Deacon didn't follow directly but remained for the end of the dance. Later, he started up the stairs to his home and paused mid-step. He saw on the balcony his mother standing with eomus, clasped against him, their words low and intimate. In his arms her whole aspect and spirit seemed so at peace and in accord with his, her face so unblemished, that Deacon hoped it might be the promise of returning health. Yet a doubt, a vague feeling of disquiet came to him. In his soul rose despair. He felt weak and rested his hand on the rail to support himself, his heart failing.

eomus bent and kissed Daenara. The closeness of body and spirit and the everlasting tenderness shared between them was apparent in that moment, and Deacon felt suddenly moved. Swiftly and unnoticed he drew away from the house as if it were a sacred temple in which he had no right to enter. He ventured back into the woods, wandering wherever his will would take him. Coming to a bridge that was serene in the evening light, Deacon's step faltered and his pulse quickened. Mariwen was there by herself. In her he saw promise of satisfying his discontent. He could go to her in pieces and she would make him whole.

He quietly joined her. They stood together, looking out into the luminous night. It held little charm for him, but she was entranced. To her clear sight the night was more beautiful. Down below water shimmered and sparkled. Though he was very near he felt as though he was looking at her from a thousand miles away. Her eyes looked far out, lost in a maiden's dreamy reverie. "It is wonderous, is it not?" She always spoke of evenings most sacredly.

"Yes," he said but found it impossible to fix his attention upon the view, whilst beside him was this angelic form. Never before had she looked so lovely to him. Bathed in soft light she possessed an unworldly beauty. She glanced over her shoulder as she spoke.

"It is unfortunate the most beautiful part of the night is often missed by humans, lying in their beds."

Deacon hardly attended to her words, merely absorbing her presence. He stood a moment undecided, looking at her adoringly, his heart filled with a hot pain and yearning, so that his entire chest was one painful ache. Hesitantly, he raised his hand to smooth down her hair, which fell in golden waves to her waist, but let the hand drop quietly back down to his side. She did not see. He resented this divided attention, jealous that she could be so content within her own mind, feeling as though she had wandered into a warm enclosure and left him standing out in the cold, doomed to be always on the outside looking in, always waiting, always restraining himself.

He was silent and disappointed. She held herself aloof and beyond him. He wanted her to say something meaningful, to caress him, but she would do neither. Done with waiting, he let his hand stray over to hers on the railing and cover it affectionately. He leaned against her, pressed so very close that she could feel his body, the inert weight of his soul full upon her, bringing her down. He could feel her resistance but was encouraged she had not withdrawn. He stole his hand softly round her waist, pressing her more against him. He was tired of subtle and decided to commit himself irrevocably.

"Do you wish to be with me?" he murmured in her hair, his tone soft and appealing. He was breathing heavily. "I know a place we can go."

She withdrew and saw that he was looking down on her with eyes that spoke of a necessity and urge of the blood no woman could misunderstand. Bending his face very near to hers, he was at the point where in the next moment he would have sought her mouth, but she instead spoke. At the first sound of her voice he flinched, though not visibly.

"Look not to me for companionship," she said sorrowfully, but with a reproach to the sound of her voice that angered him. For a moment he stood breathless. His hand remained on her, but the caress had gone out of it. She could feel his hurt and unhappiness and knew not what she was to do with him. She was hastening away when he caught her back.

"Why?" he asked, perplexed. "I have not met your equal," he said, intimately, believing perhaps she required rea.s.surance of his devotion. She was unreceptive, and he began to fear now that she was capable only of pleasuring in things of the mind and would never receive him. "You will not have me?" he said, half-tenderly, half-bitterly, something fretful and appealing in his voice. "You do not desire me?"

It was his final effort. He raised his hand toward her lips, but she gently imprisoned it in both her hands. She would not take pleasure in him beyond common discourse. Her heart did not lie with him, therefore neither would her body. Elven kind were deeply committed to those they would make their own, and sought companions who desired to spend the full span of eternity with them, rather than those who would inconsequentially pa.s.s them by, giving a fleeting glimpse of joy.

She spoke gravely. "I desire that you should not suffer any hurt or illness and that you should know happiness."

Slowly, he disengaged his hand. She had now made it clear that, whatever he was seeking, he would not find it in her. As she touched his face he strained away, feeling now that she had played with him.

