The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  "What did you get?" Ivy asked, as she greedily pulled one of the filled-to-bursting bags from her shoulder.

  "As though it would make any difference to you. You would swallow anything I put before you," she replied, lowering the other bag to the ground.

  "Fruit . . . and vegetables . . . fresh!" Ivy said, pulling out various fine samples as proof.

  "And this bag is filled with cured meats? How did you manage all of this?" Deacon asked.

  "Unencumbered by mortals, I can travel quite far in a very short time," she replied.

  "The ones in the middle are still warm from the sun!" Ivy said as she pulled a large and decidedly tropical-looking fruit from the bag.

  "Um . . . unless I've missed my guess, those do not grow anywhere near any of the Northern Alliance kingdoms," Deacon said.

  "Show off," Ivy said. "You didn't run these all the way from wherever they grew as a wolf, did you? I was right, you did fly through the air with these."

  "I was not seen," she replied.

  "No, but I bet the fruit was," Ivy said.

  Deacon snickered.

  "What is it, human? Do you intend to mock me for my superiority as well?" she sneered.

  "No . . . It is just that . . . I imagined the poor fellow who saw you in transit and is trying to convince his friend that he saw a migratory coconut," he struggled to say without laughing as he held up the fruit in question.

  "Laugh all you wish. The simple fact of the matter is that not even Lain could have provided the provisions I have in the time I have," she said.

  "It is time," Lain said, ignoring the squabble.

  The group set off, taking their nourishment as they went. Myranda eagerly partook of the fruits and vegetables. Ivy and Lain didn't seem to mind subsisting on meat alone, but in the days that she'd been relying upon the game he was able to capture, Myranda had begun to feel an all too familiar sense of weakness. Neither human had ever tasted the fruits offered before, and Ivy was eager to give them a try as well. All told the bag of meat was untouched, while the well-stocked bag of produce was reduced by half.

  By the time the meal was complete, the travelers had reached the point where the road entered the mountain. It was immediately clear, as the walls of the tunnel rose up around them, that this was not the work of Myranda's fellow northerners. The sole purpose of this tunnel, it would seem, was to remain straight and level. Not a turn or dip was made, despite the fact that the stone of the walls was of such strength that not a beam or timber was needed to keep the mountain from falling in on them. As for size, it was quite small. Wide enough, perhaps, for three horses to ride side by side, and perhaps tall enough to allow a coach through. The ruts that had worn their way into the road could clearly be seen here as well, each nearly touching the wall on either side. It was as though the tunnel had been designed around whatever carriage it was that was so frequently taking this route.

  Scarcely a dozen paces into the tunnel, darkness prevailed. Myranda summoned a light from her crystal, as did Deacon. The walls were smooth. There were no torches, nor were there even holders to place them. This path had been created with no intention of ever being lit. Total blackness around her, combined with the echoing footsteps, gave Myranda unwelcome recollections of her trip to Entwell. Now, as then, she was not sure what she would find when her journey was through, but at least this time there was no fear of being lost. There was but one path.

  The even, well-maintained ground would have allowed for a far faster rate of travel than before, but Lain maintained only a brisk walk. Perhaps it was the seclusion the tunnel permitted, or perhaps his need for revenge had been dulled somewhat, but for now he set a pace that barely put the horses at a trot. Despite this, the opening behind them retreated quickly from view, leaving only blackness ahead and behind. Ivy, who had been on foot with Lain and Ether, strayed closer and closer to the wizards and the comforting pool of light they provided. Finally, she hopped onto the back of Myranda's horse and wrapped her arms around the wizard's waist.

  "I don't like it here," Ivy whispered.

  She was clearly anxious, though the lack of a blue aura betraying this fact indicated that it was either not a very great fear or that she'd managed a degree of control over herself. Either was a good sign. As she calmed down a bit, she noticed that Myranda was sitting very rigidly, and had been ever since she'd joined her.

  "Are you still upset, Myranda?" she asked, sheepishly.

  Myranda gave no answer.

