The Book of Deacon (34 page)

"Don't worry, you'll have your white magic
training. It is actually the smallest of our areas of study. Not
many white wizards found it necessary to experience trial by
beast," he said. "But, in addition, we require that you reach at
least a basic understanding of all four elemental magics. I believe
I mentioned that."

"I am not sure I like her. Ayna, I mean,"
Myranda said.

"That's all right. By the time you're through
with her you will be
quite
sure
that you don't like her," he said.

"How comforting," she said flatly. "What are
these buildings?"

Deacon looked about.

"Well, this hut is the home of Caloth. He is
an apprentice to Twila right now. She is one of our few dedicated
white wizards. That is the hut of Milla. She is fresh out of
elemental training and working on her first steps into purely black
magic," he said.

"Why do you allow black magic here?" she
asked.

"Why wouldn't we? It is a vast and highly
developed field," he said.

"But it is evil," she said.

"Oh, no. Magic is a tool. It is no more evil
than a hammer or a saw. I see you are confused, and understandably.
You see, there are as many different interpretations and
classifications of magic as there are languages and peoples in this
world. This can cause difficulty when there is a clash in the way
magics are understood between Master and pupil. As a result, we
have chosen one set of classes that we feel is most accurate and
made it standard," he said.

"Go on," Myranda said.

"Well, black magic is first. Quoting our
founder, 'Any procedure of non-elemental origin that directly
manipulates mystic energies with the expressed and sole intention
of damaging or destroying a physical or spiritual form shall this
day forward be known as black magic.' It is the mystic equivalent
of a sword. It is only evil if it is used for evil, though I have
been told the more common use of the phrase black magic in the
outside world is as a blanket term for acts of evil through magic.
Granted, it
is
the area that lends itself most readily to dark
intentions," he said.

"Then white magic is the opposite? It heals,"
she said.

"'Any procedure of non-elemental origin that
directly manipulates mystic energies with the expressed and sole
intention of healing or enhancing a physical or spiritual form
shall this day forward be known as white magic,'" he quoted.

"Then why do you have people who specialize
in fire and air?" she asked.

"Well, the pure magics are specifically
non-elemental. Thus the four elements, in our system at least, are
considered separately. Within each elemental class, spells are said
to have white or black alignments if they are most commonly used to
help or hurt, respectively. Either that or they are considered
neutral, or gray," he said.

"Gray?" she asked.

Deacon tugged at his gray tunic.

"My specialty. In the words of our founder,
'Any procedure of non-elemental origin that directly manipulates
mystic energies with no clear intention or ability to purely aid or
injure shall this day forward be known as gray magic.' This is
simultaneously the largest and most neglected of the classes of
magic," he said.

"Why is that?" she asked.

"Well, gray magic is very much the basis, as
well as the next logical extension of, all other magics. As a
result, it is very intuitive, and all other wizards know at least a
bit of it. A person who devotes his life to the study and
development of gray magic is something akin to a chef who
specializes in boiling water or a poet who specializes in
punctuation. No one will deny the importance of the area, but few
will call for work to be done to improve it," he said.

"Why did you become interested in it, then?"
she wondered.

"It wasn't the subject that interested me, it
was the practitioner. We had only one wizard who was at all versed
in the complexities of gray. His name was Gilliam, and he seemed to
have devoted his life to being as different from the rest of the
world as possible. He was something of a scoundrel. You see,
illusions are included in my area, and they were his forte. He
could make it appear that he had done anything. Cure the sick,
summon creatures, even raise the dead. None of it was real, but he
made it seem so long enough to make off with the reward for solving
the problem at hand.

"He entered the cave in hopes of conjuring up
an illusion of the mythic beast so that he could chase it outside
to kill in the view of all around, thus stealing the position of
the world's finest warrior. He became lost on the return trip and
ended in this place. Before long, he began to irritate the other
people here. When I was growing up, I found him to be the most
entertaining thing in my life. By the time I was old enough to know
why he had no respect among us, I was already hopelessly addicted
to his brand of magic," Deacon reminisced.

"Have you managed to add any respect to the
field?" Myranda asked.

"I am only twenty-five. Gilliam died six
years ago--and, unfortunately for me, he never recorded a single
page of his methods. He resented the lack of respect that the
others showed his work, so he kept his ways secret. Over the eight
years that I studied under him, I managed to memorize the majority
of what he had to teach, and I have been spending the years since
his death scribing everything he taught. I have barely had time to
develop a single spell of my own," he said.

"That spell you used on me, to help me after
I got out of the water. What about that one?" she asked.

"That
is
one of mine . . . well, a variation on one of
his. It is a specialized form of transformation," he said.

"Why does everyone seem concerned when they
learn you tried it on me?" she said.

"Oh, don't listen to them. They want to chide
me about the fact that I have been toying with the idea for so
long. Also, transformation was the spell that killed Gilliam. Well,
transubstantiation," he said.

"What!?" she gasped.

"Relax, I worked out the fatal flaws. At
least, I think I did. You see, he used a full change in his version
of transformation, and I use a shift. The difference is that when
you cast a change, you must cast a counter spell to change back.
When you cast a shift, the transformation ends when the spell
ends," he said.

"What happened to him?" Myranda wondered,
more than a bit disturbed at the potentially fatal spell she had
been used to test.

"I'll show you," he said.

Myranda swallowed hard and followed as he led
her to a small hut in the seaward portion of the village. Beside it
was a statue, immaculately carved, of an elfin gentleman with his
hands out. Hanging from one hand was a gold chain with a rather
rough-cut crystal mounted in it.

"Behold, Gilliam," he said.

"A statue was made of him? Or . . ." she
questioned, slowly realizing the truth. "Oh my goodness . . ."

