The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “I'll be providing the light to read by, but Master Nozim forbids naked flames near his books,” she explained from inside the jar. “I'm not strong enough yet to summon a flame from afar for any length of time, so this is where that leaves us.” She took a deep breath and released it shakily. “It just stirs up some bad memories, is all.”

  “What memories?”

  “Well, out in the real world, there aren't an awful lot of fairies eager to take on the creature of the cave. It certainly wasn't my idea to come here. The cave is a dangerous place, and so some parties of adventurers used to catch little fairies and put them in cages or jars. They would take us with them into the cave. We hate caves, and most of us are attuned to wind magic. It doesn't matter how far you take a fairy into a cave, we can feel from the wind which way leads out. They even have special cages with a string through the bottom so they can reel us back after we try to get away. We were their escape plans, stuffed into jars, thrown into bags. Small places . . . dark places . . .” She shook herself, then twirled, sparking a brilliant flame around herself. “But now there aren't any dark places if I don't want there to be. So . . . where were we?”

  Chapter 26

  The days rolled into weeks, then months, and his skill grew by leaps and bounds. Training drills like “courier” became genuine competitions, his picking and planting becoming nearly a match for Leo's. Slow but steady progress was made in building his language skills as well. He came to understand the proper usage of a sword, and quickly developed a knack for throwing knives. Every day brought more knowledge—but perhaps more important than the knowledge was the understanding of its value. Immersed as he was in languages that he had at first only half understood, he was beginning to catch words and sentences that would have been lost to him before. All around him, he was seeing markings that had before been meaningless patterns suddenly taking on meanings.

  He found himself becoming ravenous for knowledge, almost desperate for it, and most were happy to oblige and pleased with his progress.

  One area, though, seemed to fall short of expectations. Though he was an able combatant, his sparring matches did not turn out as well as he had imagined. At first, he gained some rapid victories, but as his opponents came to understand his tactics, the balance shifted in their favor. Each battle ended with critiques and advice, and thus the battles lasted longer and his victories caught up to his defeats, but he was, at best, a moderate student. For a typical apprentice, it was as it should be, and likely he would have been allowed to continue as he was.

  Weste, however, did not feel the same way about Shadow.

  The master was watching as he engaged in a battle with Leo, each student armed with a blunt wooden training sword. They most frequently faced each other, and as a result the sparring matches between the two were faster and more intense than either would have with another. Each knew his opponent's moves and habits and was quick to capitalize upon weaknesses and defend against strengths. It produced a heated and fluid display of martial prowess. This particular battle had been raging for some time, building steadily in speed and vigor. Shadow was doing well, his blows precise and relentless. There was the sense that something was building, that he was gaining momentum. Leo did his best to interrupt or counter, and sometimes he succeeded, but the assault was becoming more vicious with each strike.

  Then, without any clear indication of why, Shadow hesitated and faltered. An opening appeared, Leo capitalized, and the battle was over, Shadow on his back and the mock blade pressing hard into his chin.

  “A fine battle,” Leo said breathlessly, as he reached down to pull Shadow to his feet. “But today victory is mine.”

  “No,” growled Weste, appearing unobserved as always. “It was indeed a fine battle, and you did everything properly, Leo, but you did not win this battle—he lost it.” He turned to Shadow. “You had that battle. It was yours! But you let it slip away. You held yourself back. Why? Why didn't you take the final step? Why didn't you finish?”

  Shadow was silent.

  “Do you know why I came to you, why I offered you my instruction? It wasn't because you were able to sneak into this place. That is impressive, but it is a trick that any of my students here could do if they'd been of a mind to try it. And it wasn't because of your senses or perception. Those are useful, even remarkable, but without a dedicated will to use them properly, I would have had no use for a creature that possessed them. I came for you because of a single instant. When you were being tested in front of the Elder's quarters, in the moment that you realized that Leo was sneaking up behind you, I saw something in your eyes. A spark, an intensity that cannot be passed from a teacher to a student. It must be there from birth. I saw it in you that day, and never again.” He marched up to Shadow and looked him in the eye. “Today I mean to see it again.”

  Master Weste drew a sword from his belt. It was not a wooden training sword, but one of gleaming steel, likely one of Croyden's creations. It was long, with a narrow, single-edged blade.

  “Give him a weapon. A proper one,” Weste said.

  The tone of the training ground changed. It was always serious. Even in its lightest moments, each of the students knew that the skills they learned and the methods they used were to be treated with respect and reverence, but now an intensity filled the air. Quietly, Shadow was handed his sword and a space opened around them.

  Weste's stance as he prepared to battle was different from those of his students. He stood with his body angled aside. His sword arm was forward, weapon loosely in his grip and toe pointed to Shadow. The trailing foot and arm were each casually to the side. There was an air of disrespect to the stance, as though Shadow was not worth his full attention.

  “Fight,” he ordered.

  Shadow held his weapon as he had been taught, but Weste did not change his stance to a properly defensive one.

  “What are you waiting for?” Weste asked.

  “I am waiting for you to raise your weapon.”

  “Well, I am waiting for you to give me a reason to.”

