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Authors: Blake Charlton

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BOOK: Spellbound
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He looked away to the sanctuary. “Typhon is using the emerald to create dragons. Ten years ago, one attacked Trillinon. But dragons aren't what you suppose. It's difficult to explain exactly what—”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Deirdre laid it down: dragons are not giant reptile pyromaniacs but unbound incarnations of all things dangerous and partially incomprehensible who can alter the way people near them think. Witness the Savanna Walker and aphasia.”
Nicodemus smiled. “That about sums it up. When Typhon stole the emerald back from me, we knew it had enough power to create half of a dragon. When we arrived in Avel, we expected to encounter such a beast. But the Walker is far more powerful than expected.”
She pursed her lips. “You're saying the Savanna Walker predated Typhon's arrival in Avel?”
Nicodemus nodded. “From what the Canics tell us, the Savanna Walker is ancient. For hundreds of years, he's been known to drive men mad. But until Typhon arrived ten years ago the Walker was never known to cause aphasia.”
“Typhon arrived, possessed Canonist Cala, and transformed the Savanna Walker into a half dragon?”
“So we believe.” He paused. “Some aspects of the Walker are quite ordinary, pitifully so in some cases. But because he started as an insanity-inducing monster, the partial draconic transformation made his mind into a grotesque power of nonperception and incomprehension.”
“Oh, is that all?” Francesca said casually and made a slight “huh” sound, as if he just explained the price of bread had gone up. “And now, Nicodemus,
you know that there are two dragons out there. Well … you know that, if you trust me.”
Nicodemus met her eyes. “I trust Deirdre. Your message comes from her.”
“Do you love her?”
“Of course.”
“You say that the way a man might order a shank of meat.”
He shifted his weight. “Deirdre saved my life. Her old lover, a druid named Kyran, sacrificed himself to keep me alive. I owe her my love.”
Francesca was unimpressed. “How heartwarming.”
“Outside the city, we dwell with Boann—the river goddess who once made Deirdre an avatar. It's Deirdre and Boann who share the brilliant love I believe you want to hear about.”
“Do you envy Boann's connection with Deirdre?”
“No. I see how separation hurts them both. You are suddenly nosy.”
A gust of wind made Francesca pull her black robes more tightly around her. “I can't take your measure, Nicodemus Weal.”
“No measure is needed. I'm working at great hopes with few resources and little ability.” He studied her face. “Are you sure you've never met a Lornish woman named April? She was a tutor in the northeast of Spires.”
“I've already told you that I haven't. Why do you ask?”
He looked her body up and down. “She was my tutor when I was a boy. She looked like you: long brown hair, fine features.”
Francesca fought the sudden urge to step away from his uncomfortable gaze. “Why is this important?”
“I suppose it's not. It just seems odd.”
Francesca exhaled. “In any case, I'm going to take a chance and trust you with some information.” She described her evacuation to the garden tower and how a warship had docked there after her landing.
“The Kestrel we saw flying over the city?”
She nodded. “The
Queen's Lance.
She carried two passengers who were wizards. It seems a strange coincidence they should arrive—”
“It's no coincidence. Who were they?”
“One was named Vivian Niyol; she wore the robes of a Deputy Vice-Chancellor. Tall, olive skin, long white hair, blank white eyes, spry for however many millions of years she's lived, formidable with words.”
“Coming from you, that's a compliment.”
Francesca frowned but continued. “The other black-robe was a grand wizard, younger, very handsome, dark skin, long dreadlocks, wore a whitelined hood of a linguist. His name was—”
“Lotannu Akoma,” Nicodemus finished for her. “Damn.”
“You know him?”
“Know of him. Magister Akoma is an expert in quaternary cognition. He was one of Shannon's brightest students back in Astrophell. In the last few years, he's made breakthroughs with spells that can detect quaternary cognition.”
She held up her hands. “Wait, wait, waiiit. If you're sneaking around Avel, how can you know what's happening in the academy?”
“We have an agent hidden in Astrophell.”
“You're trusting me with this information?”
