The idolator kept close watch over his valuable prize. He knew she was mistrustful of him.

"I only ask that you allow me to ease your suffering," he said in a tone he believed persuasive, then with horrid suggestiveness: "It won't hurt, I swear." He stretched forth a hand for her to come. When she did not, her cold response roused fitful gleams within the eyes previously voluptuous in their attention. "These words would lose their bitterness if you would but allow me a single chance," he said, becoming intolerable.

He found it difficult to breathe the air, trying to inhale as little of the noxious vapours as possible. He began to feel their ill-effects. They did not affect her. She breathed with the same ease she would the purest air, and he knew her very blood must be tainted. "Let me take you from here," he persisted. "Leave this place. It's riddled with darkness and suffering. There's nothing here for you but falsehoods and hopelessness. The very air you breathe is a malicious fume. There is no sensible reason to refuse, and I cannot believe you a fool ...There is nothing here for you but death."

Magenta stood as one paralyzed. She felt herself overcome with the same anguish that had seized upon her before at his speech.

"I know what you would say," he ventured to speak in the absence of response. "You believe she will not allow it. She uses fear and despair to destroy all hope. But I know of places that are safe, where no one will know who you are, where she cannot find you. There is hope for you yet."

"It's long since I've had any hope," Magenta answered sadly, cautious of him still.

"But why?" he asked, madly perplexed. "If you would come with me I could help you be at peace, start afresh!" After a time he added coolly, "I'm all you have-of that single truth you may be certain."

"My hope does not rest on a single certainty," Magenta said, at last regaining her self-possession. She remained distant and never let his strong hands get in reach of her. It was her preference to throw herself into the black water and be drowned rather than to have this man lay his hands on her.

He was dismayed that she was unkind to him and would not give him a chance. "Why do you stand so far away?" He looked to her with tormented eyes. She would not go to him, and he would not venture to force her. He was savage, prepared to resort to any form of cruelty to get his own way, but fear of the consequences such an action would produce paralyzed his yearning. "You know what I feel for you, do you not?" he inquired, helplessly.

"Yes."

"Perhaps, then," he continued, agitated, "you do not know the depths to which I feel it." He swallowed with difficulty. His supreme request that she unveil the mysteries of her kind was so needful it hurt.

"I fear I do," was the brief reply.

The pallor that overspread his countenance, the clench of his jaw, and the tremor in his voice, told at once she had touched a tender chord. "Then why do you keep from me? Why do you treat me with only contempt and coldness?" He watched her closely. She would not support the conversation, keeping always out of his reach.

"There is not sufficient audience to give reason for you to shun me as you do," he said, his tone ever increasing in fervor, resentful of the reluctance she had shown him and the distress he suffered. Persistently he sniffed and rubbed his irritated eyes. His flesh felt p.r.i.c.kly and twitchy. The ill-effects of the commingled perfumes had him in keen, aromatic pain. Their burning sweetness scalded the tongue and eyes with caustic severity. Another man would have been seized with violent sickness.

"Have you nothing to say?" he demanded finally, much excited that several of his attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. "You have yet to answer my question."

"Would you have my answer?"

"Yes," he said. "I would have it."

Magenta looked at him long and steadily. "Then let it be understood that there is, and never can be, even a breath of hope beyond the notion of acquaintance for you and me."

For a long moment Fraomar regarded her. His set smile belied the intense hate in his eyes. He despised and was infatuated with her within the same moment. He rubbed his eyes furiously. He began to suffer giddiness. The mingled scents seemed with deliberate and purposeful intent to get inside his brain and drive him to insanity.

"You think me unworthy of your esteem," he said, his voice tight. "Perhaps there is another?"

The mere thought of another man's attainment of the unattainable, roused in him a fierce jealousy, that by some perversity, increased by the impossibility of his own success, heightened his desire. His want for her unsatisfiable, he fought a mad desire to force from her some sign of feeling, anything but this aloof indifference.

Profoundly agitated, Fraomar had until now retained the appearance of self-command, when, seized with a sudden attack of weakness, he turned recklessly upon a hapless plant, tore it half-down and cried, "Tell me there is another, and I shall cut out his heart!"

His eyes were mad with suffering. A hot flame ran in his blood. He wanted to get hold of her. When she had roused him into a fit of madness he felt he would kill her. Magenta was struck with the sudden change that appeared in his countenance but remained unmoved.

"There is no other," she said calmly.

Fraomar, believing that a heart such as hers had not the strength to bear the cold alone, was convinced there must be another. For a long while he looked into her face as if to reach into the very heart of her and uncover the secret love which she kept hidden there. Suddenly he drew very close to her, filled with the mad jealousy and the delusion of hope of one desperately infatuated.

