"He hasn't seen anything, you imbecile! He is clearly blind!" Trigorah cried, yanking the helpless old man from his grip.
Arden considered this for a moment.
"That don't mean nothin," he decided.
"Father, if you will just take a seat in the other room, I will have a word with my . . . associate . . . and then I require a few words with you myself," Trigorah said diplomatically.
The priest gratefully felt his way to the door to his chamber and closed the door behind him.
"What the hell do you think you are doing with my men, Arden?" Trigorah fumed, pronouncing the thug's name in an almost mocking tone.
"You ain't doin yer job no more, they said, so they decided I oughta. Said somebody's gotta find the 'sassin, since you couldn't," he replied.
"I found the assassin's accomplice! Someone saw fit to hire him rather than imprison him," Trigorah replied.
"Uh-huh. And he did his job. Probably I wouldn't of had to get involved if he'da just been paid, but what do I care 'bout 'scuses?" Arden shrugged, adding. "Yer men follow orders good. I think I'll keep 'em."
Trigorah shuddered with anger.
"Huh-huh. Tell you what. You gotta find that sword, right? And I gotta find that 'sassin. What's say we make a wager? You find yer bounty first and I refuse to take yer men, even if they're offered," Arden suggested.
"And if you win?" she asked.
"You know what I want if I win," Arden replied.
The general's eyes narrowed.
"Don't flatter yerself, elf. I want what's in here," he said, attempting to poke Trigorah on the helmet only to have his hand knocked away. "I got a lot of questions, and I wanna be able to ask 'em in my way. And, naturally, I'll be hanging onto yer men."
After a moment, Trigorah offered her hand. Arden shuffled the halberd to under his arm, its blade swiping dangerously near to Trigorah's head, and shook her hand.
"Right. I'm off then. Have fun with yer priest," Arden said, plodding out toward the door and barking an order to the men outside.
Trigorah entered the priest's chambers. He was sitting in a large chair, strangely composed despite his recent ordeal.
"I apologize for the actions of Arden. They were inexcusable," Trigorah began.
"Mmm. And yet you work with him," the priest replied.
"Through no choice of my own, I assure you," General Trigorah said.
"Everything is a choice, my child. Some choices are made poorly. They can have terrible consequences," he replied coldly. "Tell me. Is that the sort that our glorious army sees fit to employ?"
"These are hard times . . . regardless, I again apologize. I shall endeavor to make my time here brief and leave you in peace," Trigorah replied.
"As you wish, though it is not often I am graced by the presence of a general. May I offer any hospitality?" he said, the realization of his current guest finally taking hold.
"Only answers, Father. Were you visited, perhaps two weeks ago, by anyone? Anyone out of the ordinary?" she asked.
"Mmm. You'd be after the girl, then, I suppose. What was her name now? Myranda. Myranda Celeste. A sympathizer," he recalled.
Trigorah hesitated for a moment when she heard the name.
"You are certain about that?" she asked.
"Quite sure. Up to some mischief, is she? Stirring things up?" he asked.
"So it would seem," Trigorah replied quietly.
"Mmm. I feared as much." He nodded.
"I don't suppose you were able to determine if she was carrying anything," Trigorah pressed.
"I imagine she had a pack. I heard the odd clink or thunk when she sat down. At least I think I did. It was quite a few days ago," he answered.
"Thank you. That is all. I appreciate your time," Trigorah said, turning to leave.
"Anything to lend a hand to the Alliance Army," the priest said as she closed the door and hurried out.
Trigorah's rigid, analytic mind clashed against these new developments, churning though them. Some she set aside for further study, others she tried push to the back of her mind. Not every fact had been a welcome one. One thing was for certain, though. The task at hand was now no longer simply a matter of duty. It was a matter of honor.
#
The first disruption to Myranda's comfortable routine came at the end of the first week. Just as she was heading up the stairs, a visitor came to the door. Three rounds of eager knocks had passed before Wolloff made it from his chair to the door.
