"The map," Myranda reminded him.
"Yes, yes. I am certain I can create a map, I just require a few words to refresh my memory. The primer. Where is my primer?" he replied.
"No, Deacon, you took a map from inside. We can use that," Myranda explained.
"Oh . . . oh, yes, yes. Of course. Where is my head?" the wizard replied, quickly drawing the neatly folded sheet from the bag.
The instant it was removed, the wind tried to tear it from his grasp, but with a gesture, the wind parted around them. Myranda marveled for a moment at the effortless, casual way in which Deacon incorporated magic into everything he did. He used it as one might use one's hand to brush away a hair or tighten a knot while the mind was busy with other things.
She turned to the map. It was drawn with the same exacting detail as everything that Demont had put his hand to. The labels were in the mysterious language that she had seen throughout his laboratory and workshop. Not a word or symbol of it had any meaning for her, but that was of little concern. Here was the place she knew the fort to be. There was the thin line of the tunnel she'd trudged through. And here was the workshop they'd just left. The place that she'd felt the others to be was a considerable distance away. Either Lain and the others had moved very quickly, or she'd been unconscious for some time. Likely both. Regardless, they would not be able to catch up on foot.
"They are here. Heading toward the mountains, or there already. I don't know why they are going there. They had been heading south before," she said.
"What is our course of action?" Deacon asked eagerly.
"They are much faster than us, and there is much distance between us," Myranda mused out loud. "Is it possible for you to bring us to him in the same way that you brought yourself here?"
"No. No, certainly not. The spell is too rough. Too dangerous. I have neither the strength nor the focus necessary to transport even one of us safely," he stated firmly.
"Then how did you come here?" she asked.
"I required a great deal of aid from Azriel, as well as more than a little manipulation of likelihood," he said.
"Then we shall have to reach this town. With any luck, there will be horses there. While we walk, you must explain to me what you mean by 'manipulation of likelihood,'" she said.
When the map was folded and stowed, and the wind was permitted to resume its preferred course, the pair headed off toward the town indicated on the map.
Chapter 2
As they traveled, Deacon spoke at length about the methods he had used to find Myranda and to reach her. He twisted confusing analogies, likening the fabric of reality to folded paper with a hole pierced through one moment, the next to a many-sided die weighted to fall as one requires. He claimed that the spell he used was not strong enough to allow him to be certain he would be transported unless an endless string of factors turned out in his favor, and he hadn't the strength or knowledge to manipulate those factors. Instead, he had diverted his strength to twisting and pulling at the rules that governed reality, turning probability on its head until some spectacularly unlikely circumstance, whatever it might be, produced the needed effect at the needed time.
Apparently, the three lightning bolts she had seen had been the impossible coincidence he needed. It all seemed like madness, but he spoke about it plainly, as though it was the utmost in simplicity.
When his lecture was complete, he prompted--indeed, pleaded--Myranda to offer up the tale of her journey since she had left his home. He had seen only precious, fleeting glimpses, and though there were scattered moments when he caught a whisper of her thoughts, his mind ached to know every last detail. Myranda agreed. Instantly, the thick tome that had been perpetually in his hands when they were in Entwell emerged from the bag. He recorded her words studiously, now and again requesting details and hastily sketching the sights she had seen.
His enthusiasm at each new piece of information mercifully distracted his mind from the cold. Increasingly, as the short northern day progressed, he took his hands from the stylus and book to wring some feeling back into them. Rather than stop his careful record for even a moment, the book and pen drifted dutifully before him as he did so, continuing to record Myranda's words on their own until he was finished.
Myranda, indifferent to the cold, was driven to continue, despite the weariness that cut her to the core. Her "sleep" in the tunnel had been anything but refreshing, and though Deacon had spared her of her injuries, he had done nothing to restore her strength--of body or mind. By the time the light began to fail, it was clear that the town would not be reached before her body gave out completely. Her eyes fixed themselves on a small, tight stand of trees that would shelter them--at least from searching eyes, if not from the wind or cold.
When Myranda settled down on the ground, leaning against a tree, Deacon did the same, across from her. He looked anxious, as though there was something he or someone else had forgotten.
"Is something wrong?" Myranda asked.
"We . . . we will be spending the night here," he half asked, half stated.
"I'm afraid so," she said.
"Oh, not a problem. It is just that the weather is harsh and I was not certain that sleeping unsheltered was in our . . . never mind. A fire? Should I start a fire?" he stumbled.
"There doesn't seem to be much dry wood about," she said.
"Not to worry," he said.
A gesture later and a flame danced a few inches from the ground with little regard for the fact that there was no wood to fuel it.
"Will that last until morning?" Myranda asked, smiling at the latest impossible feat Deacon had performed. Technically, she could do the same--but for him it seemed effortless.
"It will last for the rest of the week if I don't dismiss it," he said.
"Wonderful! I don't suppose you have any food in that bag of yours?" Myranda said.
"I . . . I hadn't thought to include any . . . Oh! I believe I brought a few of your apples!" he said, quickly rummaging through. "Had I been thinking, I would have brought food enough for an army. And something to sleep on! Blast it all, where was my mind?"
