Spellwright

by Blake Charlton

  “What he thought was a dying woman?”

  “She was already dead, but her body was still filling itself with a virulent Numinous misspell. The gargoyle, having secondary cognition, assumed she was still alive and took her to the deputy provost of libraries. She, in turn, reported to the provost, who related the information to me.”

  Shannon paused. “You said this woman fell from the Spindle?”

  “So it seems. What can you tell me of the bridge?”

  Shannon wondered how much information he should share. Amadi had leaped to the top of the sentinel ranks, and such a feat would be impossible without the support of several factions that despised Shannon. He decided to share only common knowledge until he knew more.

  “You seem troubled,” Amadi said. “Is it odd that this woman was on the Spindle?”

  “Surpassingly odd,” he said at last. “According to the historians, the Chthonic people built the bridge not long after they finished Starhaven. But it leads nowhere. Spans nearly a mile of air only to run into a cliff. The Chthonics did cut beautiful designs into the rock. Just north of the bridge’s end is a foliate pattern-ivy leaves, I believe-and south is a hexagonal pattern.”

  “Any explanation for the carvings? Or the bridge itself?”

  Shannon shrugged. “Folktales about the Chthonics building a road to a paradise called Heaven Tree Valley. Supposedly when the Neosolar Empire began to massacre the Chthonics, their goddess led them to the Heaven Tree and dropped a mountain on the road. Some say the Spindle once led to that road.”

  “Any evidence to support such a tale?”

  “None. But every so often, the historians probe the mountainside with text, trying to open the way to the Heaven Tree. They’ve found only rock.” He paused. “Do you think the murder is connected to any of this?”

  The soft swish of moving cloth told Shannon that Amadi was shifting in her seat again. “Not that I can see,” she said and then sighed.

  Shannon paused before he spoke again. “Amadi, I am shocked and grieved by this tragedy. And yet… please don’t think me heartless, but I don’t want to become involved. I must think of my research and my students. Helping you might drag me into political situations. As I said, I am a different man than I was in the North. But if you refrain from mentioning my name, I’ll give whatever advice I can. But I’d still need to know the victim’s name.”

  A long pause. She spoke: “Nora Finn, the grammarian.”

  “Sweet heaven!” Shannon whispered in shock. Nora had been the Drum Tower’s dean and his fiercest academic rival.

  Instantly his mind spun with the possible implications of the murder. It might be an indirect attack by old enemies. It might also be connected to the restless guardian spells and Nicodemus’s prowler on top of the Stacks. That would make the Drum Tower the focus of the intrigue.

  Shannon fingered the asterisks on the spine of his journal. His enemies might hope to exact revenge by harming his students. His thoughts jumped to Nicodemus. The boy’s cacography had proven he was not the Halcyon, but Shannon’s enemies in Astrophell might have heard his name and so marked him as their target.

  Or, far less likely but more frightening, the boy might have some unknown connection to the Erasmine Prophecy. If that were so, then the fate of all human language would be in jeopardy.

  “Did you know Magistra Finn?” Amadi asked.

  Shannon started. “I’m sorry?”

  “Did you know Finn?” Amadi repeated patiently.

  Shannon nodded. “Nora and I both took care of the Drum Tower’s students. As the Drum Tower’s master, I see to our students’ residential matters. As the dean, Nora governed their academics. But these students don’t often study. I end up counseling the few who do advance to lesser wizards. Nora had little contact with them. Nora and I were both being considered for the same Chair. Rivals for it, I suppose.”

  “Go on.”

  Shannon paused. He dared not share more information with Amadi until he was certain of her allegiances.

  So he did what academics do best: he threw his hands in the air and began to whine. “This couldn’t come at a worse time, what with the convocation. How can the murderer be caught when everything’s in chaos? And my poor research! I can’t stop it now; I just sent a message to my apprentice.”

  Amadi exhaled slowly. “As I said, we hope the investigation will not disrupt the convocation.”

  “We? Amadi, shouldn’t the provost’s officers be conducting this investigation?”