"Finally," he said, pulling the door open to the familiar visitor. "I was beginning to think I was doing this for my health."
He took a pair of bags from the young boy at the door. As Wolloff hefted the bags and peered inside, the boy lingered, casting excited glances around the wizard.
"What's got you so antsy, boy?" he asked.
"Is she here? Myranda?" he asked.
"These bags seem a bit light, lad. Turn out your pockets," he said.
The boy heaved a sigh and did so. Wolloff inspected them, then grumbled about him finding a better hiding spot.
"Now what are you on about? Marna?" he asked.
"Myranda! She came here for training," he said.
"Oh, Aye. The girl. She has retired for the evening. Why?" he asked.
"I was hoping I could meet her. All of the other men are talking about her. She singlehandedly put the voice of the Undermine in everyone's ears and our name on everyone's tongues. She killed four so--" he gushed.
"Fine, fine. Spray your blasted hero worship in the girl's direction. DOWNSTAIRS NOW!" he bellowed.
Myranda came down quickly, having already learned that keeping Wolloff waiting was far from pleasant.
"This little urchin wants a word with you. Watch yourself. The brat has sticky fingers," he said.
She looked at the youngster at the door. There was something familiar about him. He was wearing a set of sparring pads, such as those worn by squires and apprentices in mock battle. Dirt had found its way, in large patches, to every piece of exposed skin. He couldn't be more than half of her age, and was overflowing with the misguided enthusiasm that such youth afforded. He offered his hand, and when she returned the gesture, he grasped it in a vigorous and continuous shake.
"Oof. Easy. The shoulder is still a bit sore," she said.
"Oh, right, the arm. From the fight. She told me! I can't believe I am meeting you! I'm Henry. And you . . . You are the one! You did it!" he blurted.
"Calm down. I am only a person" she assured him.
"Only a person!? Caya said, she's my sister, she said that it is your fault that all of these orders are flowing down from the top and, and messages are coming out so fast and so often that there isn't even time to use codes, and, and, we are learning where the higher up people are and what their names are and what they are doing and where troops are coming from, and, and that means that there are openings and that means that we can hit them and cause real damage! Not like we've been doing! We can really hurt them and that means we need all the people we can get, and she gave me a knife and this great armor and it is all thanks to you!" the young boy spouted, almost without breathing.
"Right, that will be enough, lad. Just run off and tell your sister that if any more of this silver finds its way into your grubby little mitts, I'll be asking for three bags next time," he said, ushering the boy out the door and slamming it shut.
"Saints alive! The mouth on that boy. His parents should have just dressed up a monkey and cut off its tail. At least then they would get some peace and quiet now and then. What on earth was that yammering about, anyway? Have I got a celebrity as a pupil?" he asked.
"I . . . seem to have become something of a rally call for the Undermine. The popular belief is that I stole an artifact from the army and eliminated the four soldiers sent to retrieve it. Now the highest levels are up in arms, which I suppose creates no end of openings for Caya and her people to attack," she said.
"Am I to take from your tone that you do not fit the role in
which you have been cast?" he asked.
She shook her head slowly.
"I never killed those men. I only witnessed it, and even that was too much for me. I didn't steal any artifact. I found it on the body of a dead man and thought I could sell it. I never wanted any of this," she said.
"And how many people know that?" Wolloff asked.
"Only Caya, Tus, you, and whoever really did it," she said.
"Right, you keep it that way. If what you say is true, you've stumbled onto something that has finally gotten this group on its feet. It is therefore in all of our best interests that those whom you have inspired continue to believe what they have been told," he said, nothing but earnestness in his voice.
"Do you really believe in this cause?" she asked.
"Not in the least. It is my honest belief that Caya and all of her high-minded dealings will be crushed underfoot at the earliest convenience of any detachment of the army. Nevertheless, this engagement with the Tressons must come to an end, and the sad truth is this: the pointless, flawed actions that the Undermine has taken are the only steps toward anything resembling peace in years," he said.