  "Is . . . Is it something I did?" she asked.

  "Ivy, perhaps you should join me instead," Deacon offered.

  "But . . . Myranda, I don't know what I did, but it must have been very bad. You wouldn't be like this if it wasn't. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" Ivy begged. "I'll do anything."

  Myranda took a deep breath and spoke. Despite her best efforts, the words wavered with emotion.

  "It is something that happened long ago. Can . . ." Myranda began, a lump in her throat choking off her words for a moment. "Can you remember anything at all before your time with the teachers?"

  "I can't. I tried. I don't like to think about that," Ivy said, shutting her eyes and shaking her head.

  "Ivy . . . I need to you try again. Don't try to remember anything specific. Just . . . try to take yourself back . . . and tell me what you see," Myranda said.

  "All right. For you, I'll try," she said, shutting her eyes.

  For a few minutes, she was silent. When she did begin to speak, it was in spurts, and accompanied with flares of blue light and tightly-shut eyes.

  "I remember . . . the cage . . . being inside of it . . . there were teachers. So many . . . I remember when I first opened my eyes . . . like they hadn't been open for a long time . . . I remember . . . seeing her . . . in the cage. The white beast. And the crystal. That horrible crystal . . . it is so dim," she murmured.

  "You have to try. Go further," Myranda urged.

  "Just blackness . . . for so long . . . nothing but my own thoughts. They were slipping away. I couldn't hold onto them . . . wait. I remember . . . a fountain. There were three trumpets . . . I remember the walls. It was a city . . . so big . . . home. They were there. Then . . . the gates . . . so many soldiers . . ." she muttered.

  As she spoke, she sank deeper and deeper into her mind. The visions were in control now. Myranda listened to the images as they were described. They became more and more familiar with each step back. And with each step back, the doubt in her mind slipped further away. Tears began to trickle down her face.

  #

  Far away, a young boy reclined in his chair. Lightly clutched between the fingers of his right hand was the shaft of a halberd, the cracked crystal set in the blade flickering and pulsing. He was alone in a large room filled with books and maps. On his face was a look of deep contentment. There came a knock on the door. It was ignored, as had been the dozens that had come with ever-increasing insistence before it. Finally, the door was flung open.

  "I demand to know what you think you are doing!" cried Trigorah as she charged in.

  Her immaculate and graceful features were twisted in fury.

  "Quiet," he hushed lightly. "Do you feel it?"

  "What?" came the impatient reply.

  "Anguish. Sweet as a summer wine. I couldn't feel them before. The girl has become quite proficient at masking herself. All she needed was the tiniest nudge to set her mind on fire, though. Now two of them are inflamed with decades of pent-up anguish. It is ringing out, strong and clear. Exquisite," he said. "It never fails. The old wounds cut deepest."

  "Where are they?" Trigorah asked.

  "I said quiet! This is a moment to be enjoyed," he replied, leaning his head back and stirring the air with his fingers as though he were conducting a symphony.

  "Stop wasting my time," Trigorah demanded. "Tell me where they are and let me do my duty!"

  With a frustrated sigh, he opened his eyes.

  "In the tunnel, heading for the compost h
eap. I'll tell Bagu in a moment. I'm sure he'll want to send someone down to greet them. Did you find that friend of yours I'd asked you to locate?" he asked.

  "I did. He is barely alive," she replied, suddenly disgusted by her words.

  "See to it that he is strong enough to stand; that is all that I require. Entertaining as it is to see you all unsettled by having to deal with a child, once I am able to take him as a vessel, we shall close this chapter of the prophecy once and for all. Until then, leave me to savor the fruits of a few well-planted seeds," he proclaimed.

  He then closed his eyes again and returned to his delighted reverie. Trigorah stood for a few moments, watching Epidime as he harvested the sorrow of the heroes far away. It was clear no more progress would be made here. She turned and stalked off to the dungeons again.

  #

  Back in the darkness of the tunnel, Ivy's tone had grown more distressed.

