The Book of Deacon

by Joseph Lallo

  "Aye," came a thickly accented voice.

  "I was sent here by Caya," Myranda said.

  "I know no one by that name," he said.

  "I have this," Myranda said, producing the writ.

  "Give it here," came the voice, a pair of withered fingers appearing at the slot.

  Myranda offered up the paper Caya had given her. It was snatched away and, after a few moments of irritated muttering, the voice rose again.

  "The money?" he asked, or rather, demanded.

  "I was not given any. Caya needed time to get the silver together," she said.

  "NO! NEVER AGAIN! WE HAD AN AGREEMENT, I AM TO RECEIVE TWO--YE GODS, WHAT IS THAT!?" he ranted.

  Myn, intrigued by the new scent and new voice, stood on her hind legs and leaned her front feet against the door. That had just managed to bring her eyes to the slot, and she peered eagerly inside, startling the ranting old man.

  "Myn, get down from there! I'm very sorry, Mr. Wolloff. That is just Myn. She is a dragon," Myranda explained.

  "I can see that! I have eyes, haven't I! What is it doing here?" he demanded.

  "I . . . It is difficult to explain," she said.

  "Never mind. Get inside, but the dragon stays outside," he said.

  "I don't know if I can keep the dragon from--" she began.

  "The dragon stays outside!" he screamed.

  Myn jumped back, startled by the man. The door flew open to reveal a white-haired man. He was precisely as one might imagine a wizard, rendered frail by the mass of years gone by. His clothes were simple, and immaculately white. A brass amulet with a clear crystal hung about his neck. He grasped it and spat out a trio of arcane words. A sharp, brief pulse of light came from the stone within to signify the casting of the spell. Myn dropped to the ground as though struck. She was no longer moving.

  "What did you do?" Myranda insisted.

  "Relax, lass. I put the little demon down for a rest. Now get inside before I wake it and sic it on ye!" he said.

  Myranda reluctantly moved inside, keeping her gaze locked on the motionless dragon until the door slammed shut.

  "Are you certain she will be all right?" Myranda asked.

  "Aye, she will be just fine. As for you, I'll expect a bit more speed and obedience from a pupil. That is what you have come for, I trust," he said.

  "Yes," she assured him.

  "Right, then you will be needing food, I suppose," he said.

  "I would appreciate it," she said.

  "You will find the kitchen there," he said, pointing a crooked finger at one of the three remaining doors.

  Myranda turned to the door. The room she stood in was, to say the least, well used. Books with faded writing lay open upon every surface. Half-empty vessels of strong-smelling powders and liquids were scattered about, making the air stale with the smell of potions. A rickety table with a single chair made up the dining area, it would seem, while the parlor consisted of an overstuffed chair strategically placed between the crackling fireplace and the table. She walked to the flimsy wooden door her host had indicated.

  "I shall take my meal in here. When you are finished you may bring it out to me," he called after her.

  She stopped in her tracks.

  "You want me to prepare food for you?" she said in disbelief.

  "Aye. You know how to cook, I assume," he said without looking up.

  "Well, I do, but I have just spent days out in the cold, most of them on my feet," she said. He quickly cut her off.

  "Then I would imagine you would jump at the chance to spend some time in front of a warm fire," he said with an infuriating cheerfulness.

  "I--" began her retort.

  "I do not want to hear it. Until that woman sends me my silver, you are not a guest, not a student, not a customer. You are an unwanted tenant! AND RENT IS PAST DUE! You will do what I say, when I say it! That goes double when we are in training! NOW GET TO WORK!" he commanded.

  Myranda backed into the kitchen, taken aback by what he had said. As she gathered the meager selection of ingredients, the girl wondered two things. First, why was this man so ill-tempered? Second, how could someone who seemed so fragile be so forceful and commanding? When he spoke one could not help but act. Perhaps learning magic taught such a trait. She half desired and half feared gaining that quality in her time here.

  The meal, a simple vegetable stew, was finished and set before Wolloff in one of the plain clay bowls she managed to find in the kitchen. He shoveled the food into his mouth as Myranda cleared the uncushioned chair of books and other debris so that she could join him at the table. By the time she was able to sit, the wizard had nearly finished. When the last of his share was finished, he pushed the bowl across the table, turned back to the fire, and returned to his reading.

  Myranda finished her meal and carried the bowls to the kitchen to wash them. By now, she knew better than to expect gratitude from her host. She returned to her seat, sitting quietly and thinking of the dragon sleeping in the cold just outside the door.

  "You know, the dragon . . ." Myranda began.

  "The dragon stays outside. It breathes fire and my home is filled with sensitive, irreplaceable, flammable objects. The blasted creature lives outside. It does not need to come in!" Wolloff said.

  "Well, when will she wake?" she asked.

  "In a few hours. Listen, lass, I cannot be answering questions all day. You'll be occupying my time for months, so I'd like to get a wee bit of my own work done tonight. You'll be spending most of your time in the tower. That is where I teach, and that is where you will sleep. Why don't you head up there and make yourself at home? Anything to get you out of my hair!" he said.

