"How is it you know that was Terium?"

"I recognize it. I've been there twice. I have a cousin there, you know."

"Of course you do."

"You thinking about going there?"

"Thinking about it," said Deacon. He left Cade and made his way down the length of the lake.

"Why? What's in Terium?" Cade called after him. "Other than my cousin! Hey, if you see him, tell him I said he still owes me three silvers!"

Deacon crouched over the water again. This time he had a clearer idea of what he wanted. Growing very still, he repeated the process. The images he saw caused him to pale visibly. It was many years since he had looked upon that face, and it was much changed, yet he knew him at once. He felt it was him. Deacon had seen him in his mind almost every day, haunting him as a ghost that would not die.

Deacon gripped the rock upon which his hand rested as if he might shatter it, like one crazed with trembling agony. For long minutes after the vision had vanished from his sight, he sat benumbed in his soul. After a moment he rose from his trembling and despondency. His breathing quickened as if he might give way to more violent emotion. Back toward the house he began to walk in a tense, absent-minded manner. There he found himself alone, the old woman asleep upstairs.

Deacon paced the room. At times he seemed agitated and anxious, then he would fall into a dangerous calm, all the while his blood running hot. He could still see clearly in his mind the image of his father. It pierced him like an agony and made him clench his hands tight in order to subdue the pain. He wanted to bring the walls down around him in a fury. He didn't know what to do with himself.

The heated thoughts of his father tore at him, along with the painful thoughts of Magenta. He had a restless desire to see her before leaving, and she was withheld from him. He quite unexpectedly seized a vase from the table and hurled it across the room, shattering it on the wall. He gazed at it a moment, breathing heavily. The flowers looked lovely still, even among the broken pieces of pottery. He crouched down and begun to pick them up, carefully removing them from the broken shards so as not to lacerate the tender stems. He looked up and saw Cedrik standing at the doorway with a look of concern heavy over his features. Deacon carelessly let the flowers drop from his grasp.

"I'll replace that for her," he said, with barely breath to utter the words. Derek came in shortly after, clutching to his chest a bag loaded with bread and other baked goods. Deacon's appearance was enough to make him pale and stop in the doorway. Coming up from behind, Cade pushed his way past. His gaze fell on the shattered pottery.

"My Grandmother's vase," he said, horrified, through a mouthful of sweet-cake. "Anything else you feel like breaking?"

Deacon pa.s.sed a tremulous hand over his dazed brow, lost for an apology.

Cade let out a sigh. "Not to worry," he said, pushing the broken pieces with his boot. "She never really liked it anyway. I'll get something to clean it up." He made no move, however, and showed great uneasiness. His glance pa.s.sed back and forth between Cedrik and Deacon. "I'll take my time," he said with little subtlety, and going out, took Derek with him. "Let your parents argue alone," he said as he pa.s.sed, clutching the front of the younger man's shirt and urging him outside.

The two left standing there remained motionless. Soon Cedrik came in from the doorway, a.s.suming a more casual air. "Your mother loved roses, I remember," he said, motioning to the flowers, though no roses were in the arrangement. Deacon said nothing but watched him from under dark brows, as if Cedrik were a stranger in whom he had no trust. He knew Cedrik was leading somewhere with the conversation.

Cedrik was a good man, with a less complex heart. When he went to his bed at night his conscience was light on his mind, but of late his mind and heart were heavy. He missed his cousin. He needed him back. "I think of her sometimes," he said. "She was a good sister to my father-"

"Cedrik, what are you doing?" Deacon asked, annoyed. "Leave it be."

"A fear has been growing upon me! Ever since your mother pa.s.sed."

"Mind what you say," said Deacon and shuddered violently.

"You will not let me speak of her to you!" Cedrik's voice rose in despair. "You hide away in this grief. You keep it gathered to yourself as if it was yours alone. As for your father, I don't dare to speak of him," he said, as though it was a lesson well-learned. Deacon looked up, his black eyes flaring a caution. "It seems there are many things you no longer wish to speak to me about."

