Chapter 26
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 passed 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 passed 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 passed 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 damned 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 attitude 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 assistance. 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 pass 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 title 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 pronounced 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 mass 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 assent.