The memory made Nicodemus feel as if something were tightening around his heart. “I’ll make it up to the old man,” he whispered. “I will.”
He turned from the window and hurried down the hall to an open door spilling candlelight into the hallway. “Magister Smallwood?” He knocked on the doorjamb. The grand wizard looked up from his desk.
Smallwood was a thin, pale spellwright with a tousled wreath of gray hair. His eyes, though beginning to cloud over, still held black pupils within brown irises.
Nicodemus cleared his throat. “Magister Shannon sends his compliments and asks that you join him in his study.”
“Ah, good, good, always happy to see Shannon,” Smallwood said with an absent smile. He closed his book. “And who are you?”
“Nicodemus Weal, Magister Shannon’s apprentice.”
Smallwood leaned forward and squinted. “Ah, Shannon’s next cacographic project?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t remember the last boy’s name. And I’ve never seen you before.”
In fact, Nicodemus had been bringing Smallwood written messages for nearly two years. However, this was the first time Nicodemus had spoken directly to him. “I’m sorry, Magister, but I don’t understand about the cacographic project.”
Smallwood stretched his arms and adjusted his hood, which like Shannon’s was lined with white. “Oh, you know, Shannon takes his work with the Drum Tower boys so seriously. And he’s always got a pet cacographer. It’s ridiculous the rumors that go round about him; he’s so proud when one of you earns a lesser hood.”
“Yes, Magister,” Nicodemus said, trying not to frown. He had heard rumors about Shannon’s former career in Astrophell but never a rumor about the old man’s current position as Master of the Drum Tower.
“So, what exactly does Shannon have you doing to earn that hood?” Smallwood asked.
“He’s written a spell that allows him to pull my runes into his body. It helps him spellwrite longer texts. We’re hoping that if enough linguists feel I’m helpful, they’ll give me a lesser hood lined with white.”
“Ah, yes, and I’m to be the first who finds you useful.” Smallwood’s smile seemed genuine. “I believe you’ll be assisting Shannon and me tomorrow. Very exciting, very promising research spell we’ll be attempting.”
“I’m honored to be part of it, Magister.”
“And are you teaching yet?”
Nicodemus tried to sound confident. “Anatomy dissections, but not a spellwriting class yet. I’m very much looking forward to it.”
“Yes, well, keep pestering Shannon about that; the academy will keep a hood away from you until you’re fifty unless you teach composition.” The linguist’s gaze wandered to the books on his desk. “Did Shannon want me right away?”
“I believe so, Magister.”
Smallwood stood. “Very well, very well. Thank you, Nicolas; it is good to meet you. You may go.”
“Nicodemus, Magister.”
“Yes, yes, Nicodemus, of course.” He paused. “Pardon me, but did you say Nicodemus Weal?”
“Yes, Magister.”
Smallwood studied Nicodemus with a focused intensity. “Of course,”the grand wizard said at last, suddenly earnest. “Foolish of me to forget you, Nicodemus. Thank you for the message. You may go.”
Nicodemus bobbed his head and retreated. He hurried to the hallway’s end and then ducked into a narrow spiral staircase. Shannon had instructed him to go straight back to the Drum Tower, so he jogged down to the ground level and out into a torch-lit hallway. Walking eastward, he passed Lornish tapestries and gilded stone arcades.
But he was blind to their beauty.
His thoughts were troubled by what Smallwood had said about Shannon. All the apprentices knew that Shannon had suffered some kind of fall from grace back in Astrophell, but Smallwood had implied there were more recent rumors involving Shannon and cacographers.
Nicodemus bit his lip. Smallwood was famously absentminded; it was possible that he was mistaking old rumors for new.
But if that was the case, what exactly had Smallwood been misremem-bering when he mentioned Shannon’s “next cacographic project” and his new “pet cacographer”?
Nicodemus turned to mount a narrow staircase.
Shannon had begun teaching cacographers only fifty years ago, when he arrived at Starhaven. So the source of Smallwood’s rumor must have occurred since then.
