The Book of Deacon (7 page)

He leaned close and cast a gaze of admiration
upon the mirror finish.

"Excellent temper . . . clean edge," he said,
scanning the weapon eagerly with his expert eyes. "Would you mind
if I lifted it?"

"Go right ahead," she said.

He slipped his gloves on before touching the
elegant weapon, apparently fearful of smudging the surface. He then
lifted it, carefully considering its weight and looking down the
length of the blade, admiring its quality.

"Superb balance, surprisingly light. I do not
have much use for the long sword in my work, but I can tell you
that this is a remarkable weapon," he said, placing it down and
removing the gloves.

"I was most interested in the handle," she
said.

"Why? There was nothing specifically
remarkable about the grip," he said, puzzled.

"What about the jewels?" she asked.

"Oh,
Oh.
I had not even noticed. Cosmetic touches like
that are the last things I look for," he said. "Those
would
raise the price a
tad, I would say."

"I should hope so," Myranda said, wrapping
the sword and replacing it.

"A word of advice. If you want the best
price, see a collector, not a smith. Shop owners always pay less
than what they think they can sell something for. Collectors pay
what the piece is worth. As much as those jewels are worth, I would
wager the workmanship and uniqueness of that piece would fetch a
still higher price," he said.

"I am not greedy. So long as this treasure
earns me what I need, I will be more than satisfied. If it pays for
a want or two, all the better," she said.

"Trust me, you will have quite enough," he
said.

Putting the sword down again had disturbed
the bandage. She adjusted it, frowning at its appearance. The
filthy bar had lent more than its share of filth to the already
tea-stained cloth, turning it black and greasy wherever it had
touched the table.

"What happened?" Leo asked, indicating the
injury.

"Oh. I burnt myself," she said--best not to
be specific in this case, particularly considering the fact even
she was unsure of exactly what happened.

Leo nodded thoughtfully. "You will want to
let the air at that. Burns heal better that way. Just a few hours a
day ought to do. Less of a scar," he said.

"Is that so?" she asked.

"Trust me. I spend most of the year
recovering from one injury or another," he said, placing his hand
on his shoulder and working the joint until a distinct snap could
be heard.

"Why not see a healer, or a cleric?" she
asked.

"Aside from the fact that they are nearly
impossible to find? Believe it or not, when those folks do their
job, they tend to want a look at their patient. I would rather not
have them find out what I am--and if a healer cannot tell at the
first glance I would frankly think twice about allowing them to
work on me," he explained.

"Right, foolish of me to ask," she said.

As the hours of the night passed, Myranda
made up for an eternity of solitude. She spoke until her voice
nearly failed her and drank in Leo's words as deeply as she did the
wine. They were equally rare luxuries to her, and she would enjoy
them as long as she could. Weariness and wine were a potent mix,
though, and finally her eyes were too heavy to ignore. Even so, she
fought to stay awake to share more tales with her friend. It was
Leo, always the gentleman, who insisted that she get some rest. He
stood to leave.

"Before you go, I must ask you something,"
Myranda said.

"Don't let me stop you," he said, slipping
his gloves on.

"You have every reason to be as bitter and
angry as my late uncle. How is it that you have come to be so
kind?" she asked.

Leo threw his cloak about his shoulders as he
answered. "Simple. Would you have let such a grim and angry person
through this door?"

"I suppose not," she said.

"Of course not. You reap what you sow in this
world. I do not mean to say that I have
never
been as you described. I
spent the better half of my years hating your people with all of my
heart and soul. Perhaps a part of me still does. The truth is,
whether I like it or not, your people rule this world. I can either
live a life of hate and solitude, or I can do what I feel is right
and hope for the same in return. Until today, though, I'd had
little luck. Meeting you serves to remind me that there is some
good within everyone, even if you have to dig to find it," he
explained.

