Spellbreaker

by Blake Charlton

  The surprised murmuring grew louder. The Sacred Regent raised his hands. “There will be silence.” When the room quieted again, he motioned for Francesca to continue.

  She nodded. “Now I come to the gravest part of my news. The empire has long suspected that their deities are being smuggled into the league. Three years ago, they launched their own investigation, which eventually led them to Cree. It seems that all of the imperial spies in Cree had been seeking the refugee shape-shifter. When they were close to discovering their target, the shape-shifter killed them all. However, one of the spies managed to send a message to his handler in Warth, who has successfully left Dral and has made his way to Trillinon.”

  Behind Nicodemus, the murmuring rose again.

  “It is our belief,” Francesca continued over the din, “that this spy has already told the empress that the league is stealing imperial deities. As I am sure everyone in this room realizes, such news will incite the empress to immediate and violent action. For this reason, I met urgently with the Council of Starfall. It was agreed that immediate action was needed. The Council sent all available mundane and spellwright forces to the Spirish border in case of attack there. However, at that time, the Council received news that the Silent Blight caused crops to fail again in Verdant. Unless the empress can quickly secure surplus supplies of food, she will be facing a famine. So now, the empress has both political justification and a powerful incentive to invade Ixos. So the Council decided to send all available Southern deities of war to Ixos.”

  Francesca paused to draw breath. “I set sail immediately, and I fervently hope that several ships filled with the Southern war deities are even now sailing toward Chandralu. That my husband has discovered imperial scouts in the bay does not surprise me. It is my great fear that the empress will soon launch, if she hasn’t already, an attack on the kingdom of Ixos with the full force of the empire’s power.”

  * * *

  Vivian’s glorious golden-prose world tilted.

  Her hands, clutching the arms of her throne, told her that she was upright. Yet all around her, the master spell reeled. Then a vertiginous discovery: A subtle textual pressure had been cast against her master spell. Only a deity could write such a complex spell, and the only purpose of such a spell could be to find Vivian.

  Using the Emerald, Vivian adjusted her sentences to avoid the strange spell. A moment later her master spell righted itself. Nothing had been damaged. The interfering spell could not have detected her. The satisfaction of a puzzle solved bubbled through Vivian.

  But what deity was looking for her? And, for that matter, where was she? Vivian searched her mind for the name of a city and found nothing. She couldn’t even recall which kingdom she was in.

  Tension was building in her master spell, so she returned to editing. Casting and recasting, such intricate prose … Hours passed. Days passed, maybe …

  Vivian felt movement in the Numinous matrix. Lotannu had returned, so it seemed. She had not talked to Lotannu in … She could not recall. In fact, when Vivian tried to remember why she was casting the master spell, dull pain spread behind her eyes and tension gathered in the Numinous matrix.

  So she returned to editing. Surprisingly, the spell had little textual reserve, so Vivian redoubled her editing efforts as Lotannu approached. It felt as if she kept him waiting for another hour, but when she raised her hands and lifted her halo, Lotannu stood without sign of impatience. “Empress.” He bowed.

  “Hello again, old friend. Has the time come to end my master spell?”

  “Sadly, no. In fact only a few hours have passed since we spoke last.”

  “But…” Vivian struggled with the fog covering her recent memories but soon gave up. “Is something the matter?”

  “There has been an unexpected attack on our expeditionary forces. A dozen of our agents were hidden on Feather Island. All but one has been killed in a … puzzling … attack.”

  “Puzzling?”

  “The entire village was destroyed by a divinity. From the reports, it sounds like a volcanic god of madness.”

  “An Ixonian god? Has Nicodemus discovered us?”

  “I doubt the god was of the Ixonian pantheon. If he had been, he wouldn’t have indiscriminately attacked the village even if we had bribed the leaders. At the very least, he should have tried to take prisoners to interrogate.”

  “A neodemon then?”

  “Too powerful to be a young neodemon. Perhaps if the Ixonians were failing to contain their neodemons for several years we might see something this powerful.”