She left him, downhearted and angry, standing alone in the middle of the bridge. The cold light of the moon cast lonely prospects into view, and he felt a vast emptiness all around him and in him.

Chapter15.

The Darkening Of Deacon.

-hen Deacon returned home he was grateful the house was dark and silent in sleep. eomus and his mother had retired, and he went directly to his own bed. There he lay motionless on his back, conscious only of the great ache in his chest. There was no help for it. This pain was not due to injured vanity but the knowledge that the woman in whom he had placed all his hopes was lost to him forever. Soon his thoughts and emotions became numbed through excessive pain, and finally he succ.u.mbed to sleep.

That night in his bed Deacon struggled as though entangled in a hateful dream. It was the same dream that had come upon him often enough. Fighting his way through a vine-entangled wood, with hanging thorn trees, he groped his way toward his mother. The vines had caught her, twining about her wrists and ankles, clinging to her neck, climbing up even to her lips, they cluttered and choked her throat, so that she could not breath. She would be taken from him. He tried to get to her, but try as he would, the tangled ma.s.s held him. He fought desperately, wildly. He could not get to her. Finally he broke loose and emerged. Sharp thorns scratched and cut him, even as he tore them from her.

Deacon struggled into consciousness. His thoughts went immediately to his mother, accompanied by an indescribable urgency to go to her. Though he never believed he had inherited his mother's gift of foresight, this dream had impressed on him feelings of dread so strong he couldn't ignore them.

Deacon came to an abrupt stop outside of his mother's chamber doors, trying to decide whether he should disturb them. He had almost talked himself out of his concerned state of mind, but the dread still possessed him. Finally he tapped softly on the door. He was surprised when it opened immediately. eomus with the gravest expression ushered him in, and he saw his mother lying on the recliner.

Deacon approached her hesitantly. She looked frightening-her face strained and ghastly, with eyes that rolled about without recognition and were never once brought to focus. Her mouth, slightly opened, seemed to gasp feebly for breath, her lips a ghastly hue. Deacon knelt down on one knee, taking her hand.

"Mother, I'm here," said the young man in a choking voice, but she was unconscious of his presence. Momentarily her gaze pa.s.sed over Deacon, but the sight of him did not rouse or comfort her. Their connection was already broken. Gripped with a numb fear, he could only rub the back of her hand aimlessly. He was helpless to revive her, and he feared what was happening to her body. It seemed she was invaded by some cruel, corrosive evil that was destroying her internally. It was out of his control. Something he could not fight against was taking her away. A helpless terror was rising in him. He glanced back over his shoulder at eomus, but grief gripped his throat and he was unable to speak.

"The healer has been sent for," eomus said, knowing what Deacon's eyes were asking for.

Deacon was only vaguely aware of eomus standing at his side. Everything around him had dissolved from his vision and become blurry. There was only her. He clutched at her hand frantically and placed it on his lips. "Do not leave me here alone." He spoke through clenched teeth, so fiercely it would have been taken for anger if not for the break in his voice and the suffering in his eyes.

The healer was not long in arriving. He did not go to Daenara, but stood at a little distance, watching with a grieved expression that frightened and frustrated Deacon.

"Why do you stand there!" he cried over his shoulder. "Help her!"

The healer exchanged concerned glances with eomus, then settled his gaze heavily on the disconsolate young man, still clasping his mother's hand, but standing now to face them, a fierceness in his bearing. It seemed a painfully long pause before the healer spoke, and Deacon grew anxious and perplexed at his delay.

"It has come time now," the healer said slowly, with all the regret one would feel in such a position, "that we no longer prolong her life, but her death."

Deacon at once took his meaning, and looking from under dark brows, said, dangerously calmly, "That is not your choice to make." He trembled visibly now. "Do not let her die."

eomus and the healer remained fixed, with no sign of yielding. Releasing his mother, Deacon took several impa.s.sioned steps toward them. "I have practised your ways. I have done everything you have ever asked of me." Angry tears flew into his eyes. "Now help her!"

For a moment the room was deathly quiet but for the sound of the rasped and laboured breathing of the dying woman. Anger suddenly gave way to grief, and in utter desperation, Deacon turned to eomus. "Don't let her die," he pleaded. eomus was torn with an evident conflict within himself. "eomus," said Deacon, an agonized appeal. "Help her. Please."

