The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence (8 page)

Soon it was the seventh day. Desmeres had
long since finished his preparations, the last of which was the
completion of some manner of sword for Lain. He refused to unveil
it to her, claiming that Lain ought to be the first. He slipped out
the entrance hatch, warning her that he would arrive back at the
end of the day and they would have to move quickly when the time
came. Until then there was nothing to do but leaf through more
books. She had worked her way backward through fifteen or so of the
years, and came upon a name she had known about already. Rinthorne,
the unfortunate man who had been in charge of Kenvard when the
massacre occurred. Dark memories filled her head at the glimpse of
the name. She’d lost her home, her family, everything that day.
Then something odd caught her eye. A line in the book was struck
out. It was clearly written in a different hand than the rest. With
a bit of effort the words could still be read, not that it did any
good. She still hadn't worked out what they meant. Something else
was odd. There was no indication for whom or to whom the job was
done. There was only one word that she did recognize. Kenvard.

Her mind began to stir. How? He had told her
of the job he had done for Rinthorne. It happened at the same time
as the massacre. How could a job have been done in Kenvard
afterward? Afterward there
was
no Kenvard. Kenvard the
nation had been absorbed, and its capital of the same name had been
razed. Was that why it was crossed out? And why no names? And no
price? Rather, not one that could be counted in gold bars. The word
that always preceded the number was present, but what followed was
only another word. Myranda cursed herself for not spending more
time in the warrior's section of Entwell. Had she, she might have
learned this language, and this would have been clear. A nagging
feeling burned at her. This was important. She couldn't explain
why, but she had to know what it meant. As she further pondered,
her thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the trapdoor and
the whir blades through the air.

"Myranda! Quickly! I am not sure how long we
can keep the oloes at bay!" called Desmeres, struggling to yell
over a powerful wind that whistled in the opening.

Myranda slipped the book into her bag and
hurried to the entryway. The gold needed for the purchase had been
transferred into twenty or so small crates. Though each held only
four or five of the ingots, they were heavy as lead. A rope was
lowered for Myranda to secure to one chest at a time, and the
combined strength of Desmeres and Lain, top side, hauled each up.
Myn, interested in the activity on the surface, scrambled up to
them, and soon the chests were moving much faster. The little
dragon had quickly determined the purpose of this little game and
joined in, clamping the end of the rope in her jaws and lending her
deceiving strength to the effort. Soon the chests had been loaded,
and Myranda clutched the rope herself and was hauled out.

On the surface, it was night. She found the
ground around them covered with a thin haze that smelled strongly
of burning wood. The horrid brown creatures that guarded the place
were completely surrounding them, staying at the exact distance
that the mist faded to nothing. Waiting for them was a four horse
carriage. It was just as he had asked: elegant, but sturdy. Not a
gaudy showpiece, a well crafted vehicle. There was a very large
cargo compartment in the back that was filled fairly to bursting
with their precious load. In the front was a comfortable place for
the passengers to sit, and just in front of that was a sheltered
place for the driver. There was no one there. Desmeres approached
her, he was dressed as he’d been when he left, utterly cocooned in
winter clothing in an attempt to stay warm and hide his identity.
Lain was not disguised at all, wearing a lighter gray cloak with a
white lining and a plain tunic underneath. Hanging from his belt
was the new sword, concealed in a sheath.

"Do I take from your presence up here that
you have chosen to aid us?" Desmeres asked, opening the door of the
carriage for her.

"Certainly do not want to spend the rest of
my life in that hole. We shall see if I aid you or not. I want to
know more about it first," she said, stepping inside and dropping
her bag and staff on the floor.

"Fine, fine. I wouldn't expect you to do it
without considerable instruction anyway," he said, starting to
close the door.

"Aren't you coming inside?" she asked.

"Dawn will be here soon, and our driver is
still a few hours away. Lain is the best there is, but even he
couldn't drive a carriage in broad daylight without being seen. I
will drive it until we meet the coachman," he said.

"What about Myn?" she asked.

