Free The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence by Joseph Lallo Page A

and they were on their way again.
It was nice to finally be able to travel in luxury, but without Myn
to keep her company she was beginning to feel loneliness creep back
upon her. It was a feeling she'd not had to deal with since she'd
found the little dragon, and she did not relish it. She pulled the
bag from the floor and found the stylus inside. Rolling it slowly
in her palm, she remembered the man who had given it to her.
Fetching the torn spell page from the bag, she cursed it for not
being written in his hand. She scratched the stylus along the page.
A thin black line faded in swiftly behind it. It was enchanted to
write without ink. In Entwell it was nothing. Out here, it was
miraculous. Smiling, she went back to admiring the simple tool. As
she admired, her mind wandered to those happier times.
    #
    Meanwhile, a forest and a mountain away,
Deacon sat at his table. He had found it increasingly difficult to
keep his mind on his task, and self imposed deadlines were quickly
piling up. All of his life he had kept to the schedule he made for
himself. Faced with the daunting task of recording every piece of
gray magic his former mentor had neglected to write down, if he
hadn't forced himself to keep to a schedule it would have consumed
his life. Thanks to his diligence, he reasoned that in five short
years he would have finished recording the teachings of Gilliam and
would be free to begin his own contributions in earnest. That was
before. Now he was a full volume behind. Even so, rather than
writing, he was staring at the empty chair across from him. A
motion drew his eye to the pen that sat in the pot of ink at the
corner of his book. The pen rose shakily and touched to the paper.
A slow, lazy line was drawn along one corner. With a curling
flourish, the pen lifted from the paper and returned to the ink.
Anxiously, Deacon watched the pen for any further movement. When it
remained still, he pulled the page from the book and greedily took
in the curve with his eyes. She drew it.
    When he gave the stylus to her, he had meant
it to be useful to her, a tool that would make her path easier. It
was not until later that he supposed that the spell might persist
regardless of distance. The moment that the thought came to him he
had rushed to the paper to see if any of the words were not his
own. From that day forward he had awoken each morning with the hope
of something new. Something from her. Slowly it occurred to him the
madness of it. This was a simple line. It was no different than any
meaningless scribble he might have made himself. Why should this
one mean so much? He tried to convince himself that it was because
of her task, that he couldn't keep his mind off of her because she
had a part in the prophesy. It was a lie. The prophecy was the last
thing he thought of when he thought of her. He didn't think of
anything. When she was in his mind, there was nothing else. He
tried his best to shake the thoughts away, placing the paper in a
drawer. There was nothing to be done about it. It would be months
before the way was open for her to return. Until then he would
simply have to keep his mind on magic. If he could not scribe, at
least he could study. Standing and approaching one of his many
shelves, he plucked a volume he had written years ago. He flipped
to a page in the center, where there was described a spell he'd
never had much use for. Distance seeing. Perhaps . . . he may just
find a use soon.
    #
    Back in the carriage, it was hours later.
Desmeres pulled to the side of the road and stopped, joining her
inside. Sitting on the seat across from her, he peeled off several
of the outer layers of his winter covering until he was left with
an outfit that was every bit as finely tailored as the one she was
given. Standing, he lifted the seat he had chosen to reveal a large
compartment beneath it, obviously the hiding place he had
requested. From inside he pulled a pile of papers.
    "Now, to complete your disguise," he
said.
    "What