"Then I would leave now, if I might carry with me a hope of being permitted to renew my sentiments-when you've had time enough to reconsider," he said, trembling all over as he spoke. His eyes looked as if they hurt him. They burned and stung from emotion and from the torment of poisonous vapours.

"You have my answer," replied Magenta. "Take it and be done with it."

"I see I have nothing to hope for." There was an expression of caustic despair on his countenance, but his defeat was false. Never before had he been denied, and he would not be denied her. Whether she wished it or not, he would tear from her the veil of mystery. "And you are to tell me there is no other?" he said doubtfully.

"There is no one."

"That can be amended."

"It has no need for amendment," she said.

Her standing there like that, soft and pa.s.sive, but unknown, untouchable, enraged him beyond measure. "I believe you are made of marble," he said scornfully. He had grown white with anger. "You are to tell me you are sorrowless, without need and without fear?"

"I say none of those things," she answered. "Only I wish not for companionship."

Drunk on the garden's perfume, the benighted ranger yielded at last to his pa.s.sionate nature. His body was pained with an unmitigated longing, and with his body he expressed it. "Tonight at least you shall!" He broke forth with sudden violence, and seizing her, made an attempt to lay his wild lips on hers.

Swiftly she retreated out of arm's length, and to his dismay, he discovered it impossible to follow. The black vines had made quick work round his arms and legs, preventing the forward movement he attempted. He had not perceived them creeping upon him. "Curse you!" he cried in a fury, with a face made of hate itself. He struggled against the snare with a force made of wounded pride, hatred, and desire unsatisfied. After a short minute he had exhausted himself and momentarily let his head droop in agonized defeat. When he looked up there were tears in his eyes, but she, turning to leave, did not see.

"Magenta," he whimpered in a voice so meek, and so weakly uttered, it pa.s.sed unheard. "Magenta, I'm sorry." He had not intended to make his voice so pathetic. At last he cried: "Magenta!" He sent a desperate plea after her not to leave, but she did not heed his cries. A violent exclamation tore from his throat, and he wrenched his arm savagely in the viney ensnarement, as if he might tear it from its very roots. He wept as he spoke: "Those walls will be your grave! Death will find you alone and in darkness!"

His voice rang clear in the night and shook her bleak soul. He knew the very thing she feared would come to pa.s.s; she would be locked away within that terrible darkness, alone, hopeless, desolate, left to wither and deteriorate with no sympathetic soul to hear her cries. This gave him a strange satisfaction.

Chapter25.

Emporium -he morning was grey and oppressive, the streets cheerless and damp. The spell book emporium was occupied by men and women who made not a sound, but for the periodic turning of pages, and a murmur over something here and there.

Against a quiet wall, lying in wait, Fraomar stood in the hope of encountering Magenta. He knew she was to see her father sometime in the day. There was a musky, sweet odour of parchment scrolls in the room, which stifled him. He suffered mildly an after-sickness. He had been left to endure intense aromatic distress, mental anguish, and disorientation from the many potent fragrances.

So here he waited, prepared to make excuses for the previous night's violent outburst. He would tell her in the most ardent and earnest tones that his efforts had been incited by the necessity of her love, without which he might perish, and, but though she had left him hopeless, he still adored her deeply and worshiped her intensely. These things he thought about, till he was again convinced of success. He promised himself he should have her soon. Her heart could not live without affection. Lost and forsaken, where else should she run but to his love, so constant and faithful?

The street was filled by many bleak figures. As Deacon approached the emporium, he saw coming toward him, on the opposite side, his cousins and Cade. He dropped his chin, trying to remain inconspicuous. They had not yet seen him there. Making his way purposefully through the moving figures, he kept his face tilted down, hoping to escape notice. At the entrance he paused. He would have liked to have quickly turned and gone inside, but, perceiving himself recognized, stood and waited patiently, while the others crossed over to join him.

"Thought we might find you here!" Derek said, cheerfully.

Deacon greeted them without smiling, and they followed him inside.

"What do you do with yourself all the blessed day?" asked Cade. "Read these books? He looked at a cover as though he had found something of great interest, but after a quick flip through, tossed it aside unimpressed.

"Yes," said Deacon with a shade of annoyance.

Taking the lead from Cade, Derek took up a book also. He frowned as his eyes came across pages and pages of some d.a.m.nable writing, unintelligible to him.

"What have you there?" Deacon asked, displaying more eagerness than was common with him. "Give it to me."

Before Derek had chance to register what he had asked, Deacon had s.n.a.t.c.hed the book from his hands, flipped through the leaves with a haste that told of singular purpose, then with a scornful grimace snapped shut the cover, so sharply as to make Derek flinch.

"What?" asked Derek. "Why are you enraged?"

"It's not what I supposed it to be," said Deacon, pushing the book back into Derek's hands.

"What is it that you are specifically looking for?" asked Cedrik.

