by Joseph Lallo
"You certainly outperformed me on my first failure. I required no less than three attempts to complete it," Deacon reassured her. "I shudder to think what would have become of me had I put up half of the resistance you did. I was a bit worried toward the end."
When Myranda stood, a book slipped from her tunic and dropped to the ground. The rogue book, a red-covered one, drew the attention of all present. Azriel knelt to retrieve it, placing it on the table beside the one in which she had just marked Myranda's name. They were identical. The teacher silently waved her hand over the first book. The red color faded to white.
"Clever, clever girl," she said quietly.
Deacon's jaw hung agape as Azriel flipped to the last occupied page of the newly-white book, where Myranda's name could be clearly seen.
"Well then. I would not say that it was the most straightforward method, but a technicality is nonetheless a victory in this case. It would appear you have passed after all. I wonder--when did you steal the two books?" Azriel asked.
"While you were dispelling my illusions one by one," Myranda said, lowering herself shakily to a chair.
"And you stumbled into the bookcase to cover your tracks. Brilliant!" Deacon said.
"You certainly fought valiantly to keep hold of that book, despite the fact that it was the one you had wanted me to sign all along," Azriel said.
"I thought you might suspect something if I didn't. Not to mention I was not certain it would work, and I was afraid of how you might have reacted had you discovered what I'd done," Myranda said.
"You could have been killed for the sake of a ruse!" Deacon said.
"Well, I don't think she would have killed me," Myranda said with a weak smile.
"I most certainly would have. What do you suppose the black book is for? It contains the names of those whose ambition overcame their resourcefulness. Lucky for you, I was able to wrestle the book from your grip before I wrestled the breath from your lungs," Azriel said. It was unnerving how nonchalantly she was able to seem when speaking about her willingness to kill.
Myranda swallowed hard as the realization of her situation swept over her.
"Well, I would so love to chat with you, but I simply must improve my spells. I still cannot believe you managed to keep me out of your head. That is a rather rare feat. Off with you. Go do some well-deserved bragging," Azriel said.
Myranda and Deacon quickly obeyed. Suddenly, Deacon's fear of her seemed entirely justified. They kept a rather brisk pace, with Myn trotting behind, until they came to a seemingly arbitrary spot in the field surrounding the cottage.
"Wait here, would you?" Deacon said.
"Why here?" Myranda asked.
"We have reached the edge of the arena. I must retrieve your staff," he said.
He leaned forward, the very air in front of him seeming to ruffle like a curtain as he vanished, first to the shoulders, then to the waist. When he stood again, his upper body reappearing, he held the staff. He was also dripping wet.
"There. You will need this if you hope to make it back to your hut," he said.
"Why? I feel quite well. A bit shaken, but aside from my poor heart, I don't believe I am any the worse for wear. I feel better now than when I entered," she said.
"Yes, and you will lose that benefit when you leave," he said, handing her the staff. "Now, watch your step."
Myranda took a few steps forward. As soon as her head left the boundary of the arena, she felt as though all of her strength had been sapped from her. She leaned heavily on the staff for support. It sunk partway into the muddy ground. The downpour she had inadvertently caused was still raging. In some places the water was ankle-deep. When she had taken a moment to adjust to the state of mental drain she once again found herself in, she spoke.
"Why hasn't someone stopped this rain?" Myranda asked.
"There is your answer," Deacon said, pointing to an odd sight at the edge of the lake in the distance.
"What is it? My eyes won't focus," she said.
"Ayna is arguing with Calypso. This happens every time a storm must be stopped. Storms are all wind and water, so it falls to either Ayna or Calypso to manage them as our resident experts, but Ayna will not let Calypso do so. While Calypso does not care about the storm, one of her favorite things in life is torturing Ayna, so she categorically refuses to allow Ayna to do so either. More than once, the argument has outlasted the storm. Forget about that, though. Let us get you to bed. Tomorrow night is the blue moon and you must be at your best," he said.