  She cleared her throat. “Provost Montserrat himself instructed me to lead this investigation.”

  Shannon fingered the buttons on his sleeves. “Why should the provost appoint an Astrophell wizard to lead a Starhaven investigation?”

  “I carry a letter of recommendation from the arch-chancellor.”

  “I don’t doubt your qualification,” he said, though he did doubt her intentions.

  Amadi continued, “We must conceal this investigation from the delegates. They won’t be inclined to renew the treaties if they think a murderer is-”

  “Yes, Amadi, as you said. But why come to me? No doubt the provost’s officers could have told you about the Spindle Bridge.”

  A creaking came from Amadi’s chair once more. “Do you have a familiar?”

  “I already told you that I do.”

  “I would like to see the creature.”

  Shannon nodded. “Certainly. She’ll soon return from delivering a message to my apprentice. But Amadi, you’re investigating a murder; why do you want to see my familiar?”

  A long silence stretched out between them. At last the sentinel spoke in a low, controlled tone: “Because you are our primary suspect.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The figure robed in white jumped back nearly five feet and crouched.

  The speed with which it moved shocked Nicodemus. He was about to cry out when it stood and lowered its cowl to reveal a woman’s tan face.

  Her wide eyes gleamed green even in the bleaching white moonlight. Her smooth olive skin and narrow chin resembled those of a twenty-year-old girl, yet she held these youthful features in a calm expression of mature confidence. The waves of her raven hair spilled down around her face to disappear under her pale cloak.

  To Nicodemus, she seemed oddly familiar.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the woman asked sternly. “I am Deirdre, an independent emissary from the druids of Dral. I was told I had license throughout the fastness during the convocation.”

  “Your pardon, Magistra Deirdre. I didn’t know you were a druid.” He bowed.

  “Do not call me Magistra. Druids hold no titles.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked up and down Nicodemus like flames lapping at a dry log. She walked toward him. “Are you a wizard?”

  To her right, the air shimmered. A warm blush spread across Nicodemus’s cheeks. “Hoping to become one soon,” he replied.

  “An apprentice, then. Who is your mentor?”

  “Magister Shannon, the well-known linguist.”

  The druid seemed to consider this. “I have only recently become aware of Shannon.”

  Nicodemus nodded and then smiled. If he could impress this woman, it might help Shannon’s status in the convocation. It was a small thing, but perhaps then Magister would sooner forget the misspelled gargoyle.

  “May I assist you?” Nicodemus asked the druid and then bowed to the shadow on the druid’s right. “Or your companion?”

  Deirdre’s full lips rose into a sly half-smile. She examined Nicodemus, then nodded. “Forgive the subtext,” she said. “Kyran is my protector.”

  The shadow beside her welled up out of the ground and coalesced into a human figure whose cloaking subtext fell away, causing the moonlight to shimmer.

  Nicodemus nodded to the newcomer. Standing several inches over six feet, the man cut an imposing figure. He had undone the wooden buttons running down his white sleeves to better expose his muscular arms for spellwriting. His complex
ion was fair, his lips thin, his long hair golden. No wrinkles creased his handsome face; however, among spellwrights, that was not necessarily an indication of youth.

  In his right hand, Kyran held a thick oak staff. Nicodemus eyed the object; supposedly the druid’s higher languages gained special abilities when cast into wood.

  Deirdre was gazing about the Stone Court. “We wish to make devotions to our goddess. A wizard told us there were standing stones here, but these rocks are arranged neither in circle nor grid.”

  A nearby crocodile-like gargoyle crawled away, perhaps to find a quieter sleeping spot.

  “And you wizards have covered the stones with these strange stone lizards.”

  Nicodemus bowed. “Please excuse the disorder. The standing stones were a gift from a Highland lord. We do not know how they should be arranged. As for the gargoyles, they’re not lizards but advanced spells we call textual constructs. You see, Magnus, one of the wizardly high languages, can transform its textual energy into stone.”

