The Book of Deacon (28 page)

The response was immediate. A shaft of light
burst skyward, sending the leader reeling back. Myranda rushed to
the horse and was scooped onto its back by Leo's one good arm.
Chaos erupted as General Teloran tore the bag from her waist and
threw it down. Her orders were swift and clear.

"
Retreat!"
she cried, loading fallen men to the back
of horses before sharing one herself.

Like a blur, Myn launched herself after Leo
and Myranda. As quickly as the horse would carry them, the trio
fled south. A monumental burst of light shook the forest from end
to end with a force that tore leaves from trees. A white heat
burned behind them, bringing the hiss of wind and sizzle of trees
to an otherwise silent burst.

Leo leaned low to the horse's ear. Instantly,
the same fear that had caused the other horses to abandon their
riders subsided from the animal, and they rode on, steadily and
purposefully, eyes constantly on the woods behind them.

After a few tense minutes the massive mouth
of the cave came into view.

"Are you certain that this is the one?"
Myranda asked, as a dozen ancient signs swept by too quickly to
read. "There is no stream."

"Not now, but there has been. Look at the
ground," he said.

They leapt from the horse's back and rushed
inside. The dim light of the night sky revealed signs in every
language plastered on the walls. Age had made them all but
unreadable. Those few words that survived were far from
encouraging. There were a dozen or so racks on the walls holding
ancient unlit torches for any adventurers brave enough to venture
on. Leo grabbed as many as he could carry and instructed Myranda to
do the same. Between the two of them, they managed to take all of
the torches.

"Do you think we will need all of these?"
Myranda asked.

"No, but
they
will. Don't light one until I say. I
want to be sure that they cannot follow us," he said.

In total blackness, the trio shuffled along.
Leo led the way, with Myranda cautiously following his echoing
footsteps. Myn was completely at home in the cave. Now and then she
would spark a burst of flame, casting a fleeting glimpse of the
gray, craggy walls. After squeezing through an endless array of
narrow passages led only by the water-smoothed floor, Leo seemed
satisfied.

"That is quite enough. It will be days before
they stumble upon the path we have taken. Light a torch," he
said.

Myranda fumbled with her flint, brought out
of fear that she would not be able to coax Myn into lighting her
fires, and struck out a few sparks. The oil-soaked rags caught, and
soon the claustrophobic little alcove was bathed in a flickering
yellow light. The walls were a stark gray with a sparkle here and
there. Around them was the constant echo of trickling water.
Stalactites hung like teeth above the uneven floor. It was warm,
with a thin layer of water coating every surface. Myn curled up
between the two travelers and resumed her gnawing on the helmet.
Despite the madness that she had been through, she refused to drop
it.

"Well. That was quite an ordeal," Leo
said.

Myranda stared into the light of the torch
she had laid on the ground. There was a serious look on her
face.

"You seem quiet," Leo said.

"Do you . . . Did I . . . kill someone?"
Myranda asked

"With any luck, you killed all of them," Leo
said with a laugh. A moment later he regretted his choice of words.
"That is not the answer you were looking for, I take."

Myranda was silent.

"She would have killed you. She would have
killed us both," he assured her.

"I don't believe that. She . . . she could
have killed you time and again. And she could have killed me. She
didn't. I really believe that she meant what she said. About
fighting beside us. You saw how she remained long enough to collect
the injured," Myranda said.

"I know how difficult it is to take your
first life. I won't try to soften the blow. There isn't enough
sugar in the world to take the bitterness from the act, but perhaps
your sorrow is not necessary. My way of life leads me to the wrong
side of the law often enough to hear tales of Trigorah. She is as
capable a warrior as any that has lived. If anyone could have
escaped that blast, it would be her," he said.

Myranda sighed.

"I know . . . she is my godmother," she
said.

"What!?" Leo shouted, his voice echoing.