With that, the unique creature pulled his
hood into place, instantly becoming one of the nameless, faceless
masses again. He then pulled the door open, wished her a good
night's rest, and shut it behind him.

Myranda spent a long moment staring at the
door. She had learned much in the past few hours. It shamed her,
but she could not deny the fact that had she seen his face before
she'd known his nature, she would have treated him with the same
disdain and prejudice he had come to expect. All of her life, she
had heard the horror stories of what these beast men did. To think
that one of these "fiends" would show her the patience, warmth, and
understanding that even the priest lacked . . . In short, Leo was
everything that Myranda feared had been lost forever in the wake of
this horrific war.

Without his lively presence in the room,
Myranda realized how tired she really was. She rose from her chair
and sat on her bed. Doing so jostled a cloud of dust from the
poorly-kept quilt. A glance at the bandage reminded her of Leo's
words. Carefully, she removed it. The coarse, grayish material had
absorbed only a drop or two of blood. Her palm had been entirely
swollen the day before, but now there was only a stripe of redness
along her palm and a single welt toward her fingers. She laid back
and winced as the tightness in her back slowly eased away.

Finally she shifted herself under the covers
and stretched, prompting the odd crack or snap from her weary
joints. She smiled as she lowered her head onto the greatest luxury
of all, a pillow. Before drifting quickly to sleep, she placed her
left arm over her head on the pillow, exposing the afflicted palm
to some much-needed fresh air.

The very instant she closed her eyes, she
found herself transported to the blackened field that had poisoned
her sleep the night before. Fear and desperation filled her as she
searched for some remnant of the light she had remembered. In the
distance, a handful of faint, flickering lights seemed to beckon to
her. She ran toward them--but, one by one, the shining embers
flickered out.

The ground became uneven and she stumbled,
feeling the cold, dead grass crunch beneath her palms. Unwilling to
waste even the time to stand, Myranda crawled toward the lights.
There was a feeling within her that if she looked away for even a
moment, the last piece of light would be lost to her forever. A
sudden coldness beneath her hand started her, and she reflexively
closed her fingers around it. Whatever it was that she had found,
it was firmly planted in the frigid earth. She wanted to move
forward, but at the same time, she could not bring herself to let
go of the freezing object she'd found. She pulled and strained,
finally looking to the artifact she had stumbled upon.

Even as she could feel the speck of golden
light in the distance flit away forever, she saw the item she'd
found replace it. It was a lantern, and the second her eyes met the
wick, it fizzled to life. In the oppressive blackness, the dim
flame seemed blinding. When her eyes painfully adjusted, she rubbed
them to find that the world she was accustomed to had returned. The
light she blinked at was the handful of rays that made it through
the heavy curtains. The dream was over.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes was a matter
of moments. Shaking the powerful emotions and painful throbbing
from her head was another matter. She looked in vain for a basin or
such to at least wash her face, but the room was rather poorly
stocked. Dejected, she slowly gathered her things and laced her
boots. When she was certain she had everything, particularly the
sword, she entered the hallway, locked the door behind her, and
sought out her only intact pocket to place the key. On the way to
the stairs, she stopped in front of the door she'd seen Leo at the
day before. After a long moment she continued on, deciding to let
him sleep.

The tavern was a very different place in the
wee hours of the morning. Pale light from the cloudy morning sky
replaced the warm light of candle and lamp. The only motion was the
stirring of flies upon a half-finished plate of food left by an
unsatisfied customer the night before. Where had been a room full
of rowdy patrons now was only one, a filthy man who'd had a bit too
much of the ale and made a pillow of his leftover cabbage.

Behind the bar was a wiry young fellow,
likely the owner's son. He'd leaned his chair against the wall and
gazed lazily into space through a few greasy locks that hung in
front of his half-closed eyes. Myranda approached him, hopeful of
procuring a few pieces of the meat from last night. In her
experience, if the meat was past its prime, the kitchen would
usually part with it free of charge. It might not be tasty, but it
would be nourishing, and so long as it filled her stomach, she was
satisfied.