Finally, he produced four glossy, red apples, tossing one to Myranda.
"It does seem odd," said Myranda, taking in the scent of the fresh fruit before taking her first hungry bite.
"I was focused primarily on what I thought would be the more difficult task of reaching the outside world. The thought of what to do if I actually succeeded barely brushed my mind. I suppose I didn't think it likely enough to plan for," he explained.
"You shouldn't have taken so great a risk," Myranda scolded.
"I cannot bear to imagine what might have happened if I didn't. You would have been killed. I had to try. All I had to risk was my life. I mean nothing in the grand scheme," he said.
"You mean a lot to me," she said.
For a time, Deacon and Myranda were silent.
"I . . . you mean a . . . a great deal to me as well," Deacon struggled to say.
He fidgeted a bit, looking as though he would crawl out of his skin if he could.
"And to the world," he added uncomfortably, flinching as he said the words, as though he regretted them leaving his lips.
He crunched nervously at an apple and sheepishly avoided eye contact. After a few more moments, Myranda broke the silence.
"So, if you failed to bring the necessities, what did you bring?" she offered, sensing a change of subject would be the best thing right now.
"I, um, I brought a great deal. In fact, I really should have given them to you sooner," he said, beginning to rummage through his bag again. "There was the cloak, of course, but aside from that, I have a bow and set of arrows. A few daggers . . . Here is my spell primer . . . A few healing potions . . . Where is it? Ah! Here."
He drew from the bag a jewel every bit as pure as the one he perpetually held.
"The day you became a full master, our craftsmen set to work refining a crystal befitting your skill, and a similarly fine staff to
mount it in. You left before either was even nearly completed, but work continued. The staff is still incomplete, but this was finished just days ago. I managed to . . . acquire it. I felt it would do more good in your hands than on the shelf awaiting your return," he said, presenting her with it.
He touched the head of her shattered staff. The wood that held the crystal in place uncoiled like a living tendril, accepting the replacement and wrapping back into place. He dropped the old crystal, barely more than a bundle of cracks and shards after the trials it had endured, into his bag.
Myranda felt the effects of the superior gem wash over her. Holding it lessened the haze that addled her weary mind, as though the staff had taken a portion of the stress of her mind upon itself.
"Like night and day, isn't it," Deacon said. "It was not so long ago that I received my full mastery crystal. Just a few years. Wait until morning, when you've more of your strength about you. Things that were impossible to you before are well within reach, and things that were simple are effortless."
"It is remarkable," Myranda said with a yawn.
She finished the rest of her apple.
"Deacon, tomorrow we should reach the town. Perchance, did you bring any gold with you?" she asked.
His expression was answer enough.
"Don't worry about it. We will work something out," she said, leaning back and closing her eyes.
As Myranda drifted off to sleep, Deacon watched. His mind scolded him relentlessly for dozens of missed opportunities and mistakes. Not only things that he had failed to bring, plans he had failed to make, but things he had failed to say, and things that should have been left unsaid. Even now, the confounding state of mind that had plagued him since that fateful day when she disappeared from Entwell burned at him.
He cast a quick spell to end some aches that had been nagging him from his fall. His left hand tingled slightly, a bit numb from the cold. He flexed it a few times until the feeling passed. Carefully, he began to assemble words in his head. Care must be taken. Things must be right. Tomorrow he would make up for his foolishness. Tomorrow . . .
The morning sun was still hours away when Myranda stirred. Deacon's eyes had never closed. Each ate the remaining apple allotted to them before the fire was dismissed. Myranda shouldered her quiver of arrows and bow, equipping herself with the other items Deacon had brought for her, and they set off once more. She sensed that something had changed as they continued on their way. Deacon was quiet, and the book and stylus remained in the bag. He was rolling the crystal in one hand, his eyes distant and pensive.
"Is something wrong, Deacon?" she asked.
"There is . . . there is something," he replied hesitantly.
"What is it?" she asked, concern in her voice.
Deacon stopped walking; Myranda stopped and turned to him.
"I am not sure that this is the time for it, but . . . in the days since I met you . . . I have done a great number of things that I don't understand. Things that didn't make sense to me. Things that I shouldn't do. I knew that they were wrong, foolish, impossible things, but I could not help myself. I was not sure what was happening. You know that my choice of gray magic has led me to have few friends among the wizards in Entwell. Indeed, I have lived there all of my life, yet there were only a handful of individuals in whom I might confide. I spoke at length to them about this sickness. This affliction of the mind. Some would not listen. Only Calypso seemed to have any insight, but she was vague about it. She seemed to think that I would not accept her advice if she was direct. She was right. It doesn't matter though . . ." Deacon began, cryptically.
His words had a measured, rehearsed quality, yet it seemed that it took all of his strength to say them. As he spoke, he fiddled with his crystal more and more, shifting it to the other hand, slipping it in the bag to wring his fingers, then pulling it out again.