"I remember her from when my father used to
visit. Back when I was very young. She seemed so kind then. My
father worked with her, and he trusted her with his life. When
mother was killed, she was supposed to help raise me," Myranda
said.

"Well, she broke that vow," Leo said.

"She couldn't have known I survived the
massacre. And my uncle told me she was dead . . . I should have
known he would lie about that. He hated the Alliance Army with a
passion by then. He would rather die than have me live in her care.
Now she is the closest thing I have to family, and I may have
killed her," Myranda said, a tear running down her cheek.

"Dwelling on it only makes it worse. You
shouldn't sleep with those thoughts in your head. You won't enjoy
your dreams. Are you up to any more healing?" he asked.

"I . . . perhaps," she said.

"My shoulder is not particularly pleased with
the way I have been treating it," he said, trying to distract her
from the subject.

"Remove the sling," she said.

He did so with great difficulty. The injury
had swollen considerably. It reminded her of her own affliction,
but in this case the problem was within. She pulled a few tatters
of cloth aside to see how far the swelling had spread. It was
severe, no doubt aggravated by the battle. As she surveyed the
swelling, she noticed something odd on the left side of his chest.
It was distorted, smudged with blood and charred, but there was no
question. There, against the cream-colored chest, was the all too
familiar curve and point.

"What . . . what is this?" she asked.

"What? Ouch! I can't see," he said.

"Here, on your chest. There is a mark," she
said.

"Oh, that. That has been there since I was a
child. I suppose it's a birthmark," he said.

"Look. Here! On my hand. I have the same
mark! Remember the burn from the sword?" she said, holding out her
hand.

He took her hand and looked over it.

"What in the world?" he said, sitting forward
and taking real interest.

"It was all over the sword," she said. "I
showed you. Don't you remember?"

"I remember how much it weighed, how well it
was balanced, but I couldn't care less about how it looked. That is
the least important thing to me," he said.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"How should I know?" he said, perplexed.

"I got the mark from the dead soldier's
sword, so that explains that, but what are you and a fallen
swordsman doing sharing a mark?" she wondered.

"I haven't a clue," he said, bewildered.

"Well, maybe he was a relative. Maybe he had
the same mark, or knew you in some way," she offered.

"I honestly cannot think of a single other
person who has even seen my mark since I left the orphanage," he
said.

"Then perhaps it was one of them," she
said.

"Perhaps, but I cannot see how anything I did
might have left an impression on one of the other orphans.
Certainly not an impression big enough to have one of my blemishes
adorn a sword that must have cost a fortune to make," he said.
"Unless it isn't a blemish. The caretakers branded me with a pair
of marks, this could just be a third that I didn't remember. If
that is so, then the others could have had it as well."

"Do you suppose that one of your fellow
orphans might have been proud enough of his orphanage to advertise
it on his equipment?" Myranda asked.

"I have heard of stranger things. Well, with
your godmother and our matching marks, this has been a very
revealing night," Leo said.

"Indeed, the hand of fate has--" she began,
but the smoke of the torch was burning at her already tortured
lungs. She launched into a long, painful fit of coughing.

"That doesn't sound good at all. I
thought
you
looked a bit off," he said, concerned.

"It is nothing," she managed. "It happens
every year."

"Well, do you know how to cure it?" he
asked.

"Of course," she said.

"Then what are you waiting for?" he
wondered.

"Well, I haven't the strength to care for my
cough and your shoulder. I will tend to myself tomorrow," she
explained.

"Nonsense. I won't hear of it! You say
whatever words you need to make yourself well and worry about me
another day," he demanded.

"But the pain must be terrible," Myranda
said.

"Please. I have had a dozen more serious
injuries a dozen times each, and all I've had to heal them was
time. A night more won't kill me," he said. She began to object
again, but he cut her off. "You saved my life. I wanted to give
mine for yours just a few hours ago, but you denied me. The least
you can do is stay healthy long enough for me to repay my
debt."

Myranda sighed, stifling another cough.
Reluctantly she spoke the variant of the spell of healing sleep
that would do its work upon the caster.

