The dragon was massive, larger than her mother had been on the fateful day of her birth. Her scales, her claws, even the inside of her mouth were black as night. Here and there, a gleam of gold or a streak of red fought valiantly to be seen, but the black by far overpowered them. There were things about her that were out of scale. Muscles bulged in her forelegs and neck. Her claws were long and cruel. In her great mouth, the teeth ran the gamut from stiletto-sized spikes to stout, triangular, white spearheads. Each was accented with barbs that hinted that they would not so much slice into something as tear into it. The row of scales that ran along her spine seemed to have grown and twisted into a vicious serration. At the tip of her tail was a veritable morningstar of spiked scales.
Every inch of her was a weapon now.
"Myn . . . my dear, sweet little Myn . . . what did they do to you?" Myranda whispered painfully.
The beast lowered its great head, easily as large as Myranda. The young wizard wrapped her arms around the noble beast's neck as best she could and squeezed tight, tears rolling down her cheeks. Myn lowered herself to the ground and angled her head pleadingly. Myranda knew what she wanted. She reached over the dragon's head and rubbed and massaged as best she could without cutting her hands to ribbons. Myn shuddered in ecstasy, her long, powerful tail lashing about and putting deep gashes in any tree unlucky enough to be in its path.
Suddenly, Myranda's fingers found their way to something that should not be there. It was cold and rough. The flesh around it was swollen and tender, so much so that Myn pulled away at even the light touch of the human's fingers. Myranda tried to get a good look, but it was as black as the scales and hard to make out. Still, she tried. It was certainly metal. There seemed to be a row of recessed holes around its rim, with metal studs protruding from them. It reminded Myranda very much of a horseshoe, save for the fact that the shape continued until it met in a point. As the light of the fire and the strengthening sun fell upon its surface, Myranda could just make out some crudely-carved runes. Even to her still-recovering mind, the object resonated with magic.
In the gaping center of the ring-like ornament on the dragon's head, the flesh seemed pitted and burned. There was a residue of something, something that burned at Myranda's fingers. It could have been dragon blood, which stung quite a bit where it touched her sensitive flesh, but Myranda instantly knew that it wasn't. Dragon blood didn't burn like this. This burning didn't stop at her fingers. She could feel it in her soul, tugging and twisting at it. This was the work of the D'karon.
"Myn . . . this . . . thing here. It hurts you, doesn't it?" Myranda asked.
The beast's eyes turned to her with a clear affirmative.
"And they put it on your head, didn't they?" Myranda continued.
Again, it was clearly so.
"This is going to hurt, but it has to be done. Hold still, I am going to remove it," Myranda said.
Myn carefully pressed herself against the ground. The dragon's eyes flinched and shut tight as Myranda's fingers probed the edges. The wizard tried to cast a spell to soothe the beast's pain and put her to sleep, but the amulet affixed to her head seemed to turn the spell away. The tingling burn in her fingers grew quickly past the threshold of pain as she found a grip and pulled. The whole of Myn's body shook.
Amid the burning of her fingers, a sharp, stabbing pain in her palm accompanied each tug. She could feel the enchantment reacting to her, trying to tighten its grip as she struggled against it. The metal lifted away slightly, releasing a trickle of blood. It was a mixture of black and red, as though the D’karon’s modifications ran through her very veins. The pain in her palm was constant now, and the burning intensified everywhere the blood touched. Myn dug her claws into the icy ground, just barely managing to stop a roar of pain in her throat.
Myranda could feel the spells associated with the piece coiling up her arm, attempting to work its terrible effects on her as well. Before her eyes, streaks of black wound under her skin, along her veins. Her far-from-recovered mind was ill-equipped to force them away. Her clawing at the metal grew more desperate. Myn jerked in pain and the piece slipped from her fingers. Panic began to creep up Myranda's spine, and panic is the enemy of concentration. Desperate thoughts flickered through her mind. She needed a better vantage, and a better grip.