There was a collapse in his voice, and all the pride had left his features, replaced with a look of such bitter grief it cut eomus deeply. He looked down at the strong hand that clasped his arm and said to Deacon, "Wait outside for the moment, and I will help your mother." His voice was so low it was barely audible. Deacon was rendered stunned momentarily; then feeling some sense of relief, he nodded. A look akin to admiration was in his expression as he looked to eomus with thankfulness.

"All right," was Deacon's breathless reply. With great reluctance to leave her, he obeyed, casting a mistrustful and angered glance toward the healer as he left.

Dragging in long, restorative breaths, Deacon walked down a little way from the house, pacing like a caged wolf, suffering the torment of inaction. Though it felt an eternity, he had not long been here before being approached by a young elven healer. The gravity of his expression alerted Deacon before words were even spoken. He set off at a dead run, tearing up the pearlescent stairs to his mother. Pale eyes were turned on him the moment he entered, elven healers gathered round the bed, all looking toward him with grave expressions. He stood panting and stunned. He was too late. His mother lay lifeless.

Caught in a grief too complex to articulate, eomus could only look to Deacon with commiserating eyes, filled with infinite sadness. He thought now, upon seeing Deacon's face-knowing he was too late-that perhaps he had made a mistake in sending him out, but he knew also that Deacon would have interfered.

Deacon did not go over to his mother but stood motionless, vaguely conscious of hands being laid on him consolingly and voices expressing their sorrow. His face remained closed and set. No tears came to his relief, and without uttering a single word, he turned and left the room.

In the grove where the elves gathered to mourn Daenara, Deacon was not to be seen. From the shadows where he stood, he could hear the elves singing, a strange blending of exultation and sadness. Their accents were pure and perfect, like crystal touched by moonlight. The powerful notes of their harmonizing reverberated throughout Deacon's being and continued steadily to build in intensity with each painful throb, until an acute pain rose from the farthest recess of his soul and gripped his throat so tight he could not draw an easy breath.

It became almost impossible to contain the swell of emotions, expanding, till he felt his heart would rupture inside of him. His eyes strained painfully under the pressure of tears denied their release. He felt as though something vital had been taken from him, never to be returned. The elfmaidens' crystal voices thrilled along the cords to his heart and lacerated it with their perfect pitch. With a bleeding heart, Deacon stole silently into the night.

Much later, eomus became deeply concerned for Deacon. He had not seen him in many hours and ventured out into the woods to find him. There he was, leaning with his shoulder against a tree, his arms clasped round his body, head down-bent. He looked as if he had been standing in that same position a long time, and eomus thought he never looked more alone and never more estranged. He did not lift his face at eomus's approach. Finally he spoke in a mixture of question and accusation.

"It was never your intention to save her," he said, his voice strangled in his throat. "Was it?" He raised his eyes to meet eomus with an unswavering enmity.

It was a moment before eomus could find his voice. "It was her time," he answered.

Nodding silently, Deacon dropped his chin again, pressing his lips shut. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he turned his head sharply to hide them. The release of emotion in company hurt him as it hurts a man. He suddenly looked up. "d.a.m.n you." He choked with rage. "d.a.m.n you and the rest of your kind."

eomus stood disconsolate, not daring to approach Deacon, who had returned to his former posture against the tree, only not with a desolate misery in his bearing, but a fierce animosity, a stiffness in the neck and shoulders of a man on the brink of violence.

"It was not a falsehood when I said I would help her," said eomus. "She did not die suffering."

Deacon understood now eomus had used magic to either ease her suffering or perhaps to end her misery swiftly. Either way he cursed himself for leaving her alone with the traitors.

There was a long interval of unbroken silence, before eomus said, "I will leave you now and let you seek counsel."

"I care nothing for your deities," Deacon muttered. An injustice still burned within him. "Tell me. How is it that you can worship them so blindly when they will permit a man who could not be more loathsome, more contemptible, to live and breathe, while my mother lays cold in the earth?"

eomus knitted his brow and said bleakly, "Our minds are finite, and our understanding has limits."

Deacon sneered at that unsatisfactory answer and again looked away.

"This world has many failings," said eomus. "But take comfort that it is a temporal existence and preparation for what is to come." He paused a moment, feeling he was failing Deacon. He could not bring him comfort. "The future will hold joys for you, now unseen and unknown. Do not let the tears in your eyes blind you to them." Deacon shifted slightly at his words but would not not look up. "You may go see her yet. We'll not say our last goodbye till your family is here to take part."

