The Book of Deacon (45 page)

"Very well," she said.

"Today, I will attack, and you will defend,"
Lain said.

"You will attack? I have been catching Myn
all day. I am not sure I can take many hits," she said.

Lain took a wooden training sword from the
rack behind him. With a swift slash, he brought the weapon to
within an inch of the girl's neck before she could react. There it
stopped without touching her.

"If my weapon comes as close as this, you can
consider yourself killed," he said.

"And how do I earn a question?" she
asked.

"If you manage to block three attacks in a
row, I will allow you one question," he said.

After a brief explanation of the differences
in the usage of the staff as opposed to the quarterstaff, he
instructed her to prepare herself, and they began. Had she more
energy, Myn would have viciously objected to the violent display.
Instead, she cast a weary eye on the proceedings between dozes.

Whereas she had been slow to pick up the
correct methods of attack, defense came far more naturally to
Myranda. Before long, she was blocking his first attack without
fail. Unfortunately, this nearly always left her weapon out of
place to block the follow-up attack. Lain scolded her as she failed
again and again to block his second attack.

"Your opponent may be able to attack more
quickly than you can move, but not more quickly than you can think.
Use your mind. Battle is more than about the body. If you cannot
position a block in the time between when you identify the intended
target and the moment of impact, then you must move sooner. You
must know where the foe will attack next! Anticipate!" he
demanded.

By the end of the session, she had only
managed to block a second attack a handful of times, and never a
third. Magic had forced her to think deeply. It would seem that
combat was forcing her to think quickly. The two skills, on the
surface, seemed practically opposite. It was clear that if someone
were to possess both skills, though, there would be little that
such a person could not handle.

After a few final pieces of advice from Lain,
Myranda parted ways and headed for home. Myn was still quite weary
and took her usual post atop her when Myranda went to bed.

#

Across the Low Lands and across the west, the
black carriages rolled. Trigorah watched in cold silence as her
Elites carried out their orders. Anyone who met the girl since she
found the sword was found, captured, and hauled away. The orders
seemed pointless, arbitrary, but they were not the first such
commands to bear fruit. It was not her place to question them, only
to carry them out. The other generals had managed to keep the
Northern Alliance free despite a centuries-long struggle against a
foe twice its size and many times its strength. It didn't matter
that their methods were . . . unsettling. The only thing that
mattered was victory.

Trigorah repeated it to herself during the
long nights without sleep. These orders were vital steps toward
victory. Victory would bring peace. Peace was an end high enough to
justify any means. She repeated the words to herself as she looked
into the eyes of the innocents being taken away for reasons they
didn't understand. She repeated them as she heard the wails of
children separated from their parents. She repeated them until the
words were without meaning, until the wheels of the black carriages
wore deep ruts in the roads of the low lands.

She repeated them, praying each time that she
might finally believe them.

#

Myn awoke and looked upon her friend with
concern. Myranda was sweating and out of breath. Perhaps through no
coincidence, her dreams had been of Trigorah, of that fateful
meeting in the forest before they came here. The night when she
nearly killed the nearest thing she had to a living relative. In
her nightmare she'd seen the face of one of the injured soldiers.
It was her father. She knew it couldn't be true, that her mind was
playing tricks, but that hardly mattered.

Thoughts raced through her head. Trigorah had
worked with her father, and she was now an Elite. Could her father
have been an Elite as well? It would explain why he was away so
often . . . and since the Elites were so secret and important an
organization he could still be alive today, and she would never
know. A brief flash of happiness at the thought vanished when she
realized that Trigorah knew her, and if her father was still alive,
he most certainly have been informed. He would have come for her if
he was still living as a member of the Elites. Unless he was
ashamed, or . . . there was no time for such thoughts.

Myranda gathered her things and headed to
Ayna's place while Myn trotted off to be with Solomon. As usual,
the fairy was up and about, impatiently waiting for her student to
arrive. A smile came to her face as she noticed that Deacon was
there, too.