  Myranda rose and headed quickly to the door, eager to be away from the irritating man. The stairs inside the tower were quite a match for its exterior. Less than a handful of the entire spiraling flight were fully intact. The rest had corners or centers crumbled away or cracked. It was only with great care that she managed to reach the top. There she found a room, perhaps half the size of the room downstairs. It was round, with curved bookcases lining the sections of wall between windows, of which there were three. One faced south, one north, and one west.

  The windward side of the tower bore no window, keeping the stiff breeze mercifully outside. As a result, the meager heat from the fire below, which ran up a column of chimney that marked the center of the tower, was quite enough to heat the room. There was an old bench, a table scattered with various mystical apparatus and books, and a trio of chairs, one of which was broken. The entire room was covered with a layer of dust. It was clear that no one had put this room to use in some time. There were shutters over the windows, though like everything else here, they were in various states of disrepair. The southern one did not even close tightly, instead knocking erratically in the breeze.

  Myranda dropped her packs onto the bed, coughing at the plume of dust it stirred. She sat down on the bed's edge and wrestled the nearly worn-through boots from her feet. With only the use of her left arm, it proved to be quite a task, as cooking had been. She contemplated asking Wolloff to heal her shoulder immediately, but the thought of having to deal with him again bothered her more than the wound, the ever-present pain of which had come to be bearable simply through familiarity. In truth, with any luck, the temperament of Wolloff would lose its edge in the same way.

  The tired traveler rubbed her feet. They'd not felt fresh air in a week. Her knees and hips were sore, as was her back from the packs she'd had to carry. All things considered, she had been through an ordeal, and she could tell it would take some time to recover. A smile came her face as she fell back onto the bed. She realized that, at least for the time being, she had a home. Her travels were over. For a time she rested, but it was not long before her thoughts turned to Myn.

  She hoisted herself to her ailing feet and hobbled to the clattering shutter, pushing it wide open and holding it. Two stories down, she saw the prone form of the dragon, still asleep. She seemed t
o be comfortable enough, perhaps because of the hint of sun that had broken through the clouds to lend her its warmth. Even so, the shadow of the mountain was creeping closer as the sun descended. She resolved to be sure that if the little dragon had not woken by the time the sun had disappeared entirely, she would see to it that Myn was brought inside, regardless of what Wolloff had to say. Until then, she actually had some time with nothing to fill it.

  Myranda took a seat at the table, looking over the contents of one of the dusty books. The pages were filled with intricate symbols that she could not understand. Though their meaning was hidden to her, there was an aura of power about them that was undeniable. She ran her fingers across the page, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She put down the book and turned her attention to the half-dozen jewel shards that were scattered here and there. They were similar to the one that adorned Wolloff's amulet, but varied in color. Most were a dark blue, though some of the smaller pieces were a murky red. In stark contrast to the other gems was a single, perfectly clear, colorless crystal in a cloth-lined case.

  Toward the center of the table was a sophisticated apparatus of glass tubes and vials. Some had blackness staining them, as though they had spent time over a flame. Next she looked to the other books. The aged tomes could be found not only lining the walls, but in mounds on the floor, piled high in chests, and even under the bed. She approached one of the bookcases. Hundreds of leather-bound books, the gold leaf or hand-inked names long since flaked away, stood awaiting the trained eye of a wizard to unlock their secrets. Finally, she found a book, apparently a newer one, which had a name that was not only intact, but also in her native tongue.

  She pulled the thin book from its place and opened it. The title read The White Magics of the Northern Alliance. Inside, the pages displayed the very same runes that had populated the pages of the other books, though these were drawn with less care, or perhaps less skill. Above the dense blocks of runes were names accrediting the spell crafters, like Talia's Poison Guard or Merick's Touch of Soothing. Each spell was further accompanied by lengthy descriptions of the effects, as well as recommendations of when they were to be used. Her untrained eye could make no sense of the spells themselves, but she eagerly read over the descriptions of the wondrous incantations. With each sentence she became more excited about the months to come. She would be able to produce such effects in time!

  Just when she thought she was as thrilled as she could be, she came upon a page that seized her attention. It was labeled Celeste Spell of Cure Affliction. Celeste! In all of her travels, she had never encountered another person who shared her family name. That meant that this spell had been crafted by her own flesh and blood! Some forgotten ancestor or distant cousin. She read over the description, hungry for more information. Alas, nothing more was said of the author. However, the indication of the spell was identical to her shoulder's malady. It told of wounds twice as bad as hers healed fully in minutes, usefulness restored to limbs rendered immobile.

  Myranda riffled through the pages of the book in search of other spells bearing her name. Finding none, she carefully placed the precious book down, opened to the page of interest. She then rushed to the bookshelf again and pulled the first book down. Supporting it painfully with her injured arm, she pored through the pages hoping to find her name again. Failing to find it, she searched another, and then another. Over the course of hours, she managed to exhaust the contents of one whole bookshelf. Most books bore labels in Tresson. It was a language she knew well enough, but one that would not likely hold information about her clan, as they had resided in and around Kenvard for countless generations.

