The Book of Deacon by Joseph R. Lallo
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Nearly three full weeks elapsed before the clerics and healers agreed that Myranda was ready to continue her education. Her next teacher, Cresh, had been contacting her during the last few days of her recovery. He never met with her directly. Instead, books found their way onto the table of her hut in her absence. If the dirt smudging each page was any indication, the books were from his personal collection, and he loved his work. They were written in a language that made them incomprehensible to her.
Now the time had come for her to meet him face to face for the first time as his student. The usual crowd of admirers followed as she approached her teacher's home, with the exception of Deacon, who had taken to remaining in his own hut rather than compete with the crowd for Myranda's ear. Cresh's home was a low, unusual hut fairly buried in a jungle of plants and trees. The structure was unlike any of the others. It had no seams, as though it had been carved, or grown, from a single stone.
"I am not putting on a show. Off with you and leave us in peace," Cresh warned the onlookers as he emerged from within. He was speaking his own language. It was the same he'd spoken on their only other meeting, the same she had failed to decipher in his books.
The eager onlookers shuffled away, much to the relief of Myn. Cresh looked at the creature for a moment, then shrugged.
"A cave-dweller is a welcome visitor any day, but no one else, if you don't mind. This is serious business. Mine is the most important of magics, you know," he informed her.
Myranda took a moment to attempt to translate his words. After managing to understand only a few she requested that he address her in Northern, or Tresson. He answered with what would be the first and last word she would easily understand for the duration of her training. No. He then launched into a speech.
It was rather entertaining to watch him speak. He was fully two feet shorter than she, and perpetually encrusted with dust and dirt. In addition, he tended to gesture enthusiastically while speaking. This was fortunate, as it helped her to understand his meaning. She could tell by the chest thumping and smiling of the speech that he was bragging about himself. He gestured for her to follow as he entered his hut.
The inside was as unique as the outside. There was no floor, only bare earth. There was also no furniture to speak of, save the shelves of books and jars. Even his staff was sticking into the soft earth rather than sitting carefully in a rack, as was the habit of the other wizards she'd met. He plucked it and held it in one hand while the other reached into one of the jars. He tossed a few grains of the substance within to the ground at her feet, and a few more at his own feet. A sweep of the staff sprouted the seeds instantly into stout vines that obligingly wove themselves into a rather inviting chair for each of them.
"That was very impressive," she said as she took a seat.
The dwarf waved off the compliment and sat as well. He began to talk again. It was apparently one of his favorite pastimes. After ten minutes of listening, she was able to understand enough to know that he was responsible for growing all of the food for the village, in addition to drawing up all of the crystal, metal, and stone that they might need. She had often wondered how a moderately-sized village like this could satisfy its demand for resources without any apparent source. Now she knew.
Suddenly, the time for idle chitchat was over. He first gestured at her feet, clearly indicating that her boots had to be removed. He said something about a sculptor wearing mittens, if Myranda pieced together the words correctly. She obeyed and copied him as he dug his toes into the dirt. He launched into another long speech, cupping his hand to his ear and pounding the ground with his feet. After receiving a puzzled look from Myranda, Cresh indicated that she should close her eyes and cover her ears. He then tapped the ground again. When she responded that she could feel the footfalls, he indicated that she should focus and discover what else she could find.
Focusing and searching with her mind was, at least, familiar to her. Before long, she found that she could sense the footfalls of the other people of Entwell. He seemed pleased and encouraged her to continue. More time passed and she realized that she could feel the constant flow of the waterfall. Again she was encouraged to deepen her search. It was truly remarkable the information that the earth could give her in the absence of all of her other senses. As she revealed everything from the movement of insects in the earth to the wind rustling the grass, he entreated her to speak up when she discovered something that she could not identify, rather than those things she could.
