by Colt, K. J.
“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 terrorizing 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.
Myranda was able to muddle through most conversations passably--but, in truth, she learned more from the first day’s dialogue than she had in all of the time she’d been listening. The wizards who spoke to her were primarily practitioners of white and black magic. They seemed to know that she was something special, and tried their best to inject their knowledge and expertise, hoping in some way to make their mark on history through this unique girl. In the few days that followed, she was made aware of dozens of techniques in white and black magic alike, many of which were little more than theory. Warriors were more interested in learning what great deeds she had done before arriving. They latched onto her tales of the Undermine and questioned relentlessly to that end.
The attention was almost more than Myn could bear. She’d had a hard enough time sharing Myranda with Deacon. Now she had to endure dozens of people a day. The little dragon had learned restraint in her days in Entwell, but she had her limits. Each new visitor received the same harsh treatment as Deacon had when she had first met him. Even a handshake was cause enough for her to flash her teeth and lash her tail. Visitors learned quickly that a bit of caution was in order when dealing with her.
Myranda scolded her halfheartedly each time. The times that Myn chased her visitors away tended to be the only times that she was alone. It was something of a reversal of fortunes for her, to be so eagerly sought by friendly crowds. She was not certain that it was an improvement.
CHAPTER THIRTY
NEARLY THREE FULL WEEKS ELAPSED before the clerics and healers agreed that Myranda was ready to continue her education. Her next teacher, Cresh, had been contacting her during the last few days of her recovery. He never met with her directly. Instead, books found their way onto the table of her hut in her absence. If the dirt smudging each page was any indication, the books were from his personal collection, and he loved his work. They were written in a language that made them incomprehensible to her.
Now the time had come for her to meet him face to face for the first time as his student. The usual crowd of admirers followed as she approached her teacher’s home, with the exception of Deacon, who had taken to remaining in his own hut rather than compete with the crowd for Myranda’s ear. Cresh’s home was a low, unusual hut fairly buried in a jungle of plants and trees. The structure was unlike any of the others. It had no seams, as though it had been carved, or grown, from a single stone.
“I am not putting on a show. Off with you and leave us in peace,” Cresh warned the onlookers as he emerged from within. He was speaking his own language. It was the same he’d spoken on their only other meeting, the same she had failed to decipher in his books.
The eager onlookers shuffled away, much to the relief of Myn. Cresh looked at the creature for a moment, then shrugged.
“A cave-dweller is a welcome visitor any day, but no one else, if you don’t mind. This is serious business. Mine is the most important of magics, you know,” he informed her.
Myranda took a moment to attempt to translate his words. After managing to understand only a few she requested that he address her in Northern, or Tresson. He answered with what would be the first and last word she would easily understand for the duration of her training. No. He then l
aunched into a speech.
It was rather entertaining to watch him speak. He was fully two feet shorter than she, and perpetually encrusted with dust and dirt. In addition, he tended to gesture enthusiastically while speaking. This was fortunate, as it helped her to understand his meaning. She could tell by the chest thumping and smiling of the speech that he was bragging about himself. He gestured for her to follow as he entered his hut.
The inside was as unique as the outside. There was no floor, only bare earth. There was also no furniture to speak of, save the shelves of books and jars. Even his staff was sticking into the soft earth rather than sitting carefully in a rack, as was the habit of the other wizards she’d met. He plucked it and held it in one hand while the other reached into one of the jars. He tossed a few grains of the substance within to the ground at her feet, and a few more at his own feet. A sweep of the staff sprouted the seeds instantly into stout vines that obligingly wove themselves into a rather inviting chair for each of them.
“That was very impressive,” she said as she took a seat.
The dwarf waved off the compliment and sat as well. He began to talk again. It was apparently one of his favorite pastimes. After ten minutes of listening, she was able to understand enough to know that he was responsible for growing all of the food for the village, in addition to drawing up all of the crystal, metal, and stone that they might need. She had often wondered how a moderately-sized village like this could satisfy its demand for resources without any apparent source. Now she knew.
Suddenly, the time for idle chitchat was over. He first gestured at her feet, clearly indicating that her boots had to be removed. He said something about a sculptor wearing mittens, if Myranda pieced together the words correctly. She obeyed and copied him as he dug his toes into the dirt. He launched into another long speech, cupping his hand to his ear and pounding the ground with his feet. After receiving a puzzled look from Myranda, Cresh indicated that she should close her eyes and cover her ears. He then tapped the ground again. When she responded that she could feel the footfalls, he indicated that she should focus and discover what else she could find.
Focusing and searching with her mind was, at least, familiar to her. Before long, she found that she could sense the footfalls of the other people of Entwell. He seemed pleased and encouraged her to continue. More time passed and she realized that she could feel the constant flow of the waterfall. Again she was encouraged to deepen her search. It was truly remarkable the information that the earth could give her in the absence of all of her other senses. As she revealed everything from the movement of insects in the earth to the wind rustling the grass, he entreated her to speak up when she discovered something that she could not identify, rather than those things she could.
This assignment left her silent for some time. She quickly identified all of the new things she could detect, and gradually ceased to locate anything new. Her mind delved deeper and deeper. The thing that Cresh had been waiting for her to find came slowly. It was barely anything. At first, she was unsure she’d felt it at all. However, slowly she was able to push aside all else. Soon it was undeniable. There was something there. Something she’d never felt before.
“It is a rhythm. I can feel it. Like a heartbeat,” she said.