  Only when the light from the window had faded past the point of usefulness did she stop her search. She dejectedly replaced the book that had stirred her hopes so, turning to the window. The dim glow of a cloud-shrouded moon made her realize that she had completely forgotten her dear little Myn! She ran to the window. The dragon's impromptu bed was empty, a set of tracks leading off into the woods. The panicked shriek of a pursued woodland creature, followed by a tree in the distance shaking free of its blanket of snow assured Myranda that her little dragon was well occupied and quite healthy. She would be just fine.

  Satisfied with Myn's wellbeing, the time had come to tend to her own. She looked to the bed. If she was to sleep in the dusty old relic, it would need some preparation. The blanket had to be shaken out, the mattress checked for unwanted residents, and the pillow treated similarly. This would be her home for a while, such as it was, and she would have to make it livable. She set about her task, and was just dusting off her hands and contemplating sleep when there came a bellow from Wolloff.

  "Dinner!" he cried in more of a demand than an alert.

  As she made her way down the treacherously darkened staircase, she reconsidered her situation. She would be eating a second warm meal in the same day, a rare occurrence in her nomadic lifestyle. Better yet, she had a soft bed in a room away from the cold waiting for her. In comparison to what she'd become accustomed to, this was utter luxury. If she had only to cook a meal or two to afford such a paradise, it was a bargain. This thought was still in her mind when she encountered Wolloff at the bottom of the staircase, candle in hand and a scowl on his face.

  "Oh, by all means, take your time! I would hate for you to break a sweat! It would be a bloody travesty!" he said with a practiced tone of false concern.

  "I am sorry. It is just that I have a rather serious shoulder injury," she explained, as she felt a few exertion-fueled throbs.

  "The last I checked, climbing the stairs was more in the realm of the leg's operation," he said.

  "I know, I know," she said, not eager to prompt another biting comment. One followed regardless.

  "That's fine. What's say we get some meat in this meal, shall we? I do not take the trouble to keep the cupboard stocked with rabbits so that I can eat like one!" he said.

  In the kitchen, she found he had left out a smoked rabbit for her to cook. She roasted it and brought him a plate, lacking the strength in her right arm to carry her own plate at the same time. When she finally set down her own serving and took her first bite, she noticed her host casting a glance or two at the afflicted shoulder. Apparently it was clear that cutting the meat required more of her arm than it was willing to give. When both were through eating, he pushed his plate aside and gave her a stern look.

  "Right, let's see it then," he said.

  "See what?" she asked.

  "See what?" he said, rolling his eyes. "A song and dance. Your shoulder, you dullard! What do you think I mean!?"

  Myranda rolled up her sleeve, cringing at the pain. Wolloff began to unfasten the blood-soaked bandage.

  "This looks to be a week old," he said.

  "It is. How did you know?" she asked.

  "I have been at this for some time, lass. Has it looked this way from the start?" he asked.

  "The morning after," she said, cringing again as he prodded at the wound with a small metal hook he had produced.

  "Hold still, this will be over soon," he said as his probing became more vigorous.

  "What are you--ow--OW!" she cried.

  He showed her the end of the hook. There was a small piece of blood-soaked wood clinging to the end.

  "That was in my arm?" she said.

  "Aye," he said. "Were I you, I would have removed that. Clean the wound in the kitchen and we will get a fresh bandage on it. First thing in the morning, we will get you started on that arm."

  "Get me started on it? You mean that I will be the one healing it?" she said.

  "Aye. To a layman, that injury is a curse, but to a budding white wizard, it is motivation. The sooner you learn the art, the sooner you end your suffering," he said, turning back to the book he had been reading.

  Myranda's head was spinning. It was only now striking her how near she was to achieving what had been a lifelong dream. Ever since that terrible day when she lost her family to the siege of Kenvard, s
he had longed to find some way to undo some of the damage the war had done.

  After carefully rinsing the injury clean, she returned to the main room where Wolloff stopped his reading just long enough to apply the first real bandage the gash had seen. The difference between the proper dressing and the coarse makeshift counterparts she'd been using was quite clear. Aside from doing a far better job of protecting the wound, it was worlds more comfortable, as it did its job without needing to be tied so tight that it numbed her fingers.

  "Right, first light we begin with your training. Get rest," Wolloff said.

  Myranda fairly ran up the stairs. Tomorrow! Tomorrow she would take the first steps toward a new life! Imagine! In a few short months she would be able to save lives! Her mere touch would soon restore the stricken! She slid into bed with these thoughts and more rendering sleep all but impossible. The clouds outside hid the moon, casting her room into utter blackness. Eyes closed or open, images of a war-torn landscape hung in the air, with herself, dressed in white, one by one bringing the fallen back to health.

  The aspiring wizard was suddenly torn from her reverie by the loud clatter of one of the shutters. She turned her head to the source of the sound. In the darkness, she could only just make out the open window to the south. Myranda stumbled to the shutter and inspected it. She could swear she'd wedged it closed earlier. Pulling it shut, she took more care to see to it that the window would not come open again. After making her way blindly to the bed, she slipped under the covers once more and tried to get to sleep. In a few moments, though, she felt a familiar weight drop on top of her.