  The druid smiled slightly as if he had just said something amusing.

  Unsure what to do, Nicodemus offered more information: “These are janitorial gargoyles. We’ve written an affection for stone into their minds. So they climb all over the occupied towers, tending to the roofs, searching for crumbling mortar, and keeping the birds away.”

  Deirdre continued to watch him in smiling silence.

  “But if you want to make devotions,” Nicodemus added awkwardly, “you might feel more comfortable in one of our gardens. Magister Shannon has just taken quarters above the Bolide Garden, but it’s still being renovated.”

  The male druid spoke. “Why is this place so empty? Where are the other wizards?”

  Nicodemus smiled; here was a question he could answer authoritatively. “We’re all present. Starhaven only seems empty because it is so large. Once it housed sixty thousand Chthonic people. Now only four thousand wizards and half as many students live here. We are still exploring the uninhabited Chthonic Quarter. There is much to learn. The Neosolar Empire, the Kingdom of Spires, and the Kingdom of Lorn all occupied Starhaven. Each settlement left a distinctive mark on-”

  Deirdre interrupted. “What is your name?”

  Nicodemus froze. Had he been talking too much? “Nicodemus Weal,” he said, bowing.

  “Tell me of your parentage.”

  “My parents?” This was unexpected. Had he offended? “I a-am the bastard son of the late Lord Severn, a minor noble of northern Spires.”

  The druid nodded. “Your family provides for you still?”

  “N-no. Wizards abjure all ties to family and kingdom when they become neophytes. And my younger brother, the new Lord Severn, sees me as something of a threat.”

  “What of your mother?”

  “I never knew her.”

  “A bastard who doesn’t know his mother?” She raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “One year my father returned from a pilgrimage to Mount Spires with my infant self in his arms. He never spoke of my mother. He died shortly after I came to Starhaven.”

  The woman nodded. “You are the one who can forge runes in both of the high wizardly languages but can only touch simple spells?”

  Nicodemus’s mouth went dry. “I am.”

  “I believe your name was mentioned along with the wizardly prophecy.”

  “But I am not the one they predict.”

  Deirdre’s mouth went flat as a table edge. “I must ask you an important question. On some people, some wounds do not heal into smooth scars. They form dark, bulging scars called-”

  “Keloids,” Nicodemus said flinching. “I know what they are. I have one. On my back.”

  “A congenital keloid?”

  Nicodemus blinked.

  The druid’s expression remained unchanged. “It’s congenital if you were born with it.

  “My father passed away before the wizards could inquire about it.”

  Deirdre did not move. “So it might be congenital.”

  “But the keloid is not in the shape of the Braid,” he added nervously, praying that she would not ask to see it. “Or at least, not perfectly. There’s another keloid near it. My keloid is not the Braid the Halcyon will wear.”

  “I see.” Deirdre regarded him for another silent moment. Slowly her half-smile crept back across her full lips. “You may go, Nicodemus Weal.”

  Nicodemus exhaled in relief and bowed. Neither druid moved. “Goodnight, Deirdre, Kyran,” he said, and turned for the Drum Tower.

  “Ironic.” Deirdre laughed as the boy’s robe merged with the shadows. “Wrapped in black literally, not metaphorically.” She lifted her cowl.

  “Why didn’t you make him show us the keloid?” Kyran moved to stand beside her. He limped slightly, favoring his left leg and using his walking staff for balance.

  She smiled and idly fingered one of the buttons on her sleeve. “Do you have any doubt what we will see?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “It is as our goddess said it would be.” Deirdre closed her eyes to relish the moment.

  “He intrigues you.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. “You were supposed to write some warning magic.”

  This made him scowl. “You mustn’t say ‘warning magic.’ A spellwright would say ‘a warning spell’ or use a spell’s specific name.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  Kyran continued to scowl. “I did set a warning spell. The boy walked right through it. Wherever he touched the text, the rune sequences reversed or twisted. He corrupted the spell without even knowing it.”

  “And he gleaned your subtext.”

