Spellbreaker

by Blake Charlton

  He offered the vial again, and this time the pyromancer leaned her head forward and greedily drank down its contents. Nicodemus did not blame her.

  She made a scrunched up face. “It’s bitter.”

  For a moment Nicodemus felt a pang of nostalgia; her expression reminded him of Leandra’s when she had been a girl and he had forced her to take medicine. He fetched a water skin from the wall and squirted some of it into her mouth. She swallowed and continued to cry.

  Nicodemus sat on the stool again. Gradually, his prisoner began to breathe slower and slower until he was sure she was asleep. He picked up the horror that was her remaining fingers and wrapped them in cloth. Just outside the cabin, he found Doria staring at him with hard eyes.

  “You heard?” he asked.

  “Did you have to be so cruel?”

  “You heard what attacked Feather Island?”

  Doria’s expression softened slightly. “The results don’t always justify the methods.”

  “What if Feather Island was attacked, not by a neodemon, but by a demon from the Ancient Continent? What if the River Thief wasn’t lying?”

  Doria only frowned.

  “Not to mention the imperial forces somewhere in the bay? Still think I was too cruel?”

  “You weren’t actually going to give her the canker curse, were you?”

  “I hope not, my old friend. I hope not.” He shook his head. “But I just don’t know.” He started down the hall. “See that the prisoner is not in any pain, but do not forget to keep her bound and censored.”

  “Yes, my Lord Warden,” Doria said coldly to his back.

  Nicodemus pressed a hand to his face and blew out a long breath. War. It was going to be war. Either with the empire or with the demons of the Ancient Continent. He didn’t know which was worse.

  His train of thought stopped when he heard a sudden exhalation. Then a wooden thump. He looked up and saw that he was passing by Rory’s cabin. There came a muffled groan as if in pain. Farther down the hall stood two sailors, both looking at the cabin with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

  “What is it?” Nicodemus asked.

  “We saw the Lornishman heading this way,” one of them whispered.

  “Fiery heaven,” Nicodemus swore. This was the last thing he needed. Couldn’t Rory and Sir Claude put their damned stupid feud aside for one bloody moment? Nicodemus kicked the door open ready to break up the fight and deliver a blistering tirade. “CREATOR DAMN IT ALL,” he began to bellow.

  He was therefore shocked to discover that the two men with arms locked around each other were not trying to kill each other. They were kissing.

  Passionately.

  The tirade froze in Nicodemus’s throat. Rory’s eyes turned to Nicodemus and bulged. He leapt away from Sir Claude, tripped over his hammock, and avoided falling only when the knight caught him by the waist.

  Sir Claude looked at Nicodemus with a calm expression of challenge. But Rory’s face became a mask of shame. In fact, the druid was looking past Nicodemus and into the hallway to see if anyone else was there.

  Suddenly the events of the past months reshuffled themselves in Nicodemus’s mind: the rivalry between Rory and Sir Claude, the words seemingly spoken in anger, Sir Claude’s insistent renewal of the conflict, the few times both men had been missing together, and now Rory’s obvious desire to keep what had just happened secret. The reshuffle completed. Nicodemus understood. Both of them wanted it, but only one of them wanted it hidden.

  Nicodemus cursed himself as a fool for not seeing it earlier and then became acutely aware of the sailors in the hallway. Reflexively, he stepped into the cabin and slammed the door to keep anyone from seeing.

  He looked at Rory. Rory looked back at him with fear. They both looked at Sir Claude, who only shrugged. Then Rory looked at the door behind Nicodemus, obviously thinking of the sailors who would be listening on the other side.

  Nicodemus doubted the sailors would care if they found out about the two men; Ixonians were accepting in that regard. But Rory was Dralish, and in the South such relations were illicit. Rory, like most in his culture, would want to keep such affections private. So Nicodemus didn’t want to reveal … But now he had to … How could he …

  Suddenly it came to him. Nicodemus raised his voice. “CREATOR DAMN IT ALL,” he bellowed. “HOW IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS DIVINE CAN YOU TWO KEEP UP A GOD-OF-GOD’S DAMNED CHILDISH FEUD AT A TIME LIKE THIS?”

