A colaboris spell erupted from the Spire and flew over the eastern horizon and into the coming night.
“A boy is trapped in an academy,” Nicodemus said softly. “He learns he is incomplete. He sees those around him suffer. For a moment he glimpses himself entirely before he escapes. But no matter where he goes, no matter what he becomes, he will cause or witness suffering. Still, he wants nothing more than to try to end the suffering.”
Shannon said nothing for a while. “You know that I have begun to ghostwrite?” he asked.
“An impressing matrix shines about your head when you sleep,” Nicodemus said without looking over. “It shines in Azure’s mind as well. I think it has something to do with dreaming. Have the cankers grown worse?”
To see them with his Language Prime fluency, Nicodemus would have had to touch the old man. He dared not.
Shannon took a long breath. “No. In fact, I’ve been feeling better. I suppose this improvement is temporary. There’s no way of telling. I believe we will recover the emerald in time to cure the thing growing in my gut. But…I don’t want to be caught unawares. I’m ghostwriting…as a precaution.”
Nicodemus nodded. “It is a race, then, between my training and your disease. If I lose, you die.”
Shannon sighed. “There is no race, Nicodemus. To help fight the Disjunction, you must learn to control your Language Prime fluency. You must do that alone; I cannot teach it to you. And now that the Index is misspelled, only you can use it to learn about Typhon. Those tasks will take years if not decades. Leave this valley before then and you won’t be able to oppose the demons. You won’t even be able to survive.”
“Magister, the kobolds say I am the most powerful spellwright they have ever known. And I command a small army of their warriors.”
The old man shook his head. “Kobolds rarely leave their underworld. A kobold army would be helpless on the war field. And, Nicodemus, your spells only function in the dark. You must continue to train in the wizardly languages. If you run after Deirdre and the emerald before then, it won’t take Typhon or your half-sister long before they realize you’re powerless in daylight.”
“I won’t watch you die!” Nicodemus replied hotly. “I know what I must do now.”
Shannon opened his mouth as if to object but then shook his head. They both fell silent.
Gradually the sun sank below the horizon and the stars made their slow debut. A wind picked up and began to sing its whistling song among the bare branches.
“Nicodemus, you haven’t escaped Starhaven,” Shannon said. “You think you’re out here. You think your strength lies in your Chthonic texts or in your skill as a commander. You think you’re incomplete without the emerald. You can’t see that your true strength is already inside of you. And that means you’re still in that academy.” He nodded toward the spire. “You’re still running from golems.”
Nicodemus pursed his lips but said nothing.
“You must realize that you are complete now.”
The young man shook his head. “You are dying. Deirdre is enslaved. The purpose of my life is to regain the emerald and end my disability. Nothing will be right until then.”
Shannon began to protest but then stopped.
They sat together, in silence.
AN ICY WIND curled around Nicodemus and Shannon and flew away north.
It blustered about on the white mountains and then split itself among Starhaven’s many towers. It howled over the bridges and sprayed dry snow into the gargoyles as they pushed drifts from eaves and cleared ice from the gutters.
The wind circled the Drum Tower and rattled its paper window screens. Simple John—now Lesser Wizard John of Starhaven—removed a screen and looked into the night. He took a long tremulous breath and again thought about his dead friends: Devin, Nicodemus, Magister Shannon.
Behind John someone knocked, likely a young cacographer. As the new Master of the Drum Tower, John replaced the screen and turned away from his sadness to see to the little one.
Outside, the wind swirled away from the Drum Tower before dropping into the Spirish stable yard to ruffle Amadi’s thick cloak. She was overseeing her sentinels as they prepared for the long journey back to the North.
Though her expression was calm, her heart teemed with fear and anticipation. Colaboris spells had carried reports of Fellwroth and Typhon to the other academies. Not everyone believed the news, but no one deniedits effect. Thoughts of prophesy were now on every wizard’s mind, political speculations on every wizard’s lips. And now she was returning to Astrophell, where the game of factions was being played with murderous intensity.
