of the
pulse's path, she was to allow it to echo inside of her. It was to
rebound and reverberate through her, growing ever stronger as it
did.

She did as she imagined she was being told.
Once the faint rhythm was coaxed out of the earth, she found it a
very strange sensation. It did not feel like it was shaking her
like a pounding of a drum, as she imagined it would. The pulse
changed as it blended with her own strength. It moved through her
as it had through the ground, but in a way that she felt in her
spirit, not her body. Somehow, Cresh was able to monitor the
strength of the ripple, and instructed her to release it, through
the staff, back into the earth from whence it came. She did so, and
was shocked by the result. A tremor, small but noticeable enough to
make Myn fairly jump out of her skin, was created, with her staff
at its center.

Cresh was quite pleased and declared the day
to be a success. He returned her boots to her and retired.

No sooner had the dwarf shut the door of his
abode than the people of the village returned to ask their
questions. She was forced to tell her story again and again. She
was hungry, but frowned at the thought of entering a crowded hut
filled with equally enthusiastic people. Fortunately, an
alternative presented itself, as Myn was already off in the
direction of Solomon, who was just exiting his hut for his weekly
hunting trip. She took her seat beside the crystal arena. At least
here she didn't feel cooped up as the mob of people besieged
her.

Myn returned, happily presenting Myranda with
a pair of fish. She suddenly realized that when the time came to
cook the fish, it was Deacon who always did the honors. It seemed a
shame to break the tradition, particularly in light of the fine job
his spell always did. Myn anticipated Myranda's plan and cleared a
path through the crowd, leading the way to Deacon's hut. While the
little dragon had learned to control herself in crowds, her manners
left something to be desired. She pushed the door open with her
head and barged in.

Deacon was at work as he always was. The door
closed against the crowd once more.

"What brings you here?" Deacon asked.

Myranda held up the fish.

"Don't you know it is bad luck to break
tradition?" she said.

"I suppose so. Particularly when a dragon is
involved," he said, providing the treat that Myn had been
anticipating since her arrival. Meanwhile, a snap of the fingers
prepared the fish.

"One of these days, one of us will have to
remember to bring a plate along on hunting day. Eating fish out of
one's hands can get a bit messy," he said.

"Agreed," she said.

"You know, most people here don't get to have
fresh fish but once or twice a year. Solomon being the only
carnivore, he tends to be the only one who gets them before they
get stewed," he said.

"Well, it is yet another benefit to having a
dragon as a friend," she said. "But, then, you haven't been around
lately."

"You are busy," he said.

"It would seem that no one here is ever
otherwise," she said, enjoying a bit of her meal.

"I have been falling behind in my scribing,"
he said.

"You've always been able to scribe while out
and about. It isn't like you to make excuses," she said.

Deacon sighed.

"Myranda. You have been here for just a bit
under three months. I have been here for two and one-half decades.
You have achieved more than I have, become more than I have. I have
grown to the limit of my abilities while you have only begun. Look
at how the others follow you. The crowds may thin after they have
all heard what they seek, but they will always see you as something
remarkable," he said.

"Don't tell me you are jealous," she
said.

"Oh, no. To say I was jealous would be to
suggest that you did not deserve all that you have. I know that you
do. Fact of it is . . . well, I don't deserve to be near you. Were
I not your guide through this, I would scarcely be tolerated among
the other Masters. You are destined for far greater things than I.
It is past time I gave you the space to grow," Deacon said.

"I don't care about any of that. Unless you
have grown tired of my company, I want you to come see me whenever
you like," she said.

"Well . . . thank you," Deacon said.

With that misunderstanding behind them, they
spent the next few hours discussing what she could expect from
Cresh. He was not the most thorough of instructors, but he had far
more subjects to cover. Also, if ever she was to get on his bad
side, she need only request a demonstration. He reveled in
displaying his art.

Unfortunately, sundown came all too soon. The
crowd had grown tired of waiting and dispersed, so she quickly set
off to the Warrior's Side and found Lain waiting. As soon as she
saw his face, she felt all of the anger return. He handed her a
short sword. Unlike the one he'd been using, this one was steel,
every bit a lethal weapon.

"You must be very brave, handing a real sword
to me after telling me what you did," she said.

"I understand you've had experience with the
short sword," he said.

"I have," she said.

"We will spar a bit to see how skilled you
are," he said.

"And how shall I earn my questions?" she
asked.

"Still interested, are we? I thought you were
content to assume and jump to conclusions," he said.

"Lain, you told me you had the leaked
information in your hands! You had to know what was going to
happen, and you did nothing! What am I supposed to think!" she
cried.

"If you thought at all, you would not be
acting as you are, but that is irrelevant. Prepare yourself," he
said, lifting his own sword.

"But this is not a training sword," she
said.

"I will pull my attacks if they are going to
land. As for you . . . I seriously doubt that you will even come
near, but if you manage to strike me, I will give you ten
questions," he said. "And the offer still stands that if you draw
even a single drop of blood, every answer you wish is yours."

"But--" she began.

"Begin!" he said.

He attacked slowly at first, one at a time.
Her blocks were a bit sloppy, as she hadn't practiced with a sword
in years. Worse were her attacks. The weapon was quite a bit
heavier than the staff.

As she began to recall what her uncle and
father had taught her, her performance improved. Lain noticed it
and increased his attacks in both rate and intensity. The attacks
were followed by a pause for her to attack. She was holding him off
well enough, but her attacks were still slow. The clash of steel
against steel was unnerving. Perhaps that was why he had chosen not
to use the training swords. He was toying with her.

Anger had as powerful an effect on combat as
it did on magic, it would seem. She fought back harder and faster.
As she did, her defense suffered. More than once, an attack slipped
through. She didn't even pause when it did. Lain pulled his attacks
so effortlessly his flow of attack and defense was not even
interrupted.

Despite the accelerating attacks, Myranda
never came close to landing a blow. After a few minutes, Lain
called the sparring to an end.

"You are not a cold beginner, but you can
benefit from practice. A bit of discipline is in order as well," he
said, not a hint of fatigue in his voice.

"Oh?" she remarked, trying to catch her
breath.

"You fight as though I am trying to teach
you," he said.

"Is that wrong?" she asked.

"You should fight as though I am trying to
kill you," he said. "Those strikes that you trusted me to pull
would have been enough to end your life. A bit more care is in
order, even when the weapons aren't real. We will be switching back
to training swords for the rest of the training, but I will not be
pulling my blows quite so far anymore."

"You are planning on hitting me!?" she
said.

"This is combat training. You need to learn
about consequences," he said, tossing her the replacement for her
weapon.

It was lighter, but solid. She would be able
to swing it faster and more easily, but the thought of being hit by
a blow as powerful as Lain was capable of was not appealing.

"We will dispense with the offense and
defense drills. This will now be proper sparing. Attack or defend
when the opportunity arises. Until now, you haven't had to consider
counterattacks, so that is how you will earn your questions. You
will earn one question for each counter you land. I will not throw
any until you have thrown your first. A counter is quite different
from a normal attack, so I will demonstrate the times when they are
appropriate," he said.