Reaching the oak doors at the top of the stairs, Nicodemus pushed them open and looked out on the gray slate tiles that paved the yard of the Stone Court.
Centuries ago, the Neosolar Empire had renovated the courtyard after taking Starhaven from the Chthonic people. However, none of the succeeding occupying kingdoms had built over this aspect of the stronghold.
Consequently, the Stone Court demonstrated the classical architecture so common to Starhaven’s Imperial Quarter: walls decorated by molded white plaster, arched doorways, wide windows. Each entryway was flanked by a pair of stone obelisks.
However, because of the Stone Court’s remote location, the wizards had filled it with several objects too unsightly to reside in Starhaven’s more populous quarters.
A forest of Dralish standing stones stood in the courtyard’s center. On its eastern edge loitered two marble statues of Erasmus and one of Uriel Bolide. And everywhere—curled up, sprawled out, or lying on any available stone ledge—were sleeping janitorial gargoyles.
Nicodemus started for the Drum Tower, which abutted the court’s eastern limit. But as he went, he saw something move within the stone forest.
He stopped.
The movement had been too quick to be that of a janitorial gargoyle. And no neophyte should be awake so late. Perhaps it was a feral cat?
It came again: a pale blur between two standing stones. Apprehension gripped Nicodemus. Wizards wore only black. Cloth of any other color signified an outsider…or an intruder.
Starhaven’s many towers hid the blue and black moons, but the gibbous white moon hung directly overhead and flooded the court with milky light. As Nicodemus snuck among the standing stones, a crocodile-like gargoyle sleeping on the ground rolled over to regard him with a half-opened eye.
Someone was whispering behind the megalith to Nicodemus’s left. “Who’s there?” he asked in his boldest voice and stepped around the megalith.
Before him stood a short figure robed in white cloth. It spun around with inhuman speed.
CHAPTER
Four
Magister Shannon, sitting behind his desk, looked in the direction of Smallwood’s voice. “Thank you for coming so late, Timothy.”
“Quite all right; I’m always up,” Smallwood said with his usual warmth. Shannon could not see the other wizard, but judging by his voice, he was standing by the bookshelves.
“But I’m surprised you’re awake,” Smallwood added. “I didn’t think you were a night owl.”
Shannon grunted. “I’m not. Two hours ago, I was in bed. A relay text from one of my research projects woke me with a report of unusual guardian activity around the Drum Tower. Seems they’ve been chasing something around on the roofs.”
“Guardian spells,” Smallwood said with a disdainful sniff. “Sloppy prose, if you ask me, written with too much sensitivity. Likely they were chasing a feral cat that wandered in from the uninhabited quarters.”
“That was my first thought. I came here to look up a few things about editing the guardians’ sensitivity. But then my apprentice appeared; seems he heard someone running across the roof of the Stacks.”
When Shannon looked at his bookshelf, his eyes saw through the leather bindings to the radiant paragraphs contained within the books. As he watched, a rectangle of green text separated from the rest and unfolded into two smaller rectangles. Smallwood had pulled a book and was browsing through it. “Timothy, are you listening?”
“What? Yes, yes, of course,” Smallwood replied and clapped the green rectangles together. “So you
think one of the delegates might be sneaking about the roofs?”
Shannon shrugged. “Could be a foreign spellwright. Could be a wizard.”
“But spying on the Drum Tower? I know the cacographers are close to your heart, but shouldn’t intrigue focus elsewhere? The Main Library, say, or the provost’s quarters?”
“Precisely what worries me.”
Smallwood coughed. “Agwu, might you be overreacting? I know you were more…involved in Astrophell, but this is Starhaven.”
Shannon rubbed his mustache to hide his frown.
Smallwood continued. “Perhaps the Astrophell delegates have put you on edge? Brought back the old instincts?”
“Perhaps but unlikely,” Shannon insisted. “I’ve two guardian spells in the linguistics library. I’d like them cast to patrol around the Stone Court. But first I need you to rewrite their protocols to communicate with the gargoyles sleeping there.”
