by Joseph Lallo
"I tried to kill him," she said.
"Did you succeed?" he asked.
"No, but I wanted to. I really did. I couldn't control myself. I just . . . I hated him so much. I knocked out his tooth. I may have broken his jaw. He gave me the tooth. He wants me to remember. He wants me to remember that I wanted to kill," she said.
"What did he do to make you feel this way?" he asked.
"He won't do it, Deacon. He is one of them! He can stop the war, but he won't! He would rather go on profiting from murder than end all of this!" she said.
"Myranda, no, no. You mustn't trouble yourself over that. Listen, it does not matter what he says. This is a matter of fate. What must be done will be done," he said.
"I know him well enough to know that when he gives his word, he doesn't break it, and he promised to answer my questions truthfully. If he said he doesn't intend to, then he won't," she said.
"You don't understand. It doesn't matter. Myranda, the future is not so fragile as to be broken by a simple decision. The future is made of decisions. The spirits speak not to tell us what to do, but to tell us what will be done. Something will change his mind and he will rise to his proper place. Until then, just leave him be," he said.
"I just don't know," she said.
"Well, I do. That's the wonderful thing about the future. All you ever have to do is wait for it. It will come to you," he said.
Until the sun set, Deacon kept Myranda company. He then hobbled slowly home as Myranda went to sleep without her friend Myn to keep her company for the first time in ages. The time had not protected her from the dreams. Morning couldn't come soon enough. When her eyes opened shortly before sunrise, she made a decision. She would convince Lain to do what he must, even if it took years. But not today. She could not face him after what she did yesterday, after what he made her do. For now she needed something to occupy her mind.
She left her hut, with her mind fully recovered and her bruises mostly healed. The thundering of the falls had indeed stopped, Myranda finally realized for herself. It was odd. The sound had been so constant in her time here that she had accepted the low rumble as silence. Now that it was gone, the quiet seemed unnatural. It felt as though there was something missing. The feeling was deep in her soul. It must be the missing sound. What else could it be?
She had a meal before seeking out Deacon. It was odd not being hurried by an impending training session with an impatient teacher. She supposed that black and white magics would be next, and she wondered what sort of things those Masters would have in store for her. No. Gray magic first. She owed it to Deacon to finish his training. After knocking at his door, she heard bumping and thumping, as well as a rather insistent voice telling her to wait. Finally the door opened, revealing Deacon looking a good deal more disheveled than usual.
"Did I wake you?" she asked.
"No, no. Not you precisely. The door did. When you knocked on it," he said, trying to set her mind at ease without really lying.
"You can go back to bed. I know you need your sleep," Myranda said.
"Not at all. Not at all. I am quite well-rested," he said, struggling valiantly to hold back a yawn. "I haven't slept so deeply since I was an apprentice. What brings you here?"
"I haven't slept so poorly since I was a frightened little girl. Myn isn't about. I just need some kind of distraction. Something to pluck up my courage before I speak to Lain again," she said.
"Well, if nothing more than distraction is required, I can most assuredly oblige. Please, come in," he said.
She closed the door and took a seat in the second chair while Deacon went about pulling books from shelves. When he had a fair amount, he pulled his chair to the desk and opened one or two of them.
"If you like, I will teach you a bit more gray magic. You may have your choice of lessons. Whatever interests you," he said.
Myranda scanned the books. The names were not in her tongue, but thanks to a whispered enchantment by Deacon, the lines and letters twisted and turned themselves as her eyes swept over the pages. In a few moments it was all quite legible to her. Eventually she found the most recently scribed of the enchantments.
"What about this one?" she asked, placing her finger on a spell marked "Gilliam's Folly."
"Trans-substantiation. That is a rather advanced one, but nothing beyond your ability, I am sure," he said.
She had not brought her staff, but Deacon allowed her to borrow his crystal. Gray magic tended to be quite different from the elements. Each spell that the fire or wind Masters taught was much like the first. Gray magic was wholly different from spell to spell. It was like learning a new discipline each time.
