Chapter 25
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 damnable 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 snatched 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 damned 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 passed, 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 passed. 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 coarseness 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 assuredly?” 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 pass heightened intoxications in passion 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 gods’ 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 passed. 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 bastard.” 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.

“Deacon!” Cedrik called and hurried after him. The pursued continued as if deaf and did not respond. “Deacon, wait! I need to speak with you!” Cedrik reached out and took hold of his arm.

Deacon, still wrathful, turned on his cousin abruptly. “Will you cease to follow me about like a wretched beggar!” He tore his arm free, then continued at a solid pace down the street, losing himself among the crowd.

A stone path, cold and wet, led up to a depressing structure that was the mage’s guild. Magenta went to her father’s study to give him the books he had requested. Her visits with him were never pleasant. It was a mystery to her why he ever insisted on her society. He seemed to take little delight in her company, yet she was somehow still duty-bound to visit him.

The study was scrupulously organized. Her father sat at an impressive writing table, working over some old scrolls. The moment she entered he said, “You may put them there.” He did not lift his eyes, and with his quill indicated the corner of the table. He did not embrace her in welcome, nor did he clutch her in his frustration. With a careful and decided manner, he set down the quill and laced his fingers, looking over them to his daughter. He was boiling with temper, though one less acquainted with him would never know it.

“Unpleasant occurrences have come to my attention,” he said in the deep-vibrating voice that so many feared. Magenta knew he was not speaking of the many infamies to which the priestesses could lay claim, but of the interference on her part. He knew of the abominable things they engaged in, the unjust ecclesiastical power they asserted, yet did nothing to hinder them. He required the assistance of their knowledge and was careful never to injure his accord with them. “Do tell me,” he said fiercely, “that you have not so far forgotten all principles and obedience as to compromise my relationship and subject all I have worked for to failure.”

Magenta placed the books where instructed. She was softly spoken yet undaunted. “I would not intentionally subject anyone to peril,” she stated, cryptically. “And should it be within my power to prevent it, I shall.” For only a brief moment did she lift her gaze to his.

“There are discretions and delicacies we must practice in order to protect those who may be misjudged in their choice of sanctities,” he said in a precise, unwavering tone. “You know well as any what it is to be persecuted for a different choice of faith. We have, you and I both, formed an agreement, entered into a sacred covenant, and every dictate of reason and of fidelity impels me to honor it.”

“And you do not feel it is depraved and empty, honor that is paid to those with contaminated moral sense?”

The alacrity, intensity, and sureness expressed in her reply amazed him for a moment. He regarded her, perfectly collected and free from excitement, then exclaimed in a voice as severe as he could command. “Do not pretend to understand the inherent complexities of moral certainty, or the distinction between truth and impression. There will be strict observance of promises made. The high priestess has spoken in depth with me and requests that all obligation be honoured at the appointed hour, and nothing shall, I assure you, without my consent, interfere with these duties.

“She is your superior and, next to me, has the first claim upon your obedience. I have invested her with this authority, and so long as she remains accountable for your education, you will have the goodness to obey. I have always found you a dutiful and obedient child and expect no other conduct from you. I will make certain you have no chance for excommunication.”

“You will not give me a chance for life, you mean,” she answered, saddened, yet full of challenge.

“Be content—there are those worse off than yourself,” he said, hard and uncomforting. “Surely your eyes have often seen the beggars in the street, the degradation and obscenities that lurk in hidden corners, forced by the hand of necessity, those that pass their days and nights in the agony of want, existing merely for death? Do you truly believe yourself marked by deprivation? They would think you mocked them if you told them such thoughts. Who shall say what reproof they will not call down?”

She could give no favourable answer and so remained quiet, painfully aware how numb her heart seemed to grow under his gaze. She had learned long before not to argue with her father; he had taught her that confrontation only resulted in him subduing her by any method accessible to him.

“There is no need to wander about, seeking diversion or galavanting off with men. You serve a higher purpose and will receive higher rewards.” Orsious lifted his quill as if to continue work, but a tense sensation in his throat prevented him. His cheeks were blanched, mottled with excitement, and something like a scowl was blackening his hard, insipid face. “If you insist on making trouble for me,” he said. “I shall be forced to make moves to ensure it is no longer possible.”

That was all he said on the subject, returning to the scrolls he deciphered, but there was something so hideous in the cold venom with which he presented the prospect that as soon as he spoke, there returned to her that agony of heart which the stimulus of her passion had thrown off for a time. His face bent down, he seemed little conscious of her presence. She lingered only a moment, then started for the door.

“Where are you going?” He looked up from under stern brows. “You may remain here for a time.”

Magenta took herself over by the window and looked down into the streets below. Seldom did she glance toward her father. He was unapproachable and impenetrable. The bond they should have shared between them was wholly absent. She wondered if he had ever taken her into his arms, but she could remember no such time and doubted even whether she had ever once loved him.