Now the goddess’s warm hand sparked Francesca back into motion. Her physician’s reflexes returned. Suddenly she was hurrying over the rocky shore. Often she slipped and had to bend down to put her hands on a rock to steady herself. Ahead, Nicodemus had moved out from under Leandra and was cradling her head in his lap, saying something to her.
It took a small eternity to reach the pair. Deep down, Francesca knew her daughter was dead, but something made her kneel beside her daughter and check for breath or a pulse. There was none. She pushed Nicodemus aside and began to compress her daughter’s chest. A little water spilled from Leandra’s mouth. Francesca tilted Leandra’s head back and blew two breaths into her lungs. Then she went back to chest compressions. Dimly she was aware of Nicodemus and Dhrun beside her.
Time stretched out, every moment an eternity. Francesca gave her daughter two more breaths and then went back to pushing on her chest. It was only when she felt one of her daughter’s ribs break that the vitality ebbed out of Francesca like wine from an overturned bottle.
Then she was in Nicodemus’s arms and weeping. She wrapped her arms around her husband, pulled him into her with all her strength.
Grief shook Francesca in obliterating paroxysms, again and again until nothing seemed to be left of herself. Then she pulled away from her husband to dry her face and breathe deeply.
Nicodemus closed Leandra’s eyes, straightened her wet hair and clothes. In one hand he found a silver chain attached to a shattered emerald. He held the broken pieces in his palm. At first he stared at them with numbed sorrow, but then he frowned.
With the muscles of his forearm, Nicodemus forged an intricate Numinous paragraph and then cast it into the air. It hung and rotated slowly. Francesca recognized the paragraph as a complex governing spell used to coordinate the action of several subspells. It was difficult prose, the kind of thing that Nicodemus’s cacography prevented him from writing. Francesca supposed that although the Emerald was shattered, it still conferred great ability.
But then Nicodemus dropped the broken emerald onto Leandra’s lap. Impossibly, he reproduced the same Numinous spell.
Francesca blinked. “You shouldn’t be able to do that.”
“I shouldn’t,” he agreed and then wrote two Magnus subspells and edited them into the governing Numinous text. The resulting hybrid spell folded itself into a conformation that Francesca did not recognize, but the spell’s function was unimportant. “I shouldn’t be able to write this.”
“No…” she agreed. They both looked at Leandra. “She removed your cacography?”
“More than that,” a creaking voice said into Francesca’s ear; “she’s removed everyone’s cacography.”
Francesca looked up and saw the Trimuril’s true incarnation standing a few feet away. Despite enduring the chaos of the whirlpool, the goddess seemed no different: short, androgynous, six arms, shaved head, slight potbelly, infuriating smile.
“Traitor!” Nicodemus snarled while leaping to his feet. He made a lunge for the goddess, but she jumped backward and landed with perfect poise on a bolder seven feet away. Nicodemus, however, slipped on a rock and had to put both hands down before he could stand again.
“That’s no way to start a new game,” the voice of Ancestor Spider creaked in Francesca’s ear, while the Trimuril’s incarnation bowed.
“Game?” Nicodemus growled and took two awkward steps toward the goddess. “You betrayed us to the empire.”
Ancestor Spider laughed. “Oh, I did not betray you to the empire.”
Now it was Francesca’s turn to laugh. “You can’t expect us to believe you didn’t know the Sacred Regent and the empress were talking.”
The Trimuril’s smile did not waver. “I did not betray you to the empire, I merely thought I was betraying you.”
Francesca glared. “You’ll forgive us if that doesn’t exactly improve our opinion of you.”
“I will forgive you then. It’s not your good opinion I’m hoping for, but your help in completing your daughter’s plans.”
Nicodemus stopped. “What in the burning hells do you mean?”
“I thought I was betraying your family to the empire. It was going to be a simple exchange. They get you; we get to survive. Waiting for Lorn or Dral to send a fleet would have been too great a risk. What would be the point of preserving the league if it meant our destruction? So we discussed the possibility of selling you to the empire.”
“You could have told us,” Francesca growled.
“And what would you have done differently? Perhaps you would have been more patient about trying to smuggle Leandra out of the city, but in the long run that wasn’t going to make a difference. You needed to put her ahead of the kingdom. In any case, the Sacred Regent and I thought we were being clever. We thought we were hiding our treachery. It was going to take time. We had no contact with the empress and, far worse, we had no way of knowing if we could subdue Leandra. She was Los Reincarnated, after all, not someone you could simply knock on the back of the head and toss in a sack. That is when Magistra D’Valin came to us.”
“Ellen!” Francesca growled before remembering the conspiratorial glance that Leandra and Ellen had shared in the throne room … just before Leandra had broken free. “Where is Ellen?”
With one of her hands, the Trimuril pointed up the crater slope. They were almost directly below the tunnel that connected Chandralu to the Floating City. A crowd had gathered on the plaza before the tunnel. “Magistra D’Valin is with the survivors,” the Trimuril said through Ancestor Spider. “You four were the last out of the Floating Palace. Most everyone else had an easier time getting out of the water. Though, tragically, a few drowned.”