  But of course this was the best time to be together. When better than after the trauma of battle to seek comfort in a lover’s arms?

  Nicodemus continued to yell. “I HAVE HAD IT UP TO MY EYEBALLS WITH YOUR FIGHTING!” Nicodemus paused, unsure what to say next.

  Rory nodded vigorously. “Keep going,” he mouthed. “Keep going.”

  Sir Claude rolled his eyes.

  “THIS IS THE LAST GOD-OF-GOD’S DAMN TIME I AM GOING TO CATCH YOU TWO KIS—” Nicodemus stopped himself. “KICKING EACH OTHER WHEN YOU’RE DOWN.” He improvised.

  Rory kept nodding vigorously. Sir Claude shook his head.

  “SO…” Nicodemus yelled, “I AM ORDERING YOU TWO TO STOP FIGHTING. AND … uhh … BY MY COMMAND THE TWO OF YOU ARE CONFINED TO THIS CABIN. YOU’RE GOING TO WORK THIS OUT LIKE CIVILIZED MEN. AND WHEN YOU COME ON DECK IN CHANDRALU, WE WILL HAVE PEACE. IF YOU DON’T I WILL PERSONALLY … um … WRING YOUR GOD-OF-GOD’S DAMNED NECKS UNTIL YOU COUGH UP BLOOD.”

  Sir Claude made a wry face and mouthed, “Cough up blood?”

  Nicodemus shrugged. “AM I UNDERSTOOD?” he yelled.

  “Yes, Nicodemus!” Rory answered quickly.

  Sir Claude was rolling his eyes again, but Rory jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

  “Ouff!” Sir Claude said before, “Yes, my lord.”

  Nicodemus looked at the two men. “What now?” he mouthed.

  “Go out,” Rory whispered. “Slam the door. Throw your hands in the air. Act annoyed.”

  Sir Claude looked at Rory with an expression of disbelief that mellowed into a begrudging smile.

  So Nicodemus stormed out of the cabin, slammed the door, and threw his hands in the air. “Damn Lornish and Dralish men and their damn stupid rivalry!” he announced for the now more sizable audience of eavesdropping sailors. Really, he was going to have to convince Rory that no one aboard would care if they knew. But for now Nicodemus put on his most annoyed expression and marched up onto the deck.

  Once out in the open, looking out on blue tropical waters, Nicodemus smiled. How had he not seen it? He couldn’t wait to tell Doria. But then his smile wilted. Could he tell Doria if Rory didn’t want anyone to know? Could he even tell Francesca?

  Nicodemus looked astern and saw John leaning on the railing and looking down into the water. He had a sudden urge to join his old friend and reminisce about years ago, when they had both been so young, boys at play in Starhaven.

  He couldn’t do that. He had to focus on the present situation. So he took a long breath. What kind of a man had he become? One moment he was contemplating torturing a woman; the next he was worrying about helping his comrades hide an affair.

  With a start Nicodemus realized that he was still holding the cloth-wrapped remains of his prisoner’s fingers. He flinched as he thought of what he had threatened to do. After a moment longer, he dropped the fingers into the bay.

  As the nightmarish remains sank below the waves, Nicodemus wondered if he had a bit of a demon inside of him. Maybe all men did. But at least, amid chaos and blood, there was the potential for something better. Rory and Claude had found that potential, or so he hoped.

  He looked off toward the bright city of Chandralu, the extinct volcano beyond. About twenty days ago, he had been atop that volcano, in the Pavilion of the Sky to cast his metaspell. He had thought then that his visit to the islands would be unremarkable, the usual politics, the usual intrigues that somehow kept the peace between league and empire.

  But now … now it seemed the rules were changing. War would come to this
bright city. Perhaps he would need to cast his metaspell again far sooner than he expected.

  The keloid scar on Nicodemus’s back began to itch, likely because he was thinking of the Emerald. Idly, he scratched the scar and wondered once again at the prophecies. Both empire and league claimed that their champion was the Halcyon and that of the other was the Storm Petrel. He had anguished for so long about what he might truly be. But now he began to wonder if perhaps neither he nor his half-sister were inherently savior or destroyer. If war were coming, then surely the survivor would claim to be the Halcyon and bend history to suit.