This assignment left her silent for some time. She quickly identified all of the new things she could detect, and gradually ceased to locate anything new. Her mind delved deeper and deeper. The thing that Cresh had been waiting for her to find came slowly. It was barely anything. At first, she was unsure she'd felt it at all. However, slowly she was able to push aside all else. Soon it was undeniable. There was something there. Something she'd never felt before.
"It is a rhythm. I can feel it. Like a heartbeat," she said.
Cresh nodded enthusiastically. He stood and took her outside, scolding her when she instinctively reached for her boots. She stood in front of the hut, dug her toes into the ground, and found the pulse again. Once in the stance that would be commonplace in the days to come, she was able to lock onto it and hold it in the back of her mind. In this way, she would be able to listen--or, at least, attempt to listen--to her instructor. The procedure he seemed to describe was familiar to her as well. She was to allow the rhythm to mingle with her own strength. The fire and wind methods were similar. Different, though, was the way that she was to do so. The rhythm was to ripple up through her feet, and later her staff, and into her body. Once she was a part of the pulse's path, she was to allow it to echo inside of her. It was to rebound and reverberate through her, growing ever stronger as it did.
She did as she imagined she was being told. Once the faint rhythm was coaxed out of the earth, she found it a very strange sensation. It did not feel like it was shaking her like a pounding of a drum, as she imagined it would. The pulse changed as it blended with her own strength. It moved through her as it had through the ground, but in a way that she felt in her spirit, not her body. Somehow, Cresh was able to monitor the strength of the ripple, and instructed her to release it, through the staff, back into the earth from whence it came. She did so, and was shocked by the result. A tremor, small but noticeable enough to make Myn fairly jump out of her skin, was created, with her staff at its center.
Cresh was quite pleased and declared the day to be a success. He returned her boots to her and retired.
No sooner had the dwarf shut the door of his abode than the people of the village returned to ask their questions. She was forced to tell her story again and again. She was hungry, but frowned at the thought of entering a crowded hut filled with equally enthusiastic people. Fortunately, an alternative presented itself, as Myn was already off in the direction of Solomon, who was just exiting his hut for his weekly hunting trip. She took her seat beside the crystal arena. At least here she didn't feel cooped up as the mob of people besieged her.
Myn returned, happily presenting Myranda with a pair of fish. She suddenly realized that when the time came to cook the fish, it was Deacon who always did the honors. It seemed a shame to break the tradition, particularly in light of the fine job his spell always did. Myn anticipated Myranda's plan and cleared a path through the crowd, leading the way to Deacon's hut. While the little dragon had learned to control herself in crowds, her manners left something to be desired. She pushed the door open with her head and barged in.
Deacon was at work as he always was. The door closed against the crowd once more.
"What brings you here?" Deacon asked.
Myranda held up the fish.
"Don't you know it is bad luck to break tradition?" she said.
"I suppose so. Particularly when a dragon is involved," he said, providing the treat that Myn had been anticipating since her arrival. Meanwhile, a snap of the
"One of these days, one of us will have to remember to bring a plate along on hunting day. Eating fish out of one's hands can get a bit messy," he said.
"Agreed," she said.
"You know, most people here don't get to have fresh fish but once or twice a year. Solomon being the only carnivore, he tends to be the only one who gets them before they get stewed," he said.
"Well, it is yet another benefit to having a dragon as a friend," she said. "But, then, you haven't been around lately."
"You are busy," he said.
"It would seem that no one here is ever otherwise," she said, enjoying a bit of her meal.
"I have been falling behind in my scribing," he said.
"You've always been able to scribe while out and about. It isn't like you to make excuses," she said.
Deacon sighed.
"Myranda. You have been here for just a bit under three months. I have been here for two and one-half decades. You have achieved more than I have, become more than I have. I have grown to the limit of my abilities while you have only begun. Look at how the others follow you. The crowds may thin after they have all heard what they seek, but they will always see you as something remarkable," he said.
"Don't tell me you are jealous," she said.
