The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  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 to 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.

  "Vedesto! Did you hear? You have, right here in one of your beds, one of the five!" Deacon said, sitting up.

  "Yes. I also have an overexcited gray wizard who will not allow himself, or anyone else, to rest," Vedesto said.

  "How can anyone rest? This is the most monumentally important thing that has ever--" Deacon began.

  "I do not care if all five of the Chosen have selected this very building for the great convergence
. My sole concern is restoring these brave young wizards and warriors to health, and I cannot do that with you raving and screaming. And what is this I hear about you bothering my people about your book?" he asked.

  "Yes! Yes! The book!" he practically yelled.

  "Deacon," Vedesto said with forced gentility.

  "Oh, Vedesto, you know as well as I that people as psychologically weakened--" Deacon continued, ignoring the objection.

  "Deacon," Vedesto said again, the anger beginning to show in his face.

  "--as we are tremendously likely to forget what we have seen and done recently. I simply must have my book to record--" he continued.

  "Deacon!" Vedesto shouted, pushing the babbling young wizard to the bed again. "Stop talking, stop pestering my apprentices, stop pestering Myranda, and do not pester the malthrope. If I hear your voice again for the rest of the day, no one will hear it again for the rest of the week. I will put you to sleep until every last one of these patients is out of bed. Understood!?"

  Deacon nodded.

  "Excellent," he said, returning to the calm, patient demeanor he'd shown before. "Now, Myranda, show me your hand, if you would."

  Myranda opened the hand with the mark, assuming it to be the one he wanted to see. Vedesto put his hand out to the side without looking. One of his subordinates handed him a hazy gray crystal. He placed it in Myranda's open hand. A dim light flickered within it. He nodded thoughtfully and removed the crystal, holding it out in front of the other apprentice. It was swiftly replaced with one of the many bottles that each was weighed down with. After glancing at the contents, he shook his head and held his hand back out. The bottle was replaced with another one. This he was satisfied with. He opened the bottle.

  "Open your mouth and put out your tongue," he said.

  Myranda obeyed, only to have a drop of the most intensely foul-tasting liquid she had ever encountered placed on her tongue. It was very much like the flavor of the tea Deacon had once brought her, but far worse. As she swallowed the stuff, it seemed to get warmer. By the time it reached her stomach, she could feel the heat throughout her body. The warmth seemed to boil away the fog in her mind.

  "There. Until that wears off, you should feel like yourself. That should give you enough time to get some food inside of you without having to worry about choking to death. Once you've eaten, I want you to go back to sleep. Another day and you ought to be able to walk out of here unaided," Vedesto said, turning to Deacon. "You, on the other hand, will require at least two more days, because you couldn't simply rest like a good patient."

  Food was given to Myranda, which she ate eagerly. Deacon sat, sulking but quiet, while she ate. Myranda glanced around her with her temporarily clear vision.

  In one of the corners, furthest from the door, Lain lay asleep in a bed. It was only the second time she had seen the creature in any form of rest, and once again it was through no choice of his own. She couldn't help but look at him in a new light. It was certain now. This was a divinely anointed being. He could be the savior of all of the people of the continent, plucking them from the jaws of the war once and for all. Myranda would never have imagined someone like him as a Chosen a few years ago, yet now that she knew the skills he had, she wondered if there was another in the world better suited.

  Shortly after she finished her meal, the warmth that kept her mind clear faded and she, quite against her will, drifted again into sleep. This slumber was not so deep. Simple dreams came in the form of brief glimpses of what was to be. She saw Lain, the bizarre creature she had helped to create, and three hazy forms standing before a grateful city, accepting the praise due to them for ending the war and bringing the soldiers home. The scene repeated itself in varied forms through the night. By the time her eyes opened again, she was convinced that such a sight must come to pass, no matter what. With the end of the war now a very real possibility, she simply must make sure it occurred.

  True to the white wizard's word, Myranda felt strong enough to stand. Myn was nowhere to be seen, and Lain's bed was empty. Deacon was still asleep, and when Myranda asked Vedesto where Lain had gone to, he seemed quite dismayed that the bed was empty. It should not have been a surprise that Lain had let himself out of the chief healer's care.

  After the news had spread that he was a Chosen, though, there was little doubt that he would be easy to find. All that she would have to do was look in the center of the largest group of people around. Or perhaps not. Upon being officially discharged from Vedesto's care, Myranda found that the people outside, many still mildly under the effects of the ceremony, were unaware Lain had slipped out. She headed quickly to his place on the Warrior's Side. There, inside his simple hut, she found him sitting with his back against the wall. Myn was curled up on his crossed legs.

  "I am surprised you are not inundated by well-wishers and admirers," Myranda said.

