Chapter 9
Reunited

aenara saw all too clearly the absence of any warmth or life to make an appeal to in the creature. Kneeling before its gruesome body, her wrists held in the deathly grasp, her thoughts ran wildly, searching for means to facilitate an escape. She was frantic at what cruelties and violations, practised by dark mages, might be inflicted upon Deacon at that moment. She could feel they were doing something to him. She sought to clear her mind and consciously draw on that hidden source of strength which had sometimes come in her greatest need, but she was prevailed upon by an overwhelming sense of some violent situation approaching.

She glimpsed flickering images—the surface rippled so that she could not see clearly. Then, in the form of a terrible vision, she saw that Aéoden and his men had made successful ingress. They were fighting and being destroyed by the same cruel force that would destroy Deacon. She felt that it was happening this moment. She went cold, trembling as though suffering from fever. She could feel the magnified commingling of hate, fear, and agony.

The tumult of her mind was painfully great, but amidst all this she grasped one image and saw it lie clearly before her: Luseph writhing in a state of wretchedness, his flesh burning. She could almost feel his pain as her own. She knew he was dying. Then suddenly she could no longer feel or sense him, not a shadow or glimpse, as if he had been torn out of being into infinite silence—dark vastitudes where she could not reach him. She was cut adrift, blinded by chaos.

Her face was bent between her raised arms, eyes squeezed shut against the hideous images, but they stayed vivid in her mind’s eye, a seemingly endless sequence of frightful images of bloodshed. Then something amid the turmoil brought Daenara’s cowering mind back to the room. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the door to the study was being pushed open. For some reason that opening door fascinated her, and she forgot the confusion in her head. She gave a gasp that ended in a sob.

Éomus, in one fluid movement, entered, and with a precise swing of the blade, lopped the monster’s hands clean off at the wrists. Its body stumbled back, but its horrible fingers stayed persistently clasped round her wrists. Éomus turned quickly to her. For the moment he looked not how he used to. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide and dilated, so that only a thin rim of ice-blue was left. He cut the dead, clinging hands from her, then confronted the decayed being. It had recovered balance and came at him, with no sign of rage, but with a single focus and unstoppable purpose to kill him. Éomus took off its head, then applied the finishing stroke and cut it down at the legs.

Here Aéoden shouldered his way through the door with tremendous energy. In his arms was Deacon. Daenara received Deacon into her arms with profound, unthinkable gladness. She clutched him with fierce determination that nothing would again separate them. She looked over at Éomus and Aéoden. Through the merits of their blood they had delivered Deacon from the hands that would do him harm. Aéoden did not stay; he dashed out into the hallway where he faced the trouble that had followed him.

Daenara quickly set Deacon on the floor, and, crouching down, sought any injury to him. There was a considerable amount of blood on his cheek and clothes. She was relieved to discover that it was not his own. She noticed, however, that the palm of his left hand was bleeding from a clean, straight cut.

Éomus had already set to work on preparing a portal spell, through which he meant for them to escape. Meanwhile Daenara bundled up the little one’s injured hand with a torn piece of her dress. His eyes, fixed on her, were unemotional, unresponsive. His face was ashen and expressionless like one greatly overwhelmed. Her fingers trembled so violently that she had a great deal of difficulty tying the knot. The full impact of the shock she had suffered was now upon her. Soon she felt strong hands on her, aiding her to stand. She lifted Deacon into her arms.

“You must come quickly,” said Éomus, trying to lead her, but she laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“We cannot return to the Imperial,” she said, hastily. “Travon—”

“Word has been sent of his treachery,” said Éomus. “He and Goran shall be held accountable. All is well! Trust me! Come quickly!” Taking Daenara by the arm he hurried her forward, leading her to the oval void that was like a split or opening in the atmosphere itself. Holding her son tight in her arms Daenara stepped toward the swirling mass. The air bristled round her with a charged energy, and turbulent winds blew her hair wildly about. Through the glare she could not see through to the other side, but Éomus assured her it would take her promptly to the safety of her brother’s home.

She drew a shuddering breath. Within the next few steps she would be out of this terrible place. Standing on the threshold, Daenara stole a lingering gaze at Éomus with uncertain eyes. His face told her he would not be accompanying her. She feared it would be the last time she would see him.

“Look to the north—there you shall see me coming to you,” Éomus said. Then: “Daenara,” catching her arm as she turned. “It was Luseph who spared your son’s life, at the cost of his own.”

Daenara faltered. The knowledge of it struck her with emotions that she could not yet identify. She nodded wordlessly, then stepped through the portal. Instantly she was engulfed by wind and light, passing through atmospheric layers, temperatures and pressures. The air she breathed was very thin and took away her consciousness.

Daenara awoke to comfortable silence. Gentle rays of afternoon sunlight shone through the glass doors of her room. Thaemon was stationed next to her bedside, deep concern along with relief in his countenance. By degrees recollection forced itself through Daenara’s mind. Sitting up, immediately alert, she asked where Deacon was. Half-rising from his chair Thaemon eased her back down, telling her to rest, and assuring her Deacon was safe with Clara. Daenara reluctantly lay back, finding her strength was depleted.

