Chapter 16
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. Éomus had offered, almost implored, Deacon to let him send somebody to inform Thaemon of his sister’s passing, 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 passed, and it was as death itself had passed, blackening their realm.
He went directly to retrieve a sturdy 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 Éomus 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 Éomus 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 Éomus at such a time?” she asked, a slight reproach hidden in her attitude.
“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 Éomus 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.
Éomus 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,” Éomus said confidently as Deacon mounted, but Éomus 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 passed 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 assurance 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 passionately 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 buttons 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-assured. “Is he about?”
The siblings exchanged glances.
“He’s in the house,” said Cedrik with a slight frown. He squeezed his sister’s hand she had placed in his. The three of them followed Deacon up to the house.
Inside Deacon had faded feelings of familiarity that left him with the nostalgic, unsettling feeling of being almost home, all the more cruel for having been so close. Although he was welcomed warmly as one of the family, he still felt he was a stranger, misplaced.
Thaemon was as he had been in youth, handsome and dignified. He rose from his seat when he saw his sons and his daughter with their visitor enter the room. Deacon did not want any formalities or ceremony. Almost passionless, he told of his mother’s passing.
Thaemon had half-expected this news. It did not lessen the pain. For a long interval he stood with his hand resting heavily on Deacon’s shoulder, his head bowed. He was trying for composure and would not speak until he had obtained it. Deacon waited immovably. There was no shade of emotion, nothing perceptible of the grief and anger struggling in him.
“You have seen your grandmother?” Thaemon asked, at length.
“I will leave that for you.”
“Éomus must be struggling.” Thaemon swept a hand over his eyes. “When will the ceremony take place?”
“The moment you arrive,” answered Deacon, with an odd note.
“You will not be attending?”
Deacon glanced up darkly.
“That’s unfortunate,” said Thaemon, leaving it at that.
Cedrik stood back with his brother and sister, none of them speaking a word. From the next room Clara came in, evidently having heard. She was not perturbed in the slightest by Deacon’s removed nature and put her arms about him. Deacon stiffened at the openness of affection, but he didn’t mind. Slowly, he allowed himself to become enveloped in her tenderness. He hid his face against her shoulder and wrapped his arms tight about her waist. Closing his eyes he took a moment free from grief and weariness. She smelled sweetly and vaguely of perfume.
She so well supplied a mother’s part it became a substitute more painful for its nearness, since it mocked Deacon with a false resemblance to his mother. Her warmth, her softness, each touch of which seemed perfect, became so unsatisfactory as to cause positive misery. He stood several moments, clinging to the cruelty of her tender sympathies.
Then, feeling overcome, he stood back, and she brushed her hand over his forehead, saying, “You look utterly spent. Let me fix you something to eat.” She had such an anxious mother’s voice that he felt he would fall to pieces if she kept fussing over him as she did, but he compelled himself to stay in command, looking down at her with a tight-lipped smile.
“You know you are welcomed to stay here for as long as you please,” said Thaemon, laying his hand on Deacon as he spoke.
Deacon had arrived without the intention of staying even a night, but his cousins persuaded him into remaining a few days. Thaemon and Clara had taken Brielle with them to attend the burial, while Cedrik and Derek insisted on staying behind. It did not take the boys long to convince Deacon to get out of the house and go to the tavern. It had been so long since Deacon had had ale that he almost lost his taste for it, but he needed to get out.
As they entered the tavern, they were eyed with a certain amount of suspicion from the few number of patrons—their gazes lingering on Deacon. No emotion is more fixed in common minds than dislike and fear of anything unusual, and Deacon, having spent most of his life in the elven realm had acquired an indefinable otherness.
The young men stationed themselves at table in a quiet corner. Cedrik ordered three mugs of ale, which the girl brought promptly. They each put the frothy drink to their lips but after only a single sip, placed it down again. Their tankards sitting untouched on the table, they sat in heart-stricken silence, surveying the laughter and activity as though it was impossible for them to participate.
“I’m travelling to Cheydon,” Deacon said, as though it had been working in his mind all the while.
The brothers looked up at the unexpectedness of the statement. Something was final and determined in his tones.
“What’s in Cheydon?” asked Cedrik.
“There is a mages guild there,” replied Deacon.
“Why not apply for a scholarship here?” said Cedrik.
“Because it takes too much time to apply here,” Deacon said with some irritation, not at Cedrik, but at the thought of going through the university’s formalities and procedures.
“It will take no longer than your travel time to Cheydon,” Cedrik said. “And here you can have the benefit of superior resources.”
Deacon, annoyed, took a sip of his drink. The truth was he had no intention of going through any official institution. He wanted access to scrolls and books, and unlike here, the Cheydon spell book emporium was open to the public. Cheydon had a reputation among magical institutions as being far more lenient and observing far fewer rules and regulations than any other place. Things went on there that the university frowned at, but the city was so remote it was often overlooked.
Deacon’s driving purpose was to discover the secrets of divining, quickly, and in his own manner. It was the only way he thought to find his father. He would not share his purpose with Cedrik, knowing no good would come out of it. Too many questions he was not prepared to answer would be brought up.
“I don’t want to be confined to the university’s rigorous schedules and formalities,” he said finally. “I will be glad to just spend some time on my own, studying as I please.”
“When do you mean to return to the elves?” asked Cedrik, taking a sip of ale.
“I don’t mean to,” said Deacon without looking up, bitterness in his voice.
Cedrik left it alone. Deacon’s tone left no room for argument. His mind was made up and he wanted to leave for Cheydon as soon as possible.
In spite of himself, Deacon spent several days more at his cousins home. It did him good. He seemed able to breath more freely here. He had regained his usual clean, clear-cut look. His bronze skin was warm with a healthful glow, and his eyes were clear and alert, but not for an instant did he forget his purpose. Restless to move on, he soon informed his keepers that he would be leaving the next morning.
It was early when Deacon left the house. He was walking down toward the stables outside the city, when Cedrik caught up with him. Breathless still from running, Cedrik said, “I’m going with you.”
Deacon stopped dead, and turning, was about to speak, when he spotted Derek from over Cedrik’s shoulder, coming up the rear like a hopeless laggard. Slung over his shoulder was a hazardously large bag. Deacon glanced at Cedrik almost fearfully, and said, “No.” Then he looked down and saw that he also carried a bag.
“We’re no longer merely cousins, but brothers,” said Cedrik. “Trust me to stand by you in misfortune.” He slapped Deacon on the back, giving way to a masculine embrace.
Soon Derek arrived. He yawned and shook his head as if to gain some senses and said, “Can we first get some coffee?”
“You can get some when you return home. You’re not coming with me,” said Deacon. “Neither of you.”
But neither budged.
“Sorrow such as this was never meant to be borne alone,” said Cedrik stubbornly. Deacon knew that they would have their way. A bright smile broke over Derek’s face, knowing they had won.