Spellwright
Page 42
They sat together, in silence.
An icy wind curled around Nicodemus and Shannon and flew away north.
It blustered about on the white mountains and then split itself among Starhaven’s many towers. It howled over the bridges and sprayed dry snow into the gargoyles as they pushed drifts from eaves and cleared ice from the gutters.
The wind circled the Drum Tower and rattled its paper window screens. Simple John-now Lesser Wizard John of Starhaven-removed a screen and looked into the night. He took a long tremulous breath and again thought about his dead friends: Devin, Nicodemus, Magister Shannon.
Behind John someone knocked, likely a young cacographer. As the new Master of the Drum Tower, John replaced the screen and turned away from his sadness to see to the little one.
Outside, the wind swirled away from the Drum Tower before dropping into the Spirish stable yard to ruffle Amadi’s thick cloak. She was overseeing her sentinels as they prepared for the long journey back to the North.
Though her expression was calm, her heart teemed with fear and anticipation. Colaboris spells had carried reports of Fellwroth and Typhon to the other academies. Not everyone believed the news, but no one denied its effect. Thoughts of prophesy were now on every wizard’s mind, political speculations on every wizard’s lips. And now she was returning to Astrophell, where the game of factions was being played with murderous intensity.
Inside the stable, she put politics and prophesy aside long enough to inspect every pack, saddle, and horse her party would take on their journey. Then she dismissed the sentinels and walked alone into the snowy stable yard to look up at the stars.
Once back in Astrophell, she would owe loyalty to no faction. Alone, she would have to navigate the infighting and gather information useful to Shannon and Nicodemus once they emerged. Doing so would undoubtedly incur the distrust of every major faction. The slightest mistake could kill her.
Amadi smiled. In her soul she loved nothing so much as great purpose. Now she certainly had that.
The icy wind grew stronger. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, Amadi started off to find her bed and dream of Astrophell under the hot Northern sun.
Above her, the wind rushed out of Starhaven and rolled down the foothills. It passed over the ruined Chthonic village and made the ghosts look up with wide, amber eyes. They could not feel cold, but they shivered nonetheless. They knew that the world was about to change.
Onward the wind tumbled, down the foothills to the Westernmost Road. Then to the north it flew, traveling to warmer lands. Slowly the landscape shed snowy white for lush green. Now the wind turned westward, blowing long waves through the tall savannah grass until it crossed a narrow caravan road and crested a ridge. Here stood a tall sandstone watchtower.
Beside this fortification crouched Deirdre, her red-and-black wings fluttering in the wind. Before her, the road ran straight for five miles before meeting the tan walls of a Spirish city. Even in the dim starlight, she could see the city’s many tiled roofs and the wide octahedral dome of its temple.
Slowly, Deirdre stood. Tears streamed down her face, and blood ran down her arms. At her feet lay four dead city guards. Typhon had compelled her to kill them; he wanted the city to receive no warning of his approach.
The wind blew harder, scooping under Deirdre’s wings and lifting her a few inches off the ground. Involuntarily, she tightened her fist around the Emerald of Arahest. She had been through the deep savanna and fought the beasts that lived there. She had seen the unspeakable things Typhon had done to those beasts with Language Prime.
The wind lessened and she sank until her boots touched ground. Then she started walking. A fresh surge of tears coursed down her face. She was already grieving for what Typhon would force her to do in the city.
From her contact with the demon’s mind, she had learned about the newest Language Prime spell he had begun to write. That is why she prayed that neither Boann nor Nicodemus nor Shannon tried to rescue her. If any of them did, they would face a spell that none of them could truly comprehend or even see.
They would face a true dragon.
EPILOGUE
The linguist felt as if he were choking on his own words.
They were short, commonplace words originating from his old heart, making it beat faster. He took Azure out from under his cloak.
She had been sleeping in the warmth and sent him a testy sentence.
Seeing through her eyes, the wizard stood and made his way back toward the steps. “I’ll start down now,” he said to his pupil. “Come help me when you’re ready.”
Nicodemus nodded.
By the stairs, Shannon found Boann watching him. “Did you convince him?” the goddess asked.
Shannon smiled sadly and cast a few flamefly paragraphs for light. “He’s too impressed by his new abilities.” He paused. “He needs time to see that he hasn’t escaped his limitations.” Through Azure, he watched Nicodemus close his eyes and lean into the wind.
“But his progress is unexpectedly quick,” the goddess said. “Perhaps he might be right? Perhaps there is a chance he will be ready in time to save you?”
Shannon exhaled. “There’s no telling, but I certainly hope…” The strange choking sensation filled his chest again. “Nicodemus,” he called, to keep the feelings at bay. “I need your help after all.”
The young man sprang up and came running, concern painted across his dark face.
“Besides, there’s a pot of stew waiting at home,” Shannon said through a smile. “And you didn’t cook it, so this time it won’t taste like boiled horse sweat.”
Nicodemus laughed and then took Shannon’s arm, careful to prevent his skin from touching the old man’s.
Suddenly the old linguist had to draw a sharp breath and look away.
“What is it, Magister? Does it hurt?”
“No, no,” Shannon said as firmly as he could. “There’s a…” His hand came up to his neck. “A sensation here… I can’t… I don’t know if there’s a word for…”
Again he tried to name the feeling. But the words in his heart mashed themselves into a small, spiny ball and jammed themselves into his throat.
He was choking on a jagged mass of the words “loss” and “gratitude,” “desperation” and “relief,” “fear” and “awe.”
He was choking on the sharp knowledge that he was slowly dying.
“Maybe it’s heartburn from drinking my horse sweat stew,” said Nicodemus.
Shannon laughed and decided that the best word for the strange emotion in his chest was “love.”
He looked at his student. The boy had become a man, and in him Shannon saw a flickering potential that just might grow strong enough to give the world hope.
Nicodemus looked back at Shannon. His young face was lit by several incandescent paragraphs. The bright words had illuminated his smile with soft white light and, by contrast, filled his dark eyes with a joyful, sparkling black.
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Blake Charlton, Spellwright