Tree Of Life Part 15

"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 a.s.serted, yet did nothing to hinder them. He required the a.s.sistance 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 sanct.i.ties," 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sion 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.

Chapter26.

Dark Grove -he sun had sunk so low as to fill the woods with sombre shadows. The trees, tall and straight, had a spectral, miserable appearance, a listless beauty in which nothing stirred. The air, half-mist, was cold and thin. Magenta drifted at leisure, walking with sweeping grace. In her aspect was the majesty of night and all that is best of the dark.

In a grove Deacon sat upon a fallen tree, a book balanced on his knee, deeply absorbed. It was a place where few ever seemed to venture and had quickly become a favourite haunt of his. He was not long here before he glimpsed the maiden through the gloom. Slowly he raised his eyes to watch her. In the mist she looked faded and beautiful. He thought she might come to him, but she remained there aloof. When she spoke it was in a low and pleasant voice.

"How long within this wood do you intend to stay?"

"Why do you ask?" he said, regarding her with some suspicion.

"The night will soon be drawing in," she replied. "It is not wise to linger after dark."

"I have seen what lingers here after dark," he said. "They fear me." In recognition of her concern, he spoke with a gentler tone, "If it will ease your mind, I'll stay only as long as there is light enough to read."

Nothing more was spoken in words, yet silent communication pa.s.sed between them. Magenta gave a curious, lingering gaze before she moved on, her train following behind.

Rain gently pattered down on the cottage roof. At the kitchen table Cade and Derek played cards, while Cedrik, next to the old woman, dried the dishes she washed and handed to him. "I don't know how you city lads usually play the rules," began Cade, in an accusatory tone, "but in my books that's considered cheating!" With both eyebrows raised, Derek looked indignant and guilty at the same time.

"That is cheating," confirmed Cedrik, watching the game as he dried a dish vigorously. Derek threw him a discouraging glance; he thought his brother a traitor.

Cade leaned across the table. "Which would you prefer," he said, his raised palm poised to strike, "your left or your right?"

Derek shrugged audaciously. "Both are fine choices-" He had only got the last word out, and took a rapid-slap to both the left and right cheek. "Can we move on now?" he asked, unscrunching his face.

"Proceed," said Cade, sinking back to his seat, content to have had some retribution.

They paused in their game. They had heard the front door close. A moment later Deacon pa.s.sed without so much as a glance. His hair clung to his neck in dark wet strands.

"Hey, where have you been, then?" Cade shouted, still holding his cards in front, listening.

No response came.

"You will catch your death, boy!" the old woman called after Deacon from the doorway, reproachfully. She saw him make his way up the stairs. She knew he had heard. Cursing him for his obstinance, she returned dutifully to the dishes.

"Did you see how guilty the devil looked?" suggested Cade. "Probably he's been off with one of those black-hearted women." Fear of Deacon prevented him from speaking in stronger terms. "I'd want to kiss one, too, if their lips weren't poison!" He separated a card and slapped it down on the table, not conscious of his choice. "Wait, that's the wrong one." He stretched out a hand to retrieve it, but Derek slapped the hand aside.

"Once it's down, it's down!"

The night pa.s.sed in tortured unrest. In his bed Deacon was haunted by images of the priestess. Tormented in a half-sleep, he dreamed of her. Beneath black water, cold and dark, she was trapped. The surface was frozen over. Forlorn hands pressed against the frosty cover in a vain attempt to break free. With a sense of hopeless resignation she sank, sinking, sinking, into darker depths, her white arms raised above as if reaching for something unattainable. Deep beneath, all became still and calm. No longer did she struggle. Suspended there, abandoned in a dark, weightless world, among feeble streams of luminance, she was so helpless, so beautiful. Her swaying tangle of long, dark hair, concealing gentle features, drifted free, and her face emerged, pale and depleted of spirit. Her clear-seeing eyes were set on him with despairing, mute appeal, as if she could see into the very heart of him.