It sounded as if Smallwood were shuffling his feet. “Tonight?”
Shannon crossed his arms and looked where he thought his colleague’s face might be. “It would help me focus on our research spell tomorrow.”
“Tonight it is, then. I am grateful you’ve included me in this research.”
Shannon let out a breath he had not known he was holding.
The rectangle of green prose floated back up to its proper place: Smallwood was reshelving the book. “Is Azure about?”
Shannon shook his head. “She’s delivering a message for me.” He did not mention that she was also flying about the rooftops searching for anything unusual.
“Pity,” Smallwood said, his voice heading for the door. “I wanted to see her Numinous dialect again. Agwu, before I go…do I remember correctly that your apprentice was thought to be the Halcyon?”
“You do.”
Smallwood continued hesitantly. “Your fear that…I mean, perhaps you’re jumping to conclusions.” He paused. “Let me ask it this way: Do you think Nicodemus is the one of prophecy?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good, good, of course.” The door latch clicked. “I’ll have the guardian spells cast within an hour. I’ll see you tomorrow after midday?”
“Indeed,” Shannon said and then waited for the door hinges to creak before adding, “Timothy, truly, thank you.”
“Quite welcome, Agwu. Quite welcome.” The door clicked shut.
Puffing out his cheeks, Shannon retrieved his research journal from his desk. It was a leather-bound codex about two hands tall. Its spine and face were each embossed with three asterisks, allowing him to identify the book by touch. He opened it and began to write a few notes about the day. He worked for a quarter hour before an unexpected light made him look up.
He could not see his door physically, but he knew exactly where it was. It usually formed a dark rectangle amid the glow of his bookshelves. Where the darkness should have been, there now shone a cloud of golden paragraphs.
Experience told Shannon that he was looking through the door to an incandescent flamefly spell being cast in the hallway.
His first thought was that Smallwood had returned. But Timothy knew the hallways; he rarely cast a single flamefly paragraph, much less a swarm. The author of this spell wanted a good deal of light when navigating Starhaven’s hallways.
Most likely a foreigner.
Shannon squinted at the text. It was written with bold words and complex sentences. The author favored compound appositives, an unusual structure.
Shannon grimaced in recognition. It had been a long time since he had seen this spellwright. “Creator save me, what else is going to happen tonight?” he muttered, waiting for the author to knock.
But she did not knock. He closed his research journal. Moments passed. He could see her prose but not her body. Strangely, she let the flamefly paragraphs deconstruct into heatless cinders that snowed down to the floor. What was she waiting for?
Affecting his warmest tone, he called out, “You may come in, Amadi.”
Slowly the door hinges squeaked. A woman’s calm voice said, “I see that old Magister Shannon isn’t as blind as rumor claims.” The door clicked shut.
Shannon smiled as he stood. “Old? I’m not so antique as to forget your sharp tongue. Come and embrace your ancient teacher.”
Memory guided him around the desk. Amadi’s approaching footsteps were light, hesitant. But her embrace was strong and quick. He had forgotten how tall she was. “But the rumors are true,” he said while stepping back: “I’m as blind as a cave fish.”
She paused. “You don’t look old enough to have lost sight.”
He chuckled dryly. “Then it’s your eyes we should worry about. I’m nearly done with my second century.”
“Magister, I’ll be sorely disappointed if it’s only age that stole your vision,” Amadi said in the same teasing tone she had used as a girl. “I’ve heard stories, legends even, about how you blinded yourself by reading forbidden texts in the Spirish Civil War or by combating twenty mercenary authors while your beard was on fire.”
Shannon had been counterfeiting good humor, but now a genuine laugh escaped his lips. “The truth is nothing so scintillating.”
“But you don’t seem that old.”
“You always were a stubborn one.” He laughed again and shook his head.
In Astrophell, Shannon had made several powerful enemies who might have planted an agent in the Northern delegation. For this reason, any Astrophell wizard was a potential threat; and yet, despite the danger, he en-joyed talking to his former student and remembering a past life.