  “You don’t think…”

  “I do think.”

  “Well … then we would have either very good or very bad timing.”

  “I agree. Very bad if the volcanic god truly is an ancient demon and we attack Chandralu; in that case, we might be destroying our strongest ally right before the War of Disjunction.”

  She nodded, trying and failing to remember the specifics of their present situation. “Go on.”

  “But it could be very good timing if we stay our hand and the volcanic god is revealed to be the first demon. We might even catch Los unawares.”

  “Are there disadvantages to delaying?”

  “It increases the chances that Nicodemus might discover our purpose. And there’s the effect it has on you.”

  Vivian smiled and her thoughts and eyes wandered again up to her halo. “I don’t mind.”

  He bowed. “Empress, we must have you at full strength once the battle is joined, no matter who we are fighting.”

  “True. So, act now and incur unknown risks, or delay and do the same.”

  “It’s a dangerous situation.”

  “I want everything possible done to find this volcanic deity.”

  Lotannu bowed. “The orders have already been given.”

  “Of course they have, excellent as always, old friend. There is something you should know … I can’t tell you how long ago, but since we talked last there was some diffuse text, likely a godspell, that interacted with my master spell. I think it was a seek-and-find spell. I made the necessary adjustments to keep the master spell hidden.”

  “So if it is an ancient demon, he might be searching for us as we search for him?”

  “That or someone in Ixos is more suspicious than we previously thought.”

  “There is perhaps one action that might save us from the need to decide immediately.”

  “Well, don’t keep your empress in suspense.”

  “Leandra.”

  “If she became independent?”

  “It would reshuffle power in Chandralu without much weakening them. It would distract the Ixonians and your half-brother, reducing the likelihood they would discover us. All without impeding their ability to fight off an ancient demon.”

  “You can accelerate Leandra’s development?”

  He nodded. “But not without risks.”

  “Such as.”

  “The resulting redistribution of power might cause a regrettable clash within the family.”

  A headache was now throbbing through Vivian’s temples and she was starting to worry about the master spell. “Lotannu, I need to get back to spellwrighting. Speak plainly.”

  “If we empower her, Leandra might kill one of her parents. Or…”

  “Or?”

  “We might kill her.”

  Vivian took in a long breath, thought about what she owed to a niece she had never met, and what she owed to humanity.

  It didn’t take long.

  She reached for her halo and said, “Do it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Francesca’s news left the throne room silent, made Nicodemus’s heart flutter. The Trimuril froze as she spread the dire news through her pantheon by projecting herself into the consciousness of her most trusted divinities.

  “We must take immediate action,” the Sacred Regent announced and looked at the Trimuril, who gave him a twitching nod. “Before I issue orders to the fleet and a
rmy, how would the wardens counsel me?”

  Francesca bowed her head. “I have received a colaboris message from the Council of Starfall. They have failed to establish a correspondence with the empress, but if your excellency summoned the imperial ambassador, there might still be time for diplomacy.”

  The Sacred Regent nodded. “Done. What other counsel?”

  Nicodemus could think of nothing and looked to Leandra. For the first time, she glanced at him. In the flash of her wide brown eyes, he saw the little girl he had once known. But then her expression hardened and she turned back to the dais. “Your excellency, given that the perfect circle tattoo was found on the thugs in Chandralu and on Feather Island, I would like to resume my investigation.”

  “Your dedication is appreciated,” the Sacred Regent said; “however, the wardens will remain in the Floating City until a war council can be formed.”

  “But your excellency, I have avenues of investigation that must be pursued immediately.”

  “Then Dhamma will pursue them for you.”

  “I welcome the help of the goddess of justice, but I insist on the importance of my immediate return to Chandralu.”

  The Sacred Regent frowned. “I do not doubt their importance, but my decision stands.”

  “Your excellency, my loyalty to the Ixonian peoples prompts me to remark that my authority as a warden comes, not from the regency, but from the Council of Starfall.”

