The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (11 page)

“What was that all about?” Ivy blurted as
they came into view. “Lain said that there were some friends of
yours that would be meeting you. Why couldn't I meet them too?”

Lain looked at her sternly.

“It isn't good, Lain. Show him,” she stated
with measured calmness.

Deacon pulled out the proclamation and handed
it to him. The anger inside of him boiled just below the surface,
but it was all too clear to the others.

“The Undermine is trying to take them down,
but they are showing up everywhere,” she explained.

“What? Let me see!” Ivy said, standing on tip
toe to look over Lain's shoulder. “There's a picture of me there!
Ugh. It looks like it was drawn by the same person who drew that
picture of me that Deacon had. They all do. Except Ether.”

Myranda looked about. The shape shifter was
missing.

“Where is she?” Myranda asked.

“She went to get food. We aren't going to be
able to hunt in the tunnel and she didn't want to be alone with me
while Lain went to get food, so she went,” Ivy said, with the air
of a tattletale.

“That . . . may not turn out well,” Deacon
remarked. “She doesn't strike me as the sort that is terribly
concerned with exactly what it is that we eat, or the proper way to
get it.”

“I wonder how she will bring the food back,”
Ivy mused absentmindedly. “You don't think she is stupid enough to
carry it along with her in the wind, do you?”

Lain was through looking at the poster. He
crumpled it and threw it down.

“Hey!” Ivy said, snatching it up and
carefully unfolding it. “I'm not done looking at that.”

“This changes nothing,” Lain growled.

“When this is all over, it might be difficult
to go back to being an assassin if everyone knows what you look
like,” Myranda said.

“What happens after this is over doesn't
matter,” he replied.

“This must be an old picture of you, Myranda.
And you too, Lain. Look at the hair. Myranda's is shorter. And
Lain's is long and tied back,” Ivy noticed. “I've never seen either
of you look like this. Did Lain ever . . . “

She looked up to see Myranda's eyes locked
resolutely on some indistinct spot on the far wall of the valley.
Despite her best efforts, Myranda could not hide the fact that she
was not so much looking at something as
not
looking at
Ivy.

“Is there something wrong Myranda?” Ivy
asked, concerned.

Deacon placed his hand on her shoulder and
gently turned her aside.

“Myranda learned something when you went
ahead. Something she wishes she hadn't. She will be fine, but for
now she needs to have some time to think,” Deacon explained. “Is
that alright?”

“I . . . guess so,” Ivy said, looking to
Myranda briefly before turning back to Deacon. “Are you alright?
Can I talk to you?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Well, these pictures. Demont drew them, I
know it. I saw that paper you had. It was Demont's. He drew me the
same way as this,” she said.

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking over the
drawings.

“Can't you tell? Look at how it was shaded.
The light is always here, the shadow always here. And the way these
lines run together. The picture of Myranda, Lain, and me were drawn
by Demont. This one of Ether is different. Why would they do that?
Why would they have Demont only draw three of them?” she asked.

Deacon looked over the drawings yet again. As
he did it became more and more clear to him. What is more, the
drawing of Ivy was not precisely accurate. It was identical to one
of the design sketches of her. Possibly the very same image copied.
What did that mean for the others? If he recalled correctly, both
Myranda and Lain had had reasonably long imprisonments with the
D'karon, while Ether hadn't. If Demont was the one responsible for
crafting Ivy as she was now, and he had taken the time to sketch
the others, could that mean that . . .

His thoughts were interrupted by both Ivy and
Lain suddenly shifting their attentions to the mouth of the pass.
They didn't seem concerned, merely interested. Moments later the
stout gray form of a large wolf stalked into view, a pair of gray
bags slung around its neck. As it approached them its form slowly
changed, until by the time it reached them it was Ether that stood
before them, the bags over her shoulders, and a gray fur cloak on
her back.

“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 was 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. 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 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.

“ . . . Alright. 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 struggled.

“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 sunk 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, a 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 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 heap.
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 prophesy
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!”