Almost he felt as if he was there with her, that if he reached out he could touch her. Always she was just out of reach. He wanted to hold her. He could sense her profound loneliness, but it was as if he didn't exist. There was only her and her pain. In hopeless desperation her pale lips moved inaudibly, forming words he could not read. Instinctively Deacon knew it was him she called for. He would break the surface for her, but he was as if weighed down by some unbearable weight. He watched, powerless, as her tortured, withheld breath became intolerable to her. For a moment she writhed helplessly, turning away her face, her cries drowned. Again her gaze settled on him. A deep silence throbbed between them. She was white and still. Her hair floated about her face and shoulders, haunting and ghostly, her breath almost gone. The wavering light trembled over her pale, dying features. With an effort of great will, Deacon drew as close to her as he could. He wanted to place his mouth upon hers and give her his breath. As he reached for her, almost touching her, she, with startling suddenness, began to struggle, so violently Deacon was startled awake.

He was relieved to find it morning. He lay flat on the bed, the blankets kicked aside. His hands trembled slightly.

"Night terrors? said Cade, from the far side of the room, sitting hunched over, only just awakened. "You thrashed the d.a.m.ned bed."

Deacon glanced at Cade as he got to his feet.

"Go to the window if you're going to be sick," said Cade, seeing Deacon's complexion pale notably. He himself blanched under the look he received, half-expecting the mage to lay hold of him again.

"Where is Cedrik?" asked Deacon, noting the empty bed.

"He's gone into town to buy food."

Deacon nodded absently. Then, unexpectedly, he said, "We are fortunate that you allow us to stay here."

"Don't mention it," said Cade, in bewilderment at the mage's change of att.i.tude toward him.

The moment Deacon stepped outside, the morning air sobered him. The pitiful wailing of a distressed child came to his ear. As he rounded the cottage and went down the side he saw at the steps of a dilapidated house, a woman in a wretched state of poverty. A baby was cradled in her arm and a small child on her hip. She was trying to balance the distraught children while struggling with an ungainly tattered bag. She appeared unwell, coughing as if in the early stage of a serious illness. Deacon stood a moment, watching to see if she required his a.s.sistance. The distress of the woman overshadowed his own pain.

Magenta, who had only moments before departed the boat which bore her across the water, also heard the desperate wailing. The cries led her down among the cottages where she halted, drawing back slightly so she might observe unseen. She watched as the poor woman made her way up the broken steps and into the house. Deacon followed close behind with the two children. He held the baby in one arm and lifted the child in the other, her head resting on his shoulder. Deacon bowed his head, whispering to the baby, which then cried no more.

For a short moment Magenta remained there watching, waiting. Presently Deacon returned by himself and began to walk down along the lake. His heavy cloak enveloped him up to the chin. Magenta saw in his bearing that he had proud blood in his veins, yet he carried himself quietly. There was about him a peculiar darkness of reserve. His very walk bore the air of one in great torment.

She at once thought him beautiful. She did not see him place the coins in the woman's dirty hand, nor how tenderly he had laid the children down in their beds, but it was not necessary. He had already touched her. That he should care about the wretched woman and her children was proof enough of his benevolent spirit. She followed him into the woods. He sat on the fallen tree in the same secluded spot where she had seen him before. Now at least she knew where to find him.

Even in the day the woods were dark and cheerless. Maintaining a certain remoteness, Magenta watched him. He was so alluring in his stillness and mystery-his expression serious and profound, so intent upon his occupation, that, exceptionally keen of hearing as he was, he remained entirely unaware that anyone observed him.

From this elusive distance Magenta adored him. He was strikingly handsome. His face was smooth-shaven, with features that were strong and clear-cut in their outlines. The gravity of his presence drew her toward him steadily and persistently. She moved as smoothly and soundlessly as an apparition, yet Deacon, perhaps sensing her presence, soon looked up. The traction of his blue eyes, as they followed her, was so intense she at once desired to speak with him, a desire that was increased by the fact that they were alone with one another. As if hesitant to advance straight upon him, she lingered among the trees, weaving in and around, slowly drawing nearer and nearer, with eyes that did not just see through or pa.s.s over, but gave penetrating recognition to his existence. In her darkness she was beautiful, she was as the night-soft, sensuous, mysterious.

"What study absorbs you so fully you cease to be human in your needs?" she asked, her voice smooth and low-spoken. An expression of inquiry crossed his features. "You have been here for many hours," she said, venturing forward.

