by Joseph Lallo
Myranda's eyes widened at the near compliment coming from so unlikely a source.
“Enough,” Lain said. “We need to move.”
The loose papers and gems were quickly gathered, horses were mounted, and the group moved off. One horse bore Deacon, the other Ivy and Myranda. Lain and Ether traveled by foot. The latter, for reasons hardly inscrutable, took the form of a snow fox. Lain stayed a dozen paces ahead, straining his senses to be sure that they were not followed. Once again the emptiness of the north was in their favor, and travel, though slow and cautious, was uneventful. Deacon, with the language he'd been grappling with all but unraveled, found himself with his mind unoccupied, a rare occasion that he sought to avoid. His eyes turned to Ivy.
She was riding behind Myranda, arms wrapped around her to steady herself. She could not have looked more out of place among the solemn group of warriors. Her eyes were lively and excited. A smile was on her face, thrilled to be with the people that cared about her. He only truly knew what he was told about her, and precious little of that. He reached down into his bag. There was more to be learned, though he hesitated to do so. It was Demont's workshop he had liberated these notes from, after all. He was her creator. Surely she was mentioned. It wasn't long before the bundle of pages devoted to her emerged. Now that the symbols had meaning, the coldness of the process became clear. Notes were carefully taken, speaking of vastly different earlier revisions. Flaws were noted, addressed. The variations from the basis, in this case Lain, were outlined and recorded. It was every bit a recipe, a procedure. Later pages skewed toward art, dealing with nuances and coloring, clearly still left to be done when she was liberated. The details of the connection between mind and soul were listed, with potential difficulties. Finally there was a series of sketches of the various stages of development. The nearest that the notes came to discussing her as an individual came in the description of the “extractor” that contained “Epidime's contribution.”
It was her soul. No name. No history. Just another component in the final product. There was nothing describing her as a person because, to him, she was never anything but a concoction. The last few lines he scribed spoke of the level of development when the “vessel” would be “sufficient.” This final word, it would seem, assumed all of the wonder and splendor of life. A body that was completed, able to support the evanescent spark that was the spirit, was “sufficient.” As a student, always eager for knowledge, particularly of a mystic nature, he had never turned away from anything. This made him recoil. These things he was doing were the tasks of gods, and yet he spoke of them with a sterility and detachment.
A motion out of the corner of his eye distracted him. Ivy had slipped off of the back of Myranda's horse and was jogging over to his. He quickly began to stow the papers, the last still in his hands as she hopped onto the back of his horse. She noticed it and reached around to snatch it from his fingers.
“Is this . . . is this me?” she asked.
“I-I believe so,” he said, anxiously eying the page that she held. It fortunately bore only a handful of markings, nothing that might upset her. Mostly measurements.
“It looks like me. Why am I standing like that, with my arms held out? Did you draw this?” she asked.
“I didn't,” he said. “Would you like me to?”
“I'll do it! I am very good!” Ivy twittered eagerly.
He fetched his book and the stylus and she quickly set to work. He nearly led the horse off course trying to watch her, prompting her to scold him to keep it steady. Before long she was finished and she presented it proudly.
“I made some mistakes. I don't look at myself very often,” she said.
The work was truly exquisite. She managed to capture every ounce of the playfulness and innocence he'd been admiring earlier. More telling, perhaps, was the pair of scribbled out errors. Each was a barely roughed out form. It was difficult to determine what they were, but they were not malthropes.
“I must say, it is far better than I could do. How did you learn to do such fine work?” he asked.
“I don't know, I just can. You should hear me play . . . oh . . . NO!” Ivy pouted. “My violin. I left it. I . . . we have to go back.”
Myranda cast a sympathetic glance that at once soothed Ivy and made it clear that it could not be.
“I really am very good at that too,” she said dejectedly.
“Well, the least you can do is sign your work,” he said, offering the book and stylus to her again.
She nodded, hesitating briefly before making a large stylized I and V.
“It would have been better if I wasn't on horseback. Can I draw some more when we stop for the day?” she asked.
“Well, of course,” Deacon said.
With the exception of a brief retreat to the nearest cover as a black carriage crept along ahead of them and out of sight, the rest of the night's journey went by without incident. Their path had taken a fairly sharp westward turn, and they found themselves at the foot of the mountainside that ran the length of the North. They were on the western edge of the Low Lands. If the sun had been up, Ravenwood would be visible to the south. As it was, a shallow cave would serve as shelter for the night, with food supplied by Lain's remarkable hunting skill. Ether started a fire and vanished into it as she always did.
“Do you feel any better?” Deacon asked, concerned for Myranda, who still seemed distant, the act of taking a life still heavy on her mind.
After a long pause, Myranda answered. “I will be alright . . . I just. I can't . . . What if I do it again?”
“Myranda, listen to me. You know yourself better than I. Do you honestly believe that you will let that happen? You didn't know that Arden was not to blame, that he was not Epidime, and now that you know you will not make that mistake again. You just have to trust yourself,” Deacon said. “I cannot even imagine you taking the lives of the innocent unless there was no other choice.”