He shrugged. “My half sister already suspects it. She's been hampering our communication for years now. Fortunately, we just received word from our agent that my sister is in Ogun, meeting with envoys from Starhaven and Starfall Keep. So at least we know she's nowhere near Avel at the—”
“So it's time to stop talking about that,” Francesca interrupted, “because this is the part of the conversation when you tell me who in the burning hells your half sister is.”
One side of Nicodemus's mouth turned up in a smile. “You really have no idea what you've been pushed into.”
“None whatsoever, which is why, God-of-gods damn it, you're going to tell me.”
“My half sister has been cloistered in Astrophell. I've never met her, never heard her description or her name because she is the Halcyon.”
“The what?” Francesca nearly sputtered.
Nicodemus smiled. “Well, more like the Halcyon-in-waiting. The counter-prophecy faction in conjunction with several ancient deities called The Alliance of Divine Heretics have sworn allegiance to her as the Halcyon.”
“Why has the world not heard of this?”
“Academic, political in-fighting. My half sister will also be fluent in Language Prime, and most believe Language Prime is blasphemy. She must be careful when revealing her true nature.”
Francesca thought about this. “And because of the counter-prophecy, your sister believes you are the Storm Petrel, the demon's champion?”
“And the one most likely to kill her,” he said with a solemn nod. “Hence the agents who sweep the land looking for me. But I'm not the biggest threat to my half sister; Hakeem is.”
“Nicodemus, you're not making sense. Hakeem is the patron god of wizards. The Halcyon will be his champion.”
Nicodemus grinned. “That's the rub. The Alliance of Divine Heretics isn't part of the wizardly academy. If Hakeem suspects her deities are infiltrating his order, he'd destroy my sister, prophecy or no. So she and her allies have to prove she's the Halcyon. Of course, she can't prove she's destined to slay demons if she can't find a demon.”
Francesca shut her eyes. “Well, at least your hallucinations make sense. Your half sister's forces are prowling for Typhon so they can pick a fight and, by drawing him into the open, proclaim their leader the Halcyon of prophecy.”
“Exactly. But it seems that she's been amassing power too quickly for those in Starfall Keep. That's why she's in Ogun meeting with southern wizards.”
“How do you figure?”
“According to our agent, the opposition to the counter-prophecy leadership in Astrophell has gathered in Starfall and is now seeking allies in the south. The most inflammatory rumors speak about the formation of a separatist faction who want to unite Starfall and Starhaven in the League of Starfall and split the southern wizards away from Astrophell.”
Francesca pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “So why send Vivian Niyol and Lotannu Akoma to Avel?”
“I'm guessing they're dragon hunting, hence their airship showing up just when the Savanna Walker tore through the sanctuary.”
“They told me they were here for you.”
He shrugged. “They suspect me of creating, or helping to create, the half dragon. They would expect me to be near the wyrm.”
Francesca still didn't like the idea. “But how could they have known? How could they have gotten here that fast?”
“I'd guess Magister Akoma has written some quaternary cognition surveillance, textual constructs perhaps who alerted him via the colaboris station in Avel.”
A sudden thought popped into Francesca's mind and she smiled. “I just solved your problem regarding the second dragon.”
“How's that?”
“If Lotannu can see quaternary thoughts and dragons induce quaternary thoughts, then he should be able to see both the Savanna Walker and this second dragon.”
Nicodemus was silent for a while. Then he said, “You want to ask Vivian and Lotannu for help finding the second dragon?”
She nodded.
A growing breeze blew a lock of Nicodemus's black hair into his face. “Deirdre said you'd help me avoid the second dragon.”
“Guess you better listen to me then.”
He chewed his lip.
“I'll give you another piece of information. Maybe you'll trust me more then. Someone has been paying desperate Canics to smuggle sheets of steel
charged with highsmith runes into Avel.” She produced the sheet of metal from her belt purse.
“Ohhh hell,” Nicodemus whispered, staring at the metal. Faintly Francesca could hear in his tone the frightened boy he had once been.
She frowned. “I had hoped you'd solve this little puzzle for me. But right now your expression is kicking those hopes in the crotch. Do you have any idea who's running Lornish steel into Avel?”