Inside the stable, she put politics and prophesy aside long enough to inspect every pack, saddle, and horse her party would take on their journey. Then she dismissed the sentinels and walked alone into the snowy stable yard to look up at the stars.
Once back in Astrophell, she would owe loyalty to no faction. Alone, she would have to navigate the infighting and gather information useful to Shannon and Nicodemus once they emerged. Doing so would undoubtedly incur the distrust of every major faction. The slightest mistake could kill her.
Amadi smiled. In her soul she loved nothing so much as great purpose. Now she certainly had that.
The icy wind grew stronger. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, Amadi started off to find her bed and dream of Astrophell under the hot Northern sun.
Above her, the wind rushed out of Starhaven and rolled down the foothills. It passed over the ruined Chthonic village and made the ghosts look up with wide, amber eyes. They could not feel cold, but they shivered nonetheless. They knew that the world was about to change.
Onward the wind tumbled, down the foothills to the Westernmost Road. Then to the north it flew, traveling to warmer lands. Slowly the landscape shed snowy white for lush green. Now the wind turned westward, blowing long waves through the tall savannah grass until it crossed a narrow caravan road and crested a ridge. Here stood a tall sandstone watchtower.
Beside this fortification crouched Deirdre, her red-and-black wings fluttering in the wind. Before her, the road ran straight for five miles before meeting the tan walls of a Spirish city. Even in the dim starlight, she could see the city’s many tiled roofs and the wide octahedral dome of its temple.
Slowly, Deirdre stood. Tears streamed down her face, and blood ran down her arms. At her feet lay four dead city guards. Typhon had compelled her to kill them; he wanted the city to receive no warning of his approach.
The wind blew harder, scooping under Deirdre’s wings and lifting her a few inches off the ground. Involuntarily, she tightened her fist around the Emerald of Arahest. She had been through the deep savanna and fought the beasts that lived there. She had seen the unspeakable things Typhon had done to those beasts with Language Prime.
The wind lessened and she sank until her boots touched ground. Thenshe started walking. A fresh surge of tears coursed down her face. She was already grieving for what Typhon would force her to do in the city.
From her contact with the demon’s mind, she had learned about the newest Language Prime spell he had begun to write. That is why she prayed that neither Boann nor Nicodemus nor Shannon tried to rescue her. If any of them did, they would face a spell that none of them could truly comprehend or even see.
They would face a true dragon.
Epilogue
The linguist felt as if he were choking on his own words.
They were short, commonplace words originating from his old heart, making it beat faster. He took Azure out from under his cloak.
She had been sleeping in the warmth and sent him a testy sentence.
Seeing through her eyes, the wizard stood and made his way back toward the steps. “I’ll start down now,” he said to his pupil. “Come help me when you’re ready.”
Nicodemus nodded.
By the stairs, Shannon found Boann watching him. “Did you convince him?” the goddess asked.
Shannon smiled sa
dly and cast a few flamefly paragraphs for light. “He’s too impressed by his new abilities.” He paused. “He needs time to see that he hasn’t escaped his limitations.” Through Azure, he watched Nicodemus close his eyes and lean into the wind.
“But his progress is unexpectedly quick,” the goddess said. “Perhaps he might be right? Perhaps there is a chance he will be ready in time to save you?”
Shannon exhaled. “There’s no telling, but I certainly hope…” The strange choking sensation filled his chest again. “Nicodemus,” he called, to keep the feelings at bay. “I need your help after all.”
The young man sprang up and came running, concern painted across his dark face.
“Besides, there’s a pot of stew waiting at home,” Shannon said through a smile. “And you didn’t cook it, so this time it won’t taste like boiled horse sweat.”
Nicodemus laughed and then took Shannon’s arm, careful to prevent his skin from touching the old man’s.
Suddenly the old linguist had to draw a sharp breath and look away.
“What is it, Magister? Does it hurt?”
