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The black carriage lurched to a stop and General Teloran pushed the door open. By rights, this should have been her first destination, but she'd left it until last. The elf paced up the path to the church. Inside, a service was just ending, and the sparse congregation was rising to depart. When they had climbed aboard their meager transportation and left for their homes, Trigorah stepped inside, leaving the other Elites to guard the door.
"Father?" Trigorah called out.
"Enter, my child," came his voice from his chamber.
The general stepped inside.
"If my memory serves, I am again being honored by a visit from one of our esteemed generals," the priest said.
"I must ask you to come with me, Father," Trigorah stated.
"Much as I would like to aid you with whatever it is you seek, I am afraid my duties here forbid my absence," the priest assured her.
"It is not a request," Trigorah replied coldly.
"Not a request? Have I committed some crime?" the priest asked.
"Please, come with me," Trigorah pleaded.
She could feel something inside of her rebelling, and did all that she could to silence it.
"What have I done?" he demanded.
"You spoke with the girl, and she had the sword. I am ordered to detain all who may have touched it," Trigorah stated.
It was the first time she'd explained herself. It was the first time she'd felt compelled to. Until now, she'd been able to separate herself from her task. Now, even while his unseeing eyes were hidden, Trigorah swore she could feel his gaze searing her.
"I refuse to believe that our just and noble army would arrest an innocent man merely for having met some woman. I cast her out! She was a sympathizer, nothing more! My faith in our people and our war remains firm!" objected the holy man. "What could that horrid girl have said or done to warrant this! What could I have possibly done!?"
"I am a general. It is your duty as a subject of the Northern Alliance to do as I tell you," the general reminded him.
"It is in my nature to trust in the word of my fellow man, but there is no way that a general would do such a thing. Prove it to me. Generals carry a seal, do they not? Let me feel it!" he demanded.
Before she could stop herself, Trigorah found that she was undoing the fastening on her left arm, to reveal the symbol of service. Normally, she would have refused, but there was something about his words. They were spoken with such conviction, such strength. This was a man who knew what he believed to be true. There was no doubt. His faith was unshakable. The force of it permeated his every word. It was something that she had to respect. Finally she was able to reveal the gold band against her skin.
"The band awarded to me on the day of my selection as a general. The symbol of my rank, and of my loyalty to the Alliance," she said, guiding his hand to it.
"Yes . . . yes, I see . . . That is how it is done," he said, his voice distant. "Then you are a general after all. And you believe that it is right to take me away with you?"
"I believe it is necessary," she replied.
"That is not what I asked," he said.
"It doesn't matter what is right. What must be done must be done," she said, drawing her blade with a slow, deliberate motion to prolong its ring.
"So it must . . ." he said rising and heading toward the door. As he walked, he spoke, quietly. "That girl . . . that blasted girl . . . I hope it is worth it . . ."
Chapter 29
Nearly four full days passed before Myranda's eyes opened again. Deacon visited her at meal times to help her eat until she found the strength to do so on her own. With each visit, he offered another profuse apology for Ayna's disregard for her well-being. To Myranda's surprise, though, Deacon was not the only visitor during her recovery. When she heard the familiar tapping of a dragon's claws on the stone floor, she assumed it was just Myn after a visit to Solomon or Lain.
"You bring me great pride, Myranda," came the voice of her old instructor.
"Solomon?" Myranda said as she tried to sit up in bed.
"Lay down. I come to offer congratulations," he said.
"I am sorry to hear that Ayna will now be ahead of you in the book of records," she offered.
"I have no concern for records. I am pleased that I was able to aid you for a time. I see great things in your future," he said.
"Thank you," she said.
"One more thing before I leave you to rest. You are raising a fine dragon. Myn is as bright as any I have met," he said.
"I am glad. Be sure to tell her that," Myranda said.
"I have. At length. Rest well, Myranda. The worst of your training is behind you now," Solomon said, rising to leave.
"Wait!" Myranda called out.
"Yes?" he answered, sitting once again.
"I hope you won't mind me asking, but I have been wondering since I met you. I . . . I hope you won't be insulted, but . . ." she fumbled.
"You wish to know about my size," he guessed.
"Well, yes," she said.
"There is a city on the west coast. I neither know the name, nor care to know it. Many, many centuries ago, humans there began breeding dragons for their own use. Some for size, some for strength. I was bred to be small," he answered.
"Why?" she asked.
"It is not my place to understand the motivations of your kind," he said. "Now rest."
The dragon padded out. It was another week before Myranda found the strength to walk under her own power. She likely could have benefited from another day or two of rest, but the long stay in her hut was beginning to drive her mad. Deacon caught sight of her hobbling and leaning heavily on her staff and quickly scolded her. Myn kept him at bay until he fished into a pocket of his cloak and produced the standard treat. She chomped away happily as he spoke.
"Don't push yourself! You are remarkable, but not indestructible," he said.
"I had to get out of there. I was beginning to selna porthen," she said.
"Selna porthen. You were losing your mind to inactivity? That is a rather unique phrase. Your language skills are improving," Deacon said.
"I can't help it. No one else speaks my language here. If I can't learn to communicate with someone else, I may as well lock myself in my hut," she said.