"I will not be here," said Deacon.

For a considerable time neither spoke. Then eomus said, in grievously low tones, "You will for the rest of your life mourn her earthly presence. But would you, if the power were in your hands, take her from the joyous regions in which she now resides and have her return?"

eomus waited, looking at Deacon helplessly. Deacon remained silent. He would not look at him. eomus left with reluctance. One's courage is tested to its utmost limits when left alone in grief, but he felt there was nothing more he could say at present.

Chapter16.

The Dawn Of A New Beginning.

-umbed and disconnected from any thought or feeling, Deacon lay wide awake. Thankfully, it was to be his last night in the house. eomus had offered, almost implored, Deacon to let him send somebody to inform Thaemon of his sister's pa.s.sing, but Deacon insisted that he go himself.

The dawn of a new morning came. After the heavy, unrefreshing sleep of exhaustion, Deacon left the house early. Dew clung to the foliage, and the air had a crisp chill. The moment he set foot outside, Deacon grimaced. The brilliance of the streaming morning sunshine seemed to mock his anguish. Swiftly, and with bowed head, he went through the woods. None of the elves spoke. Silently he pa.s.sed, and it was as death itself had pa.s.sed, blackening their realm.

He went directly to retrieve a st.u.r.dy beast for the journey. There was a fierce black thing for which he always had an affection, a beautiful mare, well-groomed and strong. With committed intentness he saddled her up. His bags, packed and ready to go, lay at his feet.

"You are determined to do this?" He heard eomus ask from behind, disappointment in the tone.

Deacon briefly glanced back and answered tersely, "Yes." His mood was tense and dangerous. He hadn't wanted to see eomus before leaving. He hadn't wanted to see anyone.

"How long until you are to return?"

"I will remain in the Imperial for a time, so don't fear the earth has swallowed me whole, when I do not return directly."

Both men turned their heads when they heard approaching footsteps. Coming toward them through the trees was Mariwen, her eyes full of care as she looked upon Deacon, who refused to look at her. She stood, uncertain, almost timid, as he aggressively and mechanically readied his horse.

"How can you leave eomus at such a time?" she asked, a slight reproach hidden in her att.i.tude.

"I'm certain he will bear his burden better than I do mine," said Deacon. "After all, the elves have always been beyond the ailment of human sentiment." He turned his face to eomus as he spoke, his expression leaving no doubts to his meaning.

Then he turned back to Mariwen. He could not bear her presence; it made him feel insane. "Why are you still here?" he asked, suddenly showing some frustration and only just now looking her in the eye, his anger faltering briefly when he saw the hurt in them. He turned from her, stooping down. He hauled his bag up onto the horse and fastened it, trying to remain blind to them both.

"Deacon," she pleaded, drawing forward.

He grew still on a sudden, both hands on the back of the horse, and said, "Do not stand near to me. I cannot breathe the air where you are." He kept his face partly averted but spoke so vindictively, she stepped back, stunned as though he had physically stuck her.

eomus reached a gentle hand and drew her to his side, not trusting Deacon in his present state of mind. Mariwen could scarcely refrain from tears, looking at Deacon as if she thought him very much changed.

"I will look forward to your return," eomus said confidently as Deacon mounted, but eomus knew that he had no intention of returning. Deacon dug his heels brutally into the beast's side and set off at full speed, without so much as looking back.

Deacon's mind was emptied by the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the ground. The vast landscape pa.s.sed him by monotonously. Dark clouds enshrouded the sun, and a dull shadow came over. The atmosphere was in motion, a deep restlessness. A damp wind stung his face as he went through a shroud of misty rain, but he rode on unfalteringly. There was a deep rumble of distant thunder, and Deacon spurred his horse to go faster, as if he could outrun the impending storm.

Into the Imperial city, the city that never sleeps, Deacon finally arrived. He had ridden strong, barely stopping along the way, but now was so tired that dark circles showed through the bronze under his eyes. He made his way to his uncle's house, the same house where he had spent many nights in his childhood.