"One of the lines in every description of you
mentions that you will be in the company of the dragon. She will
have to tag along with Lain," Desmeres said.

Myranda's heart sank as Myn turned to Lain in
the distance, cast a goodbye glance, and trotted off to him.

"As for you, there is an outfit in the
carriage, I suggest you change into it while you are alone,"
Desmeres said, closing the door.

A moment later the carriage lurched into
motion. Myranda looked around her. In all of her life this was the
first time she had been in a covered carriage, save the rather
unpleasant trip in the back of the black carriage after the cloaks
attacked her. The seats were cushioned with deep red velvet. Doors
that were better crafted than those on her childhood home kept even
the slightest draft from breaking through. On the glass windows, of
which there was one on each door, there was a gauze curtain to keep
prying eyes out but allow light in, and a heavy drape of the same
red velvet to eliminate the light. She lowered the gauze curtains
and looked over the outfit. It was exquisite. Fine lace, linen and
. . . silk! She had seen women pay a fortune for any one of these
pieces of clothing. When she had put on the dress and petticoats,
she found them to be just precisely her size, as though they had
been hand altered to suit her. She wondered for a moment how Lain
had managed such a feat, but her thoughts were interrupted by the
gleaming white fur coat that would protect her against the freezing
cold. Fur was not at all an uncommon thing to see someone wear in
the north. If one had forsaken the ubiquitous gray cloak, a rough
one of fur was generally in its place. In those cases, though, it
was merely a skin, perhaps not even cleaned, draped about the
shoulders and tied about the waist. This was, again, tailored to
suit her. She slipped it on and found it to be more than warm
enough. If they wanted her to go unrecognized, they had certainly
chosen a fine wardrobe. Dressed in this way, Myranda didn't even
feel like herself. The crumpled pile of overused clothes on the
floor of the carriage more closely resembled her true self than who
she might have seen in a mirror. After stuffing her former self
into the bag and attempting to gather her hair into something more
becoming of her wardrobe, she drew the curtain on one side of the
carriage and gazed outside.

After a few minutes, a fellow traveler passed
in the opposite direction. He was an older man in a sleigh that was
nearly falling apart. He wore a cloak so tattered that the hood was
useless, replaced with a fur hat. He tipped it as he passed.
Myranda smiled at him. It was the first time that anyone had
acknowledged her as she traveled. She leaned into the soft seat and
pondered why people were so willing to ignore their own, and so
eager to acknowledge those that were better off. Her thoughts were
interrupted when the carriage pulled to a halt just as the traveler
disappeared from view. Desmeres appeared outside the window and
pulled the door open.

"Has this curtain been open all along?" he
asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Close it. You should know better," he
said.

She obeyed and they were on their way again.
It was nice to finally be able to travel in luxury, but without Myn
to keep her company she was beginning to feel loneliness creep back
upon her. It was a feeling she'd not had to deal with since she'd
found the little dragon, and she did not relish it. She pulled the
bag from the floor and found the stylus inside. Rolling it slowly
in her palm, she remembered the man who had given it to her.
Fetching the torn spell page from the bag, she cursed it for not
being written in his hand. She scratched the stylus along the page.
A thin black line faded in swiftly behind it. It was enchanted to
write without ink. In Entwell it was nothing. Out here, it was
miraculous. Smiling, she went back to admiring the simple tool. As
she admired, her mind wandered to those happier times.

#

Meanwhile, a forest and a mountain away,
Deacon sat at his table. He had found it increasingly difficult to
keep his mind on his task, and self imposed deadlines were quickly
piling up. All of his life he had kept to the schedule he made for
himself. Faced with the daunting task of recording every piece of
gray magic his former mentor had neglected to write down, if he
hadn't forced himself to keep to a schedule it would have consumed
his life. Thanks to his diligence, he reasoned that in five short
years he would have finished recording the teachings of Gilliam and
would be free to begin his own contributions in earnest. That was
before. Now he was a full volume behind. Even so, rather than
writing, he was staring at the empty chair across from him. A
motion drew his eye to the pen that sat in the pot of ink at the
corner of his book. The pen rose shakily and touched to the paper.
A slow, lazy line was drawn along one corner. With a curling
flourish, the pen lifted from the paper and returned to the ink.
Anxiously, Deacon watched the pen for any further movement. When it
remained still, he pulled the page from the book and greedily took
in the curve with his eyes. She drew it.