"Sir?" she said.

He did not react.

"Um, sir?" she repeated loudly.

She waved her hand before his eyes, only to
hear a long, grating snore. She shook her head. It was one thing to
sleep on the job, but teaching one's self to do so with open eyes
was a trick. He had earned the sleep, she would not rouse him. Her
stomach already grumbling, she pushed the door open slightly. A
biting wind blew some stray snowflakes into her face. She paused
for a moment to pull up her heavy hood and fasten its frayed cord,
all the while letting the arctic breeze whisk inside. Once she had
finished preparing herself, she opened the door fully.

Despite her precautions against it, the full
force of the wind passed right through the cloak. There was a time
when it had been as thick and warm as the ones that nine out of ten
of her fellow northerners wore, but time and use had rendered it
thin and ragged. The sleeping innkeeper shifted uncomfortably as
the cold air found its way to him. Myranda glanced back at the
motion, suddenly reminded of something she needed to do. She walked
up to the counter and dug the room key out of her pocket. The
groggy keeper gave a glance of acknowledgment and drifted back to
sleep.

Again, she pushed open the door and faced the
blast of wind from outside. The vague white light from the clouds
reflected off of the barely disturbed snow. Her slowly-adjusting
eyes glanced at the mottled gray sky and dark horizon of the nearby
Rachis Mountains to the east. The colorless landscape did little
for her sour mood, as the chosen beverage of the night gone by made
its presence known as a dull, constant ache in her head.

Finally, she could see well enough to take in
the more specific sights around her. A scattering of the town's
residents were up and about in these first hours of daylight. Five
were huddled together against the wind, all but one wearing the
ubiquitous drab gray cloak. She began to look away when the inn
door swung open to allow yet another cloak-clad, faceless villager
into the cold. The newcomer stood briefly beside the others, not
even evoking a glance from them. It then turned and waved at
Myranda with a familiar black-gloved hand. The figure,
indistinguishable from the others, rushed over to her.

"Leo?" asked Myranda as the figure
approached.

"Indeed," came his familiar voice. He hunched
over a bit, turned his hooded head to and fro slowly, and slouched.
"The bed is a devious invention, letting one sleep until after
sunup. Some folks need the dawn to catch their breakfast."

"Why are you slouching?" she asked.

"I am still tall enough to draw attention. On
a bright day like this, the shadowy face can seem a bit
suspicious," he explained quietly.

"So I suppose you are moving on then," she
surmised.

"As quickly as possible. It was fine meeting
you--" he began.

"Well, now, wait a moment. I am quite through
with this town. We could walk a bit together. I would appreciate a
friendly ear for a few minutes more," Myranda offered.

"Wonderful, as long as we do so quickly," Leo
agreed.

The pair moved swiftly out of town. Fresh
snow crunched beneath their feet, and a stiff and constant wind
blew in their faces, but they made sure to keep a quick pace until
they were well outside the village walls. When Leo was satisfied
they were quite alone, he slowly straightened and tugged his hood
back enough to break its spell and reveal his face. His return to
his full posture was accompanied by a sigh. Myranda shook her
head.

"I am so sorry that you have to live like
this," she said, nearly sickened by the behavior of her own
people.

"Oh, it is not so bad. I only spend time in a
city once in a great while," he said.

"It should not be that way. I honestly do not
see how you could treat me so kindly when my people have never done
the same to you. How can you put the anger aside?" she asked.

"You must remember that at least half of my
interactions with other races are in the form of combat. When every
alternate memory you have of a human consists of forcibly
delivering him into an unwelcome slumber, and getting paid quite
well to do so, the anger tends to fade a bit," he said with a
grin.

Myranda nodded. She tried to picture this
thoughtful, helpful gentleman in battle, but it seemed absurd. As
her mind wandered, she casually rubbed her sore palm with her right
thumb.