The pair decided she would begin by turning a piece of clay into glass. The two substances were fairly similar, and thus the change would be simple. Myranda worked at the spell with Deacon's coaching, but it wasn't easy. The sight of the spell at work was quite unique. Faint waves of energy swept through the clay, leaving thin bands of glass that faded quickly back to normal. After an hour or so of unsuccessful attempts, they decided to rest.
"Well. The falls are quiet today. For now, at least. Calypso indicated that they would give way sooner than expected. Perhaps by the end of the day. Nevertheless, that still leaves time for a shift or two at the fall's edge. It is quite peaceful there and you and I might--" he began. He was interrupted by a thunderous slam on the door.
"What was that?" she cried, startled.
"I seem to have a rather insistent visitor," he said.
A second crash nearly knocked the door from its hinges, and a third succeeded where the last had failed. Atop the fallen door stood a dizzied Myn. She had a desperate look, catching the edge of Myranda's tunic and pulling her forward.
"What is it? Calm down. What is it, little one?" she asked.
Myn looked desperately to the base of the temporarily quiet falls and back to Myranda.
"What about the falls? I don't . . . Lain. Lain went to the falls," she said.
She knew from the dragon's eyes that it was so. He had gone.
"Then we must follow," Myranda said, walking resolutely toward the falls.
"What!? No! You--you need to stay here! There are ceremonies, there are tests. You've so much more you can learn! You haven't even been inducted as a Full Master yet! Your Master crystal will not be forged for another month, at least!" Deacon said, rushing out the door behind her.
"I've learned enough. I need to see Lain," she said.
"The falls could start at any moment. You'll never make it! You don't have any supplies! You need to stay!" he pleaded.
"No!" she said, turning to him. "Lain has left this place to go back to killing. He has turned his back on his purpose. I will not rest until he faces it again!"
"Myranda, that is a job for fate, not for you," he reasoned desperately.
"What if fate means to do it through me? I have been thinking. That nonsense you said that Hollow had said about me. A label of white adorns that which will see each. I have seen the Swordsman," she began, holding up her white scar of the mark. "I have seen Lain. I have seen whatever being we summoned in the ceremony. What if it is my purpose to seek out the Chosen? A mark both fresh and faded belongs to the carpenter. What if carpenter is not meant to be taken literally? What if he meant that I was to be the one to join the members of the Chosen five together as a carpenter joins wood? Doesn't that explain why I have the mark? Doesn't that explain why magic comes so easily to me?"
"Perhaps, perhaps . . . But perhaps not! You are reaching, Myranda. You are twisting the words to fit your purpose," he said. "The prophecy is clear about mere mortals who try to help the Chosen. The trials that the divine ones must face would destroy anyone else. To offer aid where it is not needed is a death sentence!"
"Then so be it. If I must die so that the world may be spared of this war, let it be done," she said.
"No, Myranda, I--I . . . Five minutes more, I beg of you!" he said.
/>
"I must--" Myranda tried to answer. Before she did, Deacon was gone. He disappeared inside his hut.
Myranda hurried along. She simply could not be delayed. A terrible din came from Deacon's hut. He sprinted out after her a minute later.
"Wait please!" he said, running in front of her. He carried a bag and an armload of books. The precious tomes spilled to the ground as he finally found the specific one he was looking for. He riffled through the pages and tore one out.
"Here! Take it! Have you the tooth still? Good. With this spell and that tooth you can track him wherever he goes! And the bag! Take the bag! It contains some necessities, an old staff and crystal. Better than yours, but not nearly what you deserve. Oh, if only you would wait until the next time that the way opens. We could give you a crystal worthy of your skill," he said.
Myranda took the bag and the page, stuffing it inside. Tears were welling in her eyes. As they approached the base of the falls the mountain seemed to shudder. At any second, a column of water would come crashing down.
