The whole of the first floor was one large room, centered around a well-stoked fireplace. Cowering behind a cupboard against one wall was a young woman who looked worn well beyond her years. Her eyes were locked on Myranda. Ivy looked up. She'd been hunched over a baking dish on the table, in the process of licking it clean. Her face was covered with its former contents, and bore a look of disappointment.
"Oh, you're awake. I was hoping I could get back without disturbing you," Ivy said, as though she'd done nothing worse than nudge Myranda in her sleep.
"Ivy, we need to leave--now," Myranda scolded.
"I know, but you have to try some of this first. It is called cobbler, and it is the best thing in the world. I finished this one, but she said we can have the other one, too," Ivy said.
"Yes, yes! Take anything you want, just leave!" the woman cried.
Ivy stood and tried to remove a second baking dish from over the fire, touching it gingerly with her fingers before giving up.
"There must be a tool or something for this, right?" Ivy asked, looking about for the offending item.
"Ivy, leave it," Myranda urged again, stepping inside and closing the door. "We have to--"
"Oh, look. She has one of those!" Ivy said, picking up one of the posters the Undermine had been tearing down.
That explained why the woman was just as frightened of Myranda as Ivy. She knew who they were. Myranda looked to the woman, who reacted to the gaze as one might to a raised weapon.
"Please! I swear to you, I will not tell a soul. Just don't hurt me! I am the only one here! No one ever has to know," she hurriedly assured.
"We do not mean you any harm. We just--" Myranda attempted to explain, only to be interrupted again.
"You aren't the only one here," Ivy said, sniffing the air. "There's someone upstairs."
The woman's eyes shot open.
"No! Please! Leave my father be! He is very ill! He's no threat to you! And without me he will die!" she begged, dropping to her knees.
"Ill? What is wrong with him?" Myranda asked.
"Please, please," the woman sobbed. "We've done nothing to you."
"No, you can tell her. She heals people," Ivy explained offhandedly, looking over the poster critically.
"I may be able to help him," Myranda offered.
"You . . ." she began, her eyes flashing with hope before distrust rushed back in. "You just leave him be."
"Very well," Myranda said. "Quickly, Ivy."
"But the cobbler!" she objected.
"Leave it," Myranda said sternly.
Ivy slouched and reluctantly followed as Myranda opened the door and moved quickly outside. They had gotten only a few steps into the icy field when the door was pulled open.
"Wait," the woman cried.
The heroes turned.
"Can you . . . can you really help him?" she asked in a shaky voice.
"I can try," Myranda said.
The woman opened the door. Myranda and Ivy entered.
"I knew you'd come to your senses," Ivy said, picking up the poster again and taking a seat at the table.
Myranda was led up the stairs to the second floor. The steps were practically worn through by worried footsteps. At the top, she found a number of doors. Behind one was a bedroom. A thin old man lay in a bed that clearly had not been empty in weeks. He was at death's door. His skin was gaunt, a sickly gray. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and dampened the sheets. The smell of illness permeated the air. At their approach, his face turned weakly to them, clouded gray eyes staring past them.
"It started a month ago," the woman said, nervously. "He was--"
"Working by the lake," Myranda surmised.
"How did you know?" she asked.
Myranda pulled aside the blanket slightly and lifted his arm. It was wiry, but even shriveled by sickness as it was, it seemed like it could pull a stump from the ground. She turned his hand. Nothing. She picked up the other. Nothing. Finally, she uncovered his feet. Sure enough, across the ball of his foot was a hair-thin black scar. The woman's tears began anew at the sight of it.
"It isn't . . ." she gasped.
Myranda nodded. Residents of the north knew it well. There was a plant called the cutleaf. It had broad leaves with hard, thin, upturned edges. It grew only near water, and was very rare, but it hadn't always been. For years, people who worked the land had been trying to kill them off. The edges carried a powerful toxin. Even a few drops of it just under the skin was more than enough to ensure a withering death. The vision faded, strength was sapped away. The appetite vanished, and finally a burning fever set in. It was a terrible, slow, and certain way to die. As a child, she'd heard the lecture a thousand times. Watch for them just beneath the ice, and if you aren't sure, stay away. In the winter, the leaves would freeze, the ridges standing straight with a cruelly sharp edge. The larger plants could easily slice through the sole of a boot. It was likely what had happened to the poor soul before her.
