Weakly, he reached for the crystal, Ivy's crystal. He held it up to the fire that Myranda had faithfully kept alight and stared. The shifting black stain within halted. A long minute passed as he and Myranda pored over the waving of the cloud. Finally it seemed to slow and pull inward ever so slightly.
"The deed is done," he said, his voice harsh and raspy.
"What did you do?" she asked with urgency. "We need to cure you."
"Not the same way. Too dangerous for you," he said. "There are other possibilities. She was further along than I was. We still have time."
"I don't care how dangerous it is, I will not let you die while we try to find something else when we know that there is a method that works," she assured him.
"We don't know that it works. She has a long night ahead of her. She will need every bit of her strength to fight off the last of the curse," he replied.
"Just tell me," she demanded. "I'll deal with the consequences."
"Absolutely not. Now, the traditional treatment for necromancy is to counter its darkness with--" he began.
"This is madness! Why are you risking your life!?" Myranda protested, tears clouding her eyes.
"--holiness," he continued, raising his voice to compete with her cries. "Holy water, in fact. Anointing the wound has proven effective in some cases."
"You yourself said that there isn't a cure for Soul Blight," she tried to reason.
"But this isn't Soul Blight. It may have a weakness that the true spell lacks," he countered.
Myranda threw her hands up. "Where are we going to get holy water!?"
"That is . . . a valid point," he said, as though the thought hadn't occurred to his increasingly addled mind.
He reached for the slim book again, leafing through the pages.
"Necromancy . . . yes . . . the--ah . . . the blessing of a priest is a powerful tool . . . but we haven't got a priest. Ah . . . there some herbs that can slow the process," he offered.
Myranda looked about helplessly. She pulled the canteen from the provisions she carried with her and scooped some snow from the mouth of the cave.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm Chosen, right? That means that I am a product of divine will," she said, filling the canteen with snow and willing some of the fire around it.
As the snow melted, she thought. In time, the words came.
"Oh, powers above. The mark on my hand is your sign that I am your tool in this battle. I represent our world. I defend it. I did not ask for this role, but I have done my best to fill it, and I have expected nothing. But now the very forces that I am tasked with turning back are threatening to take the one soul that has touched mine. A being whose life may as well be my own. All I ask is that you give me the power to wash away the blight of the dark ones. All I ask is that you imbue this humble water with some trace of your purity, that it might restore this victim of the darkness," she spoke solemnly.
Myranda waited and watched, her senses aflame, hoping for some sign, any sign, that her prayer had been answered. The flame she maintained flickered, the wind outside wailed, but there was no indication that anything had changed. She drew in a deep breath and motioned for him to uncover the wound. She sprinkled just a few drops upon the blighted flesh.
"It . . . it feels warmer . . . no . . . hot," he said, pain creeping up in his arm.
He cringed as the blackness pulled back, giving way to the red blood and pink flesh that it had replaced. Deacon stifled a cry of pain as the feeling that had been stolen from him returned all at once. In a few moments, his arm seemed almost healthy, and the complexion of his face had improved.
Myranda let out a sigh of relief that turned into a laugh of joy.
"I suppose I was a bit premature in my desperate act a moment ago. And we've discovered a new talent of the Chosen!" he said with a smile, recovering from the pain.
Slowly, the smile faded from his face. He pulled back the sleeve to reveal that the pale, stained flesh was creeping back down. Myranda applied the holy water again, and again, but there was now no effect, as though the spell had somehow tempered itself against it. Before long, any evidence that they had tried anything at all was gone, and no further attempt worked.
"It is . . . remarkable," he said in a wavering voice. He attempted to make a note of the discovery in his book, but his fingers would no longer cooperate.
Myranda grasped his hand and pulled it away from the book.
"Stop praising the spell that is killing you!" she demanded.
"It is a masterwork. And I need to catalog its effects for future study," he said, trying to pull free.
"Stop it, Deacon! It is madness! Just tell me what you did to Ivy and let me do it to you," Myranda cried.
"Myranda, listen to me. I cannot allow you to risk it," he said, suddenly wavering enough to lose his balance.
"But . . . I can't lose you!" Myranda screamed through the tears. "I am the reason you are here. If you die, it is because of me!"
"Myranda, no. It is only because of you that I even lived. Where was I before I met you? A . . . a tiny, unknown corner of the world. I was learning for the sake of knowledge. Perfecting spells that would . . . never be cast. Then you arrived. I had the honor of helping teach you . . . spells that would be used for the very highest purpose. I . . . became the first being in the history of this world to cast a spell of transportation. I was able to meet the Chosen. Children of legend. And I helped you.
"Myranda, you gave me a place in history. You gave me . . . immortality. Who . . . who . . . could hope for . . . anything . . . more," he struggled to say, his breathing becoming more labored.
The hand he steadied himself with slipped and he nearly fell to the ground, but Myranda caught him.
"No! Deacon, don't let go! Don't give up!" she cried.
Her mind raced as she tried to determine why he would not share with her the means to save his own life. How could she force him to tell her? She cast a desperate look at Ivy. The answer to both questions came at once. She grasped his hand firmly.