"Myranda. Take care. Please, come back to m--us," he said.
"I swear to you. If I can, I will," she assured him.
Myranda rushed to the edge of the waterfall basin. Those keeping watch claimed that neither they nor their predecessors had seen anyone enter the mouth of the cave, but considering the fact that Lain had managed to sneak out of his own hut without waking Myn, that meant little. The dragon leapt down into the basin, while Myranda lowered herself as gently as she could down inside. With much difficulty, she managed to reach the mouth of the cave. She fought the urge to have one final look at those she was leaving behind, for fear of changing her mind. Instead, she hurried as quickly as the slick floor of the cave would allow.
Ahead lay darkness, danger, risk, and war. All of this Myranda knew. But somewhere there were two creatures, two creatures she'd seen with her own eyes, which could change the world. The mountain groaned, filling the cave with echoes. At any moment, an icy wall of water could drop down, robbing her of the haven, the wonder, the paradise that was Entwell. Her every desire, save one, lie in that fair village. Her greatest desire, though, lay ahead.
Lain carried with him the shining gleam of hope for peace, and she would follow that dying light in the darkness to the ends of the world. Now she knew the truth. She would show Lain the error in his ways. Now she understood her purpose. She would find the other Chosen. Now she had the power. She would see the war brought to an end, or she would die trying. Around her the mountain gave a groaning roar. Squeezing her scarred left hand tightly, she climbed on, toward her destiny.
#
Important though it is to tell the tale completely, the enormity of the task was not clear to me at the onset. Much as it pains me to leave you in the grip of so tense a moment, the hour is late and my hand grows unsteady. For now I must rest, and begin anew when I am able. I can only hope that the volume to follow finds its way to your eyes as well, as the tale is not half told, and I know all too well what incomplete knowledge can bring. Until then, let me leave you with an assurance. The tale does not end here. Indeed, this is merely the beginning.
###
From The Author
Thank you for reading this, the first in the Book of Deacon Trilogy. Below you can find a link to my site, where you will find information about other books I’ve written. If you enjoyed the book, please consider reading The Great Convergence, the next in the trilogy. Whether you liked my work or not, I would love to hear what you think, so please leave a review. It will help me to improve the things that you didn’t like, and to give you more of the things you did. And if you’d like to hear about news and new releases, join my newsletter.
Contact Information:
Website: http://www.bookofdeacon.com.
Twitter: @jrlallo
Facebook Fanpage: The Book of Deacon
Email: [email protected]
Discover other titles by Joseph R. Lallo:
The Book of Deacon Series:
The Great Convergence (Trilogy Book 2)
The Battle of Verril (Trilogy Book 3)
Jade
The Rise of the Red Shadow (Prequel)
The Big Sigma Series:
Bypass Gemini
Unstable Prototypes
The Free-Wrench Series:
Free-Wrench
Skykeep
Other Stories:
The Other Eight
Between
The Emperor’s Edge
By
Lindsay Buroker
www.lindsayburoker.com
Copyright © 2010 by Lindsay Buroker
Chapter 1
Corporal Amaranthe Lokdon paced. Her short sword, night stick, and handcuffs bumped and clanked at her thighs with each impatient step. Enforcer Headquarters frowned down at her, an ominous gray cliff of a building that glowered at the neighborhood like a turkey vulture, except with less charisma.
Amaranthe drew her pocket watch and checked the time. Where was her partner?
At the soft squeak of boots on snow, she looked up. A narrow side street expelled a squat, burly man in enforcer grays. Morning light glinted against the large brass rank pins crowding his collar: four bars under two crossed swords, the mark of a district chief.
Amaranthe fought back a grimace and straightened, heels clicking together. The chief’s dark gaze latched onto her from beneath shaggy gray eyebrows that crashed in the middle when he scowled. He was scowling now.
