“More than cacographic, completely incompetent.”
Nicodemus’s hands again began to tremble with excitement. “Magister, there might be a connection between Language Prime and my cacography. Maybe the druid is right. Maybe the monster stole part of me and put it into the emerald. Maybe I’m not supposed to be cacographic!”
Rather than reply, Shannon began to walk toward the Spindle’s end. Before them loomed the mountain’s rock face and the Chthonic engravings—ivy leaves to the left and the geometric design to the right.
The old man spoke. “My boy, we may be witnessing the first days of prophecy. This morning’s dragon attack on Trillinon could mark the beginning of a conflict that will engulf all kingdoms and threaten human language itself. But what frightens me just now is the change I hear in your voice.”
He stopped and turned to Nicodemus. “Do you believe that you are the Halcyon?”
“I—” Nicodemus stammered. “You think I’m being foolish to believe that the druid might be right about prophecy?”
The old wizard shook his head. “Not in the least. Besides the present circumstances linking you to prophecy, I have noted the strange effect you have had on some texts. Just last night when you misspelled a gargoyle, you elevated her freedom of thought. Such a phenomenon is unheard of. Perhaps this happened because you are the Halcyon, perhaps because of another reason tied to prophecy. But you didn’t answer my question: Do you believe you are the Halcyon?”
“I haven’t…I don’t know if I am or not. I suppose you’re right, we can’t jump to conclusions. But my point is about cacography. If the murderer magically stole my ability to spell, perhaps I can magically get it back!”
Shannon folded his arms. “Which matters more, fulfilling your role in prophecy or removing your cacography?”
Nicodemus shook his head. “If a demon-worshiper stole my ability to spell, they must be connected. Magister, don’t you see? Perhaps I am not a true cacographer.”
“A true cacographer?” Shannon asked, eyebrows rising. “Nicodemus, even if we erased your disability completely, it wouldn’t undo what has already happened to you. Regarding who you truly are, regarding what truly matters, ending your cacography wouldn’t change anything.”
Nicodemus could barely believe what he was hearing. “It would change everything!”
Shannon started walking again. “Perhaps this is not the time.”
Nicodemus rushed after the old man. “Magister, would it upset you if I learned to spell?”
Shannon kept walking. “Why would you ask such a question?”
“You squash any hope I might have of completing myself.”
“There is no such thing as completing yourself. You have always been complete, and you won’t—”
For the first time he could remember, Nicodemus deliberately interrupted his teacher. “If I am already complete, if all I will ever be is your pet cripple, then I don’t know why we’re bothering to keep me alive!”
Both men stopped.
Suddenly Nicodemus realized that he had nearly shouted his last two words. He turned away.
The bridge’s railing stood before him. He put both hands on it and tried to catch his breath.
Far below them, a falcon circled above the scattered pines and boulders. Some of the trees had died and withered into wooden skeletons.
“Pet cripple,” Shannon said slowly. “I see.”
“I know how you pick a retarded boy out of every generation,” Nicodemus answered. “Devin knows too. Fiery heaven, the whole academy knows!”
A silence grew until the breeze picked up enough to make their robes luff.
Finally Shannon spoke in a low, rough tone. “Exile from Astrophell nearly crushed me. I lost everything—my wife, my son, my sight, my research. I could have let the loss rot me from the heart to the skin.”
Nicodemus looked back toward his mentor.
Azure had laid her head down near Shannon’s chin so the old man could scratch her neck.
“My research became futile,” the wizard said solemnly. “I had discovered such wonderful things in Astrophell. But in this academic backwater, I couldn’t accomplish a quarter of what I did before. In Astrophell, I had a cadre of brilliant apprentices working to advance my studies. Here I taught cacographic neophytes how to avoid hurting themselves. Politics became a constant reminder of my sins.”