Deacon's eyes sought the ground. He folded his arms and compressing his mouth, made great efforts. He seemed to be suffering such a bitter grief it tore at Cedrik's heart to see. A long silence ensued before either felt inclined to speak.

"I'm concerned," said Cedrik. "Are you ill?"

There was no answer, save a shake of the head.

"What's the matter with you, then? Where have you been all these days?"

Still no answer.

"Have you been off with that woman?"

"I wasn't aware I was in the habit of discussing such things with you," Deacon said slowly as he looked up into his eyes. Cedrik became exasperated.

"I don't wish you to share with me every thought to pa.s.s through your head, but I need you to tell me what it is you suffer. And I want to know what aim your will is bent on. I know you well enough to perceive you have your sights set on something. Why did you come here? Answer me truthfully. I've held back from you long enough."

"I have told you once why I've come," said Deacon. "I'll not repeat it." Cedrik looked at him with a gaze that challenged and doubted.

Deacon brushed past him on the way out. "We leave tomorrow," he said with a brutality bred of frayed nerves rather than anger.

After dinner, Cade lit a fire in the hearth and Cedrik, Derek, and the old woman settled down in the sitting room, each with hot spiced tea.

"We're leaving tomorrow," said Cedrik.

Derek groaned, sinking down into the couch. He tried not to think of the long journey ahead of them. The mere thought of getting back on a horse hurt his spine. Cade looked surprised, if not a little disappointed. "Early?"

"No. I'll go into town and buy provisions first."

"We should buy something to take back as a gift for mother and Brielle," Derek suggested.

Cedrik nodded and sipped the hot drink, then said to Cade's grandmother, "I should like to give you compensation. You've been very good to us."

"Nonsense," said the old woman, affectionately. She had taken a real fancy to Cedrik and his tight-laced way and perfect manners. "You can fix that step for me in the bas.e.m.e.nt, and we'll call it even. I've d.a.m.n near broken my neck on it three times. This useless thing," she motioned to Cade, "has been promising for months."

Deacon came down the stairs and in pa.s.sing, announced to no one in particular that he was going out for a time.

"I shall go with you," offered Derek, starting up from the couch. His brother caught the back of his shirt and pulled him back down. Deacon pa.s.sed out of the room without so much as a glance.

"You might convince that villain to stay in one of these nights," said the old woman. "Tonight is going to be cold. And you can tell him to take back that poor excuse for a vase." She pointed over to the pretty thing sitting as a replacement. It was expensive and characterless, she thought.

"What are you complaining for?" asked Cade. "That one's better than the old cobweb collector."

"That was my favourite," she said. "Your father bought me it when he was not much older than yourself."

"I am sorry." Cedrik apologized again.

The old woman waved it off and sipped her tea. "Don't worry your pretty head about it. It's evident you have enough to worry about with that black devil."

"I caught him scrying down by the lake today," said Cade. "As if that water isn't black enough."

"What was he scrying for, do you know?" asked Cedrik, sitting up with interest.

"Place called Terium, I believe. Except he didn't know it was Terium; I had to tell him that. Whatever he was looking for wasn't the city itself."

In the cool evening air, Deacon stood by the water's edge. He stood absolutely motionless, transfixed, staring out toward the isle. He held his cloak tightly round his body. As the night closed in, he watched the death of day, heavy with a sense of impending separation. He had a pallor about his mouth as if he suffered some consumptive illness. The thought of leaving her behind bled silently like a hidden wound. The night grew very dark about him. She could not come to him. He knew this, in agony. At last he decided he must go to her. She would be bound within that terrible darkness, but he could get to her. It would be his last indulgence. He would subdue his pa.s.sion to see her one last time, then be free to part ways with her. A man never lies more convincingly to himself then when he has persuaded his conscience it is the last weakness in which he means to indulge.