He still hadn't taken his eyes off the metal sheet. “Not a clue under the burning heaven.”
“Lovely.”
He looked up at her. “If Lorn is involved, then things are even worse than we suspected. We have to act fast.”
“You're saying this to talk yourself into letting me go back and see what I can learn from Lotannu, right?”
He scowled at her.
“Don't forget I need to get the texts to close the laceration in Vein's lung.”
“You do,” he agreed. “I suppose Magister and I can tell you where to meet us in this district tomorrow night. We'll take you over the wall. But you must come alone without any followers, otherwise—”
“You'll disappear,” she said dramatically while holding up a fist and then splaying her fingers, “like smoke into the wind. I can slip Vivian's surveillance; I did it before.”
He looked at the kobolds, who were now all crouched around Vein, then back at her. “Now, will you tell me what you really are?”
She threw her hands in the air. “Holy heaven aflame, this again? You know everything about who I am and where I've come from.”
“No, I don't,” he said while studying her face with intense interest. “And unless you're an unsurpassed liar, neither do you.”
“Did you take a special class at Starhaven in sounding arrogant, because you have this ability to make me feel—”
“Magistra,” he interrupted, “to my eyes, all living creatures glow with Language Prime texts. That is why I keep asking who and what you are. It is how I know that there is something wrong with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You shine too brightly.”
“I don't understand.”
“Your Language Prime texts, the magical language that make up your being, shine brighter than those of any living creature I've ever seen.”
“What does that mean?”
“I'm not sure.” His dark green eyes flicked up and down her body. “Magistra, you are simply too much alive.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He opened his mouth as if to object but then stopped. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, staring over her shoulder.
She turned. “Are you staring at the gray cat again?”
“I don't think it's a cat. Look.” He pointed.
This time she could see it skulking between two shacks. “So if it's not a cat, it's taking some marvelous fashion tips about how to wear a cat's body.”
“It looks like a cat,” Nicodemus agreed. “Moves like one as well. I'd be willing to guess it's been following us, or perhaps just you.” He paused. “Magistra, go back toward the sanctuary after we go over the walls. Find out who is watching us.”
“You going to explain that?” she asked. “Or should I consult a mystic about the enigma that is Nicodemus Weal.”
“There's one peculiar thing about that catlike creature,” he answered flatly; “it's not alive.”
“What under the holy sky do you mean we're being watched by a cat that's not alive?” Cyrus asked.
Francesca was crouching next to him a few feet away from the kobolds still huddled around Vein. Farther away, Nicodemus was speaking to Shannon. The cat-that-perhaps-was-not-a-cat had slunk into the shadows. Francesca kept her voice level. “Just tell me, do you see any hierophantic spells among the shacks?”
“No,” Cyrus answered curtly. “It's completely black.”
“Not even subtextualized?”
“Not even subtextualized. You think the cat's made out of cloth? A hierophantic construct, like an intricate warkite?”
She kneaded her temples. “Not if you can't see its text.”
“How does Nicodemus know it isn't alive?”
“He can't see Language Prime glowing in the creature.”
“That's insane. Language Prime is blasphemy.”
“He said he'd prove Language Prime is real by touching one of the kobolds.”
“Maybe the thing out there is a wizardly gargoyle.”
She shook her head. “Then Shannon would be able to see its prose; losing mundane vision has made his textual vision more acute.”
“So if it's neither a gargoyle nor alive, what is it?”
She exhaled. “How much text is in your robes?”
“I stole a fair amount from the pilot with the lucerin lantern,” he said. “Enough to loft me fifty feet. Why?”
She looked into his eyes. “I have a plan.”
 
A HALF HOUR later, after leaving Nicodemus's party, Francesca and Cyrus were walking back toward the sanctuary, looking for a place to spend the night. A cold wind had picked up, and above them the crescent moons illuminated a shifting river of clouds. Another storm was coming.
“You're talking about a man who thinks he's prophesized to save the
world and runs around half-naked with blue-skinned monsters,” Cyrus said as they went. “You can't trust anything he says.”
