Part 15 (2/2)

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.

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