“I . . . I don't want to be the sort of person who to whom this sort of thing comes easily,” Myranda muttered, tears in her eyes threatening to roll down her cheeks.
“Do not fool yourself,” Lain said.
All eyes turned to him.
“It never becomes easy. It takes tremendous effort to bring yourself to take a life. The only change that comes is a keener sense of when it has to be done. It makes the decision a quicker one to make, not an easier one,” he instructed.
Of all the heroes in attendance, Lain was the one most experienced in the matter. He was, after all, an assassin. From time to time Myranda had wondered what type of a man could do such a thing. Did he have a heart at all? Did he feel any guilt, any pain when he took a life? This was the first glimpse she'd been given. As the words began to sink in, Ether stepped from the flames and spoke. As usual it was anything but helpful.
“Besides. The fact of the next death on your hands is already established,” Ether said, assuming her human form once more.
Deacon, Myranda, and Ivy all turned their heads and cast the same look of anger.
“Ether, when are you going to learn that you should never, ever talk?” Ivy asked irately.
“Ignore it if you must, but any creature that curls in Myranda's lap without bearing The Mark is doomed. The lizard was first and now Deacon,” Ether tossed off casually.
“Don't you dare wish death upon him!” Myranda raged, rushing forward at Ether.
Ivy found herself in the uncommon role of trying to hold Myranda back.
“Calm down. It is alright. You know she is too stupid to know what she is saying,” Ivy said.
Ether scoffed and made ready to retort when Deacon spoke up.
“Ether is probably right,” Deacon said.
Ivy looked to him with confusion.
“You know you don't have to agree with everything she says,” Ivy huffed.
“The prophesy never explicitly says that the mortals who aid you will die, but the phrase 'tasks which no mortal could survive' is not an uncommon
one. Indeed, most interpretations of the prophesy predict that even one of the Chosen will not survive the journey. I harbor no illusions that I am anything more than a mortal, and as such I must accept the very real possibility of my own death,” he explained.
“I won't let that happen. I don't care what we face. I will not let you die!” Myranda declared.
“This is . . . “ Ether began.
“You shut your mouth before he agrees with you again! And Deacon! Not another word! Everyone just be quiet for a while!” Ivy ordered with authority.
Ether crossed her arms and turned to Lain.
“Surely you agree with . . . “ she attempted.
“Silence,” he interjected.
When Ether reluctantly complied, Ivy crossed her arms and huffed again triumphantly. For once she was the one reining in the emotions of others. Tensions were slow to ease, a fact that Ivy decided needed work as well. She borrowed Deacon's book and stylus and directed him to sit beside Myranda.
“I want to show you what a good artist I am, so help me out by putting a smile on. This will look much better if the two of you are happy,” she said, carefully positioning them, placing Deacon's arm across Myranda's shoulder.
“I didn't know you were an artist, Ivy,” Myranda remarked.
“Oh, yes, an excellent one. You should see what she . . . “ Deacon eagerly offered.
“Shush. And look at me. This won't take long and you two can take a look at what I can do when I'm not bopping around on a horse's back,” Ivy said.
After a few minutes, and number of minor adjustments and instructions, Ivy was finished. The rendering was astonishing, even ignoring the fact that it was done in virtually no time. It had a tremendous amount of detail while still having a definite style to it. This was a portrait intended to describe not just what the pair looked like, but who they were, and it did a remarkable job. She marked the portrait with her name and then turned to Lain and Ether.
“We may as well capture the other two love birds,” Ivy said, plopping down before them and quickly setting to work.
“Love birds?” Myranda questioned.
“Oh, you didn't know? Ether is in love with Lain,” Ivy said with a smirk as she worked.
“The little beast doesn't know what she is talking about,” Ether retorted.
“She gave Lain permission to love her instead of me,” Ivy snorted.
“I was offering Lain an alternative to being distracted by you,” Ether hissed.
“Well he didn't take you up on it, did he,” she giggled again.
“Ivy, it isn't nice to make fun,” Myranda scolded, all the while trying to keep from laughing herself.
Truthfully, this glimpse into the way Ether truly felt made Myranda respect her much more. They were not so different after all. By the time the second sketch was through, the mood had lightened greatly. Ether was, of course, silently furious, but the remarks she had made were nearly forgotten. The drawing of the other Chosen was, if anything, even more remarkable than the one that preceded it. The quiet dignity and nobility of Lain came through, and somehow Ether's aloofness and transitory nature seemed to leap out at the viewer.
“Do you mind if I keep drawing?” Ivy asked after showing off her latest work.
“Don't fill up Deacon's book,” Myranda said.
“Oh, I assure you she can't do that. Watch,” Deacon said, taking the book and riffling through the blank pages.
After a few seconds it became clear that the stack of fresh pages was not getting any smaller. He then flipped a few pages back and the artwork that should have been buried in hundreds of blank pages revealed itself.
“It will never run out. Every note I have ever written is still in this book, and I have a second that features every last page of our library, but it is no larger than this. I used to do much of my research at night, and the library was off limits at that time, so I received special permission to create a book that would link to it all. For some reason the spells that deal with the books and my stylus are virtually the only ones that will work through that confounded mountainside without any difficulty,” he explained.
