Read Online The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril by Joseph Lallo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Lallo
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Just
another component in the final product. There was nothing
describing her as a person because, to him, she was never anything
but a concoction. The last few lines he scribed spoke of the level
of development when the “vessel” would be “sufficient.” This final
word, it would seem, assumed all of the wonder and splendor of
life. A body that was completed, able to support the evanescent
spark that was the spirit, was “sufficient.” As a student, always
eager for knowledge, particularly of a mystic nature, he had never
turned away from anything. This made him recoil. These things he
was doing were the tasks of gods, and yet he spoke of them with a
sterility and detachment.
A motion out of the corner of his eye
distracted him. Ivy had slipped off of the back of Myranda's horse
and was jogging over to his. He quickly began to stow the papers,
the last still in his hands as she hopped onto the back of his
horse. She noticed it and reached around to snatch it from his
fingers.
“Is this . . . is this me?” she asked.
“I-I believe so,” he said, anxiously eying
the page that she held. It fortunately bore only a handful of
markings, nothing that might upset her. Mostly measurements.
“It looks like me. Why am I standing like
that, with my arms held out? Did you draw this?” she asked.
“I didn't,” he said. “Would you like me
to?”
“I'll do it! I am very good!” Ivy twittered
eagerly.
He fetched his book and the stylus and she
quickly set to work. He nearly led the horse off course trying to
watch her, prompting her to scold him to keep it steady. Before
long she was finished and she presented it proudly.
“I made some mistakes. I don't look at myself
very often,” she said.
The work was truly exquisite. She managed to
capture every ounce of the playfulness and innocence he'd been
admiring earlier. More telling, perhaps, was the pair of scribbled
out errors. Each was a barely roughed out form. It was difficult to
determine what they were, but they were not malthropes.
“I must say, it is far better than I could
do. How did you learn to do such fine work?” he asked.
“I don't know, I just can. You should hear me
play . . . oh . . . NO!” Ivy pouted. “My violin. I left it. I . . .
we have to go back.”
Myranda cast a sympathetic glance that at
once soothed Ivy and made it clear that it could not be.
“I really am very good at that too,” she said
dejectedly.
“Well, the least you can do is sign your
work,” he said, offering the book and stylus to her again.
She nodded, hesitating briefly before making
a large stylized I and V.
“It would have been better if I wasn't on
horseback. Can I draw some more when we stop for the day?” she
asked.
“Well, of course,” Deacon said.
With the exception of a brief retreat to the
nearest cover as a black carriage crept along ahead of them and out
of sight, the rest of the night's journey went by without incident.
Their path had taken a fairly sharp westward turn, and they found
themselves at the foot of the mountainside that ran the length of
the North. They were on the western edge of the Low Lands. If the
sun had been up, Ravenwood would be visible to the south. As it
was, a shallow cave would serve as shelter for the night, with food
supplied by Lain's remarkable hunting skill. Ether started a fire
and vanished into it as she always did.
“Do you feel any better?” Deacon asked,
concerned for Myranda, who still seemed distant, the act of taking
a life still heavy on her mind.
After a long pause, Myranda answered. “I will
be alright . . . I just. I can't . . . What if I do it again?”
“Myranda, listen to me. You know yourself
better than I. Do you honestly believe that you will let that
happen? You didn't know that Arden was not to blame, that he was
not Epidime, and now that you know you will not make that mistake
again. You just have to trust yourself,” Deacon said. “I cannot
even imagine you taking the lives of the
another component in the final product. There was nothing
describing her as a person because, to him, she was never anything
but a concoction. The last few lines he scribed spoke of the level
of development when the “vessel” would be “sufficient.” This final
word, it would seem, assumed all of the wonder and splendor of
life. A body that was completed, able to support the evanescent
spark that was the spirit, was “sufficient.” As a student, always
eager for knowledge, particularly of a mystic nature, he had never
turned away from anything. This made him recoil. These things he
was doing were the tasks of gods, and yet he spoke of them with a
sterility and detachment.
A motion out of the corner of his eye
distracted him. Ivy had slipped off of the back of Myranda's horse
and was jogging over to his. He quickly began to stow the papers,
the last still in his hands as she hopped onto the back of his
horse. She noticed it and reached around to snatch it from his
fingers.
“Is this . . . is this me?” she asked.
“I-I believe so,” he said, anxiously eying
the page that she held. It fortunately bore only a handful of
markings, nothing that might upset her. Mostly measurements.
“It looks like me. Why am I standing like
that, with my arms held out? Did you draw this?” she asked.
“I didn't,” he said. “Would you like me
to?”
“I'll do it! I am very good!” Ivy twittered
eagerly.
He fetched his book and the stylus and she
quickly set to work. He nearly led the horse off course trying to
watch her, prompting her to scold him to keep it steady. Before
long she was finished and she presented it proudly.
“I made some mistakes. I don't look at myself
very often,” she said.
The work was truly exquisite. She managed to
capture every ounce of the playfulness and innocence he'd been
admiring earlier. More telling, perhaps, was the pair of scribbled
out errors. Each was a barely roughed out form. It was difficult to
determine what they were, but they were not malthropes.
“I must say, it is far better than I could
do. How did you learn to do such fine work?” he asked.
“I don't know, I just can. You should hear me
play . . . oh . . . NO!” Ivy pouted. “My violin. I left it. I . . .
we have to go back.”
Myranda cast a sympathetic glance that at
once soothed Ivy and made it clear that it could not be.
“I really am very good at that too,” she said
dejectedly.
“Well, the least you can do is sign your
work,” he said, offering the book and stylus to her again.
She nodded, hesitating briefly before making
a large stylized I and V.
“It would have been better if I wasn't on
horseback. Can I draw some more when we stop for the day?” she
asked.
“Well, of course,” Deacon said.
With the exception of a brief retreat to the
nearest cover as a black carriage crept along ahead of them and out
of sight, the rest of the night's journey went by without incident.
Their path had taken a fairly sharp westward turn, and they found
themselves at the foot of the mountainside that ran the length of
the North. They were on the western edge of the Low Lands. If the
sun had been up, Ravenwood would be visible to the south. As it
was, a shallow cave would serve as shelter for the night, with food
supplied by Lain's remarkable hunting skill. Ether started a fire
and vanished into it as she always did.
“Do you feel any better?” Deacon asked,
concerned for Myranda, who still seemed distant, the act of taking
a life still heavy on her mind.
After a long pause, Myranda answered. “I will
be alright . . . I just. I can't . . . What if I do it again?”
“Myranda, listen to me. You know yourself
better than I. Do you honestly believe that you will let that
happen? You didn't know that Arden was not to blame, that he was
not Epidime, and now that you know you will not make that mistake
again. You just have to trust yourself,” Deacon said. “I cannot
even imagine you taking the lives of the
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