She swallowed. “Good morning, Chief Gunarth.”
“Lokdon,” he growled. “Does the city pay you to loiter in front of headquarters? Because if the capital city of the Turgonian Empire, the most powerful nation in the world, pays its enforcers to loiter uselessly in front of my headquarters building, I’d think somebody would have mentioned it to me.”
Amaranthe opened her mouth to give him an obedient “yes, sir.” Or was it a “no, sir”? She had lost the question in his diatribe. “I’m waiting for my partner, sir.”
“It’s five minutes into your shift. Where is he?”
“He’s...” Hung over, still asleep, trying vainly to find a uniform that isn’t wrinkled…. “Investigating some suspicious activity at Curi’s Bakery.”
The chief’s already-lowered eyebrows descended further. “Let me explain something to you, Lokdon.”
“Sir?” Amaranthe tried to look attentive.
“Your first loyalty is to the emperor.” He reached above his head, demonstrating a lofty plateau. “Your second is to the city, and your third is to everyone above you in the chain of command.” His hand descended in increments as he spoke until he finished with, “Way down there by your boot is your loyalty to your partner. Understood?”
“Emperor, city, you, boot. Got it, sir.”
“Is that a joke, Lokdon?” His tone made it clear it had better not be.
She sighed. “No, sir.”
“If you can’t remember where your loyalties lie, better you take up a shop like the rest of the women in Turgonia.”
Amaranthe forced her face to stay neutral, ignoring the heat warming her cheeks. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, I ask you again, where is your partner?” The chief’s tone had grown soft, dangerous.
She lifted her chin. “Investigating suspicious activity at Curi’s.”
Furrows like canyons formed across the chief’s forehead as his scowl deepened. “I see. I’ll remember this when I’m filling out the extra duty roster.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Start your patrol without him. And when he catches up, tell him if he can’t arrive at work on time, you can both sleep here. In one of the cells.”
“I will, sir.”
Amaranthe trotted away before the chief could spout further threats. She crossed the wide boulevard in front of headquarters and jogged around a lumbering steam tractor obscuring ice with sheets of salt. Snow piles framed the ancient cobblestone a
lley she entered, its walls close enough to touch with outstretched arms. She almost bumped into a man and woman coming out of a temple that had been turned into a bookstore. Bundled in fur caps and parkas, they saw her uniform and stepped out of the way, joining a headless statue in one of the recessed nooks by the door. At the turn of the last century, Mad Emperor Motash had declared atheism the state religion and ordered all statues depicting deities beheaded. A hundred years later, the locals still called the seat of the empire, “Stumps.”
Amaranthe smelled the scrumptious scents of Curi’s Bakery as she came onto the next boulevard, and she cast a longing gaze at the building. Paintings of apple pastries, glazed fruits, and spiced breads adorned the windows for those unable to read the sign. A gangly university student ambled out with a pastry stuffed in his mouth. Warm frosting dribbled down his chin.
Someone tapped Amaranthe’s shoulder. “Buy one. The city won’t catch on fire if you indulge occasionally.”
“Can’t.” She glanced at her partner, Corporal Wholt, as he fell into step beside her. She wanted to yell at him for being late again, but it would change little, and she had yet to meet the man who appreciated unsolicited criticism. “Enforcers are supposed to be fit. I’d have to run the whole lake trail tonight if I ate one of those pastries.”
“You probably will anyway. To punish yourself for being tempted.”
Amaranthe did not consider diet advice from Wholt worth much. Though he stood several inches taller than her five and a half feet, his slouch made the difference negligible. A fledgling pot belly slumped over the belt of his rumpled gray uniform. The double-bar rank pin on his left collar flap was skewed at a different angle than the pin on his right. She reached up, unfastened the backs, and adjusted the pins so both sides matched.
“Thanks,” Wholt said dryly. “You know you’re the most grandmotherly twenty-five-year-old woman I’ve met, right?”