Francesca frowned at the crowd, which had divided itself into those of the empire and those of Chandralu.
The Trimruil continued to explain, “Magistra D’Valin came to us claiming that she had become Leandra’s personal physician and that she could orchestrate a bloodless capture of your entire family. We were skeptical of her allegiance, but then she revealed to us that she had been in contact with every powerful citizen of Chandralu who feared Leandra because she was Los. Ellen claimed that after watching Leandra paralyze Nicodemus, she had realized that the woman was too dangerous. She claimed to have been devoted to you, Francesca, but that your vision had been clouded by love for your daughter. It was Ellen who made contact with the empress and planned your betrayal … or so we thought.”
“So you thought?” Nicodemus repeated.
The Trimuril nodded. “You must now see that the whole thing was planned by Leandra.”
Francesca looked at her daughter’s corpse, so small in death, her features frail, her skin pale.
The Trimuril continued. “To change the world as she did, Leandra needed to obtain the Emerald of Arahest while on the Floating City. That is why she fooled us all.”
“Change the world?” Francesca asked.
“Ah, yes, Leandra’s legacy. It seems that she was correct when she pointed out that in her last life she had ended an epoch on the Ancient Continent and would soon end an epoch in this life. Leandra has made every living human being a spellwright.”
“She what?” Nicodemus asked.
“She has changed the nature of magical language so that it made itself part of humanity. Just as every child learns to speak without conscious effort, so now the whole world is learning to spellwright.”
“She didn’t change my cacography,” Nicodemus asked, in wonder, “she changed language?”
The Trimuril nodded. “There will no longer be such a thing as cacography. There will no longer be such a thing as illiteracy. Therefore I would bet that you no longer misspell Language Prime.”
Nicodemus’s face creased into concentration. Then he dropped into a crouch and began peering among the rocks. His hand darted down and then came up with a small black beetle. The hapless insect crawled along Nicodemus’s hand for an inch without bulging into a grotesque tumor. The beetle snapped open i
ts glossy carapace and, with a buzz of tiny wings, flew away. Nicodemus laughed.
Sudden understanding made Francesca’s eyes sting. She didn’t think she was making any noise, but when she looked up she found Nicodemus and Dhrun staring at her.
“What is it?” Nicodemus asked.
Francesca wiped away her fresh tears. “Lea found the third way out. We all thought that we had to choose between the empire and the league, but she took us all in a new direction. Now the imperial spellwrights won’t exploit illiterates, and there will be no proliferation of neodemons praying upon the powerless in the league.” She laughed. “There won’t even be an empire or a league.” She looked down at her daughter and her vision again blurred with tears. Francesca smiled because she was both happy and in horrible pain.
Ancestor Spider cleared a tiny throat in her ear. “That is the gist of things, yes, but maybe you go a bit far in suggesting there will be no league and no empire. At the moment, there are millions of newly made spellwrights who strongly believe in empire and league … which leads us to our present game.”
“I am getting sick of your games,” Nicodemus said flatly.
The Trimuril’s hands clapped in pleasure. “Oh, but this is not my game. This is Leandra’s game. You would not be playing for my sake. I trust you will never again do anything for my sake.”
“Not unless it involves inflicting excruciating pain upon you,” Nicodemus grumbled. “I might do that for your sake.”
“Precisely so,” Ancestor Spider agreed. “This is Leandra’s game. In an instant, she destroyed the systems of our world. Now we have to create new ones before things become … messy. And though I hate to disturb your bereavement, the whole archipelago now needs you to play a major role in this game.”
“How do you mean?” Nicodemus asked.
“On the other side of that tunnel is a city filled with terrified, wounded, and hungry souls who are even now discovering powers beyond anything they supposed they would ever wield. As spellwrights they will need divinities far less than before. When the people stop praying, there will be many desperate deities in all of the league’s kingdoms. More immediately, every soul in Chandralu harbors great animosity toward the empire for destroying their homes and killing their loved ones. That makes things a little precarious for the empress who is presently surrounded by guards up there.” The Trimuril gestured to the crowed plaza.
Then the Trimuril turned back to them. “Normally, I would not overly concern myself with the empress’s well-being; however, the empire now has millions of newly made spellwrights and their crops are failing. They will be looking to their monarch to provide order and security. Chaos in the empire could be dangerous for Ixos. So, after an intimate discussion with the Empress Vivian, I am committed to getting her quickly out of my kingdom and back into one of her own.”
“But why do you need us?” Leandra asked.
“In Chandralu, some are already declaring that the Halcyon Nicodemus, through the Creator’s grace, has created a miracle and given them the power of spellwrights. Other rumors speak of the dragon Francesca who has magically spread her protection over the city. And still others are whispering that the Lady Leandra is not the reincarnation of Los, as some ugly rumors have put out, but a prophet of the Creator who has brought a gift to the virtuous people of Chandralu in their time of need.”
“You want us to be figureheads?” Nicodemus asked in a tone that implied he would rather spend the rest of his life sucking hot tar.
“In a manner of speaking,” the Trimuril replied. “The people need leaders who will prevent further bloodshed. The people would follow your family.”