Ivy blinked again.
“So does that mean I can?” Ivy asked.
“Later, when we are into Ravenwood. For now, rest,” Lain said.
“Oh. Alright,” Ivy reluctantly said.
That day passed quickly, rest finally coming easily to all. When they mounted and set off the next day, it was with renewed speed. As before, the denseness and size of Ravenwood would make tracking them difficult, and discovering them all but impossible. It was, indeed, just less than an hour away when they had sought shelter the night before. In no time they were among the trees. As the thicket closed behind them, a tenseness was lifted. The nagging feeling of fear, that any corner hid eyes that might betray them to their enemies, quickly faded away. When Myranda first set foot in this place, it was with fear. The forest itself held the dangers that she shrunk away from. Now it was a savior.
Ivy seemed excited by the new surroundings. For her there was much more to experience. There was a symphony of sounds and a banquet of smells that was lost to Myranda and Deacon. This was the first she'd seen of a true forest. She was a bundle of energy, switching between riding with Myranda and riding with Deacon, and even occasionally running up to be with Lain from time to time. Lain tended to ignore her. He was far too engaged with his diligent watch for anything that might threaten them. Ether, however, was quite the opposite. She typically took her human form when the young creature drew near and delivered a short but scalding string of threats and insults to chase her away.
There was certainly something to that talk about her affection for Lain. She'd become downright possessive of him. She had even taken to remaining among the flames only as long as necessary so that she might sit beside him during the times that the others rested. He would drift into his warrior's sleep and she would stare at him with eyes that, despite her considerable efforts, betrayed the tiniest hint of longing.
It was late in the second day's travel in Ravenwood when Myranda began to feel uneasy. There was something she recognized about this place. It was madness to suppose that she was able to recognize the trees and stones, and yet, this stretch of the woods seemed familiar. Soon, she knew why. Four swords stood, mostly buried in the snow. Three still bore helmets, a forth with one nearby. She'd spent a night here. She'd found Myn here once, ages ago. It was during her first brush with mystic training. The dragon had run off from the tower where the girl was being taught. Despite the urging of her teacher, she’d gone after the little creature, and found her near death in this very stretch of forest. She’d managed to save the creature that day, but only just. A shudder went through her. It did not go unnoticed by Deacon.
“Wolloff is near here,” Myranda said, hoping to deflect the question that would surely come.
“Wolloff . . . the white wizard. The gentleman who gave you your introduction to magic,” Deacon recalled.
“I wouldn't call him a gentleman, but yes, that is him,” She said.
Deacon raised his eyebrows, remarking. “I do wish we weren't in such a hurry. It might be interesting to visit with a fellow spell caster. At the very least he deserves congratulations for starting you off so well.”
“He isn't the type to welcome visitors,” she said.
“That's just fine with me. I like having this time alone with my family,” Ivy said, as she finished off another sketch and returned Deacon's book to him.
“Family?” Myranda asked with a grin.
“Well, what would you call it?” Ivy said. “We travel together, we help each other, and if we are all Chosen, then that means that all of us can trace ourselves back to the gods. So that means we are all related, sort of. Except Deacon.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Myranda quipped.
“And nor should you. The gods created me. I was not born. Thus I have no parents, no siblings, no family. I am unique,” Ether objected.
“You just don't want to admit that you and I have something in common,” Ivy said tauntingly.
“We share nothing but a common purpose,” Ether growled.
Ivy rolled her eyes. As she opened her mouth to retort, Lain raised his hand to silence her. He began to stalk slowly into the woods, motioning for the others to follow. Minutes passed before the others noticed anything out of the ordinary. First came the tracks. Fresh. A pair of horses. Then, emerging from the darkness as they approached it, a tree with a sheet of paper nailed to it. Lain approached it. As his eyes scanned over it, a visible fury came over him. He tore the paper from the tree and threw it to the ground, rushing ahead. The others followed. There was another paper, and another. Before long every tree in sight had a page affixed. Lain was shaking with anger, his clawed fingers scoring deep gashes in the tree as he tore away another page. Myranda tore down a page of her own and read it.
“What is it?” Deacon asked.
“Names. Nothing but names,” she replied.
“Do you recognize them?” he asked, removing a page as well.
“None of them,” she said.
Lain drew in a long slow breath and turned to something in the distance. He removed his sword, sheath and all, from his belt and handed it to Myranda.
“Do not follow,” he warned.
The others complied, Lain rushing into the darkness. His motion was less measured than usual. His footfalls, normally silent, betrayed his path with each pounding, crunching step. They retreated quickly into the trees until they could no longer be heard. What followed was a long silence. It was broken by a horrible noise, like the roar of a beast mixed with a glimmer of voice. It came again, the second time accompanied by a cry that was vaguely human. Then more silence. When the crunching footsteps returned, they were slower, less driven. Lain emerged from the darkness. The anger was still clear in his eyes, but he seemed more composed. He approached. His hands were coated with black, and more of it stained his mouth, chin, and chest. He spat something on the ground.
“Where is the nearest fort?” he asked, prompting Deacon to swiftly begin digging for his map.