  “He did.” Kyran glared at her with beautiful brown eyes. “You shouldn’t have talked to him for so long. What if you had another seizure?”

  She shrugged. “You would have invented an explanation. To him I seem human.” She looked at the tower into which Nicodemus had disappeared. “He’s been cursed, you know.”

  “You see it, too?”

  “Feel it.”

  A rook called from high above the fastness. They looked up.

  “The boy looks like you,” Kyran said.

  “Yes. Interesting to find so much Imperial blood in an obscure, minor noble.”

  “Hiding him from the other druids won’t be easy. Nor will be taking him.”

  “Goddess below, Ky!” Deirdre swore. “Stop thinking like a rabid lycanthrope. We can’t ‘take’ the boy. True, he must go to our goddess’s ark without delay, but there are complications. You must think of our escape and how the wizards will react. He must go willingly.”

  Her protector was silent for a long moment. “He intrigues you,” Kyran repeated at last.

  “He’s a child.”

  A new subtext was weaving darkness around Kyran’s waist, returning him to invisibility. He stared at her silently as the subtext continued up to his shoulders.

  She scowled. “You’re jealous?”

  “Far from it.” The subtext covered his chin. “I remember when I intrigued you, so I don’t envy the boy.” His eyes became soft and then disappeared. “I pity him.”

  From an empty gargoyle’s stoop high up on an abandoned tower, the creature looked down into the moonlit Stone Court. A boy dressed in black was making for the Drum Tower. Two figures robed in white stood among standing stones.

  “Druids,” the creature muttered. “I hate druids.”

  The two white-robes below had spoiled his chance to catch the boy. Had he acted immediately, he could have charged into the courtyard, killed them, and censored the boy. But their unexpected presence had delayed him too long; a moment ago he had spotted a wizard in a nearby courtyard casting two new guardian spells. Now was the time for retreat.

  Worse than ruining this particular opportunity, the white-robes could create much larger problems. Long ago, on the ancient continent, the creature had faced the druids when their magical school was at the height of its power. The millennia th
at had passed since then had reduced modern druids to little more than gardeners and carpenters. Even so, the white-robes knew more of the ancient magics than the wizards. Unless handled carefully, the druids could make it all but impossible to reach the boy.

  A cold autumn wind whipped about the creature’s robes, making them flutter. When he crept away from the ledge, his legs ached and a dull pain throbbed across his forearms.

  This body would not last much longer.

  “No matter,” he muttered, turning away from the Stone Court. Perhaps an important wizard or druid would wander away from the inhabited buildings. In the meantime, he could write a few nightmares.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Where Amadi sat, Shannon saw only darkness. Now, more than ever before, his blindness both frightened and infuriated him.

  “You believe,” he said, forcing his voice to be calm, “I pushed Nora Finn from the Spindle Bridge?”

  “I seek the truth in all places,” Amadi answered evenly.

  Shannon grasped the arms of his chair so hard his fingers ached. Was her accusation a disguised attack or an earnest attempt to discover the murderer? There was no way of knowing.

  “What you’re saying is absurd; I have no connection to Nora’s death.” He stood and walked to the window. “Wouldn’t I have blood on me? Nora’s or my own?”

  Amadi’s chair squeaked in a way that told him she was standing. “Magister, the body was discovered five hours ago. The villain has had ample time to conceal evidence. And you are connected to the murder-twice connected. Four days ago, Astrophell sent a colaboris spell awarding Magistra Finn the Chair for which you two were competing.”

  “So I killed Nora to steal her honors?” He faced the window. “Fiery blood! Do you think-”

  “Secondly,” Amadi broke in, “Magistra Finn’s body was riddled with a misspell, and you are the academy’s authority on misspells.”

  “I am a linguist researching textual intelligence. Of course I study textual corruption and repair.”

  He heard Amadi’s boot heels click against the floor. She was coming toward him. “I wasn’t thinking of your research-although that provides a third connection. I was thinking of your mentally damaged students who misspell texts simply by touching them.”