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   Chapter 71 No.71

The Book of Deacon By Joseph R. Lallo Characters: 4859

Updated: 2018-01-19 19:02

"My shoulder is not particularly pleased with the way I have been treating it, " he said, trying to distract her from the subject.

"Remove the sling, " she said.

He did so with great difficulty. The injury had swollen considerably. It reminded her of her own affliction, but in this case the problem was within. She pulled a few tatters of cloth aside to see how far the swelling had spread. It was severe, no doubt aggravated by the battle. As she surveyed the swelling, she noticed something odd on the left side of his chest. It was distorted, smudged with blood and charred, but there was no question. There, against the cream-colored chest, was the all too familiar curve and point.

"What. . . what is this?" she asked.

"What? Ouch! I can't see, " he said.

"Here, on your chest. There is a mark, " she said.

"Oh, that. That has been there since I was a child. I suppose it's a birthmark, " he said.

"Look. Here! On my hand. I have the same mark! Remember the burn from the sword?" she said, holding out her hand.

He took her hand and looked over it.

"What in the world?" he said, sitting forward and taking real interest.

"It was all over the sword, " she said. "I showed you. Don't you remember?"

"I remember how much it weighed, how well it was balanced, but I couldn't care less about how it looked. That is the least important thing to me, " he said.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"How should I know?" he sai

work upon the caster.

As the spell of healing took effect, Myranda's surroundings retreated and a soothing darkness poured over her and into her mind. A moment later a light flickered before her. She briefly thought that she had reawakened, but soon the truth became clear. The cold, thatched ground was not that of the cave, and the white, wavering light was not that of the torch. She had slipped into a dream. The light seemed to come from no source at all, merely a ball of brilliance floating before her. It formed a circle on the ground and a tight sphere of visibility. She strained her eyes desperately into the darkness. Slowly, a figure formed, somehow a still-darker silhouette against the pitch of her surroundings.

"So I have found you, " came a voice from the form. It seemed to be her own voice. Hearing it whispered from the unseen lips of another was profoundly disorienting.

"Who are you?" Myranda asked.

"We need you, " came the answer.

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