by Colt, K. J.
True to the white wizard’s word, Myranda felt strong enough to stand. Myn was nowhere to be seen, and Lain’s bed was empty. Deacon was still asleep, and when Myranda asked Vedesto where Lain had gone to, he seemed quite dismayed that the bed was empty. It should not have been a surprise that Lain had let himself out of the chief healer’s care.
After the news had spread that he was a Chosen, though, there was little doubt that he would be easy to find. All that she would have to do was look in the center of the largest group of people around. Or perhaps not. Upon being officially discharged from Vedesto’s care, Myranda found that the people outside, many still mildly under the effects of the ceremony, were unaware Lain had slipped out. She headed quickly to his place on the Warrior’s Side. There, inside his simple hut, she found him sitting with his back against the wall. Myn was curled up on his crossed legs.
“I am surprised you are not inundated by well-wishers and admirers,” Myranda said.
“I value my privacy. The people here respect boundaries when you set them,” he said.
“You know you can’t ignore it now. You are one of the Chosen. It is not a theory. You and I have seen proof,” she said.
“So it would seem,” he said calmly.
“I suppose you will leave this place soon to perform your duty to the world,” Myranda said.
“You may believe what you wish,” he said.
Myranda paused.
“You do intend to stop the war, don’t you?” she asked.
“Is that to be one of your questions?” he asked.
She only had two, and there was little hope of any new questions anytime soon. This, though, was quite worth it.
“Yes,” she said.
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“What!? You cannot be serious! Lain, it is your purpose! You were born to do it! You owe it to the world!” she said.
“I have not finished forcing the world to pay the debt owed to me. I am in the business of killing. I depend upon feelings of hatred and loathing, and deeply-seated longings to end the life of another. Such feelings are not forthcoming in a time of peace. War is my livelihood,” he said.
Myranda was frozen with rage. She could feel the hope of an end slipping away because this short-sighted, greedy, heartless thing that sat before her refused to use the power given to him for the one and only truly good purpose in the world. Her hands trembled and tears formed in her eyes. The stand that held the training swords they had been using stood to the side in the room. She grasped her weapon and, shaking, held it up.
“Outside, now!” she demanded.
“I am not prepared to train you now. It is not yet sundown,” he said.
“Lain, damn you, if you will not do your duty for this world, then you will keep your promise to me! On your feet!” she shouted.
Myn, who had been roused from a light sleep by Myranda’s entrance, watched in a pleasant daze. When the girl began to speak her harsh words, the dragon snapped quickly out of it. Lain grasped his training sword and hoisted himself to his feet. The pair left the hut, with Myn keeping a close and watchful eye. She could feel that there was something different about this fight.
Myranda was hardly at her best. She had only just regained the strength to walk. She wouldn’t be able to fight nearly as well as she normally would, which wasn’t nearly well enough to exact the revenge she so desired. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t in control of her own actions any more. Lain lasted even longer than she, and he was unaccustomed to the mental fatigue that she had come to expect at the end of a training day. Perhaps, just this once, the balance would be tipped in her favor.
The first blows began to be exchanged. Myranda was slower and sloppier than she had been in weeks. Lain’s speed was not what it had been either, and his movements were, for the first time, less than graceful. Still, he managed to raise his weapon to block each attempt. As Myranda’s anger stirred, she got sloppier. Soon she was paying no attention to anything but attacking. Lain landed punishing blows, hammering her ribs and legs--but in her mind, the pain was nothing. He had done more through his single decision to forsake his purpose and allow the war to continue than he ever could with his weapon.
Myranda put every ounce of strength she could into each attack. Either through fatigue or lapsed concentration, Lain’s weapon was only barely able to block them after a time. Then came the moment. Myranda managed a single sidestep to take her out of range of a mighty swing by Lain. The force of the attack took him off balance, and there it was. Her chance. Time seemed to stop. Her weapon was ready and his was not. Before she could even think, she had struck. With a force that could only be mustered by rage, Myranda’s weapon crashed with a sickening snap into Lain’s jaw.
All at once, time came rushing back. Lain shook from the force of the attack. His face turned away, but his body remained planted. Myranda dropped her weapon and gasped, shocked at what she had done. Regret instantly replaced the hate in her heart. She wanted badly to rush to him, to see if he was badly hurt. A part of her, though, held her back, fearful of the consequences of her action. Myn shot between the two, a look of pure betrayal in her eyes. Lain’s face turned to her. He wore the same stony expression that he always had, but his eyes spoke volumes. There was respect, pride, and perhaps a bit of pity, but no anger. A trickle of blood crept from the corner of his mouth, staining the cream-colored fur red.
“If that were a proper blade, I would be dead. You have learned all I can teach. When you came to me, you would not draw a drop of blood from my arm,” he said, spitting a gob of blood and a tooth to the ground. “Now you are capable of taking my life. The fire is burning inside. You are every bit a warrior. The rest will come with time.”
He knelt and picked up the tooth.
“Here,” he said, stepping around Myn and placing it in Myranda’s hand. “Keep it. It will be a reminder of the day you proved that you were no worse than I . . . and no better.”