“Amadi, I plan to begin ghostwriting in five years,” he said in a more playful tone. “So don’t bother with flattery about how young I might seem; it only reminds me of your advantage. My familiar is not about to look at you for me. And I’m curious to see you after…how long has it been? Fifty years?”
Amadi’s leather soles whispered against the floor. “Your fingers may look,” she said, suddenly closer.
This was unexpected. “That…” His voice died as she took his hands and placed them on her brow.
An uncomfortable pause.
Then his fingertips flowed onto her brief eyebrow ridge; down over her deep-set eyes; up the sharp nasal promontory; softly over the two pursed lips; along the delicate chin.
His memory provided color: ivory for her skin, sable for her hair, watery blue for her eyes. Imagination mixed touch with recollection to produce the image of a pale wizard with fine dreadlocks and an impassive expression.
Shannon swallowed. He hadn’t thought seeing an old student would be like this. “Your hair must show a little white by now,” he said more quickly than he would have liked.
“More than a little,” she said, stepping away. “Will you tell me how you recognized me through your door?”
“With my natural sight gone, my spellwright’s vision now pierces the mundane world to see magical text. Through the door, I recognized your compound appositives.”
“You still remember my prose style?”
He shrugged. “I also heard your name among the Astrophell delegates; I was expecting to run into you sooner or later. This turns out to be sooner indeed.”
“Magister, I want to talk about—”
“Please, call me Agwu,” he interrupted. “Or Shannon—it’s what my friends use when they have trouble with a Northern first name.”
“I don’t think I can,” she said and then giggled. “Do you remember catching me and the other acolytes out of bed? How can I call you Shannon remembering that?”
He joined his laugh to hers and walked back to his chair. “I had nearly forgotten. What were you little monsters sneaking into the academy? A pair of muddy pigs? Please, take a seat.”
“Pigs? In Astrophell?” she asked. Her chair creaked. “It was only one, very clean, goat.”
“Whatever it was, you certainly can call me Shannon now that you may carry a grand wizard’s staff.” He settled into his chair.
&nbs
p; “Well then, Shannon, I bring word of your granddaughter.”
Shannon’s stomach tightened. Her tone was still playful, but her words marked the end of pleasantries, the beginning of politics.
“You do?” he said, forcing his smile to neither broaden nor wilt.
Amadi cleared her throat. “She married a wealthy Ixonian merchant last year.”
“Wonderful,” he heard himself say. “What else can you tell me?”
“Little more, I’m afraid. I’ve the merchant’s name written down somewhere.” She paused. “Forgive me. It must be difficult discussing the life exile took away.”
Shannon waved away her comment. “Bah, it was no exile; I accepted this position. Besides, wizards swear off family for a reason. In the beginning, it was difficult getting only fragmented news of my son. But now I’ve promising research and dedicated students. We are discovering such fascinating things. Just this morning I received permission to begin casting my primary research spell.”
Amadi’s chair creaked. “And you’re content with such a…calm life?”
Shannon raised his eyebrows. So she suspected that he still harbored political ambitions? That might be dangerous, especially if she were reporting back to Astrophell.
“Amadi, sometimes it feels as if another author lived that bustling career in the North. Starhaven is a smaller academy, and we’re so very far from civilization. But here…” He made a show of running his gaze across his books. “Here I enjoy a slower life.”
When she did not reply, he changed the subject. “I just moved into new quarters above the Bolide Garden. Janitorial is renovating the gardens; it’s not much now, heaps of dirt and clay, but it will be beautiful. I could show you.”
Amadi’s chair creaked again. “Some Astrophell wizards have been quoting your ‘Complaint to the Long Council.’”
His grin faded. “It was my best speech.”
“Many still find it inspiring.”
“I am glad to hear it, but that life is over. There’s no use baiting my appetite for it. I stay clear of Starhaven’s intrigue. As a researcher, I can’t be completely apolitical. But because of my past, the provost and his officers are happy to leave me out of most entanglements.”
Spellwright Page 3