"Well, well. It would appear that my little
pupil has attracted an audience once again," Ayna said.

"I missed out last time. I just want to see
this firsthand. It promises to be quite a spectacle," he said.

"So is a forest fire," she said with a sneer,
"but if you must stay, keep clear. I will not tolerate
interruption."

"I will be a mere shadow," he said.

"Well then, get to it. Concentrate," Ayna
ordered.

Myranda quickly shut off the world as she had
done so many times before. When her mind was prepared, Ayna's voice
sounded.

"Eyes open," she demanded.

"But--" Myranda began.

"I said eyes open. And if I have to repeat
myself again, you will learn just how unpleasant being my pupil can
be," she said.

Myranda opened her eyes. Set before her was
an array of thin poles, each with a wooden ball perched on its
end.

"Now, the purpose of this apparatus should be
clear to all but the dimmest of individuals. Therefore, let me
explain it to you. You will conjure up a wind and direct it at the
poles. If it is of sufficient strength, the ball will fall. I will
see to it that no natural breezes give you any help," Ayna said.
"You may close your eyes, provided you can remember which direction
is forward."

Myranda closed her eyes and tried to push
away the anger Ayna had stirred up with her belittling remarks. The
wind came quickly. It was only a breeze at first, but it grew
steadily, and before long, she felt that it must be strong enough.
She opened her eyes, managing to maintain the strength of the
breeze. Of the ten poles, four had already lost their cargo, and a
fifth came quickly after that.

As time went on. the strain of keeping the
wind at speed became nearly unbearable, but one by one the other
poles shed their contents. Finally only one remained, but try as
she might she could not shake the ball free.

"Oh, come now. Just one more," Ayna said, a
thin veneer of encouragement poorly masking her smug
satisfaction.

Myranda redoubled her efforts, but the ball
would not budge. Had she less of a task occupying her mind, she
might have noticed Deacon shaking his head in disgust and casting a
glare at Ayna, but all of this was filtered out in her attempts to
focus her mind more powerfully. Her trainer wore a grin that
widened with each unsuccessful gust. The fury within her grew and
eroded her concentration. The gales began to waver, and finally she
let the trance lapse entirely.

"Well, well. Our prodigy is not all-powerful
after all. You have your rest, and perhaps tomorrow you can take
another baby step," Ayna gloated.

"No!" Myranda proclaimed, raising her staff
and trying to conjure another breeze.

"Listen to me, little girl. You have failed.
Leave now before I have you removed," Ayna warned.

Myranda ignored the fairy's protests and
brought about a weak breeze. She tried to strengthen it, but the
anger filling her mind left no room for concentration. Ayna flitted
directly in front of her disobedient pupil and continued to
threaten, but Myranda heard none of it. Her fury grew and grew,
like a river straining against a dam. This awful creature that took
such joy in her failure would be taught a lesson. Her hands began
to shake.

Finally the dam broke and the anger flooded
her mind. A powerful burst of wind erupted, seemingly from nowhere,
shaking her from her focused state of mind. The profound dizziness
struck with equal speed. She had dropped her staff when the wind
had startled her and had nothing to steady herself. Deacon was
beside her in time to keep her on her feet.

"Are you all right? You shouldn't have done
that. You really shouldn't have," he said.

"I did that?" Myranda said with
disbelief.

Her eyes finally came into focus to see what
looked to be the site of a disaster. All of the poles were shaking
violently. Those nearest to the one she had been focusing on were
snapped off at the base and were only just now falling to the
ground yards away. The one she had targeted was missing entirely,
along with a generous portion of the earth it had been anchored in.
Some distance away it could be found, embedded in Ayna's tree. Ayna
herself was fluttering, stunned, in front of a slight impression in
the same tree where she had collided with it. She was plastered
with the dirt kicked up by the wind and slowly turning to the tree
to survey the damage.