"What are you doing?" he asked weakly.
Without a word, she dragged his twisted, jagged fingernails down her arm, opening a long gash.
"No. No!" he cried, his eyes opening wide.
"Now you have no choice," she said. "This was why it was too dangerous. You had to have the curse."
His mouth moved wordlessly, his clouded mind awash in despair. As quickly as he could, he gathered what was left of his wits.
"Listen. What I tell you now, I tell you so that you can save yourself, not me. You must seize control of the spell. As it gnaws . . . at your spirit, some of your own control . . . over your stolen will . . . fades in time. That time is . . . the key. You must feed the blight. Force . . . as much of your will in as you can . . . as quickly as you can. The curse . . . will grow like . . . a weed, but more and more of your will . . . will linger . . . there will come a moment . . . a brief one . . . when the will of the . . . spell is more yours than its own. It . . . is then that you strike . . . turn the affliction's hunger upon . . . itself. If you succeed . . . the blight will leech at itself . . . and waste away. Do you . . . understand?" He struggled, fumbling his hand through his bag.
"I do," she replied.
"Good . . ." he replied, pulling free the blade he'd fought the undead with.
He knew that there was no dissuading her. She cared too much about him to do what he knew was best for the world. There was only one way to be sure she made the right decision. Make it the only decision. With all of the strength he could muster, he attempted to thrust one of the curving blades into his heart.
Myranda caught his hand and wrenched the blade away, throwing it far from his reach and pushing the bag away.
"You must . . . save . . . yourself . . ." he begged her before the last of his will failed him.
Quickly she propped him into the position he'd placed Ivy in and placed her hands upon his temples, searching his spirit with hers. In her m
ind's eye, the sight was even more horrific than it was physically. His soul, once brilliant and pure, was withered and twisted. She searched desperately for the blight, the affliction that she'd not seen in Ivy, but it simply wasn't there. As she sought, she felt a tinge within her own soul. It was unsettling, a foreign influence, tiny, pulling hungrily at her. Despite the fact it was unlike anything she'd ever felt, she knew instantly that it was what she was looking for.
Her searches turned back to Deacon, sifting for the same alien hunger. Having felt it, it was now impossible to miss within him. The nature of the affliction revealed itself, like a clinging vine that wrapped around his soul, ravenous, and drawing away what little power he had left.
She forced her will upon it, and it eagerly devoured. Its poisonous influence drew tightly around his soul, growing stronger with every moment. As it did, the spell within her own soul supped upon the feast of will as well, sprouting and entwining itself about her. The speed with which she was weakening was frightening. She could feel a part of herself flow into the spreading infection and wither away, as though it was being dissolved. She jerked and twisted her mind, prompting an ever so slight imitation in the blight. She needed more.
Without hesitation, she unleashed every last bit of her mind, feeling it slip into the abyss eagerly. The strength poured from her like a torrent, seemingly to no avail. It drank up all that she had without pause. Her view of the spectacle began to fade, her focus quickly wicking away into the darkness. In a few moments, she would have nothing left to give. Dizziness seized her mind, threatening to tear her from her trance. She fought the disorientation, knowing that if she lost focus now, there would not be another chance.
The end was upon her. Her grip was slipping. Just as she was about to lose the last thread of connection to him, she felt a feeling she'd never imagined before . . . like her mind was simultaneously inside of the abyss and out. This was the moment. She turned what little was left of her mind to the almost mechanical workings of the spell that gorged on her power--and twisted it.
And then the connection was gone. The world faded slowly in around her. She was in darkness, the fire had vanished, but she felt no cold. She felt nothing. As her hands fumbled blindly about the ground, her mind struggled to grasp what had happened. Some small corner of her thoughts tried valiantly to hold her mind together, but it was filled with a deafening static and disorienting stirring. She could not remember what it was that she had done, nor what she was doing. Indeed, she could not even think. Her fumbling tipped the canteen she'd placed upon the ground, the contents sloshing onto her fingers.
Instantly, there was a white-hot pain. It was a stinging--definite, solid, and real. It cut through the static and stirring like a knife and she latched onto it. Time was against her. Already it was fading, already she was forgetting what it was that she had so briefly achieved, but she knew she wanted it back. Her fingers closed around the neck of the canteen and she raised it up. The contents spilled out, burning everywhere it touched, giving her an instant of clarity. This was it. Her chance to repeat the miracle. She put the canteen to her lips.
The stream of blessed water burned its way to her core, stabbing at her from the inside. The blight inside of her recoiled from it, losing just a hint of its grip on her. She knew it would not last long. Already she could feel the curse hardening to it. Resisting it. She dove her mind into it entirely, seeking the thread she'd pulled before and flexing what little will she had. Then: darkness.
Chapter 11
There was a stillness. The stirring, the static, everything was gone. Myranda sat up, the motion requiring the merest thought, not a whisper of effort, as though effort didn't even exist. Slowly, her surroundings appeared to her--not as though a light was growing stronger, but as though darkness was peeling itself back.