He went to the dank cottage down by the little wooden pier and knocked. A thin, care-worn man came to the door, holding a lamp in his old, brittle hand. "I need you to take me across the water," said Deacon, tossing him a pouch of coins.

The air was cool and heavily perfumed. Quietly and with purpose Deacon approached the temple. His heart pounded so loudly he feared he would wake the dead. He did not go to the entrance but pa.s.sed round the side, through tangled plants, looking for means of ingress, but which room she was in, he didn't know.

Magenta stood by the long window of her room, gazing vacantly down upon the black ma.s.s of garden. It was too dark for her to make out any of the details below. A tall figure stood among the shadows. She pa.s.sed her eyes over him several times without seeing.

Her listless att.i.tude was of gentle, patient sadness, her face paled by much waiting and suffering. She knew not when she would see him, but with her strength of heart she would endure however many hours, weeks, or years, for him to come. He alone would ever be in her heart. Turning, she went back inside, unaware of his proximity.

Deacon stripped off his cloak. He found placing for his boot tip on the side of the wall and looked up. He let out a resolute breath and began his ascent. It was difficult to get past the pernicious plants that consumed the side of the structure. They seemed to cling to him with claws, hurting. A number of times he nearly lost his footing and fell, the thorns cutting his hand. He swore beneath his breath, wondering if it was not mad what he attempted.

When he reached her window, Deacon saw that she stood alone. She seemed so wan, yet so lovely. The soreness of trials had made her youthful light less brilliant but more pure, like the tender light of night. He touched his fingers to the cool gla.s.s, asking mutely for her to turn and see him.

Magenta clutched her arms about herself, a dull ache in her breast. Soon there crept upon her a sensation of one drawing near from behind. She turned, hesitantly, and saw him whose image she had seen each night when her eyes were closing. Her heart grew faint. She felt she could weep with the heavy relief of his coming.

He stood waiting, his countenance entreating her to allow him admittance. She crossed immediately to him and pulled open the two great windows. With subdued thankfulness he entered, softly brushing by her. He looked weary and worn, never more serious and never more handsome. For a moment he didn't speak, looking about the room with interest. It did not exude the vibrance one would expect from a young woman's bedchamber but was cold and empty as a forsaken heart. Even in the subdued light he could see that it held no pretensions to beauty.

She hung back from him, watching him. She marvelled how it had been possible for him to climb so far. Soon his gaze settled upon her heavily. He went to her and took both her hands in his. She looked down and saw that his were cut and scratched.

"I will get you something," she said. "It will sting at first but will stop the pain."

She drew away, but he caught her back. "No, I don't want it," he said. He would rather the pain in his hands than in his heart. In a manner somewhat restrained, nevertheless with the familiarity of a lover, he pa.s.sed his wounded hand down her face. "Have I broken faith with you?" he said in a very different tone to which he had ever spoken before.

"No," she said, with scarcely breath to utter it. Nothing broke the silent absorption they had in one another. He stooped nearer to her. She watched his eyes; they were full with a peculiar dark blaze, almost sad. There was a moment of breathless intensity. She let her eyes close as he lowered his face to hers and kissed her mouth with warm, trembling lips. Her heart contracted with pain for love of him. His kisses were soft, tender, prolonged in their stillness. His arm stole quietly round her, and it seemed all her soul was gathered into the dissolving flow of his kiss. All he could breathe was this moment. He let himself go to her. The blood mounted slowly, making his heart ache with burning but suppressed pa.s.sion. In his arms she was all soft and warm and clinging.

She shuddered slightly after his kiss. He hid his face in her hair, holding her clasped. His throat was tight and ached, the bitterness of farewell upon him. She was calm and at peace against him, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of his body. His scent was warm and deeply comforting, like the vague smokiness issued from smouldering wood from a distance. She felt him clasp her more tightly in his arms, with the tenseness of a man dreading to be sent away. His heart was crushed in a hot, painful grip. He knew he shouldn't have come to her.