The old wizard sniffed in annoyance. “I wasted years longing for what I had lost. Until, one day, a cacographic boy came to me in tears to thank me for all I had done. In truth, I had done little more than what was required. But I saw how moved the child was, how badly he needed kindness. I saw in him a way to live again. His name was Allen, a Lornish boy. He’s in Astrophell now. The Northerners don’t have the slightest suspicion that he, now a hooded librarian, is a cacographer.”
Shannon paused. “You think I made you my apprentice because I pity you? Because I keep a cacographer around to lord my ability over him? To feel as grand as I did when speaking before the Long Council? Well, if you think so, Nicodemus Weal, you’re a fool.”
The younger man was silent for a long moment. “But why then did you choose me for an apprentice?”
Shannon pointed to his milky-white eyes. “I chose you because in the past I have understood cacographers and they have understood me. I chose you because I thought I could help you the most. Besides, you are a useful apprentice. When you cast wordweave, I can complete spells in a quarter of the usual drafting time.” The old man grunted. “Have we talked about this enough for you?”
When Nicodemus did not answer, the old man started off toward the mountainside. “Come then. The sentinels will catch up with us soon.”
They walked most of the distance to the rock face without talking. Their footfalls echoed loudly, almost unnaturally so. Nicodemus had totake a deep breath before he could break the silence: “I’m sorry, Magister. It’s just…with the possibility of ending my cacography—”
“I quite understand,” Shannon said curtly as they stopped before the mountain’s sheer rock face. “Now let us move on. Do you know why we’re walking the Spindle Bridge?”
“Because Magistra Finn was murdered here?” Nicodemus stared at the carved outlines of giant ivy leaves.
“Exactly. I wondered if there was a reason she died on this bridge. I wanted to look at the mountainside with my blind eyes. I thought maybe I could see through the stone to some hidden spell, some clue.” He sighed. “And my vision pierces the stone but sees nothing beyond.”
He wrote a few Numinous sentences and thrust them into the mountainside. “And it seems that there’s nothing but rock before us.”
Nicodemus stepped back and looked at the hexagonal design on the bridge’s other side. “Magister, you said the Language Prime runes were hexagonal. Do they resemble that Chthonic pattern at all?” He pointed.
Shannon shook his head. “I’ve examined that carving a thousand times since I first arrived at Starhaven. But I can find no resemblance.”
Nicodemus glanced at his teacher. Was the old man still upset? “Magister, do you believe the stories about the Chthonics crossing this bridge to escape the Neosolar armies? Do you think they ran away to the Heaven Tree Valley?”
“No, the historians were correct: our ancestors slaughtered every last Chthonic.” He turned back toward Starhaven. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”
Nicodemus waited a moment before following the old wizard. “Then what are we going to do?”
“Research our enemy,” Shannon said. “We know the murderer’s made of flesh until we cut him; then he turns to clay. We need to find a mundane text about such creatures. Normally researching such an obscure topic would take the rest of the autumn. But you and I might modify the research we’re to complete this afternoon with Magister Smallwood.”
Nicodemus found himself looking back at the carvings. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re researching a powerful artifact called the Index. It allow
s one to quickly search through many texts. Nothing as powerful as what they have in Astrophell, but still impressive. Your task will be to distract Smallwood and the sentinels at the project’s end so that I might secretly peek into the Index.”
“But why don’t we simply tell them what we need to do?”
Shannon shook his head. “Neither Smallwood nor the sentinels wouldpermit it. You will see. After that we must sleep. This day has been like a bad dream.”
“Bad dream,” Nicodemus echoed. He stopped and turned to look again at the Chthonic carvings.
The wizard also stopped. “What’s the matter?”
Nicodemus opened his mouth, trying to articulate the images flashing through his mind.
“In my dream, the one when I napped,” he finally managed to say, “I was in an underground place and there was a white-robed body that held a green gem.” He looked at Shannon. “Magister, a green gem! And the murderer said he needed me to replenish an emerald!”
The old man frowned.
Nicodemus pointed to the mountain’s ivy carvings. “In the dream, the floor was covered with ivy. And out of the darkness came strange turtles. There were hundreds of them, hissing and dying horribly as their shells cracked.”