  Just then a white seabird flew overhead. Nicodemus sighed. Turned his thoughts back to his family and his friends—Rory and Sir Claude.

  Yes, bloody times were coming, chaos was coming, a test of character and prophecy. But within all that was coming would be the most important struggle: the fight to protect the best of human potentials.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the infirmary’s morgue, Francesca tried to keep her composure as she stared at the horror of the dead woman’s uterus.

  For reasons unknown, medical custom dictated that among physicians confronting a medical mystery, the most senior among them must interrogate her juniors about said mystery so as to maximize their education. Sadly, most senior physicians only maximized their juniors’ embarrassment.

  Although Francesca had learned much—especially regarding romance and parenthood—from educational embarrassment, she thought the ritual interrogation of junior physicians was a God-of-gods damned stupid custom. However, the sudden stillness in the morgue announced the crowd’s expectation that she execute said God-of-gods damned stupid custom upon some poor soul regarding the dead woman.

  “Magistra D’Valin,” Francesca asked Ellen, because interrogating a physician not in her service would be impolite, “what is a teratoma?”

  “A teratoma is a rare tumor of the ovaries,” Ellen replied in a voice steadier than Francesca had expected. “They are encapsulated and sometimes contain hair, skin, teeth, nerves, or bone. There are few reports of teratomata containing complete eyeballs or miniature limbs.”

  “Correct,” Francesca said. “Magistra Ubo raised the possibility that this disease is divine in origin. Before we accept that, we must rule out mundane disease. So, are these findings consistent with a teratoma?”

  “No, Magistra.”

  “Please describe the relevant findings.”

  “This was a young female, appearing approximately twenty years of age, well developed, well nourished, very pale. A Y-shaped incision has been cut, starting at both shoulders and meeting below the sternum before traveling down to the pelvis. The abdominal wall has been reflected to reveal a gravid uterus, larger than expected for a full-term pregnancy. The uterus has been dissected along its lateral aspects and reflected superiorly to reveal that the muscular wall of the uterus contains successive rows of large, well-formed, and serrated teeth.”

  Francesca cleared her throat again. “I am impressed by the levelness of your tone, Magistra. I admitted to Magistra Ubo that the findings disturb me. You are unimpressed?”

  “On the contrary, Magistra, if the soul were capable of regurgitation, I would be projectile vomiting spiritual mess.”

  “It is strangely reassuring to hear that even you are affected, Ellen. Is there anything about the findings you find particularly striking?”

  “The serrated teeth embedded in the uterus are far too large to be human.”

  “An interesting observation, Magistra. Is that why you believe these findings are not consistent with a teratoma?”

  “One among several reasons. Teratomas are tumors of the ovaries, whereas these findings are within the uterus. Moreover, teratomas are classically described as encapsulated, which these teeth are not, horrifyingly so. And while there have been many reports of teratomas containing human teeth, I am not aware of any report of a teratoma growing non-human teeth or non-human tissue of any kind.”

  “Magistra, I find no flaws in your logic.” Francesca turned to Dean Sarvna. Idiotically and paradoxically, medical custom dictated that an interrogation end by inviting other senior physicians to continue it. “Magister, is there anything you should like to add?”

  “No, I am most impressed by your student. Clearly, she had an excellent teacher. I would agree that this is a most troubling case of divinopathophysiology.”

  Grateful that Sarvna had not prolonged the interrogation, Francesca gestured to Magistra Ubo, who mercifully covered the nightmare of muscle and teeth with a sheet. Francesca looked at the young physician. “You said that the mother did not know what happened to her child?”

  Magistra Ubo nodded.

  “What has been done to locate the child?”

  The young physician glanced at Dean Sarvna. “Nothing, Magistra.”

  “Does the infirmary still provide the city’s orphanages with a physician?”

  “We do, Magistra,” an older physician in blue robes said from behind the dean. “I oversee that service.”

  She nodded to the man. “Do you know if any of the city’s orphanages have, in the past two days, received a male infant? Perhaps one who seemed semi-divine or sustained unusual lacerations during delivery?”

  The man shook his head. “The orphanages have not taken in any new infants.”

  “None?”