"It's not something easily explained," was all Deacon said, and Cedrik knew well enough he could extract nothing more from him.

It was divination Deacon desired. He had found several books on the subject, but so far they had been inadequate for what he required. "You might as well entertain yourselves elsewhere," he said. "I cannot estimate how long I'll be here."

"I'm content where I am," said Cedrik, making himself comfortable in a chair. His look indicated mistrust and displeasure at Deacon's secrecy.

Derek looked uncomfortable between the two, the tension between them quite apparent. He took a seat by his brother, who knocked his boots down from the table where he had lounged them. "Are we truly to remain here all the day?" he asked Cedrik in dismay.

"Not me," Cade said, slumping into a chair across from them. "I've got work later this afternoon ...Hey there, look at this fool, then." He nodded across the room to where Fraomar stood, absent-mindedly forming a dagger, then re-forming it after he had dismantled it. He repeated this aimlessly over and over, his eyes fixed to the floor. The storekeeper had remonstrated with him for public display of unauthorized magic use but had been just as severely turned away.

"You have to love these fools who throw their weight around, just because they know a few magic tricks," said Cade scornfully, though Cedrik noticed he lowered his voice as he spoke.

Deacon, forced to endure their company, turned as if blind to them and took another leather-bound book.

"These books are his only reason for existence, I reckon," said Cade. "The d.a.m.ned fool."

Deacon stood aloof with cynical reserve. He was clad in dark clothes, as though it was his wish to fade into the shadows, yet he was singularly striking, standing out from the rest. He made the atmosphere around him seem darker, fuller, enlivened.

An even rarer study than Deacon was the dark priestess. Her entrance caused an unsettling stir in the room. She swept in, and it was as if a dark breeze had pa.s.sed, all becoming chilly with a deep sense of unease. She was exceedingly still, beautifully still. There was an estrangement between her and all things natural, as though she was unknown even to nature. She troubled all who looked upon her. Her appearance suggested hopelessness, despair, even death.

She recognized Deacon immediately, turning her eyes on him as she pa.s.sed. The intensity of her gaze must have drawn his, for he looked up suddenly. He sustained her gaze unfalteringly, but then she, upon perceiving Fraomar, turned her face forward and would not look towards him again. The moment her eyes broke from his, Deacon felt severed from her, divided, as if she was blind to him. There was something very compelling about her beauty, her smooth black hair and terrible blue eyes. She had a nameless grace, so soft, so calm, so beautiful in her darkness, the night might have taken vengeance for envy of her.

Even with all his familiarity with beauty, Deacon was compelled to admit to himself that never before had he been impressed with such loveliness. Sorrow had refined her, polishing away any coa.r.s.eness and bringing her to a finer state of being. Yet there was that in her beauty to cause a deep dread within him, one he could not explain, even to himself. She gave him the strong impression she had lived through some experience, some terrible suffering that had removed her from ordinary society. Deacon soon observed others beside himself were watching the priestess. She drew many eyes and many more whispers. The striking black gown and graceful form beneath could account for the lingering interest, but not the disquietude.

He saw that she encountered a man eager for her attention. His insistent, overbearing presence urged her into the seclusion of a quiet corner, where he might speak to her more intimately. Distracted by the priestess and the man with whom she spoke, Deacon did not return at once to study, but watched. The man was of a good height, and to a less refined eye, handsome. Yet she seemed distant from him. Her distance went beyond maidenly reserve. Almost she was marble, with no tendency to soften, cold and impervious.

Having her to himself, Fraomar expressed his regret and told her of the agony that filled his soul. While he pleaded his case, Magenta remained quiet and unreadable. His words fell cold upon her heart. Often her gaze would stray past the ranger and over to Deacon, who glanced up from his book on occasion. Her eyes lingered on him long after his had turned downward.

Fraomar, conscious of this divided attention, looked over his shoulder to observe what took her interest. He saw the dark-haired young man whose attention had since returned to the page and felt hostile toward him. Deacon's gaze lifted just as Fraomar turned and positioned himself more directly in front of her to block the view. He stood very close to her, bending foward.

"You show me no sympathy," he said, his tone lowered, yet aggressive.

"I cannot show what I do not have."

"How can you be so indifferent to my suffering?" he argued. "I was not myself-the fumes had got inside my head."

"I believe you were more yourself than ever before," she replied, evenly.

"And you know who I am so a.s.suredly?" he asked with a sense of injustice. "All the years you have known me, I have been faithful to your father, mindful of you. How can you perceive me as despisable?"

"How can I not perceive what you conceal so carelessly?" she asked, looking him in the eyes.

He was silent a moment. A muscle worked in his jaw. "Perhaps I should leave you to your fate. I offered you freedom, and you have thrown it in my face."

"Is it freedom you offer?"