Myranda stared at the bloody thing for a long time. Lain returned to his hut, leaving her to her thoughts. Her eyes wandered to the practice sword, a stain of blood near its tip. A deep, dull pain burned in the palm of her hand. The sight of the stained sword turned her stomach. Myn settled to the ground, her eyes a window to her conflicted soul. The girl couldn’t stand the questioning stare and turned away, heading slowly toward her hut.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE WALK BACK WAS A long one. The distance was short, but burdened with the reality of what she had done, and what she had said, it was almost too much for Myranda to bear. She tried to remind herself of the anger, that what she had done was justified. It did little good. As she walked, she slowly became aware of each and every blow she’d let slip by. Her mind was too taxed to heal them by itself. She could have gone back to the healers, but deep down, she knew she deserved what she had received. The fact that she had let hate turn her into exactly what she hated warranted every lump and bruise she had and more.
She had not killed him, but the fact that she could have, the fact that she wanted to, burned her mind.
She entered her hut. Myn was with Lain. The dragon would need some time to forgive her for what she had done. The room seemed too empty. Myranda was tired. She should sleep but . . . no. She couldn’t. Not now. The dreams. Silence and solitude were all she wanted now. A knock at the door broke the silence, and the man on the other side broke the solitude. She opened it to find Deacon leaning heavily--very heavily--on both the door frame and a staff. It was clear that the chief white wizard was right. He’d needed at least another day. He managed a weak smile.
“Hello. May I come in?” he asked.
Myranda would have said no, but he clearly had put a lot of effort into the trek to her hut.
“Please,” she said with a rather unconvincing attempt at joviality.
He hobbled in, dropping heavily to a seat.
“My goodness. I haven’t had to use a staff in ages,” he said.
“Shouldn’t you sti
ll be in bed?” she asked.
“Vedesto evicted me. He caught me trying to convince one of the apprentices to sneak a book in for me. Again,” he said.
“I see,” she said.
“So, I thought . . . the falls. The falls have stopped while we were sleeping, and the water in the pool beneath is gone,” he began, his voice wavering a bit. “The way is open again, and will be for a day or two more. We post people in shifts to watch for newcomers. In groups of two. I thought maybe that you and I could . . . is something wrong?”
Myranda shook as she remembered what she had done, and then she slowly shook her head.
“What is it? I can help, I assure you,” he said, nearly falling over forward in an attempt to place a hand on her shoulder.
“Nothing, I . . . I passed Lain’s test,” she said.
“Perhaps my mind is a bit more addled than I thought. I would have imagined that was a reason to rejoice,” he said.
“I tried to kill him,” she said.
“Did you succeed?” he asked.
“No, but I wanted to. I really did. I couldn’t control myself. I just . . . I hated him so much. I knocked out his tooth. I may have broken his jaw. He gave me the tooth. He wants me to remember. He wants me to remember that I wanted to kill,” she said.
“What did he do to make you feel this way?” he asked.
“He won’t do it, Deacon. He is one of them! He can stop the war, but he won’t! He would rather go on profiting from murder than end all of this!” she said.
“Myranda, no, no. You mustn’t trouble yourself over that. Listen, it does not matter what he says. This is a matter of fate. What must be done will be done,” he said.
“I know him well enough to know that when he gives his word, he doesn’t break it, and he promised to answer my questions truthfully. If he said he doesn’t intend to, then he won’t,” she said.
“You don’t understand. It doesn’t matter. Myranda, the future is not so fragile as to be broken by a simple decision. The future is made of decisions. The spirits speak not to tell us what to do, but to tell us what will be done. Something will change his mind and he will rise to his proper place. Until then, just leave him be,” he said.
“I just don’t know,” she said.
“Well, I do. That’s the wonderful thing about the future. All you ever have to do is wait for it. It will come to you,” he said.
Until the sun set, Deacon kept Myranda company. He then hobbled slowly home as Myranda went to sleep without her friend Myn to keep her company for the first time in ages. The time had not protected her from the dreams. Morning couldn’t come soon enough. When her eyes opened shortly before sunrise, she made a decision. She would convince Lain to do what he must, even if it took years. But not today. She could not face him after what she did yesterday, after what he made her do. For now she needed something to occupy her mind.
She left her hut, with her mind fully recovered and her bruises mostly healed. The thundering of the falls had indeed stopped, Myranda finally realized for herself. It was odd. The sound had been so constant in her time here that she had accepted the low rumble as silence. Now that it was gone, the quiet seemed unnatural. It felt as though there was something missing. The feeling was deep in her soul. It must be the missing sound. What else could it be?
She had a meal before seeking out Deacon. It was odd not being hurried by an impending training session with an impatient teacher. She supposed that black and white magics would be next, and she wondered what sort of things those Masters would have in store for her. No. Gray magic first. She owed it to Deacon to finish his training. After knocking at his door, she heard bumping and thumping, as well as a rather insistent voice telling her to wait. Finally the door opened, revealing Deacon looking a good deal more disheveled than usual.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No, no. Not you precisely. The door did. When you knocked on it,” he said, trying to set her mind at ease without really lying.
“You can go back to bed. I know you need your sleep,” Myranda said.