"Oh, no. To say I was jealous would be to suggest that you did not deserve all that you have. I know that you do. Fact of it is . . . well, I don't deserve to be near you. Were I not your guide through this, I would scarcely be tolerated among the other Masters. You are destined for far greater things than I. It is past time I gave you the space to grow," Deacon said.
"I don't care about any of that. Unless you have grown tired of my company, I want you to come see me whenever you like," she said.
"Well . . . thank you," Deacon said.
With that misunderstanding behind them, they spent the next few hours discussing what she could expect from Cresh. He was not the most thorough of instructors, but he had far more subjects to cover. Also, if ever she was to get on his bad side, she need only request a demonstration. He reveled in displaying his art.
Unfortunately, sundown came all too soon. The crowd had grown tired of waiting and dispersed, so she quickly set off to the Warrior's Side and found Lain waiting. As soon as she saw his face, she felt all of the anger return. He handed her a short sword. Unlike the one he'd been using, this one was steel, every bit a lethal weapon.
"You must be very brave, handing a real sword to me after telling me what you did," she said.
"I understand you've had experience with the short sword," he said.
"I have," she said.
"We will spar a bit to see how skilled you are," he said.
"And how shall I earn my questions?" she asked.
"Still interested, are we? I thought you were content to assume and jump to conclusions," he said.
"Lain, you told me you had the leaked information in your hands! You had to know what was going to happen, and you did nothing! What am I supposed to think!" she cried.
"If you thought at all, you would not be acting as you are, but that is irrelevant. Prepare yourself," he said, lifting his own sword.
"But this is not a training sword," she said.
"I will pull my attacks if they are going to land. As for you . . . I seriously doubt that you will even come near, but if you manage to strike me, I will give you ten questions," he said. "And the offer still stands that if you draw even a single drop of blood, every answer you wish is yours."
"But--" she began.
"Begin!" he said.
He attacked slowly at first, one at a time. Her blocks were a bit sloppy, as she hadn't practiced with a sword in years. Worse were her attacks. The weapon was quite a bit heavier than the staff.
As she began to recall what her uncle and father had taught her, her performance improved. Lain noticed it and increased his attacks in both rate and intensity. The attacks were followed by a pause for her to attack. She was holding him off well enough, but her attacks were still slow. The clash of steel against steel was unnerving. Perhaps that was why he had chosen not to use the training swords. He was toying with her.
Anger had as powerful an effect on combat as it did on magic, it would seem. She fought back harder and faster. As she did, her defense suffered. More than once, an attack slipped through. She didn't even pause when it did. Lain pulled his attacks so effortlessly his flow of attack and defense was not even interrupted.
Despite the accelerating attacks, Myranda never came close to landing a blow. After a few minutes, Lain called the sparring to an end.
"You are not a cold beginner, but you can benefit from practice. A bit of discipline is in order as well," he said, not a hint of fatigue in his voice.
"Oh?" she remarked, trying to catch her breath.
"You fight as though I am trying to teach you," he said.
"Is that wrong?" she asked.
"You should fight as though I am trying to kill you," he said. "Those strikes that you trusted me to pull would have been enough to end your life. A bit more care is in order, even when the weapons aren't real. We will be switching back to training swords for the rest of the training, but I will not be pulling my blows quite so far anymore."
"You are planning on hitting me!?" she said.
"This is combat training. You need to learn about consequences," he said, tossing her the replacement for her weapon.
It was lighter, but solid. She would be able to swing it faster and more easily, but the thought of being hit by a blow as powerful as Lain was capable of was not appealing.
"We will dispense with the offense and defense drills. This will now be proper sparing. Attack or defend when the opportunity arises. Until now, you haven't had to consider counterattacks, so that is how you will earn your questions. You will earn one question for each counter you land. I will not throw any until you have thrown your first. A counter is quite different from a normal attack, so I will demonstrate the times when they are appropriate," he said.