  A few more seconds passed, and Shadow finally decided to make his move. In a blur of steel and motion, Weste's weapon streaked through the air and knocked Shadow's from his hand. The master then flipped his sword back, cutting a deliberate nick on Shadow's snout.

  “Now pick it up,” Weste said, “and fight.”

  Shadow retrieved his sword and returned to his stance, blood trickling down the side of his nose. This time he didn't hesitate, slicing instantly, but once again, the merest motion of the master disarmed him and earned him another shallow cut, this one to the chin.

  “Again,” Weste said.

  The other students watched silently as once more the newest among them retrieved his weapon and with the same humiliating simplicity had it stripped away. Shadow was bleeding from three superficial slashes now, and after collecting his weapon, he was hesitant to return to a combat stance.

  “I'm waiting,” Weste rumbled. Shadow did not react. His eyes were turned low, and his grip was loose. The master narrowed his eyes slightly. “You know something? My other apprentices, they call me master. I have not heard you do the same. Let me hear it now.”

  Shadow raised his eyes, locking Weste in a steely glare. “I will not call you master.”

  “And why not? It is what I am, is it not?”

  “That word does not mean the same to you that it means to me.”

  “Oh? And why is that? Ah, yes. You were a slave, weren't you? A Tresson slave. Then those three stripes I've given you, they mean something else as well, don't they?” He raised his sword. “They mean you are worthless.”

  Shadow's grip tightened. He slashed fast and hard, his blade clashing with that of the master. This time the exchange lasted three blows each, and when the master finally knocked Shadow's blade aside, it did not leave his hand. Now Weste stepped to him, his stance serious.

  “Did I say stop?”

  They clashed again, more vigorously and viciously, but
again it ended with Shadow's sword knocked aside and a fresh slash across his pelt. Anger was building in him. He did not wait to be goaded further, thrusting himself at his teacher with bared teeth and turned-back ears.

  “There . . . I can see it under the surface,” Weste said between strikes. “You still won't let it free.” He began to sweep the sword in broad, powerful strokes, forcing Shadow back. “Show it to me! Show me the fire!” Now the apprentice was backed against a tree, growling. “Show it to me you filthy, worthless mally!”

  When the final word struck his ears, what little control Shadow still had was thrust away. He dropped his sword and lunged forward, clawed fingers slashing. Weste managed to pull his head nearly clear, but still earned four shallow gashes on his cheek. The master wasn't fighting a student anymore. He was fighting a wild animal. Shadow was blinded with fury, jaws snapping and claws scraping. It was all that Weste could do to keep the beast from tearing his throat out, but what wit and breath could be spared was dedicated entirely to keeping the other students at bay.

  “No!” he urged when they tried to step in, “keep your distance.”

  Weste abandoned his sword and the two began to circle each other, the master now staring into the eyes of a predator. Shadow was low to the ground, moving in quick, sudden attacks that often shredded the cloth and scored the skin of the instructor. Finally Shadow launched himself forward, jaws snapping short of Weste's throat by the width of a hair. The master seized the cloth of Shadow's shirt, continued the motion of the attack, and turned it into a roll. The two tumbled cross the ground and finally came to a rest with Weste straddling the maddened beast, holding him to the ground.

  “This is it! This is the fire! This is what you have that sets you apart! It is raw, powerful. Single of purpose, but it is wild.” Shadow struggled and roared. “You have no control over it, and that's why you are afraid of it. That's why you don't want to let it out.” Slowly, the malthrope's wits were returning. “You've probably seen that part of you do some terrible things. You think if you can push it down, lock it away, then it won't hurt anyone again. You are wrong.”

  The intelligence had returned to Shadow's eyes now. Weste stood and helped him to his feet.

  “You cannot defeat something like that by denying it. Cage a beast, try to starve it, and you'll only drive it into a desperate frenzy. You'll make it that much deadlier when it breaks free. And it will break free, because it is a part of you, and you can't change what you are. What you need to do is harness it. That intensity, that drive, forged by wisdom and training. It is the stuff of legend. Become its master and there is nothing in this world that will keep you from your goals.”

  “Master Weste, I think we should take you to the healer,” Leo said. The apprentice had a look of concern on his face.

  Weste wiped the blood from his cheek, but did not even bother to give the scattering of bloody gashes a second thought. “No healers. If a student can spill my blood, if he or she can take my life, then so be it. Such a thing is a victory, and I will not allow it to be taken away.” He turned back to Shadow. “From this day forward, I want to see that same fire in everything you do. Remember that.”

  #

  Combat drills and training became an entirely new task after his confrontation with Weste. For so long, he had fought to force down the part of him that had taken all of those lives when he escaped from the plantation. Now he was tasked with drawing it up and funneling it through the training and discipline he was learning. It felt like he was being asked to use a forest fire to cook a meal, harnessing so uncontrollable a force for so precise a purpose. It was a mercy, then, that combat was just one of the many aspects of his training. In the months that followed, he was subjected to drills of every type, each designed to force him to develop skills essential to the role of an assassin. For all of that time, though, he had never been assigned the task they called “tandem fishing.”

