Tree Of Life Part 17

"It was kind of you to show me this," she whispered, looking into his face. She came very near to expressing her adoration of him. He had the most beautiful, rarest of smiles, not frequent nor brilliant, but slowly stealing up, issuing a gentle flame, as deep as it was warm.

"We should return," he said in a quiet, decided tone. He rose to depart, a.s.sisting her up with him.

"Will you find yourself in trouble, returning at such a late hour?" asked Deacon as they walked toward the cottages. "It must take several hours to cross that water. I should not have kept you so long."

"There will be no trouble," a.s.sured Magenta. "She'll believe me to have been with my father."

Pressing her hand, he left her to walk on her own to a dank dwelling by a little wooden dock. An old man lived there who owned a boat. He often took Magenta across the water to the isle when she was alone. Deacon continued on his own through the darkly cl.u.s.tered cottages toward Cade's home. The memory of the evening was like a faded dream.

He reviewed the hours he had pa.s.sed with Magenta with a smile visible on his lips, shaded by affliction. His heart was heavy with a tenderness that verged on grief. He could master his physical self, but his emotional self he struggled with. The knowledge of impending separation was a burden upon him. He knew her heart would break. Deacon pinched his fingers into the corners of his eyes. His head ached, and he wished to sleep, but she occupied his dreams so frequently he no longer wished to close his eyes.

Chapter29.

Coming Apart -t was late morning, yet a chill prevailed as if winter shadows were perpetually cast. In the grove Deacon waited alone. She had not yet come to him. When finally she did, Magenta brought with her another book. He rose to greet her. "I have something else for you," she said.

"I see," he said, smiling. He seemed neither impressed or disinterested; nevertheless she was pleased by his attentiveness and the kindly manner in which he received her. They very soon settled down into their usual way of things. Magenta sat in quiet repose on the cloak laid down for her, Deacon on the fallen tree. He didn't look at the new book but continued with divination. He must very soon give it back to her and wanted to extract as much as he could from it.

"Tell me of your journey here," she asked at length.

Deacon looked up at her without speaking, as if deep in thought. It seemed he hadn't heard, his mind not yet readjusted. "What did you ask of me?" he said.

"For you to tell me of your time coming here," she said. "I have not ever seen outside the city."

"I've seen less than I would like myself," he admitted. "But we did cover a great deal of land to get here. I think the youngest will be cured of his wanderl.u.s.t for good." Deacon was a few years younger than Magenta yet had seen more of the world outside in mere days than she had her entire life. He told her of the things he had seen: little villages and rich lands with many farms, woods, and vineyards. He told her the land became distinctly harsher, more dismal, toward Cheydon, the people more intractable, as if the chill of a dark shadow had settled upon the lands.

"I don't know if the shadow lingers because of the darkness here," said Magenta, "or whether the darkness is drawn here because of the shadow."

Deacon noticed she pa.s.sed her fingertips lovingly over the fabric of his cloak. Her face was down and held a soft expression of sadness. He could not look upon her without feeling a stab of tenderness. He bit his lip, brooding over her. "When at first I saw you in these woods," he began tentatively, "what affliction burdened you? I could scarcely recognize your face for grief."

Her pale cheek and bloodless lip seemed to grow fainter at his words. "My home is a detestable place," she said. "Every chamber encloses some awful thing. In silent places, in a deep darkness where there is no light, my kin commit terrible acts." For a moment she was motionless, transfixed, staring at her hand. "There was a boy. I tried to save him, but he died. There is blood on their hands, and no one will prevent them from wetting them afresh. I am one of them. Their poison went deep into my body. Sometimes I feel so contaminated, I feel I am not born to this world."

Magenta gazed at him with a face that to look upon was to love, full of that calm forbearance which rendered it intensely beautiful to him. He could not bear the look of appeal she directed at him. He sought the ground with his eyes. His first impression was that some cruel force bearing influence over her had deepened. Poison, treachery, evil flowed in her veins. Yet he knew it could not entwine with her spirit.

"A man came here once in service for the arch mage," she said. "He went to the temple yet did nothing. He was blind to all that went on there, and when I spoke of it to him, my voice went unheard."

"People are fools," said Deacon. "They see and hear only what they want to, and if they don't see it, it doesn't exist." He clenched his teeth. "And evil is cunning. It can take many years to discover it and many more to rectify it. Give it time and changes will be made for the better."