"He wanted to show me how a man could change
himself to stone and back again. He succeeded at half," he said.
"Poor fellow started to change before he finished the spell. He
foolishly cast it in the wrong order. As a result, he did not
include the ability for his new form to store his consciousness, so
when the change occurred, his soul just drifted away. I could
change him back--I have discovered the method--but I would merely
be bringing back his corpse. I thought this was a more fitting
memorial," Deacon said.

"It's so sad," she said.

"Indeed. At any rate, his death left us
without a gray Master, so the task fell to me," he said, "and it
has consumed me ever since. I have seldom been asked to aid with
the research of others, and I have never had a student. This is my
life. Please, come inside."

He pushed open the door to the hut and the
pair entered.

As soon as Deacon and Myranda crossed the
threshold of the hut, a series of crystals mounted in lamps flared
to life, filling the interior with light. Inside, there was a
single room that resembled Wolloff's tower, in that it was utterly
filled with books. Unlike the tower, though, there was order. All
of the books were stored on shelves, the titles clearly inked,
though in another language.

Vials and canisters were stored in a separate
shelf with the utmost of care. In one corner, there was a bed that
looked as though it hadn't been used in a week. At the center of
the room was a desk with a crystal for light, an open book, and the
only chair in the room. The immaculate room was in stark contrast
to its resident. Deacon's dark brown hair was in a constant state
of chaos. His clothes were in a terrible state of disrepair, and
the side of his left hand was apparently permanently stained with
ink.

He walked up to his desk, where a book with
blank pages lay open.

"This is your hut?" she asked.

"Indeed it is," he answered as he led her
inside. "Oh, no."

"What?" Myranda asked.

"I failed to refill the ink. I have to write
at least a dozen pages over again," he said, selecting a canister
from one of the shelves.

"What do you mean? How could you fail to
notice that you had run out of ink until after you'd written
pages?" she asked.

"Oh, I wasn't writing in this book, I was
writing in this one," Deacon explained, pulling the ubiquitous tome
from his bag and laying it on the table.

Myranda gave a long, confused stare.

"Watch," he said.

First, he refilled the ink. Next, He opened
the book from his bag and pulled the stylus from behind his ear.
After flipping through his book to see that there were far more
than a dozen pages to be recorded, he found the first page and
began to trace over the first word. As he did so, the quill on the
desk rose up and dipped itself in the ink. It then floated to the
blank page and began to duplicate the strokes made by the original.
Deacon reached into his pocket with his free hand and withdrew the
crystal. Clutching it briefly, he removed his hand from the stylus.
Without skipping a beat, the stylus continued tracing over the
words on its own. He stood back with a smile as the words from the
page were transcribed automatically.

"Had I been bright enough to keep the ink
bottle filled, this would have been finished just a few moments
after I had stopping writing in my travel book," he grumbled.

"That is incredible!" she said.

"If that is incredible, then you are quite
easily impressed. I was able to perform that particular feat when I
was twelve years old," he said, putting the crystal away.

"Twelve!? When did you start learning magic?"
she asked.

"Shortly after I was born. As a matter of
fact, my first words were an incantation. I believe that it was . .
. Oh, what did they tell me? Illuminate. I would babble the words
over and over and the little crystal that they had given me would
start to glow," he said.

"This is a wonderful place," Myranda said,
walking about and looking over the books.

"Now
that
I can agree with," Deacon said, turning to make
certain that the page automatically turned as it should.

"Did you write all of these?" Myranda
asked.

"Well, I wouldn't say that I was the author,
but I put ink to my former teacher's ideas," he said.

"And they are all on the same subject?" she
wondered.

"Well, different shades, but all gray," he
answered.

"Then why are the titles in different
languages?" she asked, as she leafed through a book to discover a
language that she absolutely could not identify.

"Oh, that. Well, as you have no doubt
noticed, very few people here speak the same language. One of the
policies of our founder requires each resident of Entwell to learn
to understand each and every other language. In this way, everyone
may speak whatever language that he or she is most comfortable with
without fear of being misunderstood. I, for one, was fascinated
with the different tongues. Language became something of a hobby
for me, and I am Entwell's unofficial expert on it. To stay sharp,
I alternate which language I use with each book," he said.

"But I speak Northern and Tresson. I was
unaware that there were different languages to be had," she
said.

"Perhaps not now, but our village has existed
for six hundred years. Until the war started, there were eleven
languages in common use on this continent alone. The language known
as Northern was originally called Varden. It was spoken in Kenvard
and Ulvard, though the Ulvardians spoke a different dialect.
Vulcrest spoke a language called Crich. The eight kingdoms that
make up the Tressor region spoke nine different languages prior to
joining together.

"Then there are the small continents to the
east and their languages. And, of course, the dead languages. There
are a handful of non-spoken languages, as well. Finally, there are
the beast languages. All told, there are no less than thirty, and I
know them all," he said.

"You should be proud," she said.

"I am," he said.

Myranda was mystified by the number of books
as she looked around. Wolloff had had his share, to be sure, but
these were all hand-written by Deacon himself. The amount of work
it must have taken was mind boggling.

"I have only been to two libraries. One was
in a monastery to the west of my former hometown. The other was
just recently in the tower of a wizard called Wolloff. This puts
Wolloff's collection to shame, and rivals the monastery," she
said.

"It is not a contest. This is merely how I
have chosen to fill my days," he said. "Now as for--"

There was a knock at the still-open doorway
that interrupted him. It was one of the many men that Myranda had
seen milling about in the village as they were walking earlier. He
delivered some sort of handwritten message to Deacon, who thanked
him in what must have been his native language. After reading the
note, he folded it and placed it in his pocket.