The woman was beside herself with despair. Myranda placed a hand on her shoulder.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Sandra," the woman managed between sobs.
"Sandra, I am going to try to help him, but it will take some time, and a great deal of concentration. If you will leave me to my work, I give you my word that if he can be saved, he will be," Myranda said earnestly.
"I won't leave him," she answered with resolve.
"Very well," Myranda replied.
In the rare and brief discussions she'd had with the healers of Entwell, cutleaf poisoning had come up more than once. To many, it was considered one of the most difficult maladies to cure. The poison nestled itself deep in the body of the victim, soaking into every tissue. As she searched with her mind for the toxin, it appeared in her mind's eye as a thin haze across his entire body. It clung to him, entwined with the very fibers of his being.
Myranda knelt and put her mind to the task. Immediately, she saw why it was so great a challenge. Separating the poison from his flesh was infinitely more complex than any of the tests she'd had to endure in Entwell. If there was a spell to do it, she did not know it. That meant she would have to do so consciously. There could not have been more than a drop of the vile stuff in his entire body, and it slipped easily from her will and settled back each time her concentration wavered even slightly. She had to move all of it, and all at once, without doing any further damage. It had to move against the flow of blood here, with the flow of blood there, never mixing. Progress was slow and painstaking.
After a few minutes, the elderly man had stirred once or twice. Myranda managed to allow for it, but the sight had brought hope to Sandra, who grasped at Myranda's shoulders encouragingly. It broke her concentration and cost her a great deal of ground. When it happened a third time, Myranda's frustrated sigh convinced Sandra she would serve her father better elsewhere. She slowly descended the stairs.
Ivy was rummaging through a cabinet. Seeing her host, she stopped and smiled sheepishly.
"I'm sorry. I was, um, looking for something. I don't mean to overstep my bounds. How is it going up there?" she asked.
"I am not sure. But she is trying," Sandra said, giving Ivy a wide berth as she made her way to the table.
"She'll do it. She can do anything. We are the Chosen, you know," Ivy said with pride.
Sandra's eyes rested unsteadily on the poster. The woman upstairs had earned a slice of her trust, but this creature was another matter. She was a beast, a malthrope. Even if the Alliance Army had not marked her as an enemy of the state, she would have been terrified. They were murderers, thieves, and worse. She looked up to find that the monster was standing right beside her, looking over the poster again.
"It is an awful picture, isn't it? Look at me. So lifeless. So bland," Ivy said with a frown.
Sandra slid her chair away a bit and locked her eyes on Ivy.
"It does the job," Sandra said.
"That it most certainly does not!" Ivy objected, her rai
sed voice startling the woman, who pressed back into her chair. "Art is supposed to tell a story. It is supposed to be a piece of the soul that created it. Art is supposed to be alive, vibrant. It is supposed to speak directly to the spirit. To say things words alone could never say. Art is the essence of being. This just looks like something. This is just a picture. It is a shame."
Her words had carried a passion of which Sandra hadn't thought a beast of her ilk was capable. She ventured a peek into the crude, animal eyes and found them bright and friendly. It didn't mean anything. She'd managed to survive this long, she must know all sorts of tricks to lower people's defenses. The childishness was an act. She would not be fooled by this beast. As the eyes stared questioningly into hers, Sandra felt a nervousness at the deepening silence growing in the pit of her stomach.
"What was it that you were looking for?" she asked, eager for something to push the silence back.
"Well, um . . ." Ivy began, looking down at the floor as she spoke. "I realize you just offered us whatever we wanted because you were afraid of us but . . . I need something to eat. Rather a lot, actually."
She was standing self-consciously, her hands clutched behind her back. She was ashamed that she'd scared this woman so. It was something of a reversal for her, and knowing how terrible fear could be filled her face with hot shame and embarrassment.