He spoke with warmth and conviction, and Magenta felt certain he was destined for great things, a latent force which, like a spark, waits to burst forth in vivid flame. They continued to speak, and it gave her great comfort to know that he understood and possessed similar feeling to her. Talking, he found her gaze intently on him, and she saw that for some reason he wished to avoid her eyes. They had become strangely pale in her pa.s.sion, yet it was not this strangeness that filled him with a returning dread, but the kindling affection he knew she harboured for him. He again took up his book but was hesitant to leave her outside of his attention. She saw this and decided to relieve him of the predicament.

"I have occupied your thoughts too long," she said with something of an apology and rose to her feet. She wandered a little distance, looking away from him into the trees. He returned to his study, relieved her attention had strayed from him. But he was mistaken.

A gentle breeze stirred her dark hair, and Deacon, seeing her from over the book, lost entirely the thread of his thought. He found himself watching her as she drifted, his entire concentration devoted to her. Her beauty and her haunting quality was becoming terrible to him. She seemed to weave a spell upon him, under which he could not long forget he was in a body that required the touch of a tender companion. Endlessly her heart called to him. Her entire being vibrated with an immense longing and travelled toward him wherever he was, drawing him to her. The anguish of her soul's yearning and the radiating force of her love called to him. As if feeling the answer upon her, Magenta turned and looked at him, reflecting her lingering tenderness.

Deacon found falling in love with her as inevitable and inescapable as death. It filled him with a rising, suffocating dread. A character such as his was not easily touched, but once roused, he felt with immeasurable intensity. It was not what he wanted.

One morning Magenta, fearing she was to become a burden to him, asked softly, "Do you tire of my presence?"

"No," he said, in his dispa.s.sionate way. "I find it a comfort." As he spoke his hand worked at the clasp at his throat. He unfastened his cloak and laid it down for her. He never forgot seeing her as she stood there waiting, watching him, her eyes full of love. Her countenance was calm, free from all perplexity and trouble. Without the cloak his throat was bare above the neck-band of his black shirt, strong and smooth.

"Why do you not sit with me?" she asked.

Deacon hesitated a moment, then took a place beside her, his face pale. He didn't want this to happen. He rubbed his thigh restlessly, then lifted the book in an attempt to read. He would not look at her. He felt, sitting next to her on the cloak, that there was something too fatal in the situation, something too intimate. Her scent, like faded perfume, roused his senses. It was tormenting to be with only the trees and her.

He could easily have reached across the little s.p.a.ce dividing them and touched her. He knew she had thought of it almost as often as he had. Against this he struggled but kept his eyes fixed down. Her presence obstructed his concentration. She watched him persistently.

"Are you so inquisitive about my thoughts?" he asked, without looking up. He lifted one of the books. "Read this and you'll find where they are."

"I have read it," she said. "Yet I cannot move things with my mind as you can."

She looked at him so reverently that he wondered if her heart was not merely bound to an idea of him. He wondered, also, if perhaps her success in winning his heart would not prove to be her punishment, upon discovering the reality of his evil nature. But then he had so often found her eyes directed at him in such a manner as to suggest she could, in fact, see into his very soul. Perhaps darkness perceives darkness as light.

He turned to look into her eyes. "Answer me truthfully," he said slowly. "Why do you wish my company?"

She could not answer with words but instead reached for him. His eyes, which were so perfectly clear and set on her, fell to where her fingertips lightly touched the back of his hand, asking for him mutely. Something stirred uneasily in him. His lips parted slightly when he felt from her touch a strange influence. His eyes lifted heavily to hers with wordless comprehension. He was fascinated, scarcely able to move, fearful of the unknown ecstasy she concentrated through him, filling into his veins, as if she were some infinitely warm, sweet suffusion.

"You're affecting me," he murmured, hardly able to keep his voice steady. "I can feel it."

She saw enough in his face to impel her to move nearer upon him. Her hands went over him tremulously, gently, with discovering fingers. He felt an appeal coming from her that made him breathless. He watched her eyes, heavily, steadily gazing into his and could feel he was losing himself to her. His heart filled with a hot pain and yearning.

She let her fingers wander over his face like a person with no sight, taking in every detail with exquisite unreservedness. His cheeks and chin perfectly smooth. As she did this, his gaze wandered over her face with a strange blankness. He was gone in a kind of wonder yet concentrated, keenly aware of the nearness of her body, laid against him with gentle pressure. He could feel his heart beating in his throat. She touched his cheek and chin and lips. Her fingers lingered over his mouth. Never before had she touched the lips of a man.

He softened beneath her touch, yielding momentarily to sweetness, burning almost beyond self-control. He could not find the strength to break with her, suffering from the sight of her slightly parted lips, yet a part of him was held away. He wished to subject himself to her utterly, yet he would be free of her. She became overwhelming in her gravity. She was drawing him out when he wanted to be withdrawn, alone in his darkness. A bitterness came up in him that she did not yet feel. Her soul arrested in wonder and awe, she approached her lips to his. He placed his hands on her waist, but instead of drawing her closer, strained his face away.