Soon Clara appeared at the doorway, leading Deacon. His injured hand had been bandaged properly, and a bruise showed on his forehead, but he was otherwise unharmed. Daenara sat up with outreached arms for him to come to her, and he quickly availed himself of the privilege. Having Deacon in her embrace, her body as well as her heart was warm, but it was not to last.

“Has Éomus returned?” she asked Thaemon, expecting disappointment.

His look of concern deepened. “They have not yet come back.”

After this time Deacon became withdrawn. He showed little interest in any but his mother, and would not suffer her to leave him even for an instant. Thaemon had tried to explain to his children that Deacon had lost his father and impress upon them that they must not provoke or harass him with many words, but let him be quiet.

Bearing a tray of tea and toast, Berrel slipped into a dimly-lit room. All was quiet, the stillness not one of content rather of mournful reflections. Daenara stood by the window holding Deacon, both covered by a large blanket as though winter had come. She pressed her lips against his temple in a motionless kiss. His face marked with care and trouble, he looked not so much her baby as her companion in misfortune—two reclusive creatures belonging to nothing but each other.

“How are we this evening?” Berrel asked, setting down the tray. Her sympathy was energetic, when they wished to be still. “Perhaps later you might like to sit downstairs for a while?” she said, taking the blanket from round their shoulders in her robust way and laying it folded on the foot of the bed.

“Perhaps,” replied Daenara, half-heartedly brushing Deacon’s hair down, as though to make him look more respectable.

Berrel was about to pour the tea, when the door slowly creaked open, and peering in were two inquisitive little faces, looking slightly guilty. Daenara beckoned them in, but they stepped inside nervously. They looked to Deacon with bright questioning eyes, not understanding his unapproachableness.

“Won’t you come down and say hello to your cousins?” asked Berrel, looking at Deacon. “Aren’t you glad to see them?” He was unresponsive, his strangeness causing the children to be silent. “There, see how they fret for you?” said Berrel. She meant this as encouragement, but it rather sounded as reproach. She sighed with deep resignation. “Your mother’s arms will grow tired, holding you.”

Daenara felt Deacon grow tense, and his arms tightened, as though the words had been a threat to cheat him of her. “Perhaps we shall come down afterward,” she said, her tone dismissive.

“Right, then,” said Berrel, and taking herself out, ushered the children along with her. Once alone Daenara placed her little one in the arm chair by the fire. For a moment she gazed down on him with troubled eyes, trying to read his darkened thoughts. Words were seldom passed between them anymore, and though he would not be without her, Deacon had become much less affectionate, coiled tightly within himself.

“Will you not eat something?” she urged. He only shook his head and did not lift his face. “Shall I read to you?”

He did not answer. She watched him with increasing pain. He seemed so strange and distant she could scarcely refrain from crying. In the glow of the fire he sat quiet, staring absently. His face was solemn and grave beyond his years. He had been accustomed to evil at too young an age. Daenara felt convinced that he was greatly changed.

“Deacon,” she said softly. “Come sit with me.” She held out a hand to him, her voice gentle and persuasive. Obediently he slid from his chair, and she lifted him up onto her lap. She pressed her lips to him and felt something inside her die, feeling that a piece of him was lost to her, never to be restored. She kissed him softly over the eyes, cheeks, and his entire face. The full realization of how very near she had come to losing him was upon her. Deacon glanced up at her wistfully. She smiled bleakly, kissing fondly the little fingers that reached up to touch her lips. She had nothing to say to him, no comforting words. Though his face was serious and enigmatic he was still only a baby.

The fire burned very low. For the past hour he had lain absolutely still, his face turned against her breast, peaceful and trustful. She sat calm and awake, looking down on him heavily. Her back began to grow stiff, yet she did not wish to move and felt strangely rested. At last she lifted him in her arms and drew herself out of the chair. Placing him in bed, she watched a moment to see if he would stir. When certain he was in a sound sleep, she fetched a light shawl and ventured outside.

The moon was obscured by a thin veil of clouds. Daenara made her way down past the stables and the inn. She crossed the large stone bridge and went into the fields. The trees were dark in the distance. She drew her shawl closer around her shoulders, looking upward, searching the pretty sky. Stars glittered high above her in the heavens. Yet she felt immensely alone, ever her thoughts on Éomus. She knew he would come, if he lived.

A low breeze rippled through her skirt, lonely, silent, and desolate. Then, as she looked toward a great bright star to the north, a sweet breeze blew and brought with it a new hope. A great expectation rose within Daenara, delicately, like a flower blooming in spring after a frosty winter. The scent lingered in the night air, and there, coming over a gentle rise with a steady, even stride, was Éomus. His countenance was serene, free from all care and trouble, and shone with benevolence and grace such as to dim the stars.

Vibrant with suppressed excitement, Daenara waited breathlessly. How slowly he came to her. Only a few more steps and she would be in his arms. Daenara flung herself about his neck, and with irrepressible joy was lifted to his chest and kissed with the sweetest, tenderest of kisses. Éomus had borne many winters, and had a great capacity to love. While Daenara was many, many years younger than he, she was capable of inspiring deep devotion, for her soul was aged greater than her body, and she was true and kind.

“My heart is not fleeting and changing as the wind, but ever enduring,” said Éomus. Their heads bent intimately toward one another, Daenara listened to his soothing accents with a pervading sense of undying love.