"Logic had always ruled my life. Spells followed a graceful order. One thing followed another, and always with a specific cause. Whatever was happening to me was different. It had no cause. My mentor, Gilliam, had spoken to me early in my apprenticeship, warning that there was one thing in the world that followed no rules, obeyed no laws. That thing, he said, was the most powerful force in the world. He never did explain what it was he was talking about, what force he spoke of. I know now. Myranda . . ." he said, sweat rolling down his brow in spite of the cold.
The crystal dropped to the ground. Myranda stooped to retrieve it for him. He reached out to stop her. When he did, she gasped and recoiled.
"Your hand!" she cried.
"Never mind it, I must finish," he pleaded.
"Deacon, your hand!" she repeated, grasping his wrist and raising his left hand.
"Myranda, I . . . that's . . . curious," he said, now realizing the source of her concern.
His hand was partially missing. It had faded to nearly nothing, like a weak reflection. He tried to grasp it with the other hand, but it passed through, as though his left hand was not there at all. Quickly, he pulled back his sleeve to find that the change was steadily creeping up his arm. Myranda, panicked, grabbed the crystal from the ground and placed it in his other hand. She made use of her own upgraded staff to try to determine what the source of this horrific occurrence was, but nothing presented itself. Mystically, it was as though all was as it should be. As though whatever was happening was natural.
"What is happening? What should I do?" she asked.
"I am not certain yet," he replied.
There was naught but calm in his voice, and naught but fascination in his eyes. He closed them, gathering his mind into a spell. The affliction began to slow, and then recede. Just as solidity returned to his palm, however, he cried out, his fingers twitching into an agonized claw and shifting to some sort of pitch-black stone.
"It would seem--" He grimaced in pain. "--that the bag was not the only thing damaged by the incomplete spell."
"Tell me what to do!" Myranda pleaded helplessly.
"I am . . . not certain," he said.
His hand suddenly returned from the petrified, blackened form, and instead sprouted extra fingers. Deacon sighed with relief.
"The pain is gone. This is . . . this is chaos," he said, suddenly realizing the answer. "Chaos. Of course. Chaos magic is the one field that Entwell has never had a master for. The manipulation of probability must fall into that realm. Naturally it would!"
"Can you stop this?" she asked.
The spare fingers vanished and the hand made it partway to some other form before rebounding back to normal. When it did, he thrust the crystal into the hand. Instantly, a sharp glow arose in the heart of the crystal. A moment passed, then another. The hand remained normal.
"What did you do?" she asked.
"I am . . . manually enforcing normality. The manipulation of likelihood, it would seem, has fundamentally altered my hand. It appears that it no longer behaves as logic would dictate. It is bounding from one side of improbable to the other on its own. It is unpredictable by nature now," he explained.
"How could you have come to that conclusion so quickly?" she asked, confused by the degree of detail and certainty with which he spoke.
"I . . . had determined that this was one possible outcome of such a spell," he answered.
"And you still did it? Why would you do such a thing!" she cried.
"It was the only way to--" Deacon began.
"Don't tell me that! We both know that all you needed was time! You are brilliant! You risked your life and did this to yourself for what? Because you were impatient? Because you weren't thinking? Because--" Myranda raved.
"Because I love you!" he cried out.
Myranda sunk into a stunned silence.
"That is why I couldn't think clearly! That is the sickness that Calypso had spoken of, the force that Gilliam had spoken of! All I could think of was you! I had to be with you. Nothing else mattered then, and nothing else matters now!" he ranted.
The words came out with a pressure long wait
ing to be released. Myranda looked into his eyes. They were alive with emotions--and, most of all, relief.
"If I were not a fool, I would have realized it sooner. I would have told you before you left. I would have gone with you. But it wasn't clear to me then. Now it is," he confessed.
"Deacon . . . I feel the same way. Of course I do. I have longed all of my life to even know someone like you. I had convinced myself that such a person did not exist. The time I spent with you in Entwell was like paradise. To be with someone caring, intelligent . . . everything I had always hoped for. I suppose I didn't realize it either, or I would have stayed," she said.
"No. You had to go. This is the way things had to be. I do not regret my decision for a moment, and nor should you," he said.
Myranda stepped forward and embraced him. He warmly returned the gesture. They held each other for a long moment, before finally they separated, the task at hand unwilling to wait any longer.
"Can you cure your hand?" she asked.
"Well, certainly not in the same way that it was altered. As you might imagine, it is in the nature of chaos magic to be unpredictable. There is very likely a cure, but for now I will have to settle for something a bit more temporary," he said, reaching down into the bag. "Another enchantment should serve the purpose well enough. I just need something . . . something I won't have to hold onto, or mistakenly leave behind."
"One moment . . . perhaps it is time to give this new crystal a test," Myranda said.
Pulling free an arrow and a dagger, she cut the lashing that held the sharp tip in place. Then she brandished her staff and released the arrowhead. It hung in front of her with scarcely a thought. Drawing to mind some of the other teachings she'd brought with her from Deacon's home, she quickly raised the temperature of the piece until it was little more than a floating blob of white-hot metal. A few more thoughts and it twisted and turned itself into a ring, a simple design embellishing the surface as what little metal was unneeded swirled off into a simpler, more delicate band. A final thought cooled the pair of rings and dropped them into her hand.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 89