As the spell of healing took effect,
Myranda's surroundings retreated and a soothing darkness poured
over her and into her mind. A moment later a light flickered before
her. She briefly thought that she had reawakened, but soon the
truth became clear. The cold, thatched ground was not that of the
cave, and the white, wavering light was not that of the torch. She
had slipped into a dream. The light seemed to come from no source
at all, merely a ball of brilliance floating before her. It formed
a circle on the ground and a tight sphere of visibility. She
strained her eyes desperately into the darkness. Slowly, a figure
formed, somehow a still-darker silhouette against the pitch of her
surroundings.

"So I have found you," came a voice from the
form. It seemed to be her own voice. Hearing it whispered from the
unseen lips of another was profoundly disorienting.

"Who are you?" Myranda asked.

"We need you," came the answer.

"Need me for what? I don't understand," she
said.

"Do not resist me. I come to guide you, and
in turn you may guide me," the voice said.

"How?" Myranda asked as the cold wind began
to gust more forcefully.

"You are strong, and the path you follow is
closed to me. You are nearly out of my reach. You must choose. Take
my hand and the way will be made clear," the voice whispered.

The figure's hand seemed to reach out.
Myranda reached for it, but something inside of her resisted. She
turned to the light and grasped at it, as though it were a lantern.
It remained, but a part of the eerie light trailed along with her
hand. She moved her glowing fist to the figure, but it
recoiled.

"Reject it. Light is sorrow. To tremble in
the light is to be extinguished with it. The brightest candle burns
only briefly. Darkness remains eternally. Accept the darkness and
endure," the voice demanded, somewhat twisted.

The cold became intense and the darkness
pressed in about her. The light fought valiantly, but the walls of
oppressive blackness moved closer and closer. This was wrong. She
backed toward the light, but it was withering. In a matter of
moments, it was no more. The earth beneath her seemed to drop away,
and she was afloat in an abyss of darkness. It felt as though the
blackness itself was tearing at her.

In a last effort to fight against that which
consumed her, Myranda held up her arms defensively. When she opened
her hand, a burning ember of light was revealed. As the remnant of
the light she had scooped up smoldered in her palm, she could
barely make out the form bearing down on her. With a scream, the
terrified girl lashed out with the illuminated hand. Her fingers
raked the featureless face and a second, piercing, spine-tingling
mockery of her cry mingled with the original.

She felt hands clasp her about the shoulders
and shake her as the light rushed back. Myranda screamed again, the
second scream joined by a third and fourth as her voice echoed off
of the cave walls. The light was from the torch, and the hands
shaking her were those of Leo. The dream was over.

#

"Easy, now. Come back to me," Leo said,
steadying the terrified girl as the nightmare slowly lost its
grip.

Myranda caught her breath.

"I warned about those dreams," he said.

"It was awful. I don't think I'll be able to
get back to sleep," Myranda said.

"I should hope not. You have been asleep for
ages," he said. "I think your dragon was beginning to get
worried."

Myn was already on her lap, sniffing and
licking at her face.

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked.

"Well, it is difficult to tell without the
sun or stars to go by, but these torches usually last about a half
a day, and I had to light a new one after I awoke about an hour
ago," he said.

"It only felt like a few moments," she said.
"That is a very potent spell."

"So it would seem. Well, we had best move on.
You will be pleased to hear that I can hear our friends scratching
about on the other side of the wall. You must have missed a few,"
he said.

"Are we in any danger?" she asked, getting to
her feet, free of stiffness and pain for the first time in
weeks.

"Not yet. I would say that it will be at
least a day before they can even find their way back to the wrong
turn they must have taken, and then another few hours to reach us.
So unless you decide to sing your lullaby twice more, we should
have no trouble staying ahead. However, if you have any words that
can relieve me of this little malady without a lengthy nap, I would
appreciate it," he said, indicating his shoulder.