The Book of Deacon (3 page)

It had not been her intention to take the
sword, but even she could not resist such a treasure. Even the most
treacherous buyer would be forced to dole out a sizable price for
such a weapon, and it was unlikely she'd find a buyer of any other
kind. Myranda never even entertained the possibility of being paid
a fair price for the piece. These days the shopkeepers were nearly
as cutthroat as the soldiers, with barely enough wares to go
around. Still, something of such value was sure to at least provide
her with the funds to buy a horse, a tent, some food, and perhaps
some clothes more befitting of the season.

She rolled the sword in her blanket and took
some of the softened biscuit for breakfast. She then transferred
the food, as well as the water and the heavy blanket, from the
soldier's pack to her own lighter one. If only it had been smaller
or she had been stronger, she could have taken the tent with her,
but the days of walking would be made difficult enough with her
newly-filled pack without a mound of heavy canvas and wooden poles.
When all had been prepared, Myranda went on her way.

#

It was surprising how much spring was put
into her step by a decent meal and good night's sleep. Her pace was
twice that of the weary trudge of the day before. A trained eye and
the clouds overhead told her that it was just past noon when she
finally saw something on the horizon. A building with a spire. A
church. The sight brought a wide smile to Myranda's face. She'd
been turned away by every type of shelter, but never a church.

Quickening her pace, she came to the door of
the small building and pushed it open. There was not a single
occupied pew, nor was a single candle lit. The only light was that
which filtered through the clouds to the simple stained glass
window.

"Hello?" Myranda called out.

"In the priest's quarters," came the
answer.

Myranda walked up the dim aisle and, on the
wall left of the pulpit, found a door.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Of course, all are welcome," the kindly
voice replied.

Myranda opened the door. Inside, the warm
orange light of a cozy fire danced in an otherwise unlit room. A
large, fine chair faced away from the doorway and toward the fire.
Aside from the luxurious-looking seat, the room was nearly bare.
The walls were empty, not a painting to break the view of plain
wooden planks. In the center of the room, a simple table and chair
stood awaiting the next meal to be served. The corner held an
immaculately made bed with a coarse gray blanket and single pillow.
The only other furniture in the room was a suitably humble chest of
drawers and a cupboard.

"What brings you here?" asked the unseen
priest.

"I thought I might warm up a bit before I
went off on my way again," Myranda said.

"Well, I am always glad to share what the
heavens have provided for me," he said without rising.

"I am quite grateful. If you don't mind me
asking, why do you keep it so dark?" Myranda asked as she walked
into the room of her gracious host.

"I've little use for light these days," said
the priest.

When she was near enough to spy the face of
the priest, the answer to her query became quite clear. He was a
kind-looking man, dressed in plain black vestment. Old, but not
terribly so, he had sparse white hair on his wise head and a
carefully shaved face. Most notably, though, was the blindfold over
his eyes. Myranda had a vague feeling that she'd seen him
before.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" Myranda said, covering
her mouth. "You are blind!"

"Now, now, not to worry. It was none of your
doing," he said.

"How did it happen?" she asked.

"It is the place of a holy man not to burden
others with his troubles, but to relieve others of their burden,"
he said.

His voice had a powerful, clear tone, deep
and commanding. It radiated wisdom and authority. He sipped
something from a clay mug and cleared his throat before speaking
again.

"May I offer you some tea, my dear?" he
asked, raising his cup.

"Oh, I couldn't bother you for that," she
said.

"No bother at all," he said, slowly rising
from his chair.

"Oh, please, let me," Myranda offered.

"Nonsense, nonsense, sit down. You are my
guest. Besides, if you get in my way I may lose my place and be
lost in my own home," he assured her.

Myranda took a seat and watched as the priest
paced out a practiced number of steps to the cupboard and ran his
fingers over the contents until he found the correct canister. It
was astonishing how smoothly he navigated the task without the aid
of vision. In no time at all, he had placed her cup on the table
and found his way back to his seat. She slid the cup in front of
her, warming her near-numb hands on its warm exterior.

"That was amazing," she said.

"Oh, yes. Folks come from all over the
kingdom to watch me make tea," he said lightly.

"I only mean that I had thought that losing
one's sight would leave one helpless," Myranda said.

"I've still four senses left. A hand without
a thumb is still a hand," he said.

"But you cannot count to ten," she said.

"You can if you remember how," he answered
swiftly. "My goodness, why are we talking about me? I have been
here for years. You are the newcomer, what about you?"

"What would you have me say?" Myranda
asked.

"I would not mind a description. My ears can
only tell me so much. I know your height from where your voice
comes from, and your build by the creak of your chair, but try as I
might, I still have not found a way to hear hair color," he
said.

"Oh, well, I have got red hair, long, and
brown eyes. My clothes are gray," Myranda said, embarrassed.

"And I am sure you are every bit as lovely as
your voice," he said.

"Oh . . ." Myranda blushed.

"And your name?" he asked.

"Myranda Celeste," she answered. "And
yours?"

"You may call me Father," he said. "So, from
where are you headed?"

"North," Myranda said.

"North West or North East?" he asked.

"Just North," came her reply, worried about
the line of questions that were sure to follow.

"There is nothing north of here but miles and
miles of tundra," he said.

"I know," she said gruffly.

"The only things that would send a person
through that waste are very good confidence or very bad directions.
Not to offend, but I am inclined to believe that the latter is the
case," he said.

"No, no. I just . . . misunderstood; I asked
for the shortest way to Renack, and he sent me this way," she
explained, hoping that the priest would not pry further. Her story
was suspect enough as it was. The truth would reveal the reason she
had been shunned, and she would at least like a chance to let her
feet stop throbbing before she was thrown out in the cold
again.