"You know it is," he said. "You have lived your whole life drifting in some half-dream. Give me your trust, and I swear to wake you to full existence."

Then, bending down farther, he began to speak to her in a very low voice, talking almost into her ear. The sight chafed the mind of Deacon. He watched curiously from under his wary black lashes. What was he pressing the woman to do?

Fraomar whispered to Magenta brasher words than he had ever before used, coercing her with bitter half-truths, urging her acceptance of him. He was obsessed with her kind, they who with their infinitely superior charms alone could pa.s.s heightened intoxications in pa.s.sion and who could at any time leave a healthy firm-fleshed man in utter degradation, trembling, for surely his extreme bliss brought him to the utmost pitch of joy that man can bear. When at last Fraomar withdrew his face to look her full in the eyes, her eyes lifted with dismay. Her voice was a mere breath.

"Why do you ask these things of me?"

"Because it is you who has so deeply marked my existence," he said. "Do these things for me, and I will see that you want for nothing. If it is within my reach, I swear you shall have it." He misunderstood her silence to be consideration. "I have made all the declarations. Where now is your promise to me?" He raised his finger toward her breast.

She dashed aside his hand. He caught her wrist, sudden as a snare. "A strong beating would bring you to your senses," he said through clenched teeth, gripping her painfully. Her expression darkened with anger. She did not attempt to break free but simply stood there, looking into him with eyes that were both beautiful and terrible.

Fraomar watched with a horrible fascination as the veins in his hand became distended and purple beneath the flesh, travelling up the forearm. Poison, he knew, was entering his flesh and his blood. He choked with the increasing pain, yet did not withdraw or release his hold, nor did he lower his gaze from that of the priestess'.

Her expression did not show any active or malicious intent of evil but an absence of any sympathy. Obstinately he clutched her, resisting the painful effects with faltering courage, and at last, was forced to release her. He gripped his wounded hand, sweat heavy on his brow. His look of defeat was soon quenched with immutable conviction.

"The next time I get hold of you, I'll not let go," he said, his face very near to hers. "You can't play with me."

She did not shrink from him but burned cold with resentment. Deacon hadn't quite seen what occurred between the two, only that she had done something unfortunate to the man. He saw also that it was she who terminated the conversation. They parted and each went their separate ways, she to the counter to retrieve some books, he out of the place altogether. His agitation was still so apparent that several people scrambled to avoid contact with him.

"What in the G.o.ds' name went on there?" asked Cade, who had also been watching. "That man is mad."

Deacon returned to his previous occupation as if no one had spoken, but his mind was seriously abraded.

Cade shook his head. "I pity the fellow who climbs into bed with her; he will be crawling out, I can tell you that much. Not all the ale in the world could make me-"

Cade fell into silence as the priestess pa.s.sed. Doing so, she did not neglect to exchange a meaningful glance at Deacon. He was struck by the pallid apathy of her face. Her expression suggested despair. He remembered the pale tearful face in the woods and was moved to a deeper tenderness toward her.

Cade scratched the rusty coloured bristles on his chin. Not until she had left, did he resume speaking. "They get a fellow all worked up, only to deny the very kisses she sighed for, and then accuse them of being stolen, but in a style so prettily put on, it only provokes more. She wants to lure a man to his destruction. All her protests and such, pfft. She is far wiser than to mean it, if you understand what I'm saying. She aims at luring him into almost unconsciousness, then once he is good and powerless, weak as a full-bellied drunk, she will destroy him.

"They play this game, then wonder why men like that fool cause them so much strife. You feel bad, sometimes, you know-those men can be dangerous, but a creature like that is just asking for it. And the sweet thing you saw just now is no different; you can see it in the way she moves and the linger in her glances. A woman like that cries injustice when really she's just a-"

His torrent of abuse was cut off midway-Deacon, who had until then restrained himself, gave way to an outburst of temper. He confronted Cade roughly, forcing him against the bookcase. "Speak of her again as such, and you'll have a heavy score to settle with me." His voice trembled with barely constrained violence. It is a dangerous thing to criticize the source of a man's more gentler feelings.

Cade, truly alarmed, fell mute. He felt a painful numbing sensation in the hand that had been seized and looked down to discover the flesh had taken on a bluish hue, as if touched by a bitter frost.

A booming voice, that of the storekeeper, came across the room. "There will be none of that in here! Leave, before I report you for misconduct!"

Cade winced and tried to pull his hand free. Deacon released him and went to the door. Cade shook his head pityingly. "He has gone hopelessly beyond recall, poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d." He rubbed life back into his hand. "Like attracts like, I suppose."

Disgusted by all that had occurred, Cedrik gave him a sharp glance before starting after Deacon.

"What?" asked Cade, perplexed and looking to Derek, who sat disconcerted and serious.