  Nicodemus started. The wardens did answer to an authority higher than any individual kingdom to reduce political manipulation. However, none of them had yet invoked this authority. Doing so now would test the Sacred Regent’s dedication to the league during a time of crisis. Nicodemus glanced at Francesca. Her expression fluctuated between surprise and anger.

  “Your excellency,” Nicodemus said, his mind racing, “perhaps I might—”

  “The Warden of Lorn,” Leandra interrupted, “obviously has great experience; however, he is not aware of the current situation in Chandralu.”

  Nicodemus stared at his daughter as she kept her gaze fixed on the Sacred Regent. Lea, what under heaven are you doing?

  “And what is the situation in Chandralu?” a thin spider voice asked in Nicodemus’s ear, and apparently Leandra’s ear as well. His daughter’s expression tensed as the Trimuril pressed all her hands together and bowed.

  “The situation is … fluid,” Leandra replied. “I require one more day’s investigation before reporting.”

  “Perhaps, this is something better discussed in private,” the Trimuril said, stepping forward with a fluid motion. The lack of jerkiness indicated that she was maintaining her soul continuously in her body. The Trimuril gestured with her uppermost two hands at Leandra.

  Nicodemus’s cheeks grew hot in a synesthetic reaction to unknown magical language. On the dais, the Trimuril’s smile wilted. She gestured again at Leandra, and the heat on Nicodemus’s cheeks doubled.

  Then Nicodemus understood what was happening: The Trimuril was attempting to communicate directly with Leandra through her godspells, but Leandra was protecting herself from the trickster’s manipulation by inducing a disease flare to misspell the godspells.

  “Divine Trimuril,” Francesca said, “perhaps I could help resolve this misunderstanding.”

  But the Trimuril made another gesture toward Leandra. Faint red flashes circled Leandra’s head. Nicodemus’s stomach clenched. Leandra’s dramatic disease flares caused those nearby to become fluent in whatever language she was working. Now Nicodemus was gaining the ability to see the goddess’s crimson language.

  “Sacred Regent, please intercede,” Nicodemus said, but the old man raised a hand in a gesture for silence. Beside him, the Trimuril again gestured toward Leandra.

  “Sacred Regent!” Nicodemus repeated. The crimson glow around his daughter’s head brightened. How long could Leandra keep this up? The flare would kill her.

  Nicodemus found himself on his feet. “Trimuril!” He stepped toward the dais, vaguely aware of forces shifting around him. Another step and a swarm of hydromancers and deities might descend upon him. The first to reach him would likely be tigerlike Tagrana.

  “Lea!” Francesca whispered. “Lea, stop this!”

  Nicodemus’s mind came alive with terrifying images of a draconic transformation. “Lea,” he pleaded. But when he looked at her, the crimson luminosity above her head dazzled his vision. “Trimuril,” he growled. The goddess’s stony lips had pressed into a frown of concentration.

  Nicodemus had always assumed that though his daughter’s ability to misspell was great, her disease limited what she could disspell. He had assumed that in a contest with the Trimuril, Lea would be overpowered. But now the goddess seemed unsure she could win.

  An unexpected twinge of pride moved through Nicodemus, but this twinge was soon lost in the realization that Leandra might get them all killed. “Lea, please,” he said in a softer tone and stepped toward her.

  He heard Francesca stand. “Trimuril,” she said in a threatening tone, “you will stop.”

  Nicodemus crouched beside his daughter. It was painful to look at the crimson light. “Lea, this is dangerous,” he whispered. “Baby, please…”

  “Trimuril!” Francesca barked.

  Nicodemus turned and through his spell-dazzled vision saw his wife moving toward the dais. If she reached it, there would be no going back. She would transform and the Creator alone knew who would survive that. Impossibly, the blaze of light from Leandra intensified. Francesca pointed at the Trimuril. This was it. If Nicodemus didn’t do something—

  “Game!”

  To Nicodemus’s surprise, the voice that had yelled that word was his own.