"Are your lips venomous also, priestess?" he asked bitterly, and slowly too, as if wanting her to feel the full sting of his words.

"No more so than your tongue," she said in a voice cold with hurt. He seemed bent on wounding her. She broke from him and rose sharply to her feet. He was on his feet also and seizing her by the arm, wheeled her round to face him.

"What am I to be charged with," he asked. "Being reckless with your heart?"

Silence was the hurting maiden's only answer. Her breath came quick and short. She remained pa.s.sive in his grasp but intensely withheld. Her eyes were indicative of deep hurt, her face pale as one dying. In his chest Deacon felt a pain deeper than death.

"Have ever words of love pa.s.sed my lips?" he asked brutally.

It was a moment before she answered. "Sometimes a man's eyes speak as well as his lips."

He could have, of course, denied it. But he knew she had too true an estimate of his feelings. Presently he released her, and to his dismay, saw the red marks his fingers had impressed on her pale flesh. An apology rose and died on his lips. A helpless silence fell between them. As she made a move to leave, he caught hold of her again. "Wait." He stooped down and collected the books, holding them to her. "You might as well take these with you."

"When you're finished," she said weakly, making no move to accept them.

"I'm finished," he said, putting them into her hands. He would like to have gone through them again and again, but he had taken mostly all he needed, an achievement that was only possible through his bitter determination. He had a great capacity for retaining knowledge, a quickness in learning.

Magenta left the grove more subdued than she had entered it. Deacon watched after her, and when she had vanished, turned his back, hitting his hand against the tree. He let his head hang. For some time he stood torn and miserable, left in silence.

Chapter30.

Hope Dies Hard -he night was like death. Deacon crawled into his bed and lay on his back. His limbs felt weak and nerveless. He tried to feel relief and freedom. No longer would she burden him. But he failed in finding comfort in his resolution. A dull ache in his chest persisted. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep, without success. Frustrated with the struggle, he laid his forearm across his eyes and tried to banish all feelings, only to have them return to him more forcefully than before. He thought, with bitterness, how devoted she had been, how willing to comfort and submit to him. He tried to forget her bloodless face when he so brutally withdrew from her. The thought of her crying alone in the night cut into him. All the night he lay in wretched wakefulness, haunted by the recollection of her face.

The days were bitter for Deacon. He did not return to the grove but instead wasted miserable hours at the library, sitting in a quiet corner, isolated within himself. He found he could not study. Each time he tried to commit himself his mind would go back to her and left him powerless. Hot tears would come from his eyes, but he would swallow them like a bitter poison. He hardened himself with all his might.

Deacon took up his old book but laid it down again. His mind and body were not his own, and he loathed his lack of self-command. He ran his fingers through his hair and down over his face. He was provoked by how poorly he endured her absence. Worn with the struggle, he returned to the woods in the poor hope of a chance at seeing her. Five times in three days he had gone there without finding her. He waited for hours without weariness, tormented by her absence from him. He had suffered so bitterly when she did not come that when he returned home the sight of him tore at Cedrik's sympathetic nature. He saw Deacon's bowed head, his pale, expressionless face and knew something was gnawing at his heart. Her shadow was upon him.

Deacon fell semi-conscious into his bed. His mind burned with the recalled presence of the woman. He shuddered at how very near he had come to giving her everything of himself. She had ruined him. She was the only being who existed for him on the earth. She was ever-present. Her beauty pervaded his heart little by little and remained there like the point of an arrow. Thoughts of her came undesired upon him, unmerciful in their torment, like a sickness. He felt he was in her power. He was gnawed with restless desire, a violent craving for reconciliation, which he fought against. At times a sensation as though he could not breathe attacked him. The scent of flowers seared him. He began to grope restlessly for self-command. He wanted to cry, to smash things about him in a fury. He hid his face in the softness of the pillow. Against her he persisted in steeling himself, but her voice ever whispered in his head.

Weariness finally stole over him, and he fell into a tortured repose. Even in his sleep he was not free from her. He could feel her in his dreams, tempted by visions that were almost a physical pain to him. They burned in his blood, and his blood ran hot for her. When Deacon opened his eyes, he did not move. He could not rouse himself from the bed. He was done. The effort of will was gone.

There came into his consciousness a faint sensation. He woke a little. Something was urging him in his brain. He would exert his will, and he would be gone from here, away from her. His aching heart again was crushed in a hot grip of hatred. With fearsome resolve he decided to make another attempt to find the man who consumed his heart and made it bitter. He would go to his father, and there his pain would end.