The words barely filtered into Myranda's head. She stumbled and sloshed her way to her hut, closed the door, changed into dry clothes, and collapsed. Myn took her usual perch atop her, and the pair drifted off to sleep.
#
Myranda did not so much as stir until midday, when Deacon reluctantly woke her and informed her that the ceremony would be starting soon. When she left her hut, there was a feeling of anticipation permeating the village. People rushed to and fro. Deacon led her to the courtyard where the Elder's hut had been. It was now conspicuously missing, and in its place, there was a rectangular marble altar.
In any other place, she would question how an entire structure could have vanished overnight and be replaced with something else, but here she merely admired the altar. At each side of it, there stood a smaller one bearing a bowl. People had begun to join hands around the ring that Myranda and Deacon had retreated to when she first came here. On the edge of this ring, nearest to the mountains, was a tall post topped with a hoop. Below it was the chair of the Elder.
"We will begin shortly and continue until the last of us drops, so I had best give you your instructions. We will join hands around the central altars. When we begin, the elemental Masters will provide a mystically pure sample of their respective element. We will then focus all of the strength that we can muster into your neighbors. In this way, all of the energy that the Masters need will be available. Once the ring as a whole has reached a state of focus, we shall begin to chant 'Earth, fire, wind, water.' Whatever language you wish. With a blue moon in the sky, the spirits will hear," he said.
"How will we know when it is working?" she asked.
"You will know. Now, until the moon rises, it is very important that the ring not be broken. If you feel that you cannot go on, join the hands of your neighbors before you pass out. Once the moon is at its height, though, you need not worry. Let us begin," he said.
Myranda was led to her place on the circle. The Elder was at the north end of the circle. Calypso was present, once again displaying a pair of legs. She and Ayna, Solomon, and Cresh were spaced regularly about the circumference. Deacon was at the south end. Myranda found herself on western side, and soon she discovered that Lain was situated directly across from her in the distance. All of those who formed the circle were at least at the level of mastery that she had reached, leaving apprentices and other low-level students scurrying about, attempting to prepare the ceremony. Azriel was absent, either unwilling or unable to leave the arena, so the task fell to her to occupy Myn for as long as necessary. After what she had been through, the thought made Myranda more than a bit uneasy.
There was little time to think of that, though. She joined hands with those beside her, a pair of warriors she had spoken with several times in the days following her encounter with Hollow. Cresh approached the central altar and poured a sample of rich brown earth into one of the bowls. Ayna followed and conjured a burst of wind that swirled against the bowl, somehow persisting and rotating within it. Solomon cast a tongue of flame into another bowl and it burned brilliantly without fuel. The final bowl was filled with water drawn from the air itself by Calypso.
Soon the magic began to flow. It was the most curious feeling. She focused and spread out her strength, only to feel more than she'd contributed flowing through her. For a long time, she felt no stress or fatigue at all. The same could not be said of the warriors. Before the sun had set, half of them had reached their limits. By nightfall, she was
holding hands with Solomon and Cresh, and the circle was slightly more than half of its original size.
As the moon began to peek over the horizon, the chanting began. It was curious to hear all of the different voices and languages chanting in bursts of sound. The power flowing through them was noticeably increased, and it grew stronger with each passing minute as the moon climbed higher in the sky.
The last of the warriors--with the exception of Lain--and the first of the wizards began to fall, and Myranda could feel the strength draining from her. The magic had grown so intense that it was visible, racing about the circle as a pale blue filament of energy. Holding hands was no longer needed, and the elemental Masters separated to focus more intently on their tasks.
As the moon climbed even higher, the purpose for the hoop at the end of the pole became clear. The shadow cast by the supernaturally bright moonlight was approaching the altar. When the moon reached its peak, the altar would be entirely within the circular shadow. A pair of the younger wizards collapsed and were dragged away by apprentices. Myranda struggled to maintain her concentration. The task at hand was an odd one. She had to keep the power she was immersed in moving, despite the fact it was more than she could handle if it was still. It was oddly like juggling.