“Not at all. Not at all. I am quite well-rested,” he said, struggling valiantly to hold back a yawn. “I haven’t slept so deeply since I was an apprentice. What brings you here?”
“I haven’t slept so poorly since I was a frightened little girl. Myn isn’t about. I just need some kind of distraction. Something to pluck up my courage before I speak to Lain again,” she said.
“Well, if nothing more than distraction is required, I can most assuredly oblige. Please, come in,” he said.
She closed the door and took a seat in the second chair while Deacon went about pulling books from shelves. When he had a fair amount, he pulled his chair to the desk and opened one or two of them.
“If you like, I will teach you a bit more gray magic. You may have your choice of lessons. Whatever interests you,” he said.
Myranda scanned the books. The names were not in her tongue, but thanks to a whispered enchantment by Deacon, the lines and letters twisted and turned themselves as her eyes swept over the pages. In a few moments it was all quite legible to her. Eventually she found the most recently scribed of the enchantments.
“What about this one?” she asked, placing her finger on a spell marked “Gilliam’s Folly.”
“Trans-substantiation. That is a rather advanced one, but nothing beyond your ability, I am sure,” he said.
She had not brought her staff, but Deacon allowed her to borrow his crystal. Gray magic tended to be quite different from the elements. Each spell that the fire or wind Masters taught was much like the first. Gray magic was wholly different from spell to spell. It was like learning a new discipline each time.
The pair decided she would begin by turning a piece of clay into glass. The two substances were fairly similar, and thus the change would be simple. Myranda worked at the spell with Deacon’s coaching, but it wasn’t easy. The sight of the spell at work was quite unique. Faint waves of energy swept through the clay, leaving thin bands of glass that faded quickly back to normal. After an hour or so of unsuccessful attempts, they decided to rest.
“Well. The falls are quiet today. For now, at least. Calypso indicated that they would give way sooner than expected. Perhaps by the end of the day. Nevertheless, that still leaves time for a shift or two at the fall’s edge. It is quite peaceful there and you and I might--“ he began. He was interrupted by a thunderous slam on the door.
“What was that?” she cried, startled.
“I seem to have a rather insistent visitor,” he said.
A second crash nearly knocked the door from its hinges, and a third succeeded where the last had failed. Atop the fallen door stood a dizzied Myn. She had a desperate look, catching the edge of Myranda’s tunic and pulling her forward.
“What is it? Calm down. What is it, little one?” she asked.
Myn looked desperately to the base of the temporarily quiet falls and back to Myranda.
“What about the falls? I don’t . . . Lain. Lain went to the falls,” she said.
She knew from the dragon’s eyes that it was so. He had gone.
“Then we must follow,” Myranda said, walking resolutely toward the falls.
“What!? No! You--you need to stay here! There are ceremonies, there are tests. You’ve so much more you can learn! You haven’t even been inducted as a Full Master yet! Your Master crystal will not be forged for another month, at least!” Deacon said, rushing out the door behind her.
“I’ve learned enough. I need to see Lain,” she said.
“The falls could start at any moment. You’ll never make it! You don’t have any supplies! You need to stay!” he pleaded.
“No!” she said, turning to him. “Lain has left this place to go back to killing. He has turned his back on his purpose. I will not rest until he faces it again!”
“Myranda, that is a job for fate, not for you,” he reasoned desperately.
“What if fate means to do it through me? I h
ave been thinking. That nonsense you said that Hollow had said about me. A label of white adorns that which will see each. I have seen the Swordsman,” she began, holding up her white scar of the mark. “I have seen Lain. I have seen whatever being we summoned in the ceremony. What if it is my purpose to seek out the Chosen? A mark both fresh and faded belongs to the carpenter. What if carpenter is not meant to be taken literally? What if he meant that I was to be the one to join the members of the Chosen five together as a carpenter joins wood? Doesn’t that explain why I have the mark? Doesn’t that explain why magic comes so easily to me?”
“Perhaps, perhaps . . . But perhaps not! You are reaching, Myranda. You are twisting the words to fit your purpose,” he said. “The prophecy is clear about mere mortals who try to help the Chosen. The trials that the divine ones must face would destroy anyone else. To offer aid where it is not needed is a death sentence!”
“Then so be it. If I must die so that the world may be spared of this war, let it be done,” she said.
“No, Myranda, I--I . . . Five minutes more, I beg of you!” he said.
“I must--“ Myranda tried to answer. Before she did, Deacon was gone. He disappeared inside his hut.
Myranda hurried along. She simply could not be delayed. A terrible din came from Deacon’s hut. He sprinted out after her a minute later.
“Wait please!” he said, running in front of her. He carried a bag and an armload of books. The precious tomes spilled to the ground as he finally found the specific one he was looking for. He riffled through the pages and tore one out.
“Here! Take it! Have you the tooth still? Good. With this spell and that tooth you can track him wherever he goes! And the bag! Take the bag! It contains some necessities, an old staff and crystal. Better than yours, but not nearly what you deserve. Oh, if only you would wait until the next time that the way opens. We could give you a crystal worthy of your skill,” he said.