“No, no,” Shannon said as firmly as he could. “There’s a…” His hand came up to his neck. “A sensation here…I can’t…I don’t know if there’s a word for…”
Again he tried to name the feeling. But the words in his heart mashed themselves into a small, spiny ball and jammed themselves into his throat.
He was choking on a jagged mass of the words “loss” and “gratitude,” “desperation” and “relief,” “fear” and “awe.”
He was choking on the sharp knowledge that he was slowly dying.
“Maybe it’s heartburn from drinking my horse sweat stew,” said Nicodemus.
Shannon laughed and decided that the best word for the strange emotion in his chest was “love.”
He looked at his student. The boy had become a man, and in him Shannon saw a flickering potential that just might grow strong enough to give the world hope.
Nicodemus looked back at Shannon. His young face was lit by several incandescent paragraphs. The bright words had illuminated his smile with soft white light and, by contrast, filled his dark eyes with a joyful, sparkling black.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a novel is like escaping a cocoon you spun when you were someone less wise.
That being so, a complete list of my gratitude would include everyone who helped me come to terms with my disability. However, listing all the teachers, students, and friends who supported me would make Spellwright heavy enough to qualify as exercise equipment. So if you’ve opened this book because of the name on its spine—rather than its title—know that you are appreciated and loved.
My particular gratitude I dedicate to those who sacrificed for and believed in Spellwright: to James Frenkel, for limitless wisdom and gallons of industrial-strength editorial elbow grease; to Matt Bialer, for taking a chance on a young writer and helping him grow; to Todd Lockwood and Irene Gallo, for the stunning cover; to Tom Doherty and everyone at Tor, for their support; to Stanford Medical School and the Medical Scholars Research Program, for making my dual career possible; to Tad Williams, my glabrous, fantasy-writing, YMCA-basketball Jedi Master, whose fingerprints are all over this story; to Daniel Abraham, for lunar physics explanations and inspiring the concept of “quaternary thoughts” with a casual and brilliant comment over lunch; to Terra Chalberg, friend and publication guardian angel during a trying time; to Nina Nuangchamnong and Jessica Weare, foul-weather-friends and manuscript polishers extraordinaire; to Dean Laura King—wherever she might be—for pulling me out of the rabid premed wolf pack and teaching me to write and chase dreams; to Joshua Spanogle, for friendship and advice on the med student-novelist life; to Swaroop Samant and Erin Cashier, for fiery criticism and golden praise; to Asya Agulnik, Deanna Hoak, Kevan Moffett, Julia Manzerova, Mark Dannenberg, Nicole C. Hastings, Tom DuBois, Amy Yu, Ming Cheah, and Christine Chang, for fresh perspectives and wisdom; to Kate Sargent, for slogging though clunky early drafts; to The Wordspinners (Madeleine Robins, Kevin Andrew Murphy, Jaqueline Schumann, Jeff Weitzel, and Elizabeth Gilligan), for fellowship and teaching me how to talk shop; to Andrea Panchok-Berry, for reading the first, very misspelled draft; to Vicky Greenbaum, for early en-couragement and inspiration; and, with all of my love, to Genevieve Johansen, Louise Buck, and Randy Charlton, for believing in me and for being such a wonderful family.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Blake Charlton first overcame severe dyslexia in the sixth grade when he began sneaking fantasy and science fiction books into special-ed study hall. Inspired, he went on to graduate summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa from Yale University. After college, he worked as an English teacher, a medical writer for UCSF and Stanford, a tutor for the learning disabled, and a junior varsity football coach. Blake is currently a third-year medical student at Stanford Medical School, where he teaches creative writing for medical students and has received a fellowship to write fiction. Spellwright is his first novel. His hobbies include cycling, swimming, backpacking, and collecting jokes about dyslexia and premature baldness.
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Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Published by HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2010
FIRST EDITION
First published in The USA by Tor Books 2010
Copyright © Blake Charlton 2010
Blake Charlton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Map by Rhys Davies
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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EPub Edition © MARCH 2010 ISBN: 978-0-007-36887-7
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