"I didn't realize it was so painful to have conversations with me. If you need some time alone I can oblige," he said, looking genuinely saddened by the comment.
"No, it isn't that. I just like the idea of learning new languages, having new people to talk to," she said.
"Well, let's hear what you've learned," Deacon said.
The pair walked through the village. Now and again, Deacon would point out a person and ask Myranda to translate what he or she had just said. Myn found the activity to be less than exciting and trotted off in Lain's direction. Myranda was doing rather well at Deacon's random tests, until an odd commotion was caused by a man running through the courtyard screaming what appeared to be nonsense. Deacon seemed particularly affected by the repeated cry.
"This is momentous! This way, quickly! Where is that book of mine!? Here, ah!" he stammered.
"I must need a bit more practice," she said.
"Why?" he asked, fairly pulling her along.
"It sounded like 'Hollow is twitching,'" she said.
"You are not mistaken," he said.
"What does it mean?" she asked, as she realized that they were headed to the Elder's quarters, along with nearly every other resident of the village.
"Do you recall the prophecy I was reading you? How it was the life's work of Tober, our prophet? Well, all through his time here, he was constantly in search of the next thing that could enhance his already remarkable scrying skills. He drank potions, underwent treatments. Each altered his body and mind to lengthen and deepen his trances. Soon he was able to commune with the spirits for days at a time, and an army of assistants worked in shifts committing every word to writing.
"One day, he entered the trance, ne
ver spoke, and never left it. We still speculate on what precisely occurred that day. Some say he had spent so much time with the spirits that he left his body to join them. Others believe he asked one too many questions of a malevolent spirit and paid the ultimate price. All that is known for sure is that his body no longer contains a soul.
"We've taken to calling the empty shell he left behind 'Hollow.' It wasn't dead, not technically. It never ate, never moved, but continued to live. We left it in his hut. No one really knew what else to do. Then, decades later, someone heard a noise. Hollow was speaking. His body remains a superb conduit to the spirit realm. In times of incredible import, the voices from beyond speak through him. The words are impossibly cryptic, but flawlessly accurate predictions," Deacon said, lowering to a whisper as they made their way inside and took a seat on the crowded floor.
A heavy, throne-like chair was brought in by four stout young men. In the chair was a frail and ancient man dressed in a dusty, but not worn, tunic. A pair of milky white eyes stared vacantly across the room at nothing at all. His hands, gnarled like the branches of an oak, curled around the arms of the chair. When the men lowered it to the ground, others opened a chest attached to the back of the chair. Inside were chains and shackles. The shackles were clamped onto both of his ankles and wrists. The chains were attached to loops installed in the walls of the hut.
"What are the shackles for?" Myranda asked.
"Some of the spirits have never been in a body. Their actions when they find a vacant one can be unpredictable," he said.
When the restraints were in place, the handlers retreated into the rest of the crowd. No one would venture closer than ten paces from the seat. The only sign that the man who was given so much space was even alive was the subtle twitch of his fingers every few minutes. Despite this, the scene was tense. Absolute silence was maintained as the most powerful wizards and warriors of the world watched the withered old man. Minutes passed.
Finally, the silence was broken by the rattling of chains as Hollow shifted forward. He seemed to be pulled by an unseen force in his chest, and in a flash he was suspended in the air, straining at the restraints. He drew in a breath, pained and ragged enough to be his first in years, as he lowered slowly to the ground. His legs folded limply beneath him, and he lay in a pile on the ground. Words began to flow from his mouth. It was a terrifying sound. He spoke not with one voice, but with dozens, perhaps hundreds. They formed a sort of sloppy harmony, some voices lagging, others rushing desperately through the messages. There were whispers and screams alike. Some even uttered in different languages.
All who had the means to do so wrote madly. Deacon was writing, not only with his own stylus, but with three more that moved about on the page under their own power. Myranda tried to listen, but the language was unfamiliar to her. As he spoke, Hollow's body jerked and shifted, as though he was a marionette with different hands pulling at every string. As more time passed, his motions became more violent.
Nearly an hour passed without a moment of peace before, as suddenly as it had begun, the tumult ended. Hollow fell to the ground as though his strings had been cut. Fully half of an hour passed before all were convinced that the prophet had spoken his last for the day.
"Splendid. This has been a fruitful session," Deacon said, marking down notes and separating blocks of text.
"Did you understand that?" Myranda asked.
"A great deal of it," Deacon said.
The crowd was filing out of the hut. Deacon was comparing notes to those near him as the handlers began to unfasten the chains from the walls. As they did, Myranda approached Hollow. He was being loaded back into the chair. All of the chaotic life that had filled the hut was gone. She looked with curiosity at this bizarre side effect of so many mystic procedures. His wrists looked thin and brittle as twigs, yet earlier the chains had been barely strong enough to restrain him. The eyes were disturbing. There was no hint of the previous color of his eyes, and even the pupils had clouded over. She was wondering what seeing through those eyes must be like when they slowly turned, locking onto her. Myranda shook her head, not certain if she was imagining it.