  "I value my privacy. The people here respect boundaries when you set them," he said.

  "You know you can't ignore it now. You are one of the Chosen. It is not a theory. You and I have seen proof," she said.

  "So it would seem," he said calmly.

  "I suppose you will leave this place soon to perform your duty to the world," Myranda said.

  "You may believe what you wish," he said.

  Myranda paused.

  "You do intend to stop the war, don't you?" she asked.

  "Is that to be one of your questions?" he asked.

  She only had two, and there was little hope of any new questions anytime soon. This, though, was quite worth it.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Absolutely not," he said.

  "What!? You cannot be serious! Lain, it is your purpose! You were born to do it! You owe it to the world!" she said.

  "I have not finished forcing the world to pay the debt owed to me. I am in the business of killing. I depend upon feelings of hatred and loathing, and deeply-seated longings to end the life of another. Such feelings are not forthcoming in a time of peace. War is my livelihood," he said.

  Myranda was frozen with rage. She could feel the hope of an end slipping away because this short-sighted, greedy, heartless thing that sat before her refused to use the power given to him for the one and only truly good purpose in the world. Her hands trembled and tears formed in her eyes. The stand that held the training swords they had been using stood to the side in the room. She grasped her weapon and, shaking, held it up.

  "Outside, now!" she demanded.

  "I am not prepared to train you now. It is not yet sundown," he said.

  "Lain, damn you, if you will not do your duty for this world, then you will keep your promise to me! On your feet!" she shouted.

  Myn, who had been roused from a light sleep by Myranda's entrance, watched in a pleasant daze. When the girl began to speak her harsh words, the dragon snapped quickly out of it. Lain grasped his training sword and hoisted himself to his feet. The pair left the hut, with Myn keeping a close and watchful eye. She could feel that there was something different about this fight.

  Myranda was hardly at her best. She had only just regained the strength to walk. She wouldn't be able to fight nearly as well as she normally would, which wasn't nearly well enough to exact the revenge she so desired. It didn't matter. She wasn't in control of her own actions any more. Lain lasted even longer than she, and he was unaccustomed to the mental fatigue that she had come to expect at the end of a training day. Perhaps, just this once, the balance would be tipped in her favor.

  The first blows began to be exchanged. Myranda was slower and sloppier than she had been in weeks. Lain's speed was not what it had been either, and his movements were, for the first time, less than graceful. Still, he managed to raise his weapon to block each attempt. As Myranda's anger stirred, she got sloppier. Soon she was paying no attention to anything but attacking. Lain landed punishing blows, hammering her ribs and legs--but in her mind, the pain was nothing. He had done more through his single decision to forsake his purpose and allow the war to
continue than he ever could with his weapon.

  Myranda put every ounce of strength she could into each attack. Either through fatigue or lapsed concentration, Lain's weapon was only barely able to block them after a time. Then came the moment. Myranda managed a single sidestep to take her out of range of a mighty swing by Lain. The force of the attack took him off balance, and there it was. Her chance. Time seemed to stop. Her weapon was ready and his was not. Before she could even think, she had struck. With a force that could only be mustered by rage, Myranda's weapon crashed with a sickening snap into Lain's jaw.

  All at once, time came rushing back. Lain shook from the force of the attack. His face turned away, but his body remained planted. Myranda dropped her weapon and gasped, shocked at what she had done. Regret instantly replaced the hate in her heart. She wanted badly to rush to him, to see if he was badly hurt. A part of her, though, held her back, fearful of the consequences of her action. Myn shot between the two, a look of pure betrayal in her eyes. Lain's face turned to her. He wore the same stony expression that he always had, but his eyes spoke volumes. There was respect, pride, and perhaps a bit of pity, but no anger. A trickle of blood crept from the corner of his mouth, staining the cream-colored fur red.

  "If that were a proper blade, I would be dead. You have learned all I can teach. When you came to me, you would not draw a drop of blood from my arm," he said, spitting a gob of blood and a tooth to the ground. "Now you are capable of taking my life. The fire is burning inside. You are every bit a warrior. The rest will come with time."

  He knelt and picked up the tooth.

  "Here," he said, stepping around Myn and placing it in Myranda's hand. "Keep it. It will be a reminder of the day you proved that you were no worse than I . . . and no better."

  Myranda stared at the bloody thing for a long time. Lain returned to his hut, leaving her to her thoughts. Her eyes wandered to the practice sword, a stain of blood near its tip. A deep, dull pain burned in the palm of her hand. The sight of the stained sword turned her stomach. Myn settled to the ground, her eyes a window to her conflicted soul. The girl couldn't stand the questioning stare and turned away, heading slowly toward her hut.