Deacon regarded her with some suspicion. It disconcerted him that she had been aware of his presence, but he not of hers. He remained seated. A book lay spread on his lap. Tentatively, she lifted the cover which bore the t.i.tle of what he was studying.

"Divination," she said, without interest or scorn.

Deacon said nothing, his eyes intent on her. Even now, a vague dread clung to her. Her face had beautiful lines, delicate, and refined. Her lips were lovely and soft. He had originally supposed her eyes to be her finest feature but considered them now her worst, with something verging on the unnatural about them. She lifted them to him, and he grew rigid.

"Who are you?" he asked in his unemotional way. "I wish to know."

"I am priestess and servant, partisan, to Death's plea."

"I've heard other names not so pretty," said Deacon. There was nothing in his expression to suggest intent to injure, but she knew he was, at least in part, mistrustful of her. "I meant what is your name?" he said, more affably.

All this time she had not known his name, any more than he had ever p.r.o.nounced her own, but it mattered little. Neither cared for the things supposed necessary to people found in ordinary intercourse. Yet when they had exchanged names, both felt a coming together, an intense resonance and intimacy. He feared this enthrallment to be merely his darkness responding to her darkness, yet he was far too keen an observer to believe her nature could harmonize with what was supposed of her and her kind.

"Do you not fear wandering such woods alone?" he asked.

"No," she answered, bleakly. "I am accustomed to it." Something in her look made him feel their painful nearness. He felt a stir in his blood. Inside him was a deep, unconscious imperative, urging him toward her. The remembrance of his vision-how she had called for him, the desperation in her eyes, took effect on him. Now that she was before him, flesh and blood, the desire to hold her was no less. Almost he was suffocated by the fearful emotion this feeling roused in him. Before he realized it, he was on his feet, standing over her.

"Do you not fear to be alone with me?" he asked, in the low, intense tones of intimacy. He had been, at first, afraid to dare to gaze upon, to scrutinize the depths of her strange eyes, but now he could not remove his attention from them. His presence, more than his proximity, caused in her perceptible discomposure. There was something powerful and threatening in him, which both frightened and attracted her.

For a long moment neither spoke. No sound broke the hush of the woods. The silence soon turned from intimacy to discomfort. Suddenly strangers again, he bowed his face. He spoke with bated breath, oddly contemptuous, "You are bold to leave the temple and commit yourself into the hands of a stranger."

Again he took his place upon the fallen tree, taking up the book as if he would read, but the letters formed a single, unintelligible ma.s.s before his eyes. His concentration was destroyed.

Magenta paused briefly before she spoke. "I have other books of that nature, more advanced." Deacon looked slowly up at her. "I could bring them to you-if you wish it?"

"Yes, I wish it," he said, dropping again into an intimate tone. "Will you come tomorrow?" he asked. He wanted to see her, but mostly it suited his purpose if she would bring the unattainable books.

"Yes," she answered.

"Then I shall be here, waiting."

"It will not be before noon. I am first to see my father."

"I don't mind."

"It is he, in fact, who shall lend what you wish," she said, then added in a tone of secrecy, "Though it is best he not know about this generosity."

Deacon at once took her meaning and gave a single nod in a.s.sent.

Chapter27.

The Exchange -eaconwaited for Magenta where they had last spoken. With quiet intensity he sat deceptively calm, his head down-bent, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He rubbed one thumb persistently over the other. His face, taut and serious, almost feverish, bore an expression of heavily contained impatience. He felt restless and wasted. It was past noon and still he waited. Lifting his face with slow anger, he tried to breathe the air freely. He didn't want to feel any pain. He felt tight and bound within himself. Cruel thoughts of past evils tormented his tortured consciousness. Again Deacon lowered his face, dropping his chin, and drew a deliberate breath to regain some self-control. He closed his feverish eyelids and became quite still. The only sound, a gentle breeze, marked the pa.s.sing minutes, and he sat listening to time. All his body was tense and hard. He was isolated in a dark shadow of resentment, and although he fought it, a single tear burned down his cheek.

At last, like a dream of night, Magenta came. He rose to greet her, relieved to see that she carried with her three books. "I could bring no more without causing concern," she said.

He reached out his hands. "It is good of you to bring them to me," he said, taking the books and looking over them as if anxious to determine their value. A smile broke across his dark face, but it was closed, as if his heart was full of bitterness.