In a stone courtyard with a well-cultivated garden, prim with its formal beds of flowers, two young men sparred with swords. They were both dressed with a great deal of care and taste. They had sandy blonde hair, and their complexions, fair by nature, had been burned brown by the sun. Both were handsome in a well-bred way and looked considerably alike. Their sister lounged on a garden-bench, watching them. They were not well-matched in their sparring. Cedrik was by far the superior swordsman, his movements more contained and controlled and with a subtlety which lends itself to accuracy. At only twenty-four, he moved and fought with the experience of one many years older. So exceptional was his skill that he had been accepted into the Imperial legion and had served for the past seven years. He bore an unblemished reputation, always conscious of his father's expectations of him as eldest son.

Derek fought like an artful fighter but one who in his rage forgets all his skill and fights recklessly. He did not have the patience and perseverance to perfect his technique. He had a convinced a.s.surance about himself that was almost remorseless, and he was tireless in efforts to project a great deal of masculinity, yet for a young man he was quite pretty, with full lips and lively blue eyes. He was well-known as a bit of a scoundrel but had some fine redeeming qualities. He also had a certain charm the women adored, and he adored them.

"You leave your heart open to me too often," Cedrik said to his brother. "I could kill you easily, which I might have considered had we not the same mother. You're a disgrace!" he said in good-natured raillery.

Brielle called to Derek, "You're like a great ox-charging in like that! Show some finesse!"

His sister's remark flared Derek's temper, and he fought all the more recklessly, swinging his sword wildly and making lunges clumsy from fatigue. Cedrik laughed. "I swear you would make an ox seem a model of agility," he said, ducking swiftly as Derek's sword slashed wildly over the top of his head.

"He'd be better off fighting with his head. He might actually do some damage!" said Brielle. Derek's teasing could put her in a fit of rage, and she enjoyed getting back her own in a subject most sensitive to him.

Hot and intent, Derek made no retort. They continued to spar pa.s.sionately when, without warning, both swords were torn from their hands and dropped like leaden weights onto the stones with a loud clang. They were both stunned, staring blankly at one another; then they heard a familiar voice call to them. "Don't injure yourselves!"

They recognized it immediately and, glancing up, saw Deacon coming toward them. Despite his weariness from travel, he had an easiness and a grace, a token of his elven heritage. The elven-made cloak he wore was a deep green-the colour of dead-green foliage. It looked thick and durable, yet possessed the softness of the finest fibres. Under his arm he carried two swords.

The brothers half-ran to met him, followed at a much slower pace by Brielle, who always had the merest hint of animosity towards Deacon. She loved him, really, but was a little afraid of him, and he had the habit of getting her brothers into mischief.

Cedrik and Derek clasped Deacon's arms and shoulders in excitement. None of them were compelled to embrace, but they huddled together, happily engaged in banter and good cheer, despite the strangeness of separation between them.

Deacon stood back and looked at his cousins with fondness. "It must take a long time to dress in the morning," he commented, looking at all the b.u.t.tons in their attire. He said to Cedrik, "You've gained some weight."

"It's called brawn," replied Cedrik with the quickness of good humour.

Deacon half-smiled, then said, "And you, Derek, you've outgrown your brother almost by an entire foot."

"And he does not tire of reminding me," said Cedrik, putting his hand on his brother's back.

Here Deacon gifted them with the swords.

Expressing a little sigh of appreciation, Cedrik took the sword firmly in both his hands. It was light but exceedingly sharp and felt good in his grip. It was a finely crafted weapon, the blade inlaid skilfully with decorative silver. Derek ran his hands appreciatively over the fine detail.

Just as much care had been taken with the bracelet Deacon had crafted for Brielle. The young men parted to make way when she approached nearer. Deacon smiled down at her affectionately. She was tiny and delicate. She could have fit in his arms twice. With her dark hair and sharp features, she looked more like his sister than she did her own brothers. Looking up at him, she chewed on the side of her cheek, uncertain as to whether she should embrace him. Deacon's manner was less restrained when with his cousins, but he maintained a certain reserve that verged on coldness.

She was reluctant to accept the gift he offered, but a glance of the handsome eyes, and a small imploring gesture, had her, in spite of herself, holding out a wrist for him to clasp the bracelet.

"What mischief do you intend getting these fools into now?" she asked with a wry smile, fondling the pretty jewel at her wrist.

"Actually, I'm here to see your father," Deacon said. His voice was thoroughly self-a.s.sured. "Is he about?"