  “Our only new ward is a boy judged to be of about four years. He was abandoned at the royal orphanage of New Village yesterday morning.”

  Francesca turned to Magistra Ubo. “You said the woman likely came from the Pillow House, which is in New Village?”

  The young physician nodded.

  “The child seems too old. It is not much of a connection, but it is all we have.” Francesca paused before nodding first to Ubo then Sarvna. “Magistra, Magister, thank you both for this potentially vital discovery. I must investigate immediately; however, you can be assured that I am grateful and will do everything I can to champion your cause to the Council of Starfall.”

  Sarvna, his pudgy face brightening, prattled away about his plans for the infirmary. He repeated his offer to provide her with a tour of the grounds, but Francesca was already retreating toward the exit. After more rounds of bowing and formalities, Francesca and her followers escaped onto Plumeria Way.

  After the morgue’s dim and quiet horror, the city street presented to her synesthetic mind a blaze of color and sound: the sunbright whitewashed houses, two girls arguing in shrill sallow voices, the distant shimmering sapphire bay, the rich brown rhythmic thudding of an elephant plodding past. Life in its every hue. Francesca paused to take in a long breath and then asked her followers, “So, what have we learned?”

  Tam opened his mouth but Kenna shook her head slightly. He started to frown but she raised her hand. They looked at each other and then a Francesca. With synchronized movements, they shrugged.

  Ellen spoke. “Regarding what is happening politically in Chandralu, we’re still clueless. But perhaps we could conclude that there’s an entanglement between your mysterious sea deity and the prostitutes of Chandralu? Perhaps.” She paused, frowned. “But personally the only thing I learned was that I’m never ever getting into bed with a divinity.”

  “Ever the astute student, Ellen.”

  Ellen studied her. “Thinking about your daughter?”

  “Always,” Francesca said as she watched a thin old man push a cart of taro root down the street.

  “Magistra, perhaps you are being too hard on yourself.”

  “There’s no loathing like self-loathing.”

  “Does Leandra know you torture yourself like this?”

  Francesca sucked in a long breath. “I hope not; she’s got enough problems of her own. Come on.” She led them back through Sacred Regent Plaza and then down the Lily Steps. The cloud which had been raining on the city had floated off over the bay and presently was dropping a curtain of rain onto the water.

  The Lily Steps were narrower than the Jacaran
da Steps and less crowded. To their right stretched the Lotus District, which was veined with civic streams and tranquil pools. To their left stood the Brightside District, where the most powerful families of the Sea People had built their expansive compounds. The three terraces of Brightside curved away to end on a tall sea cliff, atop which stood the temple-mountain of the Sea Temple. Far below that beautiful structure would be the rotting streets of the Naukaa.

  Francesca took long slow breaths and tried to focus on the sky, the steps before her, anything to get the nightmare uterus out of her mind.

  She found herself staring at the Sea Temple, dark and cool in the morning’s gathering heat. She had always admired temple-mountains, which were uniquely Ixonian architectural achievements. They consisted of a wide central, octagonal tower that rose nearly one hundred and fifty feet before tapering into a series of spires. Each temple-mountain was a stylistic representation of Mount Ixram, the massive volcano on the island’s north side. It had been the Ixonian pantheon’s first home when the Trimuril fused the three cultures together to fight off the crumbling First Neosolar Empire.

  At the bottom of the Lily Steps they turned right and continued on to Lily Way, which occasionally rose into gentle bridges as it crossed many civic streams. When Francesca’s predecessor had trained in Chandralu, the street had been a spacious place where the wealthiest Lotus families built long compounds around tranquil lily ponds. But about a hundred years ago, the Lower Gate had been built that provided direct access to the New Village, which stood directly below the city walls. As a result, shops and merchant stalls proliferated along Lily Way. Buildings independent of any compound had sprung up to loom over the street. At points, the way grew so narrow that Francesca could have stretched out her arms and touched either side of the street.

  The Lower Gate had once been a fortified sluice through which the district’s water flowed down a few tumbling waterfalls to the bay. A narrow land gate had been built next to the sluice. Francesca watched as Ellen shouted bright green and blue words over the white roar of water to one of the guards, asking for directions to the royal orphanage. He shouted back, bright orange words, and pointed.