A moment later, she was on the ground and the wrinkled fingers were stretching out in the direction of the wall behind her. Three chains were still in place, but one had been removed from the wall and was still in the hands of the handler. Hollow's arm hurled chain and man effortlessly through the air. He collided with the far wall. Five men rushed to the flailing chain and tried valiantly to reconnect it to the wall.
"Light! More than for one! Another still! Threads! Connections!" Hollow's many voices cried.
He was reaching out for something specific, not like before. It was as though he was looking through the wall. Beyond it. The three chains were creaking at their moorings. One leg restraint broke free and lashed across the crowd. The possessed form jerked out of the air and onto the ground with earth-shattering force. He reached out toward Myranda.
"At the meeting of light, light, light! Above the darkened door! A sacrifice! A blinding ring! The elders of the crescent made equal! All is a whimper in the shadow of the white wall! Victory is a prelude. The final struggle follows!" he decreed.
There was no denying it. Myranda was the target of this last prophecy. Once it was delivered, the shell of a man fell limp once more. The handlers returned Hollow to the chair and re-secured the restraints. White-robed healers emerged from the crowd to care for the injured. The loose chain had bloodied no less than five people. When they were satisfied that Myranda was not hurt, they helped her to her feet. Deacon helped her outside.
"That has never happened before! Hollow, once he dropped down like that, has never awoken again in less than a year. And he never, never addresses anyone directly," Deacon said.
Myn came sprinting to the hut. The commotion had attracted her. She surveyed Myranda for injury, and was less satisfied than the healers. She shot angry looks at all who drew near.
"Come on. I do not want her to start breathing flame at imagined attackers," Myranda said.
They had to move quickly. Already witnesses to the unprecedented event had begun to assemble around Myranda to learn more. Still not eager to be confined to her quarters again, Myranda joined Deacon in his hut. He closed the door against visitors and took a seat at his desk. All of that which he had written while watching Hollow was in the open book waiting for him. Myn set herself faithfully before the door, adopting a hostile posture each time footsteps passed too near.
"So much to be done. Translation, interpretation. But first I must ask you. In the commotion, I could not record Hollow's unexpected additions," he said.
He began to mark down the words.
"When he spoke to you, he said 'light' three times, correct?" he asked.
"I believe so. Does that really matter?" she asked.
"Not a single word is wasted when he speaks. Of course, your message and the one before it are among the most straightforward I have ever heard," Deacon replied.
"Do you mean to tell me that you know what was meant by those words?" she asked.
"Well . . . no. But the imagery was at least obvious. Most times interpreters must work for days, or weeks, to uncover something that even resembles reality. Luckily, Tober took volumes of notes before his transformation into Hollow. The spirits that choose to communicate with us through him are often the same ones that he relied upon. As a result, many of the allusions they make are documented and translated," he said, selecting a book from one of the carefully kept shelves.
"One of the shorter statements. Keltem gorato melni treshic. Now, Keltem translates literally to people--or, more specifically, physical beings. The spirits use this term most often when they intend to indicate a specific body part. An arm or a leg, for instance. Gorato is the name of a prolific gold mine of years gone by. In older prophesies, gorato has been used to imply things of virtue and worth, but mostly it refers to gold itself. Melni is the name of a specific spirit that was known for terr
orizing the living. The spirits tend to use the name interchangeably with fear. And finally treshic. Treshic is the name of a fabled ancient tree that stood for so long against the forces of nature that it eventually succumbed to rot from within. This is essentially the spirit 'word' for corruption," he said, flipping constantly through the book to find his answers.
"What does it mean?" Myranda asked.
"Well. If I were to arrange these translations into a sentence as we know it, it would be . . . Beware those with golden . . . no, virtuous limbs, for they are corrupt," he said.
"I see," Myranda said with a smirk.
"It is not an exact science. There are other listed interpretations for each one of these words. They could even be intended literally, or some combination of literal and interpreted. It could mean to fear people who wear gold on their bodies, or simply warn against trusting the wealthy. That is why a skilled interpreter is worth his weight in gold. Right now, the best we have are the historians in the records building. When I have had my fun with my personal notes, I am to relinquish them to the experts," he said.
Myranda turned to the dragon, who had not been at ease for several minutes. There was now an audible clamor outside of the door.
"What is going on?" Myranda asked.
"I would imagine that my fellow Entwellians have finally come to see the truly exceptional person I have known you to be for some time," Deacon said.
"I really do not want the attention," Myranda said.
"I should expect you will have a rather difficult time avoiding it. Unless you sic Myn on them," Deacon said. "Besides, you were just saying that you were hoping for others with whom you could speak."
"This is rather more than I was hoping for," Myranda groaned.
When the door was finally opened, Deacon was proven to be quite correct. Her earlier achievements had made her at best an interesting oddity, admired by some, envied by others, but nothing remarkable. Now she was nothing short of a celebrity. Hollow had permanently labeled her as something of the greatest importance. For several days, while she was still recovering, she was constantly being approached by wizards and warriors alike. Some made an earnest effort to converse with her in her own tongue. Mostly, the admirers adhered to the standard policy of Entwell, speaking in the language of their origin.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 36