Quickly, the wizard climbed to the dragon's neck and redoubled her efforts. She felt a low, rattling growl of pain from her friend. The metal slipped a bit more. The studs that so resembled nails on a horseshoe revealed themselves to be just that, driven brutally into the agonized dragon's hide, and likely into the bone beneath. Each fraction of an inch that the nails slipped out translated into a shudder of pain and an excruciating hiss. The pain ran up to Myranda's shoulder.
The blood was a steady flow now. The sight of it sickened her. As she tugged at the piece, she could swear she saw flashes of white and violet light pulsing and sparking. She closed her eyes.
Myn fought desperately against her urges. She knew that this creature on her neck was her friend, and that she caused such pain only because she had to. She knew that Myranda was trying to help her. Unfortunately, a wild beast's instincts are strong. They run deep, and they speak with a loud voice. Right now, that voice boomed in her mind. It screamed that she was in danger, that she had to remove the cause of this pain. When one of the nails slipped free from her flesh, the voice finally became too much to ignore.
The dragon burst to her feet. In one smooth, reflex-driven motion, Myn threw her head to the side. If Myranda had been prepared, she might have been able to hold on. As it was, she was fully devoted to freeing her friend of this affliction. Both of her hands were locked about the metallic piece. The motion shook her from the dragon's neck, but did not break her grip. As her body flew through the air, the piece followed, swiftly breaking free and soaring through the air with the dislodged wizard.
The next moment seemed to last an hour. A white-hot bolt of pain shot up Myranda's arm. The same terrible pain drove into Myn's head. A gout of pure black blood poured from Myn's wound, and the air around her began to sizzle and crackle. The black that stained her hide began to draw together and intensify. It looked like vines rooted at her forehead and snaking along her body. They swiftly retreated backward, looping upward into the air in places and dissolving into a thickening black mist about the flailing dragon.
The moment ended with a powerful crack as Myranda's trip through the air ended suddenly due to a collision with a tree. The wind rushed from her lungs, and the world dimmed and blurred. The black, bloodied bit of metal slipped from her fingers and continued in an odd, spinning trajectory into the woods. Myranda dropped to the ground, with the now-familiar pain of a rib being re-broken throbbing in her side.
Her eyes turned to Myn. The massive form was lost in a cloud of black, appearing only as a flash of wing, a hint of snout, or a lash of tail, all thrashing in pain. The frenzy subsided slowly, until finally it was still. The black mist thinned.
Myranda tried to focus her eyes on the red and yellow blur before her. As her reluctant eyes recovered from the encounter with the tree, she slowly saw the results of the short but intense struggle. Myn's coloring was restored. With the notable exception of a black stain where the piece had been, her ruby red and golden yellow scales gleamed in all of their former glory. Her features had returned to the familiar, elegant, natural ones, as well. Her size, however, was another matter. She was no longer the hulking monstrosity that they had turned her into, but neither was she the little creature Myranda had thought she'd failed to save all of that time ago. As the dragon stood, her head rose to easily thrice Myranda's height, and from snout to tail she was ten paces if she was an inch. Truly, she was the spitting image of her mother.
The young wizard's mouth hung open in awe as she looked over her old friend as if for the first time. Perhaps it was because she'd been so changed, but the shock of having her friend back from the dead had not struck Myranda before. Now, tears poured from her eyes as s
he ran to the beast and wrapped her arms tightly about the base of her neck.
"Oh, Myn. It has been so long. I never thought I would see you again. If only you could speak. I want to know every detail," she cried joyfully.
As her teary eyes opened again, looking over the beast's shoulder, she saw what she believed to be a residual blot of black staining Myn's left wing. No . . . It was too defined for that. It seemed deliberate, intricate. In fact, it looked vaguely like . . .
Myranda wiped her eyes and looked again. The words "it can't be" offered themselves in her mind but were quickly dismissed. A sane person would have spoken them aloud without a second thought. Perhaps a year ago she would have whispered them. Perhaps yesterday she would have considered them. After all that she'd been through, all that she'd seen, those words would never mean the same thing. Today, there was nothing that could not be. What she saw was real. Her beloved dragon had returned from death's door. She had managed decades of growth in a few months. And now, like an insignia on a sail, Myn's wing bore the crisp, black curves of the Mark. The same mark that had been on the sword. The same mark that appeared on Myranda's hand, Ether's head, and the chests of Ivy and Lain. The Mark of the Chosen.