"The cobbler wasn't enough for you?" Sandra replied, somewhat accusingly.
"Oh, it was wonderful! But even if you are willing to part with the other one, it is for my friend. She hasn't had one yet. This food isn't even for me, though," Ivy explained. "It is for Myn."
"Myn? I . . . I thought the woman's name was Myranda," she said, casting her eyes again at the poster and scanning it for the name.
"Eh? Oh, no," Ivy replied, smiling and shaking her head. "No, Myn is still outside. She's the dragon in your barn."
Sandra drew in a sharp breath and held it. She could not have truly said that. No one could say such a thing in so casual a manner.
"D-dragon?" she ventured.
"Mm-hm!" Ivy said with a bright nod. "She must be hungrier than I am, because she flew here. So, well, there's only one thing around here that she'd eat, and it happens to be one of her favorites."
The color dropped from Sandra's face. Everyone knew what dragons ate. It was the subject of nearly as many tales as the malthropes. Tall towers. Deep caves. Always with a dragon. Always awaiting an offering to satisfy their hunger. She swallowed hard.
"P-please . . ." she began.
"It isn't so much to ask, I don't think," Ivy offered, fearful of being turned down. "Myranda is helping your father. It is the least you can do in return."
"I . . ." she began.
"Look, it won't take a moment. We can head out there together," the creature offered, perking up at a thought that might tip the bargain in her favor. "You can feed her!"
Sandra tried to swallow again, but her mouth had gone dry. She was backing away slowly.
"There's got to be some other way . . ." she croaked hoarsely.
"But Myn always is so much easier to get along with if you give her a treat. I'm sure she'll like you after she gets a taste," Ivy added desperately.
"I'm quite sure she will, too," Sandra whispered.
"It's settled then. Where do you keep your potatoes?" Ivy said with relief.
"But . . . potatoes?" she asked, so disoriented that she nearly lost her balance.
Ivy rushed in to steady her.
"Easy there. Yes, potatoes. What did you think I meant? Cabbage?" she asked.
"But dragons don't eat potatoes," Sandra objected, for the moment forgetting what the alternative was.
"Not as a rule, I suppose, but Myn loves them. Can't get enough, really. Come on, you must have bags and bags of them around here. She will be beside herself!" Ivy chirped, positively--and literally--aglow with the thought of Myn's reaction.
Sandra's eyes widened and she backed away from the faint but undeniable golden light. Sorcery as well? What was this creature who spoke such madness?
Ivy recognized the fear in her eyes and quickly surmised what was causing it. The renewed shame quickly wiped the joy away, and with it the glow.
"I can explain. It wasn't anything dangerous! Oh . . . I'm making a mess of this," Ivy began, tears welling in her eyes.
She gritted her teeth and forced the tears away, absentmindedly rubbing at her wrists.
"Look. I . . . do you have something that can get these off?" Ivy asked, defeated. "Their edges are very sharp, and they burn a little. I think if I could get rid of them, I might be able to think a little better. Maybe then I could stop botching things so badly."
Sandra's eyes drifted to the crystalline shackles. The wrists beneath them were badly cut, white fur stained with blood. There was a similar shackle on each ankle, and another on her neck, each similarly injured. Ivy was rubbing a particularly reddened bit of her wrist with her thumb and wincing. Against all of her instincts, Sandra felt a twinge of pity.
"Why are you wearing them?" she asked.
"Ask the army. They put them there," Ivy replied glumly.
"Then I think they ought to stay," Sandra replied, aghast at how fiendish she felt for saying it.
Ivy slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, huffing a dejected sigh and nodding. She rubbed at the tender skin under the shackles some more. While she was distracted, it didn't bother her so much, but the sadness and stillness made the wounds itch horribly.
As she did, Sandra watched her. It was a pathetic sight. Slowly, she felt her revulsion weaken, turning steadily to pity. She tried to remain resolute in her hate, but she couldn't help it. She felt sad to see the creature this way. Even a monster didn't deserve this.
"Don't pick at it. I may have something," Sandra relented, standing and heading for a cabinet. After a bit of digging, she produced a small hammer.
