Above her a red cloak thrust a spear at Dhrun. He caught the shaft with his two lower hands while striking the red cloak’s face his upper hands. Dhrun pulled the spear from the red cloak’s hands and spun it around his waist while shoving the man into the red cloak behind him. Instantly Dhrun lunged at another red cloak, turning the other man’s spear with his upper hands and driving his own spear into the man’s gut with his lower.
Leandra fought to her feet. Sir Claude would be frozen in his armor until he extemporized enough text to restore its fluidity. But Rory had pulled a wooden button from his sleeves. Blue flames danced from his fist. Leandra leapt upon him, dispelling his every text. So long as she held on to him, he was not a spellwright but only a man.
Nevertheless he was a man with nearly a foot of height and a hundred pounds on her. He slammed his elbow into her jaw. Light flashed across her vision and the world spun. Then she was on her back and looking up at Rory who had pulled another button from his robes. The blue flames again erupted from his fist. He made to strike Leandra, but a spear struck a glancing blow against his hip and he staggered back.
Ten feet away, Dhrun recovered from his spear throw and ran at Rory. Somehow Sir Claude freed himself enough to step in front of the god. With a bellow, Dhrun slammed all his hands into the knight’s breastplate.
Sir Claude went tottering backward until his lower back struck the staircase’s banister. His momentum tipped him back. With his upper body still immobilized within steel, he could not bend or grasp the railing. He flipped over the rail and fell.
A horrible scream filled the pavilion as Rory fell on Dhrun. Both the druid’s fists blazed with blue flames that spread down Dhrun’s body whenever a blow landed. But as Rory brought another roundhouse punch down, Dhrun turned to catch the blow with his upper hands and with his lower hands he grasped the man, pivoted his hips, and threw him to the ground. The floorboards buckled. The druid moved his legs weakly but did not get up.
“Go!” Leandra shouted and turned to see how Holokai was faring. Immediately she regretted it. The hall was strewn with bodies and blood. The twin druids were fleeing down the hallway as Holokai crouched over one of the bodies. His eyes were black and cold, his face a mask of blood, his leimako covered in gore.
“Kai, not now!” she yelled. “Come on!”
The shark god looked up. His mouth was all blood and teeth.
Leandra turned around. Rory lay on the ground, groaning. Dhrun stood over him, leveling a spear at this neck. The bodies of red cloaks lay all around. Leandra grabbed Dhrun’s arm and ran down the stairs.
The pavilion’s ground floor seemed empty. She led her gods out onto a nighttime street lit by torches and three-moonlight. After making sure that Dhrun and Holokai were beside her and unharmed, she looked back at her home of sixteen years. She might never come back.
Through the open door, she saw Rory stumbling down the staircase. Blood flowed from one eyebrow and his face was a contortion of terror. For an instant, Leandra feared that they would have to kill him too. But then he ran toward a crumpled body on the pavilion floor.
As she started off down the dark street, Leandra watched Rory kneel beside the body and try to turn it over. Steel glinted on arms still frozen. When the knight had struck ground head first, the weight of his armor had snapped his neck.
It was a pity.
She had rather liked Sir Claude.
* * *
Francesca jerked awake, stumbled backward. Her hands flailed, pulled taut a silver sentence connected to Nicodemus’s breathing apparatus. The runes strained, snapped. A rush of air escaped the bellows, air that should have gone into Nicodemus’s lungs.
Beside Francesca, Ellen cried out and with quick fingers extemporized a few sentences to fit the spell back together.
“But I can…” Francesca started to say, but Ellen had already repaired the bellows. It contracted and Nicodemus’s chest rose.
“My lady, that is twice now,” Doria said behind her. “You won’t do your husband any good by falling asleep on another spell.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I haven’t been up that long. In training I stayed up for days in a row.”
“In training you didn’t take on a dragon’s form and survive several lightning strikes.”
“You have me on that one.” Her eyes stung.
Doria’s expression softened. “Magistra, you need to sleep.”
“But Nicodemus—”
“Will be fine. Besides, Magistra, your patient will need a well-rested physician if anything goes wrong.”
Feeling defeated, Francesca turned to the windows. All three moons had set. Three hours until dawn and the city was dark. She looked from Ellen working on Nicodemus’s breathing spells to Doria’s stern expression.
Nicodemus lay still as death. His heart continued to beat without sign of arrhythmia. That at least was a mercy. She had bound his brain up with censoring spells. Regaining consciousness while paralyzed would surely drive him mad.
With Doria and Ellen’s help, Francesca had written three copies of every text needed. Nicodemus gradually dispelled all texts in contact with him. Though the other women could not touch Nicodemus, they could replace the decaying spells. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Francesca asked.
“No,” Ellen answered flatly as she worked the bellows, “but if we’re not okay, we’ll scream loud enough for you to hear.”
Doria rolled her eyes. “My lady, go lie down. We’ll fetch you at the first sign of trouble.”
Francesca looked at her husband’s slack face and then nodded. She felt the familiar combination of hunger and the nausea of sleep deprivation. She took a lamp and made her way to the hall.