Myranda released Myn's neck and took a few steps back, paralyzed by the torrent of thoughts wrestling for control in her mind. The memories of that terrible day rushed back to her. She'd tried to pull Myn's soul back from the brink. Something had stopped her . . . some power. Then Oriech spoke to her that day; he revealed her role to her. He spoke of the Great Convergence. The pieces slowly assembled themselves.
Once the pain had subsided and the world seemed as it should be, albeit a bit larger, Myn looked upon Myranda with curiosity. She seemed distant, distracted. The dragon couldn't know what the trouble was, but she tried her best to work it out. Myranda was hungry. She had to be. Yet, for some reason, she did not prepare her meal as she always did. Myn looked about, quickly realizing that Myranda had no means to do so. There was no knife, and neither was there a bag to conceal one. Surely that was the reason. Convinced she'd gotten to the root of the problem, Myn took the job into her own claws. She'd watched the human ready similar beasts to be put over the fire many times before.
The wizard did not notice the somewhat indelicate task being performed before her. She was too deep in her own thoughts. Oriech had pulled her aside to speak of the convergence at that moment for a reason. It had just passed. If Myn was truly the fifth Chosen One, then surely he would have spoken to her before. Surely, he would have shown himself at the moment they had first joined. Unless it was not until she'd been killed that she had been chosen.
The three signs of the Chosen worked their way into her mind. Certainly the dragon was pure of soul, and she already knew that one didn't need to bear the mark on the surface to be Chosen. That only left divinity of birth.
The words of Oriech echoed in her head. They were odd, specific, and deliberate. "Your existence in this world must simply be the work of the direct will of the divine." Could it be that the massive power that had swept Myn from her grasp had been the will of the gods? "The Quickening" affected different people in different ways. Perhaps, in the hands of the gods, Myn had been coaxed into her prime instantly. The explanation was desperate, hopelessly complex, and stretched the rules until they screamed, but it fit.
Far from satisfied, Myranda reluctantly accepted her own explanation and finally took notice of Myn's handiwork. She'd done a remarkably delicate job of separating the beast, though the result was still a bit stomach-turning in its appearance. Myranda plucked up a piece of the meat, prepared it, and consumed it. Myn snapped up the rest. With the hunger dealt with, she looked at the blaze before her and the pitch-black column rising into the sky. It was a miracle that the whole of the forest had not been consumed in flame by now. Reluctantly, she drew her mind to the task of extinguishing it. The fire gradually died out under her will, leaving a pile of charred wood she could not hope to conceal.
By the time the flames had flickered their last, Myranda could already feel her mind fatigued again, and the chill was creeping into her bones. A spell or two warded off the cold for the time being, and she scanned her surroundings. Nothing seemed familiar. For a moment, she wondered how she could have traveled to this place and not know where it was. Then she remembered the flight. It seemed like a dream. Her eyes turned to the sky. If they could fly . . . then it didn't truly matter where they were, only where they wanted to go. There were two rather severe difficulties, though. First, there could be no hope of entering a town now. Myn simply could not be hidden. Second, unless they flew above the clouds, they could not travel by day. Likewise, nights with a strong moon would present threats of discovery as well.
Discovery. Myranda looked to the column of smoke as it tapered off. Perhaps at night it would not have been noticed staining the sky, but night was gone and day was quickly taking its place. If there was a town anywhere nearby, they had no doubt already seen it. Briefly, Myranda considered conjuring up a rush of wind in hopes of scattering it, but the idea was quickly dismissed. After all, if a sudden and clearly mindful gust of wind perfectly scattered the smoke before someone's eyes, it would bring armed men more surely than the smoke alone. Besides, if she was going to be relying solely on magic to keep her warm, especially without the aid of a staff, she would need all of the strength she could spare.
Myranda realized that Myn was looking impatiently at her friend. The young wizard settled to the ground and leaned against a tree near the smoldering remains of the fire. Myn thumped heavily to the ground and gently dropped her head onto Myranda's lap. It was nearly as large as her whole body had been prior to her divine growth spurt. Myranda stroked her head.