"Oh, well, that certainly would explain it.
It could have used more conflict, though. The best fairytales
always have plenty of conflict. The essence of drama, you know,"
said the priest, clearly aware that Myranda was hiding
something.

"What? How did you know I was lying?" she
asked, realizing the purpose of the comment.

"Listen hard enough and you begin to hear
more of what people say than they had intended. Care to tell the
truth--or, at least, a more compelling tale?" he asked.

"I wanted to know the easiest way to get to
the next town. That was true, but I was purposely misled," she
said.

"Why would someone do that? You could have
died out there," he wondered.

"I had made myself . . . unwelcome," she
said, carefully dancing about the key bit of information sure to
cost her the respect of her host.

"Do I need to ask, or will you save me the
trouble?" he asked, clearly in search of the missing piece.

Myranda sighed heavily. There were no two
ways about it. She simply could not lie to a holy man.

"I . . . showed sympathy for the soldiers
killed in a battle . . . both sides. From that moment on, no one
there would help me. When I finally found someone who would speak
to me, I asked for directions and he sent me through the field,
assuring me it was the surest way," she confessed.

"A sympathizer," he said coldly. "It stands
to reason why you would have been sent down such a disadvantageous
path."

"I will leave, I don't want to--" Myranda
began, rising from her seat.

"No, you may remain. I am a man of heaven and
it is my place to show compassion. I will hear your confession and
oversee your penance," he said with poorly-suppressed disgust.

"I will take my leave, I have caused you
enough trouble," she said, gathering the pack that she had only
just
let slip
to the floor, and turning to the door.

"Young lady, for your wrong to be forgiven,
you must repent," he demanded.

Myranda froze. She turned back to the
priest.

"Forgiven? Wrong?" she said, anger
mounting.

When the priest asked her to redeem herself,
it stirred thoughts she'd long ago pushed aside. So long as she'd
cost herself the comfort of the shelter already, she may as well at
least free her mind of its burden.

"I will
not
apologize for what I
know
in
my
heart
is
right,"
she cried out.

"You have sympathized with the Tressons.
These are men who seek only to kill your countrymen. Every soft
thought for them is a knife in the back of a brother," he said.

"Don't you understand? Somewhere on the other
side of the line that splits our world, another priest is giving
this same speech to a person who had shed a tear for the Alliance
Army. Any life cut short is a tragedy. I do not care how or why!"
she proclaimed, giving voice to feelings long suppressed.

"If we allow our resolve to weaken, we will
be overrun! Today
you
waste thoughts on an enemy. Tomorrow you poison
the mind of another. Before long, there will be no one left with
the will to fight!" the priest said, spouting the same tired ideas
that Myranda had heard all of her life.

"At least then the war will be over," she
said. "I will take an end to this war regardless of the cost.
Enough lives have been lost already."

"Even if it costs you your freedom and the
freedom of all of the people of the Northern Kingdoms?" he
asked.

"Freedom? What freedom do we have? In the
world we live in, there are but two choices to be made: join the
army or run from it. If you join, you will pray each day that you
will live long enough to pray again on the next. Pray that the
impossible happens, that you live to see your children march off to
the same fate as you try for the rest of your life to wash the
blood from your hands. And if you cannot bear to throw your body
into the flames of war, then you can live as I have. A fugitive, a
nomad. Known by no one and hated by everyone. What worse fate could
the Tressons have in store? What worse fate exists?" she
proclaimed.

"It is talk such as that which will cost us
victory," the priest said.

"Victory!? There is no victory in war! War
takes everything and gives nothing! I only wish my words were as
destructive as you would have me believe! If that were true, I
would shout myself hoarse, I would not sleep until my words had
poisoned the thoughts of everyone who had ears--but the cold truth
is that nothing I say or do will have even the slightest effect on
this wretched war. I am nothing! A shadow! A whisper! Dismissed and
forgotten!" she ranted.

Her heart pounded and tears clouded her eyes.
She shakily lowered the tea cup to the table. In the heat of her
impassioned speech, she had managed to douse herself and a good
deal of the room with the piping hot contents. The bandage on her
left hand was dripping with it, rekindling the faded pain of its
last scalding.

"I am very sorry for how I have acted, and I
am sorry for the trouble I may have caused you, but I am
not
sorry for
the thoughts and feelings that you insist are wrong. I will leave
you now, before I say or do something
deserving
of regret," Myranda continued, in
control of her emotions again.

"Were I you I would turn left at the sign
post that you will find outside of my door," the priest said. "The
people of Renack are decent, patriotic citizens. Should they
discover your sadly misguided beliefs, I doubt they would trust an
icy field to do you in. Bydell is to the east. Nothing but
scoundrels and deserters. You just may find someone there who
shares your blasphemous views."

These last words were heard through the
slammed door of his quarters. Myranda moved with swift, motivated
strides. She would have no more of this place if she could help it.
The cold wind of the outside staggered her like a blow to the face.
It had grown even colder than when she had sought shelter just
minutes before. The patches of scalding hot tea turned icy at the
first exposure to the stinging cold. The fuming girl gritted her
teeth and leaned into the wind. It never ceased to amaze her how,
seemingly regardless of which way she turned, the wind blew in her
face. It was as though someone up above was toying with her, seeing
how much torment it would take to break her. She turned her eyes
skyward.

"You will have to do better than that!" she
assured her unseen tormentor.

Not long after storming out of the church,
she found the signpost of which the priest had spoken. Renack to
the west and Bydell to the east. Both were ten miles away. A few
hours by foot. It was a long hike by any means, but along a road,
she could make it to either town well before nightfall. She might
even make it to a pub before the tables had filled for supper. But
which town to go to? Reluctantly, she headed off to the east.