Myranda thought she'd had enough to think about before--trying to identify when to attack, when to defend, and whether a counter was possible was like playing a game of chess in a heartbeat. The position of limbs, the distribution of weight, the speed, direction, and location of the weapon . . . she could take an hour to consider each one and still be wrong.
All too soon, the demonstration was over and the sparring began. She quickly found that during an attack or while defending, things were clear. The tenseness came in the moments when she and Lain were between attacks, quietly measuring each other, deciding what would happen next.
Finally, it happened. Myranda had leaned in for a downward strike. Her arms were raised, leaving her abdomen undefended. Lain struck with what looked to be one of his slower attacks. It most certainly did not feel like one. Myranda cried out, dropped her weapon, and doubled over. In an instant Myn was between them, desperate to stop them from fighting. The pain shot through her. It was a moment before she could regain the wind that had been knocked out of her.
"That was a kill," he said, as though his point had not been made clear enough.
She managed to recover after a minute or two and tried to continue, but Myn would have none of it.
"That is all for today. I imagine that Myn will be cutting our next few sessions short. But if she can get used to your attacks connecting, she can get used to mine," he said.
"Don't be so sure. My attacks were not as cruel as yours," she said.
"Oh, no? You were swinging with all of your might. You came near to breaking a rib once," he said.
"Impossible. You didn't make a sound," she said.
"In my line of work, it is wise to keep silent," he said.
"I don't care how disciplined you are, you would have doubled over, too, if I'd hit you as you did me," she said.
Lain dropped his weapon to the ground and grasped his right little finger with his left hand. With a sharp twist and a horr
"Why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have struck so hard," she said.
"You will never learn to fight properly if you are pulling your attacks. I want you to fight as you had before, or I will never answer another question," he said.
A terrible guilt filled Myranda.
"Let me see your hand," she said.
"No need," he said.
"Just let me see. It is swelling already," she said.
A whisper of a thought was enough to heal the minor damage he'd done. While she was at it, she healed the blow she had taken.
"Unlike you, I can't stand idle while someone suffers," she said.
"Sometimes standing idle is the best course of action," he said before retiring to his hut.
Myranda gritted her teeth in anger as she walked away. Myn canted sideways behind her, trying her best to keep an eye on both of them. Past sundown, it would seem that the throng of admirers had better things to do, as she was not assaulted by them as she headed back to Deacon's hut. Myn barged in as before, and rushed over to him to start sniffing at his tunic's pocket.
"Stop. I said one per day. You've had yours," he said, protecting his pocket from her search long enough for her to give up and retreat to Myranda for a scratch on the head.
Deacon could see that something was on Myranda's mind.
"I suppose that things didn't go well today," he said.
Myranda fumed for a moment before she could answer.
"Deacon. Lain . . . he could have done something about the massacre," she said.
"What massacre? Ah! The one you told me about, at Kenvard. He could have prevented it? How?" he asked.
"He found the person who leaked the information! He knew it was going to happen!" she said.
"What did he do with the information?" he asked.
"Nothing!" she said.
"Well, that was decent of him," Deacon said.
"Decent of him!? I cannot think of something worse he could have done!" she cried.
"He could have sold it to a higher bidder, or delivered it himself to receive the payment intended for the man he killed," Deacon said.
Myranda paused for a moment. Each was admittedly far worse than doing nothing at all.
"But still--he could have warned them!" she said.
"Well, I suppose you are right," he agreed. Almost immediately, a confused look struck his face as a thought came to mind. The same thought struck Myranda as well.
"Why would he need to?" she realized. "If the intelligence never got delivered, the Tressons couldn't have known about the weakness . . ."
"Indeed. One wonders how the massacre could have happened at all. That is, if Lain's word can be trusted," Deacon said.
"I don't think Lain cares enough about what I think to lie to me anymore. And after how I have acted, I don't blame him," Myranda said.
After having a late meal, Myranda retired.