"There are movements toward peace. I am always hearing about missions of peace that are shunned by the south," she said, confused.
"Aye, you are always hearing about those things because that is what the propaganda mill is churning out. Don't be fooled, lass. They've got about as much truth to them as the yarn Caya is spinning about you. I spent many years in the direct service of many of the officials who are at this very minute wringing their hands over what to do about you. Not once in all of those years did I see, or even hear mention of, a single peace mission. Yet one step into the public and the tale of the latest diplomat slain at the peace table is on everyone's lips.
"The truth is this is a war without diplomats. A war without negotiation. And such a war can only end in annihilation. Worse, the decisions of the men and women who guide the fate of this alliance seem solely aimed at stalemate. I was released from my position when it was decided that it was simpler to replace a fallen soldier than restore a faltered one. Egad, do you realize that they've actually made it illegal to practice white magic in the service of anyone but the Alliance Army? Even Clerics and those wretched potion-making Alchemists are being shut down. They say it is to make certain that those most in need are treated first, but I cannot name one of my brother healers who has spent even a single tour alongside a front line soldier. And now even schools of magic are being pressured into dropping what little white magic they taught!" he raved.
"But why?" Myranda gasped.
"Your guess is as good as mine. Near as I can tell, they are trying to make sure people like the Undermine can't get treatment. Whatever the reason, the proclamations have been made. Since then, the healer's art has all but disappeared from our land. The only end that our leaders seem dedicated to is ruin, and indeed that may well be the only one that is possible for us. With that truth revealed, I made it my goal to bring us to that end swiftly, that from the ashes of our land there may arise something better," he said.
"I can't believe this . . . all of things I've heard about--the conferences . . . the meetings . . . the betrayals . . ." Myranda said numbly.
"Fiction. The only northerners the Tressons have met in decades are the ones they are clashing swords with," he said.
"But how? Why?" she managed through her struggling grasp of the latest revelation.
"Pride, stubbornness, honor, stupidity? Take your pick; it doesn't matter, the result is the same," he said.
His tone and composure were that of a man who had come to terms with these truths long ago. For the first time, Myranda began to understand the bitter, cruel exterior he had shown thus far. How could anyone who had learned what he'd learned in the way he'd learned it behave any differently? Wolloff grinned as he saw the look of pained realization come to her face as it had to his long ago.
"Sorry to burst your bubble, lass, but the truth is important. Unfortunately, wisdom and happiness are old enemies, and where one can be found, the other seldom lingers. You'd best get yourself upstairs. You've learned a bit more than I'd intended to teach today," he said.
She trudged upstairs, the lessons of the day washed away in a flood of pain and sorrow. As much as she had loathed this war, she'd always assumed that the one common desire of the world was to bring it to an end. Wolloff was right. There was no reason that could justify abandoning any hope of peace in favor of destruction. And what of the people of Tressor? Had they made pleas for peace that fell upon the unwilling ears of the North? So many questions, and no answers.
So troubled was she by the new knowledge, Myranda did not even notice Myn creeping in for her nightly visit. The little dragon had no way of knowing why Myranda was so dejected, but it was quite clear to her that this was so. She climbed onto the bed beside Myranda and stared into her eyes. A tear of anger and sorrow rolled down her cheek. Myn sniffed it, deciding immediately that she did not like it. She laid her head on Myranda's shoulder. The two did not stir until long after day finished its slip to night. Sleep came, but it was shallow and fitful, offering little in the way of rest and naught in the way of dreams. That, at least, was a blessing, as the images of darkness and desolation that invariably filled her dreams might just have been more than the disillusioned girl could bear.
Chapter 13
It was not until the approaching footsteps of Wolloff stirred Myn to leave that the trance-like sorrow was broken.
"Morning, lass. Today we learn the last few runes for your cure, and the techniques to cast it," he said.