She found two men sitting vigil. Both stood. In the lamplight she could make out John’s large face, anxiety written in his eyes. Beside him stood Rory, looking more like a ghost than a man. His red eyes filled with tears upon seeing Francesca.
John started to ask something but then noticed the other man’s expression and placed a large hand on his shoulder.
Francesca, numb with exhaustion, waited while Rory cried. The poor soul, to lose a lover just when they were setting out on life together.
The sight filled Francesca with selfish fear. She prayed that Nicodemus would not leave her in such a state.
Rory was angrily wiping his eyes and muttering apologies.
“No apologies, Rory,” she said levelly. She felt more composed now that there was someone who needed her to feel composed. “This is a night of sorrows; we’ll get through it together.”
The weeping man nodded, sniffed, looked at her with eyes that reflected the lamplight.
“How is…” John asked. “How is Nico?”
“He seems stable but we don’t know how much longer he will be paralyzed … or what he will be like if he recovers. I’m sure now Lea used tetrodotoxin. No known antidotes. There’s nothing to do but wait for it to wear off.”
John nodded. “Can we help?”
She shook her head. “Sleep if you can.” She looked at Rory, who nodded as his face went slack.
For most of the night, Francesca had focused on Nicodemus, breaking only to confer with the Trimuril in her spider incarnation. However, as she had worked, Francesca had overheard the others talking about how Rory had gone into rages, swearing to revenge himself on Dhrun and then collapsing into sorrow. Francesca couldn’t blame him. She hoped he could cry himself into enough exhaustion to sleep. “I’m going to lie down.”
After John and Rory said their good nights, Francesca walked toward the nearest bedroom. A tangle of emotions washed through her. She had been so worried about Leandra trying to kill her that she never considered what it would be like if she killed Nicodemus. For the thousandth time, she wished Leandra had poisoned her rather than Nicodemus.
She had to stop Leandra from going to the empress. Vivian wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. The Trimuril had agreed with her on this point. Francesca didn’t know how it could
be done, but she needed to bring her daughter back to Chandralu.
When Francesca reached the bedroom, she slid back the screen door. It was a small room with a neatly made cot, the sight of which sent a wave of exhaustion over her.
“Going to bed are we?” a dim gray voice, as that of a spider, squeaked in her ear.
Francesca took a deep breath. “Goddess, I am.”
“And how is your husband?”
“Nothing has changed. Nothing to do but wait and see. And, Goddess, have you found any sign of Leandra?”
“She and her gods got their catamaran out of the harbor before news of what happened reached me. None of the sea or sky deities have seen her. We shall continue to look.”
“And no sign of the imperial forces?”
“None. It’s as if the airship evaporated.”
Francesca nodded.
“Nicodemus should have let me win that game back in the Floating City and let me become Leandra’s mother.”
“I’m beginning to agree with you. And now, if you will excuse me, Goddess, I must sleep.”
“Very well. We will confer again in the morning. Good night.”
Francesca wished the goddess a good night and then waited long enough for the deity to turn her attention elsewhere. Then she blew out her kukui lamp and set it down. As she undressed, she did allow herself one small hope.
During Leandra’s exit from the tearoom, Francesca had managed to get ahold of Holokai. She had leaned in close enough to whisper to the shark god that if he didn’t return to Chandralu by sunrise with information of what Leandra was doing, she would kill Lolo.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Leandra stood on the catamaran’s forward deck, guilt and fear flowing like blood through her heart. Again she marveled at how precisely her emotions matched what she had felt through the godspell a day before. Surely this misery would persist until she learned if her gambit had saved her father or murdered him.
It was astounding that she could feel so horrible when the loveless spell was about her mind. She supposed that if she could feel love, the resulting heartache might kill her.
But what else could she have done? Tetrodotoxin had given her father a chance. And, miraculously, she had not tried to kill her mother; although now she might soon have the opposite concern.
The moons had set and left a lonely host of stars. To the east were the first hints of dawn. Not long until Keyway Island. Once her people were safe, Leandra could seek out the empress. She had been foolish to get involved with league and empire. Her destiny was to escape the conflict, to change how the world worked, not who ruled it. Such a task might be impossible. But if she weren’t trying to change the world, what was the point of living in it?
“Lea?”
A softly spoken voice broke her reverie. She turned to find Dhrun, still male but now wearing his scale armor vest and two swords. “Yes? What is it?”
He held up a long object wrapped in cloth.
Though they stood in dim starlight, Leandra could see Dhrun’s face in detail. His skin had no pores, his iris no pigmented irregularities, his youthful beard no asymmetry. In a way, he was ideal because he was the incarnation of ideas. In a way, he was imperfect because of his flawlessness. But perfect or not, he was one of hers. That, she supposed, was what mattered.
As if sensing this sentiment, Dhrun smiled—a flash of perfect white teeth, a dark handsome face.
It made Leandra laugh at his peculiarity. “Dhrun, what’s the matter?”
“I was just wondering if you were doing all right.”
“I’m doing all right.”