Francesca looked at Nicodemus. The muscles of his jaw flexed and she could tell his rage at the Trimuril was warring with his reason.
“Why not use the regent?” Francesca asked.
“The Sacred Regent is no longer with us. When the Floating City broke apart he fell into the water and was too weak to swim.”
Nicodemus made no sound, but Francesca said, “I am sorry to hear that,” even though she wasn’t, not after his betrayal.
The Trimuril’s incarnation nodded as Ancestor Spider said “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I could not help but listen in when Leandra was suffering. I believe she would have wanted you to play her game and help the people of Ixos. What were her last words again?”
“‘Make them write it all new,’” Nicodemus said gruffly and then looked at Francesca. When she nodded, he glared at the Trimuril. “Very well, we will do what we can, but not without many reassurances from both you and my sister.”
The Trimuril bowed deeply. “The whole archipelago will be in your debt, and I will swear on the Creator’s name to anything you require. But perhaps we can discuss the specifics at a later time. The city is growing restless as we speak, and our window of time to maintain order may be closing. Might I send our hydromancers and red cloaks down to act as your escorts? The two of you might then climb up to the tunnel and negotiate with the empress.”
“Give us a little longer with our daughter,” Francesca said curtly.
“Of course,” the Trimuril said with another bow and began walking up the crater slope.
Francesca looked down at Leandra. She brushed her daughter’s cheek and became aware that Dhrun was standing beside her. The goddess’s face was tight with pain. She had loved Leandra as well. Knowing this both increased Francesca’s sorrow and her solace.
Nicodemus knelt on Francesca’s other side and took her hand. With an exhausted heart, Francesca leaned into him and was grateful when he embraced her. In the circle of his arms, she let the tears come again as she thought of her daughter’s imperfect life, of all that she had fought for, of all that she had loved.
Sorrow filled Francesca as she remembered the pain that Leandra had known and inflicted. At the same time, gratitude filled her as she marveled at the change her daughter had wrought.
EPILOGUE
Once a life was spent searching for a greatly desired thing. At times it was found, at times lost. Sometimes it was forsaken. Along the way there was blood and love and desire and disgust—which is to say nothing of the monsters or the demons or the long hours of lonely reflection. Those things, they were all difficult to survive. But there were also moments of profound wonder and joy, but not enough of those. Never enough of those.
With age, the soul in question came to a series of important, if perhaps not quite profound, realizations. Chief among them was the understanding that a greatly desired thing found, lost, or forsaken turns out to be less important than the act of searching for it. Another not-quite-profound realization was that while the young might die, the old must. That one was both true and growing truer every year.
So it was with solemnity and gratitude that the soul in question entered the autumn of its life, knowing that too soon its search would end.
* * *
In the first lecture theater built on the Ancient Continent in millennia, Nicodemus gave the day’s last lesson. It was a plain but functional room—wide ceiling windows let in late-afternoon winter sunlight, and the terraced seats rose steeply to thirty feet. The theater’s sheer geometry ensured that even the tardiest students could sit close enough to peer down upon the demonstration of the varied aspects of spellwrighting.
At first, Nicodemus disliked the theater; it felt like he was lecturing in a pit. But this particular class had an infectious enthusiasm. The subject was subtextualization and the gleaning of subtext. Nicodemus wrote out five light-bending paragraphs, each in a different language, then demonstrated what diction and sentence structure would hide the prose.
The class was appropriately impressed as each of the paragraphs vanished. Nicodemus briefly described how they might visualize even subtextualized prose, but the students were too eager to attempt their own subtextualizations to listen carefully.
So he instructed the students to write their own passages and hide them from each other. Afterward they were to transcribe the
successful subtexts onto paper. He would not let a single student go until everyone had turned in a subtext.
The students started spellwrighting and Nicodemus set to massaging his sore hip. There was more silver than black now in his hair. Many years had passed since his daughter had changed the world. Now in his eighties, Nicodemus was by no means old for a spellwright, but the cares of age were beginning to weigh upon him.
He and Francesca had served the decaying league and empire for more than a decade. They had striven for the world Leandra would have wanted. The old orders had crumbled and new ones had arisen. The years had produced tumults: revolutions, riots, wars, and plagues. Many of the old problems had reincarnated themselves in different manifestations. But even so, the six human kingdoms had reinvented themselves with far less bloodshed than one might have expected.
Nicodemus doubted that either Francesca or he could claim credit for much, or perhaps any, of the resultant success. Others were more than willing to attribute it to them, which led many to believe that they—along with Vivian—had gathered too much power. So several years ago, the political maneuvering and intrigue to remove them began.
Vivian had kept something like her empire together; Spires had quickly fractionated into two kingdoms, only one of which chose to remain loyal to her. Still, Vivian, with Lotannu and Cyrus at her side, had fought with all her wit and cunning to stay in the currents of politics.
For their part, Nicodemus and Francesca had been more than happy to relinquish power. In fact, after much discussion, they had decided to exile themselves. A society dedicated to returning to and resettling the Ancient Continent had formed in Chandralu. Francesca and Nicodemus had happily joined—she with the intention of founding the first infirmary on the new old land, he with a similar intention for an academy.
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