"We've got to find them, Myn. Lain, Ivy, Ether, and Deacon are out there, somewhere. If we are lucky, they are still alive. They are going to be under heavy guard, and I have no weapons. I have no staff. I don't even have proper clothing. But I have you," she whispered. "It may just be enough."
Chapter 16
Closing her eyes, Myranda worked at one of the spells Deacon had taught her, a spell of detection that would not draw the attention of the D'karon. It was different from the one she'd developed on her own. It was less broad, more targeted. Rather than looking upon the whole of the area at once, she focused intently on a small region that shifted and slid along, drawn weakly toward whomsoever one sought, something akin to looking at a map through a keyhole. The greatest challenge of the spell was keeping oneself from succumbing to frustration. Most trying was the fact that Myranda did not search at all, but had to attune herself to her target and allow her mind to be drawn to it.
Slowly, deliberately, Myranda set her mind adrift on the breezes and eddies of the spiritual plane. One by one, she shifted her thoughts to each of her friends. She began with Lain. Her consciousness bobbed lightly on the sea of the mind, patiently awaiting the lightest tug, the weakest current to guide her. None came. Reluctantly, she shifted her aim to Ether, bracing herself, ready for a surge. When she continued to feel nothing but the weak push and pull of the worn, defeated souls of her countrymen, her heart dropped.
Ether's soul was powerful, blindingly so, and she never concealed it. Even when she was weak, it shone like a beacon to the mind. Now there was not a whisper, not a glimmer.
She turned her mind to Ivy. Myranda had found her mind before. It had been after one of her transformations. She had been weak then, and still her mind had smoldered, bright and clear. Now there was nothing but a galaxy of broken spirits drifting through the void.
Myranda fought thoughts from her mind. Could it be? Had they been killed? No. She'd found Myn even after her soul left her body. They were being hidden somehow. Her focus began to waver as fatigue set in. She'd hardly recovered since the ordeal in the arena, and without her staff she had to work twice as hard at the concentration. The icy-cold wind that swept around her body was beginning to filter through to her mind.
Suddenly there was a flash, l
ike a bolt of lightning. A brilliant gold sparkle in the distance. It shifted to a still-brighter red--then, just as suddenly, vanished. It was sharp, pure, and unmistakable. It was Ivy. Myranda locked onto the indistinct point in the distance where the intense light had pulsed. In the ever-shifting currents of the astral plane, it was maddening, but she could not fail. Everything hinged upon this. She had to succeed.
In her mind, she felt the cold, dark valleys of the north slide slowly beneath her. Another flash came, this time beginning in red and ending in gold. She crept closer. Finally, she came upon something she'd never felt before. There was a sharp, penetrating cold and a deep, fundamental darkness. Not a spark of warmth. Not a flicker of light. Not a whisper of life. She pulled together all of the concentration she could muster to scour for some trace of a soul. She felt something like a heat. She drew her mind closer.
Then it came. An eruption of gold. Myranda could feel the power rush over her like a tidal wave. It permeated her spirit, infusing it and surrounding it. She felt every ounce of strength she had lost pulse, powerful and alive in her very core. Then it shifted to red, and the nourishing warmth turned to a searing heat. She was boiling in an ocean of crimson light that threw her back.
Myranda's eyes shot open. The chill should have taken its toll on her, but all she felt was the heat. Her hand sizzled against the snow as she climbed to her feet. The tree she had leaned upon was black and smoking. After a lengthy search, her mind should be in tatters, but it was sharp as it had ever been. The period of gradually coming to terms with the physical world again was absent, unnecessary. For a fraction of a moment, her mind had touched that of Ivy, sharing some fraction of the power she flowed with during one of the outbursts. It was awesome in the purest meaning of the word. Her eyes turned to the sky. The sun was doing its best to break through the near-constant clouds overhead and was having brushes with success at some points, turning thin patches of gray clouds a brilliant white. If they flew now, they would surely be seen. If they didn't . . .
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 108