Ivy's eyes perked up as she was offered the tool. She grasped it, and after hesitating for a moment, Sandra let go.
"Thank you so much. Yes, this should work. It is really very nice of you," Ivy gushed, crossing her legs to press the ankle cuffs against the floor.
She raised the hammer slightly, but stopped.
"You don't suppose the noise will bother Myranda, do you? I wouldn't want that," she said.
"It is an old house with thick floors. Just be quick about it," Sandra replied, a nagging doubt in her mind begging her to take back the weapon she'd just provided to this monster.
Ivy raised the tool and dropped it with a good deal more force than was warranted. The crystal shattered into dozens of shards, and the hammer continued down onto her ankle. She clenched her teeth and fist until the pain subsided, then ventured a glimpse at her ankle. It was rather bloodier than it had been before, but not much worse. She shifted, and broke the second shackle with a bit more care. Another blow took away one wrist cuff. By the time she broke the other wrist free, she'd managed to break it into two neat pieces. Finally, there was the collar. Try as she might, she could not maneuver herself into a position to break it easily. After a few attempts that resulted in little more than bruises, she looked to Sandra.
The young woman had been watching through the corner of squinted, half-turned-away eyes. A part of her was terrified of what Ivy might do to her. Another part was terrified of what Ivy might do to herself. She was caught somewhere between feeling as though she'd given a weapon to a maniac and feeling as though she'd given it to a child.
"I can't quite manage the neck. Um . . . could you?" Ivy asked, holding out the hammer hopefully.
Sandra took it slowly. No sooner had she done so than Ivy placed her head down across the edge of the table, pressing down so that the collar stood upward slightly. The young woman looked nervously at the beast that, for the life of her, looked to be offering herself up for execution. She hefted the hammer in her hands. The voices of suspicion rose well above the voices of compassion. They screamed for her to take this opportunity, no doubt the
best she would ever have, to end this creature now. One sharp blow would be enough to knock the beast cold. After that, it would be easy enough to end it.
She looked down at the creature, eyes shut tight and hands braced about the leg of the table. Not a hint of fear, not a dash of suspicion, just bracing for the blow she trusted would take this last remnant of her bonds away. Sandra looked at the neck beneath the cracked collar. It was raw, the white fur stained a dozen shades of red. It must hurt terribly. She looked over the creature. There were no weapons, no armor. The clothing was ratty and worn. If this was a fiend, surely it would be armed. If it was a trickster, surely it would be better dressed. Sandra took a deep breath and raised the hammer.
Myranda appeared at the top of the stairs in time to see it fall. The rough metal head clanked against the crystal band, feathering it with fresh fractures and knocking a flake or two free. Ivy opened her eyes and tested the damage with her fingers.
"I think that'll do it," she said, gripping it and pulling it apart with ease.
"Sandra . . ." Myranda called from the top of the stairs.
The young woman's eyes shot to the voice from above. Myranda had looked weary before. Now she looked dead on her feet. Sandra was by her side in a heartbeat, skipping most of the stairs on the way up. She pushed past and burst into her father’s room. The difference was like night and day. The color had come back to his face. She placed the back of her hand on his head and found the deathly burn of the fever virtually gone. His eyes were hazy, but active. They focused on her briefly before closing.
"Is he . . ." Sandra squeezed past the knot in her throat.
"He is going to sleep for some time. His strength is going to return slowly. It may be a few weeks before he is himself again, but he is going to be fine," the wizard explained.
All of the grief, pain, worry, and sorrow burst from Sandra in a torrent of joyful laughter and tears. She threw her arms about Myranda, nearly knocking them both to the ground. Years seemed to uncoil themselves from about her. Life returned to her teary eyes. She stood back and tried to find the words to thank Myranda, but nothing would make its way to her mouth but more sobbing laughter. Ivy appeared at the top of the steps. Sandra turned to her and rushed forward, embracing her. She didn't see a monster anymore. This saint that saved her father's life would not allow a monster to be by her side. There were only friends here. There were only heroes.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 112