“I don’t understand. Turtles?”
“Look, that hexagonal pattern,” Nicodemus said, pointing to the other Chthonic carving, “is the pattern of a turtle shell.”
DEIRDRE SPRINTED THROUGH the dark hallway. On her left were dark Chthonic doorways; to her right, the barred windows.
Already she could hear frantic footfalls. The thing was after her again.
She raced around the tower and up the stairs on the other side. Suddenly the ceiling burst into a thousand flapping creatures.
Bats! They had been nesting on the ceiling. The floor was soft with their droppings.
She ran on. The sword wound on her ribs was shallow and mending fast, but still it sent agony lancing down her side with every breath. Her robe was wet with blood.
Behind her the creature shrieked.
Redoubling her efforts, she flew around the tower and charged up the next flight of stairs—only to come to a sliding halt.
Before her stood an opening to a tower bridge. The bright midday sun beat down on the gray stones. “No.” She couldn’t leave the tower; outside of Starhaven’s walls the creature could wield magic. “No!” Frantically she turned around.
Footsteps were echoing up from the stairwell.
She ran to one of the small black doors that lined the hallway’s inner wall. It was a thick, metal portal. On top sat a squat barred window.
She pulled, but the door would not budge. She heaved…and with a metallic scream the thing swung a quarter way through its arc.
Suddenly Deirdre’s head felt light. “Goddess, no!” she whispered, slipping into the dark chamber. “Not now!” Her hands began to tremble.
The room was rectangular; the black mass of an ancient stone bed crouched beside one wall. A chorus of terrified rats chattered in one corner. Deirdre yanked the door shut with another loud screech.
Her hands were shaking now. Her stomach felt distended. “No, no,” she whimpered, staggering toward the stone bed. Her heart was pounding out a slow, irregular rhythm.
She was having an aura!
Her face and neck began to tingle as if a summer breeze were blowing across her skin. Her breath came in long, involuntary gulps. The world seemed to be filling with beauty. She wanted to cry out with joy. Her legs faltered and she fell onto the floor.
A low, crackling laugh sounded behind her.
With numb hands, she managed to push herself around.
All was blackness save for the door’s small, barred window. Through the opening streamed intense white light. The creature was standing outside.
The door shrieked as the creature pulled upon it. A vertical sliver of light grew along the portal’s side. The creature heaved once more. Again the hinges screamed, and the sliver of light grew brighter. He was laughing again. Soon he would work the door all the way open.
Deirdre tried to scream, tried to stand. But she was too far into her aura. Her hands shook violently as an ecstatic warmth spread down her back.
“No, we can negotiate,” she heard herself groan. “We can negotiate!”
Through the window she saw the creature pause. His pale hands lifted his hood. She squinted, trying to make out his face.
But the world exploded into light and she fell unconscious—lost to the violence of her seizure.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
Nicodemus and Shannon stared at the Chthonic carvings.
They were now certain that Nicodemus’s second nightmare was meant to connect the murderer to the Spindle Bridge; however, neither man could guess how the two were connected. The body wrapped in white, the emerald, the turtles, the ivy—it was all too disjointed.
Their boot heels echoing loudly on the bridge stones, they hurried back to the Chthonic carvings to reexamine the rock face. Shannon fashioned several Numinous texts to search the mountainside for a hidden spell or a magical door that opened into the mountain.
But once again he found nothing but solid rock.
By this time, the sentinels had hiked back up from ground level. All four of them began marching down the Spindle, their feet clacking out a distant tattoo. “Here they come,” Shannon said. “We mustn’t talk of your dreams or the murderer. They’re from Amadi’s train and will be looking for evidence of the counter-prophecy.”
Nicodemus took a deep breath. If the sentinels interpreted one of his misspells as evidence that he was the Storm Petrel, they would leave him bound and censored in some prison. In a cell, the murderer would find him easily; he’d be as helpless as a caged bird.