Recovering himself, Deacon went out of the house and down by the lake. He stared with fixed intensity across the water toward the isle, transfixed, as if he could will her to come to him. He must see her. It possessed him utterly. He suddenly started down toward the wooden dock that he had so often seen Magenta go to.

The temple was cold and forbidding. Deacon approached with a sense of unease. Already he could feel its oppressiveness. At the entry were two great flames, burning like beacons for the d.a.m.ned and an immense statue of a maiden, both terrible and beautiful. Her imposing expression gave the impression of eternal watchfulness and of denying all the world entrance. He looked at it scornfully.

The moment he entered, Deacon was struck by its extravagance and haunting architectural beauty. He saw beauty of the highest degree, the architecture sparing no detail, yet it had an atmosphere of emptiness, a feeling of self-denial and repression. The terrible loneliness of the place was inescapable, the air heavily perfumed with a cloying sweetness that oppressed him.

He continued on, observing the evil-smelling hall and vaguely aware of the bent forms of the worshippers. He soon caught sight of a girl, a sharp, neat little thing, who appeared to be a serving-maiden, for she went about perfuming the place with incense. She was not a priestess but was dressed in a rich gown the colour of blood-red wine. Deacon approached her with purpose. "Can you help me?" His voice was handsome, resonant, and level.

The girl glanced at the grim, dark-haired young man disdainfully, then continued to laden the air.

"I'm here to see one of your priestesses," he said, undaunted. "Magenta is her name. Will you retrieve her for me?" He was exceedingly uncomfortable in his surroundings. He grew impatient when she failed to take action for his request. "Are you going to find her for me, or am I to go up there myself?"

The imperious girl stopped and looked at him. "Wait here and I shall return," she said, as if it were a trouble and a bore. She glanced back at him. "What name shall I give?"

"She'll know who I am," he said. Gathering the folds of her dress she disappeared up the stairs. He blinked with heavy lids, half-smothered. The air was almost too scented to breathe. While he stood, suffering, he looked about with distaste. He thought of Magenta being here her whole life. The bleakness of such an existence would be enough to oppress most natures.

Pa.s.sing by him were several priestesses. The effect of their coming was immediate. The air became darker, heavier. An unease which was almost superst.i.tious came to him, at the sight of their long, dark forms. All had the same smooth black hair, as if made that way by their pernicious, evil practices. He observed how unlike they were to Magenta. It seemed they moved with no sight or thought of their surroundings, as if they lacked a will and consciousness of their own. Their eyes, dispirited and cast down, were filled with the blackness of death, yet when turned upon one, those haunting gazes could penetrate like a knife. He knew not whether to pity them or despise them.

For a long time he waited with the outward appearance of calm, but inward anxiety. The more he observed her surroundings and the controlling influences of her life, the deeper became his impression that she was a prisoner in this bleak and unhappy place.

In a moment the serving-maiden returned and Deacon came forward impatiently, "Is she here?"

"Yes."

"And does she know that I am here?"

"Yes." The girl's manner was cold.

"Well, may I go to her, then?"

"I do apologize, but she'll not see you."

"Will not see me?" he said, without believing it, yet angered by the mere thought of it.

"No."

"What has she said?" he asked, growing excited. "Tell her I am here and that I must see her, if only for a moment. Tell her, go!" He leaned nearer, with hostility, and said very carefully, "It is best you don't refuse me."

There broke in a commanding voice. "Do not forget, young man, that this is my home!" The sharpness caused both Deacon and the girl to look up suddenly. Coming down the grand staircase, in all her regality, was the high priestess. She had a terrible quality, something contaminated and venomous, her poisonous beliefs absorbed into the very pores of her being.

Her long, slender form was adorned with a striking gown, befit for some unholy deity. Her hands were bound with black scarves, so only the fingertips could be seen. Had her hands been uncovered and displayed, they would have revealed an unpleasant sight: the flesh rotting from many atrocious acts. A greater portion of her body would have suffered this misfortune had not the priestesses possessed a degree of regenerative qualities.

"You must forgive my intrusion," said Deacon. "It is important I see one of your priestesses. There has been a grave misunderstanding. If you would give me but a single moment, I'll trouble you no further." He spoke in low, even tones and kept himself composed. However, there were signs of desperation that he was not able to conceal. He was about to press the issue, when she raised a finger to him, indicating he should be silent.

"She has been sent for?" came her question to the serving-maiden. The girl, rendered timid by his previous forcefulness, cast a nervous glance at him before nodding. "And she refuses?"