  ". . . that horrible, horrible crystal . . . the spike," Ivy continued, clutching her chest with her last words. "No. NO! WHY!"

  She began to struggle against hands that were holding her down.

  "Open your eyes!" Myranda commanded.

  Ivy's eyes shot open and darted about. She was no longer on the horse's back. They had all stopped. Myranda was holding her by the shoulders; Deacon holding his glowing crystal near. The whole of the tunnel was bathed in a bright blue light that sharply faded as she realized that it was all in her mind. Behind Myranda, now almost invisible among the shadows, was Lain. Beside him was Ether, casting her scornful gaze.

  "They stabbed me! In the chest! It was a spike. Like Demont used on Ether when we were in his fort. It was him then, too. The soldiers killed the rest. Everyone died. My mother, my father . . . me! He . . . he killed me! How can I be alive!? What am I? What did they do to me!?" she cried, tears pouring down her eyes. "Why did you make me remember!?"

  Ivy beat her hands on Myranda's chest weakly as the girl cried as well. It was not Ivy's curse, forcing her emotions upon others. This pain she felt was genuine. Immersed in the same sorrow, the pair embraced, their bodies shaking with the force of their sobs.

  "There were flames. I saw them . . . I heard the screaming . . . It was all I could hear . . . even after they were dead. I . . ." she sobbed.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you relive it," Myranda forced through the tears. "I just needed to know if it was true. I needed you to remember who you really were."

  "But . . . I don't . . . I don't even remember my name . . . or the names of my parents . . . my family. All I remember is that horrible day . . . And I remember . . . just for an instant . . . seeing me, this me, from the outside . . . like it was someone else. I . . . I wasn't always what I am now . . . but I can't remember what I was," she managed to speak between sobs.

  Ether watched the outpouring of emotion with disgust. Deacon placed his hand on Myranda's shoulder and offered what little consolation he could. The shapeshifter turned to Lain, who stood emotionless as ever, his eyes locked on Ivy.

  "Well? Aren't you going to coddle the beast?" she grumbled.

  Lain turned away, his gaze shifting to the darkness that lay behind them. He twitched his ears and tried to listen over the slowly subsiding sobs of his fellow travelers. Nothing revealed itself, but something did not feel right. He stepped a few more paces into the darkness. Ether joined him.

  "You aren't suited for this, Lain. And neither am I. We are Chosen. We are not meant to be babying the weak of mind. I was at first pleased by your sudden dedication to our cause, but it swiftly became clear that it was not the desire to do that which is your birthright that motivated you, but revenge. Revenge is a petty thing, Lain. And, worse, revenge for what? Denying the beast a safe haven?" she judged.

  "I do not seek your approval," Lain replied simply.

  "Nor should you. I know that I have behaved in a way that was . . . overt in my attempts to direct your heart's desire to where it rightfully should reside. I realize that such behavior was inappropriate, and quite unnecessary. Whether you accept it or not, you are an original Chosen, and so am I. The two of us are the only beings, created of the will of the gods expressly for the purpose of turning back the tide of darkness, that have managed to remain untainted and whole. This affection you place with Ivy is misguided, and you will see that, just as you will see that there can be only one who is worthy of it. All that is required is time. Fortunately, the two of us have an abundance of that. So I shall wait for your senses to return to you," Ether proclaimed.

  Lain drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

  "I do, however, offer a word of advice," she continued.

  "What is it?" he growled, patience at an end.

  "I had believed that there were no more Chosen to be found, even prior to our discovery of the beast. The fact that she technically remains a valid Chosen suggests that there may still be a fifth yet to be discovered. I realize that Myranda claims that the Great Convergence has already occurred, and that somewhere, a creature we have already met stands as the fifth and final of our own. This is absurd. However, if there is even a remote possibility of it, it is of paramount importance that the actual final Chosen be found. Even if it means locking that . . . thing . . . into her place among us. When your thirst for revenge is sated by the decimation of this meaningless fort, I suggest we devote our full efforts to searching for our final ally until we are certain that such an ally no longer exists," she advised.