There was a presence before her. It was Oriech. Once she had believed him to be little more than an aging priest who despised her hatred of the war. He had since revealed himself to be much more, an agent of fate who guided the lives of those with a role to play. Now he stood in one of the few places in the cave tall enough to allow it, his eyes covered by a gray blindfold.
"Myranda," he said, shaking his head slowly.
"Am I . . ." she began.
"Dead? No. But neither are you alive," he stated.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"The more important question would be ‘Why are you here?’" he said.
"I don't know what you mean," she replied.
"Don't you?" he asked, turning his unseeing gaze to Deacon.
"I had to save him," she said.
"No, my dear. You did not. You wanted to," he replied.
"I had to. I had to do what was right. If there was even a chance, then I had to take it. Was it worth it? Is he alive?" she asked.
"For now," he replied.
"And am I?" she asked.
"In a sense," he answered.
"Then why speak to me now?" she asked.
"You are an oddity, Myranda. The powers above showed great concern when the fallen swordsman, Rasa, passed his role on to you. He was the intended Chosen One, not you, after all. Since, you have become a favorite among them. You even coaxed them to take direct action to bless the water. And it is not the first time that you have managed to move them so. In your short time as a weapon of the gods, you have cut deeper than any other. It is a testament to the greatness to which the people of this world may rise. In a way, you deserve the honor of the Mark more than any of your fellow Chosen. Until now, your heart and your judgment have done more to bring the others closer to their goal than anything I could have done--but that same heart has also brought you to death's door time and again. It has done so this time in a struggle that you needn't have risked," he said.
"What would you have me do? Shrink from danger? Protect myself at all costs? Are those the actions of a hero?" she asked.
"I would have you do as you always have. Let your heart be your guide, but temper its guidance with the knowledge that it is not always the place of the hero to do what is right. It is the place of a hero to do what must be done," he said. "Know that not everyone can be saved."
His last words faded into echoes as the darkness reclaimed her surroundings. For a time, there was nothing--only blackness and silence. Slowly, the wail of the wind outside found its way to her ears. The icy chill of the water she had spilled stinging at her hands was quick to follow. Her eyes opened, though it made little difference; there was not a hint of light. She felt for her staff, but it soon became clear that she hadn't the strength of will to cast a spell even if she did manage to find it.
She languished in the darkness, her other senses and sensations slowly returning to her. The penetrating cold. The gnawing hunger. The paralyzing fatigue. She'd been tired before, but some aspect of her ordeal had left her with scarcely the strength to breathe properly. All she could manage was to lie still, listen, and think. She thought about the weakness she felt. The fact that it wasn't abating. She thought about the cure. Deacon was not sure that Ivy would make it until the morning. The malthrope was far heartier than either of them. If she didn't survive, there was no hope for them. She thought about Oriech's words. A warning. If there came a choice between victory and the life of someone she cared deeply for . . . could she let them go?
In her mind, the torture of doubt clawed at her for more time than she could comprehend. Outside, the wind died slowly, perhaps over minutes, perhaps hours. In its wake was a stillness that was infinitely worse. The slow, steady beating of her heart filled her ears. Her eyes shifted. The faint gray light of reflected sunlight traced long shadows across the stone ceiling. Daybreak. Suddenly, a sound.
Myranda's heart leapt. A weak cough echoed around her.
"M-Myranda?" came Ivy's harsh voice.
The young wizard tried to answer, but the strength just wasn't there. The sound of clumsy shuffling motion drew nearer to her. Finally, a pair of pink eyes stared into her own.
"Myranda? Are you all right?" she asked, weary anxiety in her eyes.
Her face was gaunt, worn, but alive. The mask of death had retreated. It had taken a toll, perhaps, but it was gone. Her eyes had a heartbreaking mix of fear and urgency.
"Say something, please. Did . . . did something happen? Did I do this!?" she begged, tears falling on Myranda's face.
With great effort, Myranda turned her head. The light of the narrow mouth of the cave fell on her broken staff, just beyond her reach. She locked her eyes on it and released a ragged breath.
"Your staff? You need your staff?" Ivy asked, dragging herself to the fallen tool.
She placed it in Myranda's hand and closed it. A whisper of clarity came to Myranda's mind. She fought a breath into her lungs.
"Deacon," she croaked.
"Deacon," Ivy repeated, pulling herself now to his side. "He's breathing."
Myranda pulled in another breath and heaved it out as a sigh. She wanted to pull herself up, to place an arm upon Ivy's shoulder and set her mind at ease. All she could manage was a weak smile and a profound sense of relief.
Ivy sat, nervous and confused, watching Myranda slowly recover. She thought back to the times she had transformed. This did not begin the same way. It was not a racing heart and a blinding light that she remembered last. Quite the opposite . . . but the ending was the same. Surrounded by the people she cared about, the only people who cared about her, weak and beaten. Could this be some horrible thing she had done? Something that had never happened before? The thought cut into her. The crunching footsteps and familiar scent that beckoned her senses came as a blessing.
"Myranda! Lain is here! He'll take care of us! Don't worry!" she said, a smile fighting its way to her teary face.
As Lain forced enough snow from the entrance to squeeze inside, Ivy dizzily climbed to her feet to greet him gratefully.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 100