She pulled herself from the bed and eagerly set her mind to the task of learning--anything to push the poisonous thoughts from her mind. Myranda threw herself headlong into the process, and managed to memorize all that needed to be learned before midday.
"You are a person of many faults, lass, but slow to learn is not one of them," said the old wizard, in as near to a compliment as he had yet uttered. "Now it is time to learn how to cast your first spell."
"Learn to cast it? What have I spent the whole of this week doing?" she asked.
"Learning the spell," he said.
"But not how to cast it?" she wondered.
"No. Where is that spell book?" he said, looking over the cluttered table. He spotted the book Myranda had set aside--the one that contained the spell that bore her name. He flipped it open to that very spell. "There. It is a bit sloppier, but a passable spell. Read it. Only substitute this rune for this one to cast it on yourself."
She looked over the spell, but there was no need. With the exception of the last few runes, she had memorized it. The last pieces of the puzzle let her finally speak it aloud. Slowly, carefully, she pronounced every last word of the arcane phrase. As she spoke she felt a soothing warmth grow beneath the dull pain of her wound, but the moment she finished casting the spell, the warmth quickly faded, leaving the swollen wound as it had been.
"Not terribly effective, was it?" the wizard said with a knowing grin.
"No, it didn't last," she said.
"Didn't last?" he asked with the tiniest hint of surprise in his voice. "I'll wager you feel a bit tired now. Don't you."
"Well, more so," she said. The sleepless night had left her quite weary, but there was a different feeling, a deeper one, that came when she finished speaking the words. It lingered in the back of her head, like a yawn that wouldn't come.
"Exactly," he said. "It is because you lack focus. With the exception of the very best written of spells, the forces and spirits around us will take little notice of what you say. The words must be spoken, but past that, the spectral realm cares little if it is a whisper or a cry. It is the state of the mind that speaks the word that interests them. It is only when your mind is tightly gathered to the task that you are likely to be granted your whims in any meaningful way.
"Furthermore, magic is not free. Regardless of how you bring about the desired effect, you give a little of yo
urself. If you entreat a spirit, it will draw its payment from your own spirit. A focused mind satisfies their appetite far more swiftly and thus spares you much of the fatigue that would normally come. More importantly, not all of the forces of this world are benevolent. Many will attempt to take a far greater toll than is their right--or, worse, may take a more substantial payment that you are not willing or able to give. Focus protects you from such treachery."
"How do I focus?" she asked.
"Ah, therein lies the crux of the art of wizardry," he said.
He rummaged about on the cluttered table, gathering up all of the crystals before selecting a slightly cloudy, pale yellow gem.
"Give me your hand," he said.
She offered her left hand. Wolloff furrowed his brow at the odd scar before placing the gem in her hand and closing her fingers around it.
"Now, close your eyes and concentrate on the crystal. All that exists is my voice and the crystal. All other thoughts must be silenced. That crystal is very impure. It will grow warmer and glow as you devote more and more of your mind to it," he said.
It was no simple task to do as he said. The temperature of the crystal did change as she drew more of her mind toward it, but even the merest distraction dropped the piece to cold. There was no telling how long it had been before she was finally interrupted, but it must have been some time, because the shadows were casting differently than they had when she began. Her concentration had been broken when Wolloff snatched the gem from her hand. He had a stern look on his face.
"You wouldn't be trying to make a fool of old Wolloff, would you?" he asked, angrily.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
The wizard's face twisted briefly with concentration, the crystal taking on the same glow as a candle.
"You managed this degree of concentration," he said, the light wavering slightly as he spoke.
"I don't understand," she said.
"I've been at this since I was nearly your age. When I was learning what I have just taught you, I had to practice it for just shy of two months to achieve this degree of consistent concentration. In all of my years, I have met but a handful of colleagues that had done so more quickly than I. The fastest was my mentor, who managed it in two weeks. You've done it upon your first day of trial, and in less than two hours!" He growled.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 15