"You had better move. Quickly," Deacon
whispered to her as he led her away.

The fairy lifted a hand without turning. A
fierce wind rushed up around Myranda, forcing Deacon away and
lifting her from the ground. When she had flitted to the ground
beside the flailing girl, she snapped her fingers. The wind cut
off, and Myranda fell forcefully to the ground.

"That is all. You are
through!
I do not want to see you
again for a year," she said.

"Now, Ayna, you cannot do that," Deacon said,
trying to reason with her.

"You know the rules as well as I. That girl
used a spell fueled by anger. Such an offense is punishable by
whatever means
I
see fit. You should be glad I do not choose to
kill her," Ayna said.

"But the rules also call for leniency for a
first offense," Deacon countered.

"Leniency! I do not care if that
thing
has never made a
single misstep in her life! She allowed the darker emotions to
empower a spell, and did so
while
she was disobeying me, using said spell
specifically to
assault
me!" Ayna raged.

"I did not--" Myranda attempted, but the
fairy made a fist and she felt the air withdraw from her lungs.

"You prompted it. She was not assaulting you,
she was attempting to pass a test that you had sabotaged," he
said.

"How dare you accuse me of sabotaging the
test!" Ayna said, aghast.

"The pole is sticking out of the side of your
tree and the ball is still attached," he said.

"I didn't deny sabotaging the test, but you
have no right to accuse me of it," she said.

Myranda's vision was fading as what little
air she had left was giving out. As her thrashing slowed, Ayna took
notice and opened her fist. The fresh air rushed back into her
lungs and brought her back around. When she had caught her breath
enough to climb to her feet, she did so.

"What have I done to you to deserve--"
Myranda attempted again, only to receive the same treatment.

"For someone renowned for her skill in
learning, you certainly are slow to learn when to keep your mouth
shut," Ayna said as the girl fell helplessly to the ground.

"You are the one at fault as much as her,
because you know better," Deacon said.

"Fine. Get the flute and the . . . elegy, I
suppose. But I am through with her until she is ready for her exam.
She is your student now. See that she drills every day," Ayna said,
flitting off to her tree and releasing her grip.

Deacon helped Myranda to her feet again and
the two made their way to the meal hut. As they ate, and Myranda's
mind cleared, they spoke.

"What just happened?" she asked.

"Ayna coaxed you into breaking one of our
cardinal rules," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "It was
probably her plan from the start. Once she found out just how fast
you were learning, her concern likely drifted to maintaining her
own grip on the record for air mastery."

"What rule did I break?" she asked.

"You allowed anger to affect your casting of
a spell," he said.

"Is that why it was so powerful? I don't
understand. Why did it happen, and if I released so much energy so
quickly, why am I not exhausted?" she asked.

"Well, magic is an expression of the soul's
power. High emotion stirs the soul and boosts the power. Anger in
particular has a way of amplifying the effect of any forceful spell
beyond the point of controllability. That fact, coupled with the
fact that one grows reliant on such methods if used too often,
makes it one of the worst offenses one can commit while training.
Long term uses can twist the soul far more than dishonesty and
treachery," he said. "As for the reason that you are not exhausted?
It will catch up with you, probably while you are asleep. Too much
energy too quickly sometimes takes a few hours to take a toll,
particularly on a first-time user. More experienced users feel it
sooner."

"Why?" she asked.

"Magic still holds a few mysteries, even from
us," he said.

"Wait. I saw all of the Masters literally
destroy the Elder's hut. Weren't they breaking this rule?"

"They were angry
while
casting the spell. The anger
was not affecting the strength of the spell. If it was, there
wouldn't be much of a village left," he said.

"Oh. Well, what do I do now?" she asked.

"There are very few fundamentals to be taught
in air magic. Two, really. You already know how to conjure wind,
and the display you put on today proves you can direct it with a
fair amount of accuracy. The rest is practice," he said.