  Currently, he was learning how fortunate he had been to have avoided it.

  The drill took them to the cliff that faced the ocean. He had often come to the place when he felt the need to spend some time away from the bustling activity of the village. The cliff was easily the least hospitable place in all of Entwell. It seemed to be the only part of the village that was aware that they were in the north, as the wind had an icy bite to it that was absent from the rest of the strange setting. The rocks were slick and dropped steeply to a sheer cliff that led down to the ocean, which was far enough below that the crashing waves couldn't be heard.

  Tandem fishing brought him not only to the cliff, but over the edge. He was linked to his partner—as always, Leo—and asked to climb down to the edge of the water. Once there, they would fetch a net of fish and haul it to the top. It was a frigid, dangerous task that forced them to bundle up in cumbersome clothes, then spend hours climbing across a surface that would have been difficult to navigate in the best conditions.

  “Why would anyone do this?” piped a little, irritable voice.

  Fiora, it was clear, had come to consider Shadow a friend. He was the first good friend she'd made on Warrior's Side, and, as such, she'd been using him as something of a window into how the other half of the village lived. To help Shadow practice his Crich or Varden, she asked him questions about what he'd been doing, and found herself fascinated by the answers.

  Warriors, she decided, had much more enjoyable training than wizards, and she'd made it a point to tag along whenever she had the opportunity. Thus, she'd decided that “tandem fishing” would be just as fun as the rest, and navigating the cliff was little concern for a creature who could fly. It wasn't until she had been forced to endure the wind and cold for a few hours that she decided that she would rather slip into the warmth of Shadow's hood and wait for the ordeal to be over. When the duo reached the bottom, where a narrow gravel beach of sorts offered the first stable place to stand and work since they'd left the top, she'd taken the opportunity to squeeze out and watch as they worked. They were hauling slimy, half-frozen lines that were all too eager to get caught on jagged rocks.

  “Did the devil on your shoulder say something?” Leo asked, shielding his face from the sea spray.

  “She asked why anyone would do this.”

  “Oh, well, there's the reason it needs to be done, and the reason we need to do it,” he said. “Here in Entwell, anything we can't grow needs to come from the sea or the lake. The wizards have rigged up these lines,” he said, indicating a network of ropes and pulleys that led all the way back to the top of the cliff, “and with them—and probably a fair amount more magic than they would care to admit—they can haul up more than enough fish to keep us fed. Sometimes, though, the ropes break, or the pulleys jam, or whatever enchantments they use to help things along fail, and someone needs to come down to fix them. And so there must be climbers. Of course, that didn't happen this time. In our case, it is a part of our training because we must learn to infiltrate, and frequently the best way to infiltrate is to use an approach that would normally be considered impossible. A castle wall, for instance, or an icy and precarious ocean cliff. We are tethered together to keep each other from falling. Weste feels it helps build trust, which I think we can both agree continues to be an area of weakness for our malthrope friend.”

  “Well, it is the first bit besides the fighting that is no fun at all,” Fiora decreed.

  “I must agree,” Leo said. “This is the second deadliest sort of training he's put together. I'm told half a dozen students have failed this particular test over the years.”

  “What's the deadliest?” she asked.

  “Say again?” Leo said, joining Shadow in hauling up the last bit of line necessary to tug the fish net ashore.

  “She asked what the deadliest training is.”

  “That would be the Lain Trial,” Leo said. “It also has claimed six lives, but it has only happened three times.”

  “What is the Lain Trial,” Shadow asked. He did so more for Fiora's benefit than his own, bu
t the name of the trial stirred some memories.

  “It is a final exam—or, perhaps more accurately, a high honor for those wishing to become assassins. To be quite frank, one of us must kill one of the others. In each of the three prior trials, both combatants have managed to kill the other. The Lain Trial is entirely optional, and it only happens when at least two people seek the title. Right now, Sama is the only one of us who has expressed any interest. But enough of that. We’ve got to get these back up there so that we can call it a day.”

  Contrary to expectations, the climb up was a good deal safer and easier than the climb down, if only because it was easier to see what was above than what was below. A few hours and they had reached the top again, tipping up the net of fish for it to be hauled away—mercifully, by others.

  “I am not certain which is the more pressing need right now, a hot meal or a trip to the healers,” Leo said, holding up hands. They were raw and skinned from the climb. “These are going to be rather painful when the feeling returns.”

  Shadow looked at his own hands, which were equally injured by the climb. Though it took a practiced eye to interpret the expressions on his usually stoic face, Fiora had managed to become an expert.

  “Something bothering you, Mr. Malthrope, sir?”

  He looked to her, then to his hands again. “I shouldn't go to the healer.”

  “Why not?” Leo asked.

  “Because when the time comes to leave this place, I won't be able to turn to healers.”

  “You're still thinking of what you'll do when you leave this place?” Leo said, with smile.

  “Of course. I came here to learn how best to serve my purpose. When I'm through, I'll return to it.”

  “Well, I tip my hat to you. I honestly cannot remember the last time I thought about leaving this place.”