“We will pretend to be interested only in research,” Shannon whispered. “Follow my lead. We must learn more about the creature made of clay. So when I signal, you’re to distract the sentinels and Smallwood long enough for me to use the Index.”
“But, Magister, how can I distract five wizards. And what is this Index you—”
Shannon cut him off, calling out to the approaching sentinels. The old man launched into a show of anger and scholarly enthusiasm, scolding the sentinels for dawdling, threatening to complain to Amadi, and rambling about his research.
He hurried the party down to ground level and back into Starhaven’s inhabited quarters, all the while griping about his primary research spell and the need to hurry so as not to keep Magister Smallwood waiting.
Sure enough, when the party returned to Shannon’s study, Magister Smallwood was standing outside the door, a mass of scrolls in his arms. “Agwu, who are all these people?” Smallwood asked in surprise.
“Timothy, I brought some extra arms.” Shannon unlocked his door. “Come, Magisters, we’ve much to carry.” Shannon shooed the sentinels into his study and began piling books into their hands. One tried to protest but was overpowered by Shannon’s threat to tell Amadi of their uncooperative attitude.
After a few moments, every sentinel bore a stack of books piled from elbows to eyeballs. Shannon loaded an avalanche of scrolls into Nicodemus’s arms. To keep the manuscripts from toppling over, Nicodemus had to clamp his chin down upon the pile.
Meanwhile, Smallwood was gathering a stack of books into his own arms and advising the sentinels on the best way to hold their stacks.
“Well then, we are ready,” Shannon announced when he held his own pile of scrolls. “Nicodemus, would you use your young eyes to open the door?”
“Of course, Magister.” Nicodemus wrote a simple Magnus sentence along his right forearm and used his index finger—his only free digit—to flick the spell around the door latch. With some shuffling, he worked the latch and pulled. “It’s open, Magisters. Where are we going?”
“To the Main Library,” Smallwood replied from behind his stack of scrolls. “Shannon, I thought you had told your apprentice about our research spell.”
; Led by Nicodemus, the two grand wizards stepped out into the hallway. The sentinels followed close behind.
Shannon clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Timothy, it has been an unusual day. I haven’t had time.”
“There’s no need to be defensive, Agwu,” Smallwood said. “I was merely asking a question.”
The party reached the staircase and began negotiating the narrow steps.
“Well, Nicodemus and visitors from the North, let me explain,” Smallwood said with his usual professorial enthusiasm. “Years ago, Magister Shannon and I conceived of a research spell to visualize the texts surrounding the Index, but we didn’t receive permission to proceed until the other day, when—”
“Timothy,” Shannon interrupted, “Nicodemus doesn’t know what that artifact is, and you must remember to speak of it only in secure environments.”
“Quite right,” Smallwood said. “Forgive my forgetfulness. Nicodemus, would you cast a murmur spell so we may speak freely?”
Traditionally, apprentices cast any commonplace spells their wizards required. Shannon usually excused Nicodemus from this duty. Smallwood, in his typical fashion, had forgotten this fact.
With a deep breath, Nicodemus began forging the needed runes within his right forearm. Though written in a simple common language, the murmur spell called for complex sentence structures and an elaborate conclusion.
When finished, Nicodemus disliked his rendition, but there was nothing to do but cast it with another flick of his index finger.
Rather than expanding into a sound-deadening cloud, the glowing white misspell fell to the ground and shattered. The sentence fragments danced upon the floor stones like water beads on a hot skillet. Nicodemus’s cheeks flushed with shame. “My apologies, but I—”
“I believe an issue this sensitive requires a Magnus language text, perhaps a subrosa spell,” Shannon said. A grateful Nicodemus glanced back at the old man.
The party continued downward as Shannon wrote. The sentinels murmured among themselves. Then came the wet sound of Shannon spitting out the subrosa spell. Instantly a soundproof sphere of interlocking petals encased the group.
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