  Lain remained silent and turned his attentions fully to the darkness behind them once more. There was something in the air that he didn't like.

  Deacon, helplessly watching the others pour out years of anguish at once, tried his best to comfort them.

  "It is all right. It is all in the past. What's done is done," he fruitlessly offered.

  "What was that place? The place I saw?" Ivy begged Myranda. "Tell me you know it!"

  "It was Kenvard. It was my . . . our home," she replied, wiping tears away.

  "That was Kenvard . . . the massacre you talked about, that killed everyone but you and your uncle . . . I was there? But you said that it was years ago . . . My head . . ." Ivy said, wincing in pain and covering her eyes. "I guess this is what sadness does to me. Makes me weak . . . and opens old wounds. Kind of poetic, huh?"

  She was quite right about the old wounds. The deep gash in her arm that had nearly cost Ivy her life a short time ago was trickling blood again. Myranda closed the wound and helped her to her feet.

  "So . . . if that was Kenvard, did you know me?" Ivy asked.

  "Perhaps. I was very young. My memories of that time are vague at best. But I'm sure my mother did. Lucia. Her name is on the proclamation," Myranda said.

  "Lucia . . . I remember the name now. She was . . . a teacher. But not a bad one like Demont and them. I think I had a lot of teachers then. But I can't . . . I can't remember. Why! Why are the bad memories the only ones left?" she cried.

  "You remembered this. The rest will come," Myranda said.

  "Quiet," Lain ordered in a whisper.

  Everyone turned to face him. He closed his eyes and focused on what was silence to all, even Ivy. After a moment, he opened his eyes. Now it was certain.

  "Someone has entered the tunnel behind us," he said. "At least a horse. We need to keep moving. Keep the light low."

  The group hastily returned to horseback and continued. The sound of the horses' steps echoed infuriatingly, wiping out any hint of the sound of the follower and making it all the more likely that they would be found. The group could travel more silently on foot, but leaving the horses now would give away their presence when they were found, and the speed they provided just might keep them ahead.

  Time had passed slowly before, but now each passing moment was an eternity. It was clear that Ivy was doing all she could to keep the fear she was feeling from showing. Tension only grew as the horses began to falter. They'd had little to eat or drink. Provisions had run out for them shortly before they had entered the mountains, and he
re in the tunnel there was no source of water and not even a single blade of grass for them to eat. Their purposely slow pace grew gradually slower, until there could be little doubt that the mysterious followers would be gaining.

  As they progressed, the tension grew thicker. A long section of the otherwise completely featureless tunnel was stained with two shades of blood, and shortly after that, a pile of unrecognizable remains came into view. Time had rendered it a dried-up husk, and the same ruts that had remained constant throughout the journey ran right through it. It filled the tunnel with the smell of death. Not long after that, Lain signaled for the light to be doused entirely.

  Many believe that they know true darkness, but until it has been experienced, it cannot be imagined. Without even a flicker of light, the mind begins to play tricks. There is the constant feeling that there is a wall before you, that you must stop. The eyes open as wide as they can, hungry for light. The only thing that helps is to shut them tight. The horses' eyes were covered and they were led along. Ivy's arms were wrapped tightly about Myranda's waist, her head pressed hard against Myranda's shoulder, shakily breathing in the girl's ear. She was practically whimpering, but with the exception of a flare of blue occasionally, she was doing a heroic job of suppressing her fear.

  In the darkness, it was impossible to tell how far they had traveled, and hours and minutes bled together. Even Myranda could hear something in the echoes now, something near. She pulled in a breath of the stale air in the tunnel. It still reeked of death. If anything, it had grown stronger. How could that be? Surely that . . . thing was miles behind them by now. Then Myranda felt something she had been waiting for. It was the tiniest puff of cold air on her skin. She opened her eyes. Far ahead was the silver light of the moon falling on snow. It was barely there, but after so long in the darkness, it may as well have been a beacon.