Magenta noticed for the first time that he trembled. A melancholy and a fear began to touch her heart. She tried to cling to him. He felt like mist perpetually dissolving. He gave her a hopeless, desolate feeling, yet she was clasped firmly against him. She began to feel the distance in his body. "I should go," he murmured. His face still hid against her.

"Will you come to me again before long?" she asked, still in his arms. A grimace flickered across his face, and he pressed his lips together. For a moment he could not speak to answer. He wanted to tell her he was leaving, not to return, but his heart failed him when he came to it. Finally he uttered something that bound him to nothing and said no more. Slowly, she drew back so she could look into his face. Tender words were on his lips, but he hesitated. Her very breath seemed to pause and wait on his words, longing for him to say something meaningful.

"I don't wish to go," he said truthfully, stroking her hair with a soft, lingering gesture. And all her fears were dispersed. His eyes, his touch, told of more love than could be put into words. He drew a deep sigh. He had to rouse himself from the sleepy warmth to break from her. He would have liked to hold her all the night. "Are we at ease with one another?" he asked with a new energy, clutching her gently.

"Yes," she said in the earnest fullness of her love. He gave a satisfied nod, took her hand, and pressed it fiercely to his lips. Only a thin thread held him back from bursting forth and giving all himself to her. With a haste born from nerves rather than pa.s.sion, he kissed her a last time. At the window he took his leave with a lingering look. He wanted to impress her image in his mind so that he may carry it away with him.

Then, without any hesitation, he stepped and dropped down a distance that would have broken another man's legs. Her breath caught in her throat, and she crossed quickly to the window to catch a glimpse of him. A wind caught her hair as she bent over.

The moon coming out from thick clouds afforded her just enough light to see him pa.s.sing through the garden. She held her breath and, it seemed, kept her heart from beating, waiting for him to turn back to steal another glance. She remained at the window, cherishing the hope he enkindled within her. She watched him pa.s.sing away from her, till her vision could follow him no longer.

Already her heart ached for him, but though this pain was acute, it was half pleasure; to have someone to languish for was sweet suffering. She would suffer for him. She had not seen the look of regret on his face as he turned and stole silently away.

Sobering in the night air, Deacon dragged in long restorative breaths. His heart had been torn and had bled. He returned to the cottage feeling fulfilled, destroyed, determined to put it all aside, turning from all thoughts of her.

Chapter31.

Proposition -he high priestess had requested a particular object from Orsious she believed would heal her hands. Unfortunately he was at a loss as to how to retrieve this precious item for her. Its place of keep was comparatively easy to penetrate, but those who kept it would be a difficult aspect of the task. These shadowy, immortal beings had been the first to study magic. Long ago they had been consumed by their power and now they had only their hunger for it, remaining hidden in the shadows, possessing no humanity. Their effects on the human form were limited. They could not kill a man but would rapidly deplete his power source and render him useless for the task.

Fortunately the high priestess had made a recent discovery. She had come upon a Riven. This unity of life source and power source is a potent combination. From his body is a greater pool to draw from, therefore, his strength holds up against any form of drain far longer, giving him more time to achieve his objective-but at a greater cost to himself.

"An encounter with a Shadow would kill him," said Orsious, sitting back in the arm-chair, looking to the high priestess who stood opposite. Her expression, though severe, betrayed none of her thoughts. "He knows this. He'll not be persuaded. I scarcely believe such an idiot exists who would."

"There is a way," began the high priestess, "though not always reliably effective, to break a dark ones hold."

"I doubt he'll be willing to risk his life on a chance-"

"It's effective enough," she said, vexed. "We can convince him of this and offer a reward for his efforts, and should that fail there are other ways to persuade a person to risk his life."