Cresh nodded enthusiastically. He stood and took her outside, scolding her when she instinctively reached for her boots. She stood in front of the hut, dug her toes into the ground, and found the pulse again. Once in the stance that would be commonplace in the days to come, she was able to lock onto it and hold it in the back of her mind. In this way, she would be able to listen--or, at least, attempt to listen--to her instructor. The procedure he seemed to describe was familiar to her as well. She was to allow the rhythm to mingle with her own strength. The fire and wind methods were similar. Different, though, was the way that she was to do so. The rhythm was to ripple up through her feet, and later her staff, and into her body. Once she was a part of the pulse’s path, she was to allow it to echo inside of her. It was to rebound and reverberate through her, growing ever stronger as it did.
She did as she imagined she was being told. Once the faint rhythm was coaxed out of the earth, she found it a very strange sensation. It did not feel like it was shaking her like a pounding of a drum, as she imagined it would. The pulse changed as it blended with her own strength. It moved through her as it had through the ground, but in a way that she felt in her spirit, not her body. Somehow, Cresh was able to monitor the strength of the ripple, and instructed her to release it, through the staff, back into the earth from whence it came. She did so, and was shocked by the result. A tremor, small but noticeable enough to make Myn fairly jump out of her skin, was created, with her staff at its center.
Cresh was quite pleased and declared the day to be a success. He returned her boots to her and retired.
No sooner had the dwarf shut the door of his abode than the people of the village returned to ask their questions. She was forced to tell her story again and again. She was hungry, but frowned at the thought of entering a crowded hut filled with equally enthusiastic people. Fortunately, an alternative presented itself, as Myn was already off in the direction of Solomon, who was just exiting his hut for his weekly hunting trip. She took her seat beside the crystal arena. At least here she didn’t feel cooped up as the mob of people besieged her.
Myn returned, happily presenting Myranda with a pair of fish. She suddenly realized that when the time came to cook the fish, it was Deacon who always did the honors. It seemed a shame to break the tradition, particularly in light of the fine job his spell always did. Myn anticipated Myranda’s plan and cleared a path through the crowd, leading the way to Deacon’s hut. While the little dragon had learned to control herself in crowds, her manners left something to be desired. She pushed the door open with her head and barged in.
Deacon was at work as he always was. The door closed against the crowd once more.
“What brings you here?” Deacon asked.
Myranda held up the fish.
“Don’t you know it is bad luck to break tradition?” she said.
“I suppose so. Particularly when a dragon is involved,” he said, providing the treat that Myn had been anticipating since her arrival. Meanwhile, a snap of the fingers prepared the fish.
“One of these days, one of us will have to remember to bring a plate along on hunting day. Eating fish out of one’s hands can get a bit messy,” he said.
“Agreed,” she said.
“You know, most people here don’t get to have fresh fish but once or twice a year. Solomon being the only carnivore, he tends to be the only one who gets them before they get stewed,” he said.
“Well, it is yet another benefit to having a dragon as a friend,” she said. “But, then, you haven’t been around lately.”
“You are busy,” he said.
“It would seem that no one here is ever otherwise,” she said, enjoying a bit of her meal.
“I have been falling behind in my scribing,” he said.
“You’ve always been able to scribe while out and about. It isn’t like you to make excuses,” she said.
Deacon sighed.
“Myranda. You have been here for just a bit under three months. I have been here for two and one-half decades. You have achieved more than I have, become more than I have. I have grown to the limit of my abilities while you have only begun. Look at how the others follow you. The crowds may thin after they have all heard what they seek, but they will always see you as something remarkable,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you are jealous,” she said.
“Oh, no. To say I was jealous would be to suggest that you did not deserve all that you have. I know that you do. Fact of it is . . . well, I don’t deserve to be near you. Were I not your guide through this, I would scarcely be tolerated among the other Masters. You are destined for far greater things than I. It is past time I gave you the space to grow,” Deacon said.
“I don’t care abou
t any of that. Unless you have grown tired of my company, I want you to come see me whenever you like,” she said.
“Well . . . thank you,” Deacon said.
With that misunderstanding behind them, they spent the next few hours discussing what she could expect from Cresh. He was not the most thorough of instructors, but he had far more subjects to cover. Also, if ever she was to get on his bad side, she need only request a demonstration. He reveled in displaying his art.
Unfortunately, sundown came all too soon. The crowd had grown tired of waiting and dispersed, so she quickly set off to the Warrior’s Side and found Lain waiting. As soon as she saw his face, she felt all of the anger return. He handed her a short sword. Unlike the one he’d been using, this one was steel, every bit a lethal weapon.
“You must be very brave, handing a real sword to me after telling me what you did,” she said.
“I understand you’ve had experience with the short sword,” he said.
“I have,” she said.
“We will spar a bit to see how skilled you are,” he said.
“And how shall I earn my questions?” she asked.
“Still interested, are we? I thought you were content to assume and jump to conclusions,” he said.
“Lain, you told me you had the leaked information in your hands! You had to know what was going to happen, and you did nothing! What am I supposed to think!” she cried.
“If you thought at all, you would not be acting as you are, but that is irrelevant. Prepare yourself,” he said, lifting his own sword.
“But this is not a training sword,” she said.
“I will pull my attacks if they are going to land. As for you . . . I seriously doubt that you will even come near, but if you manage to strike me, I will give you ten questions,” he said. “And the offer still stands that if you draw even a single drop of blood, every answer you wish is yours.”
“But--“ she began.