When he gave the stylus to her, he had meant
it to be useful to her, a tool that would make her path easier. It
was not until later that he supposed that the spell might persist
regardless of distance. The moment that the thought came to him he
had rushed to the paper to see if any of the words were not his
own. From that day forward he had awoken each morning with the hope
of something new. Something from her. Slowly it occurred to him the
madness of it. This was a simple line. It was no different than any
meaningless scribble he might have made himself. Why should this
one mean so much? He tried to convince himself that it was because
of her task, that he couldn't keep his mind off of her because she
had a part in the prophesy. It was a lie. The prophecy was the last
thing he thought of when he thought of her. He didn't think of
anything. When she was in his mind, there was nothing else. He
tried his best to shake the thoughts away, placing the paper in a
drawer. There was nothing to be done about it. It would be months
before the way was open for her to return. Until then he would
simply have to keep his mind on magic. If he could not scribe, at
least he could study. Standing and approaching one of his many
shelves, he plucked a volume he had written years ago. He flipped
to a page in the center, where there was described a spell he'd
never had much use for. Distance seeing. Perhaps . . . he may just
find a use soon.

#

Back in the carriage, it was hours later.
Desmeres pulled to the side of the road and stopped, joining her
inside. Sitting on the seat across from her, he peeled off several
of the outer layers of his winter covering until he was left with
an outfit that was every bit as finely tailored as the one she was
given. Standing, he lifted the seat he had chosen to reveal a large
compartment beneath it, obviously the hiding place he had
requested. From inside he pulled a pile of papers.

"Now, to complete your disguise," he
said.

"What is on those papers? Spells?" she
asked.

"Heavens no. I am no wizard. Any disguise
spell I could manage would only attract
more
attention to
you. No, these papers contain your new personality, by far the most
important part of the disguise. That and your instructions, but
those can wait. The driver will be showing up soon, and he will be
your first test. We need to lay the groundwork before then," he
said.

"I don't understand," she said.

"No need to worry. You will. You see, the
most commonly used phrase in the dispatches that describe you is
'poor, nomadic girl.' Even if you manage to completely change your
appearance, you would still fit that little phrase. And right now
you are dressed as a noblewoman. If you do not act as one, you will
draw attention even if you don't even remotely resemble a person to
watch for. You need to act appropriately. As such, we will start
from the bottom. Your name is Alexia Adriana Tesselor," he
began.

Myranda tilted her head as she tried to
recall where she'd heard the last name before.

"Of the West Kinsey Tesselors. It is a fact
that you are endlessly proud of. Given the chance, you will mention
it no later than the second sentence of any conversation, and as
often afterward as possible," he said.

Myranda nodded. The Tesselors were an
exceedingly wealthy family on the west coast of the continent, so
much so that they practically owned the city that they hailed from.
Though they were not nobles, there was not a single leader in all
of the Northern Alliance that didn't have either a marital or
financial connection to the clan. Rumor had it that the King
himself owed a rather sizable debt to the patriarch of the
Tesselors for the cost of his coronation. Desmeres handed her a
piece of paper and a small bag of jewelry.

"This is a family tree and a short
description of the most prevalent members. Memorize it. Lord knows
that they have. Rings, and necklaces, gold, all bearing the family
crest. Put them on. Now you know who you are. All that is left is
to teach you how to be who you are. Listen up. I am about to give
you the single most important piece of advice that you will ever
receive. There are only two things that you will ever need to
succeed, regardless of what you do: Confidence and experience. Of
the two, confidence is paramount. No one,
no one
, is more
confident and secure in their superiority than the extremely
wealthy. You need to exude obnoxious amounts of confidence in all
situations," Desmeres said.