Part 17 (2/2)

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 wors.h.i.+ppers. 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 wors.h.i.+p, 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 fas.h.i.+on.

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.”

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