The girl nodded again.

The high priestess turned her full attention to Deacon and said, with feigned disappointment, "It seems she is in no condition for company. Another day, perhaps." She circled round behind him. "Though I must tell you," she said, resuming her antagonistic speech, "we are a religious order, bound by vows and devoted to prayer and contemplation. You'll find each priestess is sincerely committed to her course and would have little time for you."

He pressed his lips tightly, as if striving for composure. Inside he was burning, yet he managed to command his temper so far as to receive her words in complete silence.

"Only those women of few wants, who devote their time to reflection and worship, without distraction, can possess a divine consciousness and secure for themselves happiness in this life and the life to come." She stopped before him. "Do we understand one another?"

The look she gave him enraged Deacon. He felt now she was purposefully withholding Magenta from him. "Where is she?" He moved hastily toward the stairs, but the high priestess barred his way.

"Let me warn you!" she said, scarcely restraining her temper, "This is a sacred temple. You have no right to pa.s.s into any of its apartments. Attempt to proceed one step further in this direction, and it shall be at a great cost to yourself."

The forcefulness of her bearing took him aback. He knew there was little he could do to force entry, and there was no reasoning with her. He turned to leave when he felt her lay a hand familiarly on his arm. She was about to speak, but instead a curious expression crossed her features. It seemed, almost, he had given her a shock upon contact, for she flinched with a sharp intake of breath, closing her eyes. He stared at her, confused as to what had pa.s.sed between them.

He had given her no shock, but for the surprise of knowledge. She was able to enter his bloodstream and mingle her contagions with his blood. Because of this ability, she could detect that his life force and magical energies were interwoven, that he was Riven and that he might prove useful. Quickly she regained her self-possession and said in a tone more cordial, "Return tomorrow, and I shall insist she sees you."

The high priestess gave a smile that was more ghastly than her previous look of fixed vexation. Deacon's features underwent no change, but he regarded her with suspicion. He could feel her touch contaminating him. Impatiently he shook her off.

In her personal quarters Magenta was oblivious to the nearness of him. No word of his presence had made it to her ear. The high priestess, having become aware of her long absences, now kept stricter watch upon her. Magenta had not forsaken him. Deacon had left her with a bloodless wound, but her love lay deeper and would have borne a great many more sorrows before ever turning from him.

Deacon left the hall in a silent rage. As he vanished round the corner, Magenta had happened to come down the stairs. She managed to glimpse the back of him before he disappeared from view. At the sight of him, brief as it was, her heart beat fast. Gathering her gown, she hastened her step, but upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, her arm was caught in a fearful grip and she was pulled roughly the rest of the way down.

"You will insist on betraying me," the high priestess said. "Fortunately, this time it will prove to my advantage. You will account clearly how intimate your acquaintance is with this man. Tell me all you know of him, to every last detail of his character."

In the plainest of speech Magenta told briefly of his kindness and his good nature but mentioned none of his abilities, insisting she knew nothing more. The high priestess knew Magenta was lying, believing that a young man could not help but reveal his talents to the young woman of his choice. For the time being she would let it pa.s.s. She wanted time to reflect on her discovery.

The moment she reached the seclusion of her chamber, Magenta leaned against the door for support. She felt out of breath. He could not come to her, and she could not go to him. She began to cry in a convulsive, soundless fashion.

In a state of apathy Magenta spent her days. Finding the impossibility of returning to him, she hoped he would find a way to come to her. When all else seemed to fail around her, surrounded by falsities and uncertainties, one thing she believed in was the love she held for him. It was real, complete, eternal. But she could not yet believe in his. Weary hours waned away and Deacon did not come. She was beginning to believe he didn't exist. She went to her chamber window, listlessly, marked where the stab of his words fell. He had hurt her deeply, yet her patient and hopeful heart clung still to the love that had seemed to drift away, leaving her alone amid her cold suffering.

It was a grey, oppressive afternoon. Down by the cottages Deacon stooped over the black water. His heart beat quickly and strongly. This form of magic was unfamiliar to him, and he was forced to verbalize to achieve his objective. He intoned the strange words, hoping he p.r.o.nounced them correctly, and looking down into the still water, waited intently. At first there seemed no remarkable happenings, then, very slowly, he began to see vague forms in the water. They took shape of their own accord, and he could see plainly now that they were of old structures, darkly cl.u.s.tered together as a village.

"Terium, ouch. That's a long way away," said Cade. Deacon rose to his feet, agitated by the intrusion. Harsh words were on his lips, then he meditated a moment. "Your boys are in the market," said Cade. "In case you're wondering."