“But now I realize that I have missed your laugh; clearly, I must have come back here to hear your laugh.”
“Clearly. So, now have you heard it clearly enough?”
He only stared at her, but now he wore his old inscrutable smile.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, not this shit again.”
“Do you know why they named me Dhrun?”
“I’m willing to bet it has something to do with masculine wrestling idiocy.”
“Women wrestle too, you know.”
“Ah, but are they as idiotic as the men?”
“Probably not.” He smiled.
“So what does Dhrun mean? ‘Blazing-fist’? Or ‘Steel-muscles’? Or maybe ‘Balls-made-out-of-iron’?”
“I think I might adopt that last name, at least when I have them.”
“So what does Dhrun mean and what oh-so-opaque reason do you have for bringing it up?”
“It’s an ancient Lotus Culture word for the North Star. Not bad for a wrestling god who cannot be thrown or contorted by others to have a name that means ‘constant’ or ‘immovable.’”
“And ironic for someone who is constantly moving”—she gestured to Dhrun’s beard to demonstrate his present himselfness—“from one sex to another?” She waved her hand away in a gesture to his notional and future herselfness.
“Maybe ironic, maybe paradoxical, but it’s saved me. If all of my incarnations were about consistency and strength and wrestling … well, I doubt you would find me interesting.”
“Who says I find you interesting?”
“You do with your protestations of friendship. Do you remember, in the Floating City, after your disease flare?”
Leandra sighed. “Yes, sometimes I am such a bitch.”
He shrugged, conceding the point.
She continued. “And, yes, Dhrun, you are a good friend. And if you were all muscle and aggression, you’d be flat. I’ve had such gods in my entourage before, gods of war. They got carried away with the killing and the power. Too many martial requisites and too many destructive abilities. But you, my friend, have been a balanced and flexible asset.”
Dhrun pressed his lower palms together over his heart. “I was not aware that my lady had been appreciating my … assets.”
“You are showing them off lately. So, my constantly changing North Star, why are you bringing all this up?”
“We already established it was clearly to hear you laugh.”
“Clearly. But there’s clearly something else.”
His smile wilted. “What would my lady say the effects of the loveless spell have been?”
“That’s what this is about? You think the loveless is making me ruthless?”
“Making you? You were born ruthless enough to make a starving crocodile seem compassionate.”
“Oh, Dhrun, there’s clearly no need to resort to flattery.”
“Clearly.”
“So you think the loveless is making me more than ruthless? Coldblooded?”
“Since the sun went down, we’ve murdered your old lover, paralyzed your father, and killed his knight.”
Leandra look up at the swaths of starry sky. “Busy night.”
When Dhrun spoke again, he did so in a softer voice. “I can tell that you clearly find all this … regrettable.”
“Clearly.”
“I wonder if you haven’t lost something.”
“I’ve lost the ability to love.”
“Something more than that.”
“My disease has been cured. Clearly, you don’t object to that.”
“Who could object to such a thing?”
“It’s unclear. I wonder if you could.”
The wind ruffled Dhrun’s short curly black hair. “I never could, clearly.”
“But?”
“Is there something your disease taught you?”
She frowned. It wasn’t a question she had considered. “It made me look for something to fight. Maybe I wouldn’t care so much about the world’s unfairness otherwise.”
“You are different from others in power, different from your parents. I devoted myself to you because of how little you care for convention.”
“That’s not going to change because my disease is cured.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Dhrun, stop screwing around, why did you come?”
“I’ve
learned something I wish to tell you without the loveless spell on your mind.” He lifted the cloth-wrapped object he held in his lower two hands.
“What is it?”
“Will you not consider taking the loveless off?”
“There’s no Numinous author among us. I can’t take it off.”
“Your ability to misspell has only strengthened. You could misspell it.”
“But then I’d lose it forever.”
“So you won’t take it off?”
“Why do you want it off?”
“It has to do with … has to do with Holokai.”
“Look, I can’t have you two scrapping right now…” Her voice trailed off as his expression tightened. “What is it?”
“It’s not that. I wish it were. What I’m about to tell you … well … I don’t want to win this way.”
“Win what?”
“Your esteem.”
“I already hold you in esteem.”
“You hold him higher.”
She studied his face again, saw the tension around his mouth. “What happened?”
The god studied her, and she could see in him the youth who had become a champion wrestler. The way he was leaning toward her, the nervous movements of his eyes, it changed how she perceived him. For a moment she saw through the idealized divinity complex to a young man, struggling with complexities of character he had not known he possessed.
Dhrun reached out and took her hand. A resulting shock of information flooded through Leandra’s mind. He was no longer a young god, but an elegant body of living prose. He was a masterpiece, an epic.
More shocking was the realization that with a few casual thoughts, Leandra could disperse his central text, expand and then remove his subspells, take them for her own. Then she realized that Dhrun had said something. “What?” she asked, a little breathlessly.
“You’re sure you won’t take the loveless off?”
She blinked, rapidly adjusting to her double perception of the young god. “Dhru, tell me.”
Spellbreaker Page 36