The big moment was only a few minutes away. Of the dozens that had started, only eight were left. The Elder stood firm, with the four elemental Masters showing signs of fatigue. Both the white and black magic Masters had just fallen, and Deacon looked ready to break. Lain, somehow, was as steady as ever. Myranda could feel herself wavering. Then the moon made its last shift. Time seemed to slow as the thin filament of energy swelled to a thick band, then practically a wall that blocked out the outside world.
Each elemental wizard struggled forward. A portion of the energy was pulled away and forced into the pure essences at the altar. First, the wind swirled savagely, moving slowly over to the earth. Instantly, the earth was caught up in the breeze. The water came next, whirling up into the powerful mix. Finally, it approached the fire. Rather than the wet mixture hissing into steam or extinguishing the fire, the flames seemed to mix with it as smoothly as the other elements had. What was before them was a spinning mass of all of the elements, here red as fire, there brown as earth. Here thin as wind, there thick as water. The unique mass swirled atop the central altar, basking in the most direct rays of the blue moon.
Ayna suddenly lost consciousness, the force of the magic in the air hurling her through the glowing wall. A moment later, Calypso dropped, her legs shifting back to the emerald tail. She was quickly carried away by apprentices brave enough to enter the ring of magic. Deacon was next, dropping to the ground. Cresh dropped to his knees, consciousness leaving him more slowly.
Myranda, too, reached her breaking point. Unable to pull her mind to this task or any other, she crumbled to the ground, just barely able to keep her eyes open to take in the spectacle. Solomon, Lain, and the Elder remained. The dragon fought valiantly, but the energy was far too much. He dropped down. As the swirling mass of magic and elements seemed to concentrate, the Elder lowered herself slowly to her seat. She seemed to know that her strength would not last a moment longer, as when she finished sitting, her eyes closed and her head bobbed limply to the side in deep sleep.
Only Lain remained, yet the magic continued to focus. Whatever it was that they had been working to create, it had mind enough of its own to sustain itself. An ember of light formed at the base of the altar and slowly circled upward. When it reached the bottom of the mystic elements, it seemed to ignite a thin band of the material into white hot flames. The fire worked its way up the mass. What was left behind was a pair of tapering columns of wind swirling so forcefully and tightly that they were clearly distinct from the air around them. The fire continued its path, revealing a roughly female form composed of the very wind.
When the white hot flames flickered out, twin almonds of golden light opened on what would have been the face of the form. These "eyes" swept coldly over the small portion of the courtyard within the wall of light. Quickly they came to rest on the figure of Lain--from Myranda's point of view, merely a silhouette against the wall. The windy creature lowered to the ground.
The instant that its feet touched the earth, a second wave of white flames swept quickly up the form, leaving behind a sandy gray statue that walked purposefully toward Lain. He had dropped to one knee, a hand on the ground to steady himself. The being that they had fought so hard to bring into existence lowered a hand and cradled the chin of the weary creature, tilting his head up to gaze briefly into his eyes. With a slight nod, the being took its hand away and turned to look about one last time. Through Myranda's rapidly fading vision, she could just make out the very same mark that Myranda bore on her hand and Lain bore on his chest inscribed on the forehead of this new being. It returned her gaze for a moment, then was swept over by a final band of white flames, leaving behind a brilliantly glowing version of the same form that seemed to be composed of the fire itself.
In an instant, the fiery form streaked upward into the sky and out of sight. The world darkened as Myranda's tenuous grip on consciousness finally slipped away. The darkness of unwanted sleep came.