She watched as he stood there, searching through the pages with deep attention. "How do you like Cheydon?" she asked at length.

"The sight of you is all the pleasure it has afforded," he answered, preoccupied. Finally he looked up. "Who is your father?" he asked, impressed if not cautious.

Magenta answered without boastfulness. "The one who administers rules regarding magic. And for those who breach the code of regulations, determines punishment."

"Makes sense," said Deacon, admiring the fine covers again. They were visibly superior to the ones he had previously studied. "I wasn't aware priestesses had any kin beyond their own dark kind."

A smile came her lips but did not reach her eyes. Deacon lowered his chin, feeling he had somehow offended her.

"It's not common for those with family to serve. Seldom do I see my father, and of my mother I know nothing but the little he has told me. She pa.s.sed into death before I had chance ever to know her." Magenta's pale countenance and saddened eyes told of an anguish far deeper than her speech portrayed. She returned his question after a moment. "What of your family?"

A slight frown crossed Deacon's brow. Aimlessly, he rubbed his finger over his top lip, back and forth. "My mother left me not so long ago," he muttered. His expression remained unchanged, but his lips compressed tightly as if to keep command of his emotions.

"Have you no other kin?" asked Magenta.

Deacon moved his hand and gave a short laugh. "I have three cousins, one of whom will not touch me because she fears me. The other two I cannot persuade to leave my side, even when I threaten them." A smile crept to Magenta's lips. She felt warmed by the affection she knew he felt for his family. "Also I have an aunt, their mother," he continued. "She dotes on me until I go mad. And an uncle who-" He paused a moment as if he might not finish, then added, with an odd note of bitterness, "who reminds me too much of my mother." He glanced at Magenta briefly, then looked away, and the conversation was ended. She asked no other questions, and he volunteered no other information. He took himself over to the fallen tree. "When am I to return these to you?" he asked, resuming his usual tone, holding up the books.

"I'm certain for a while yet he'll not find them missing. But best, perhaps, if you keep them no longer than absolutely necessary."

"I'll not waste the time I have, then," Deacon said.

"Would it bother you if I remained a while?" she asked.

"No," he said. "It would not bother me." He removed his cloak and laid it on the ground for her to sit upon. "Please," he said when she hesitated. Grateful for the gesture, she did as asked.

Deacon remained over on the tree. She had turned her face from him so he would not feel the need to entertain her. Quietly she sat there, and to Deacon she was a book written in strange runes, indecipherable to him. Soon he returned to reading, vaguely, mechanically, looking at the page in a sort of stupor. He could not concentrate with her so near. Before too long, however, he was well-absorbed, but always half-aware of her.

Magenta's mind was adrift with pleasant thoughts. She could feel the texture of his cloak beneath her fingertips. It looked as if it ought to be coa.r.s.e and durable yet was exceedingly soft to the touch. When certain his attention was elsewhere occupied, Magenta brushed her slender hand across the material, allowing herself to feel every fiber, letting her fingers linger over the softness. She trembled almost as if it was the man she touched instead, glancing over to Deacon from under fine lashes. He was profoundly serious, his face down, his eyes concentrated. All his features were indicative of the keenest intellect and the fiercest pa.s.sions.

Something very near to awe touched her whenever she looked upon him. His face was very beautiful to her. Without taking her eyes from him, she adored him feature by feature. She loved his black, straight, hair that fell so often into his blue eyes. She longed to kiss it, to run it through her fingers and hide her face in it. She loved his firm, proud lips and the manner in which he compressed them when deep in thought. His eyes particularly attracted her attention. The eyelids seemed always drooped with a kind of satiric contempt, but from underneath the heavy lids looked intensely observant eyes. How fine his face was. She could weep over him. Yet for all that she knew not what truly drew her so inexplicably to the man. She looked at him for a long time, trying to distinguish the indistinguishable.

In spite of his apparent unconsciousness, Deacon was acutely aware of her every move, her every sigh. Soon she arose. He was sensible of the movement but did not alter the direction of his attention. When she had wandered a little way, his eyes lifted to watch her. She crouched down, trying to coax some little animal to come to her. They had evidently encroached on its territory. It hissed and spat, trying to a.s.sume a formidable look, which only seemed absurd.