A serving-maiden entered with a large tray held in her extended arms. She set down the spread and left again without a word. Orsious remained seated. He rubbed the rough grey-bristles on his chin. The high priestess began to pour the hot tea from a silver pot. He watched her as she did this. Her slender form held much strength and grace. She was a cruel creature, her every movement smooth and unnatural. He let his eyes drift up and down her. Even he felt the effects of her beauty, yet there was that in her from which every natural instinct revolts.

"Even if he should have adequate stores for the required duration," Orsious began, doubtfully, "he still requires the skill to break down the obstruction."

"Theron can show him, can he not?" she asked from over her shoulder without concern.

"It is certain he could, but there are other considerations to take into-"

She silenced him by slamming down the pot suddenly. "Why do you fight me on this? It's not a task too difficult for you, is it?" said she, who had until now been rather regal and possessed, showing her displeasure savagely in a vulgar manner. "Do you not see my hands!" She tore the scarf from her wounded hand and clutched the side of his face. "If that treasure does not come into my possession, all my body shall eventually become as this!"

He seemed to shrink with the horror of it, then regained a measure of control. He caught her hand from his face. "What possesses your unnatural heart to think your G.o.d will care enough to heal you? This trinket will not appease her."

"Is it too difficult for you?" she hissed.

"No, not too difficult," he said, still clutching her wrist, and released her roughly.

"Good," she said, composing herself. "Then go through with it without more bother to me."

With trembling fingers she rebound her hand in the black scarf. He looked at those wasted hands and felt no pity. "You have done many wrongs, Astania."

"If I have done wrong," said she with scornful grief; "then so have you, yet it is I alone who suffer." She turned from him with a movement of impatience. She wanted to retreat somewhere hidden from all eyes.

This was an unpleasant discourse for Orsious; he wished it ended. "Where is my daughter?" he asked, rising from his seat to depart. "I wish to see her."

"She is set attentively upon a given task for the present," said the high priestess, refusing his request scornfully.

"Then release her from the task and have her come to me," he said. "I will speak with the boy later this morning."

"As you please," she said, following him to the door. As he was to leave, she said artfully, "We look forward to your contribution." Slowly, she pressed her lips upon his cheek, lingering too long to be modest, and the poison that ran in her veins went into his blood and tissue, causing him some pain. He s.n.a.t.c.hed his face from her contaminating kiss with a scowl. "Do not disappoint me," she warned with whispered vehemence.

He took his leave with the impotent rage one feels when in the power of another.

Orsious spent the early half of the morning with his daughter. Her presence forgotten, she lingered in the library adjoining his study, awaiting a moment when she could take her leave in search of a particular young man whose lips had impressed warmth not only upon her lips but her heart. Magenta was adrift with languishing thoughts, perusing a bookcase for a book. From the other room she heard her father speak, but not to her. Then came a voice that sent blood to her heart and colour to her cheek. She recognized the beloved voice at once.

Orsious sat at his table. Four men had entered his study, one of whom was the dark-haired young man he sought. The other three were rangers who worked for him. He rose to his feet to greet the newcomer. "Ah, you have come, good."

"Did I have a choice?" Deacon eyed the three men who had retrieved him. One he recognized as the man who hara.s.sed Magenta at the emporium. Fraomar stood against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. The other two stood behind Deacon as guards might stand behind a prisoner.

On the table were a loaf of bread, an earthenware dish containing b.u.t.ter, a cheese wedge, roast beef, and a carafe filled with wine. To these Orsious immediately turned his attention, offering the guest to partake of what he wished. He wanted to appear accommodating after such a rude summoning. Deacon stood unmoved, his attention steady on the older man, who poured himself wine. Their two wills were already strained between them.

From the other room, Magenta silently awaited their words. She felt alarmed and anxious to know what business her father had with him. She could not distinctly hear what pa.s.sed between them but caught pieces enough to know Deacon was pressed with some proposition which he refused.