  “Game!” he repeated and faced the dais. “Trimuril, I’ll play your game!”

  The crimson blaze around Leandra winked out. Nicodemus found himself blinking at the potbellied Trimuril, who was still bowing slightly, but now her head was tilted with childlike surprise. “What was that?”

  “Your imitation game,” Nicodemus said. “I make my challenge.”

  Again each pair of the Trimuril’s hands clapped once, lowest to highest, happiness apparent on her face.

  Beside him Leandra swayed and put a hand on the ground. The god of wrestling went to her, and with three of his arms, steadied her.

  Francesca took Nicodemus’s arm and he felt a flush of gratitude for the support. He turned to her and saw that she was looking past Leandra to another one of their daughter’s followers: the muscular male deity with a shaved head. A shark god, if Nicodemus remembered correctly. “What is it?” Nicodemus asked faintly.

  Francesca seemed to come out of some deep thought. “Nothing. We … we just have to get out of this mess. What are you…” Her voice trailed off as she turned to realize that the Trimuril was now standing before them, leaning slightly to one side with her lowest arm bent as if it were being held by someone else. She was copying Nicodemus’s posture.

  “Good, good,” she said. “Now remember, you may make as many challenges as you like until you’re satisfied that I can perfectly imitate anything that you do.”

  Nicodemus looked at Francesca, but she only shook her head. So he turned back to the Trimuril. The goddess met his eyes right as he looked at her face. A strange mirror.

  His mind racing, Nicodemus stood up straighter and slowly removed his arm from Francesca’s. The Trimuril repeated his actions. What could he do that a trickster could not? He was the only living Language Prime spellwright, but the Trimuril had forbidden use of that language. There was nothing else unique about Nicodemus as a spellwright, unless …

  Nicodemus looked around and noticed a row of windows behind the dais that let in the bright tropical sunlight. Above each hung a tightly rolled curtain of dark blue silk. “Drop the curtains,” Nicodemus ordered. “This challenge will be played in darkness.”

  The Trimuril gave no indication that she had heard, but on the dais the Sacred Regent nodded. An attendant pulled a cord and th
e curtains fell, dropping the room into near darkness that was broken only by the bright orange aura of the goddess Tagrana. The regent asked the war goddess to withdraw.

  As the tigerlike deity left the room, Nicodemus undid his longvest and, reaching inside of it, pulled a tattooed shadowganger spell from his hip. The violet sentences wrapped around him. “Goddess, I don’t suppose you can hide in the dark as well as I can.” When the shadowganger enveloped Nicodemus in shadow, surprised murmuring filled the room.

  The Trimuril’s smile grew. “Let us see who can find whom.” The goddess sprang up as if to jump into the air but instead vanished.

  Nicodemus pulled several sentences from his belly and edited them into his shadowganger spell, reinforcing its sound-deadening paragraphs. His heart thundered as he worked and a wave of fatigue made his legs feel weak. So with extra care he stole away to the crowd of Ixonian dignitaries.

  For thirty years, Nicodemus had sharpened his skills at catching neodemons unaware. None had been as powerful as the Trimuril; however, if his prose were inspired, his reflexes sharp, and his luck strong, he would stand a chance.

  Nicodemus peeled paragraphs from his shoulder that covered his body with textual mesh to contain his body heat. He had learned the hard way that some deities—particularly those molded upon snakes, insects, and fish—could see heat.

  Next he pulled a text from his forearm that coiled into a wide breathing tube. The spell carried his breath down to his feet and then broke out into a wide alluvial fan that spread his exhalations out, making the heat and composition of his breath harder for deities to detect.

  Slowly, he stole among the crowd of kneeling dignitaries. Among their murmurings, he had a better chance of hiding. Again his legs ached with fatigue.

  Around him, the Ixonian dignitaries whispered. Heads were turning as they tried to discern where Nicodemus or the Trimuril had gone. Nicodemus bent his tired legs and put the weight on the balls of his feet. He had to be ready to jump away from anyone who might accidently bump into him.