#
Scattered across the Northern Alliance, minds became alert. It had been a night of high magic. Full moons often were. Blue moons more so. Those with even the most rudimentary mystic training had, unknowingly, felt the summoning ceremony in Entwell as a dull pressure in the back of their minds. Its result, though, was not so easily missed. A smoldering ember of intense magic streaked a searing line across the minds of every wizard, witch, seer, and shaman the world over. It burned brightly, but briefly, like a shooting star in the mind's eye. Most dismissed it. Others took note of it. Some, though, were deeply affected.
In his office in Northern Capital, General Bagu sat forward in his chair. He held his eyes tightly shut and trained his mind on the fading glint of power. Hungrily, even desperately, he focused on the distant power. It had a quality--some texture or color--that he knew all too well. Years of searching had sensitized him to it.
One of the long-sought Chosen was awake. While the detection was fresh in his mind he tore a book from its shelf and threw it open to a well-worn page. Five brief descriptions were there, only one of which did not have extensive notes beside it. The shadow of a smile flickered across his face. The moment of truth would soon be at hand.
#
Myranda's eyes wrestled open and she gazed weakly about. She was in a room with other beds. Most were vacant, but a few still had occupants. The blurriness of fatigue and sleep obscured her vision too much to tell who it was that surrounded her, but her ears worked well enough. Distantly, she could hear the ever-present voice of Deacon arguing weakly with someone.
"Yes, I know I must rest . . . I really feel that I could speed my recovery if I had something to occupy my mind, or my hands . . . It would be more soothing than taxing . . ." Deacon said, continuing to argue in as polite a way as was possible.
"Deacon?" Myranda called in barely a whisper.
Her friend was too busy attempting to persuade one of the white wizards to allow him his book to hear. There was someone, though, who heard very clearly. With an unexpected pounce, Myn was on top of her. She must have been lying beside the bed. The dragon dragged her rough tongue all over Myranda's face, but the weary girl was too weak to object. The commotion did not go unnoticed. A trio of white-robed healers converged on Myn and grabbed her. She was far too intent on letting Myranda know how she felt to pay any attention to them. When she had been carried far enough that her tongue could no longer find its mark, she struggled free and leapt atop Myranda again.
"Never mind. Leave her be," Myranda said weakly.
The commotion was enough to attract the attention of Deacon.
"I don't even need to see the book. I could just hold it. Wait, is that Myn? Is Myranda awake?" Deacon asked.
When he was informed that she was, he requested t
o be taken to the bed to her right for the remainder of his convalescence. The attending clerics relented. The moment he was properly placed and tucked in, he turned to Myranda. The healers left him, heading purposefully out of the room.
"It has been five days. They are off to get you some food. You may not know it yet, but you are starving. They say you lasted right to the end. Tell me, did you see it?" Deacon asked.
"The . . . thing?" Myranda said, unsure of what to call it.
"Yes, yes! Fire, water, earth, air! In the shape of . . . was it a man or a woman?" he asked insistently.
"It was certainly a woman," Myranda said.
"Really. I would have expected a man. No matter. It came! You saw it! You are certain of that, yes?" he said, leaning toward her so suddenly that in his weakened and dizzy condition, he nearly toppled from the bed.
"Don't think I will ever forget it," she said.
"Tell me, was there anyone else awake?" he asked.
"Lain," she said.
"And the creature. Did she approach him?" he asked.
"It did," she recalled.
Deacon leaned back against the pillow, dazed more by the news than his condition.
"Then it is proved. He is one of the Chosen. Lain is one of the five!" he said.
Myranda took in the information as best she could in her weakened condition.
"I must speak with him. I cannot believe I have not spoken with him already. He spent all of those years here, and it was only when he returned that the truth could be known . . ." he rambled.
As he spoke, a tall, white-robed gentleman approached. He had been watching sternly from one of the corners of the room. His hair was as white as his robe, though his face was clean-shaven. He was followed by a younger man and woman, each with arm loads of potions, crystals, and medical tools.
"Deacon . . ." he said. His voice had a practiced steadiness about it. It was the voice of a man who had learned patience.