“You saw what his touch did to the kobold's arm, the canker it formed.” Francesca shuddered at the memory of the deformed tissue that had bulged out of the kobold's skin and the meaty sound it had made when the kobold tore it off.
Cyrus exhaled and his veil bulged out. “That was troubling. But it hardly means we should trust Nicodemus.” They navigated around larger puddles, splashed through smaller ones. A few ravens flew overhead.
He sniffed. “I mean, truly: ‘You shine too brightly?' ‘You're more alive than anyone else?' Who outside a knightly romance speaks such honeyed drivel? Did he say your eyes shine like stars?”
“Don't be foolish.”
“Then at least he compared your smile to the brightness of the sun?”
“Nor that. Nor did he compare my breasts to the white- and bluemoons, which was kind because though no woman's breasts are perfectly symmetric, I'd like to think my celestial bodies are more equal than those two.” She nodded at the sky. “Besides, what's wrong with knightly romances? They're the best thing that comes out of Lorn. You bought me one once.”
“
The Silver Shield
, by Isabella Gawan,” Cyrus replied. “You loved it. Read it in two days, I believe.”
“But you didn't. Did you ever finish?”
“Not for lack of trying. All the invented names and countries just seemed a bit … silly.”
“But Gawan is brilliant. I should have given you
Sword of Flame,
by Robert DeRigby, that's more what a man would like.”
“You did. Couldn't finish that one either.”
“Pity,” she said and changed subjects. “But you're being a ninny about Nicodemus. He's all frozen on the inside; whether or not the bit about prophecy is true, he believes it is. It's made him into a killer. He's also a delusional, self-absorbed, arrogant bastard.”
“That's your official diagnosis, cleric?”
She sighed. “Suppose you're right. Suppose it's easier for me to see the pathology and not the person.”
“Even with me?”
She looked over and found his brown eyes searching hers. A twinge of guilt moved through her. “No. Not with you.” She touched his arm lightly. “I am sorry for dragging you into this mess. Can you forgive me, old friend?”
He looked away and laughed dryly. “Just as soon as we survive this little bit of intrigue and I make captain.”
She took her hand back. “Fair enough,” she said and then paused. “I do wish I had told you I had disspelled that sentence in your chest.”
He looked at her, his eyes softer. She remembered that look from years before. He seemed about to say something. His veil moved. Or perhaps it was the wind. He looked away. They continued walking.
A moment later, Cyrus said, “But surely you don't believe Nicodemus's claim that there's something wrong with you, that your Language Prime text shines too brightly.”
She looked at the bulging dark clouds. “I don't know, Cyrus. We know some kind of unknown text was cast on me with the anklet. And if the demon had the emerald, as Nicodemus claims, he could have cast some Language Prime curse on me. Perhaps Nico is seeing the double glow of my body and the curse. Or was it something to do with the Savanna Walker's aphasia curse getting so close to me?”
“You're speculating about a problem you don't even know exists.”
There were more ravens flying above them now, some hovering in the wind. Francesca studied them and said, “I guess I should worry about the problems we know exist.”
“Like what to do about Vivian and Lotannu?”
“Not really; they'll be expecting us later tonight, but when they learn about the lycanthrope hunt, they'll suppose we got stuck in a districtwide lockdown.”
“They might wonder why I lacked enough text to loft us over a few district walls.”
She shrugged. “So we tell her the truth. You cast all your text when things got dangerous. Honestly, why shouldn't we tell her about Nicodemus?”
“But she might force our hand. Make us take her to Nicodemus or imprison us.”
Francesca laughed. “She's an academic, Cyrus. Even if she's skipping out on Astrophell politics now, she'll have to go back. She can't abuse an appointed physician without infuriating the clerical order or dispose of the air warden of Avel without worsening relations between the black-robes and green-robes.”
He sniffed. “In a storm, all sails become dispensable.”
“You want to hide that we met Nicodemus?”
He seemed to think about this. “If we tell Vivian, she'll never let us out of her sight again.”
“After we slipped her last spy, she'll do that no matter what. At least if we tell her, we're holding a bargaining piece.”
A light rain began to fall. At last Cyrus said, “You mean to flirt with both sides until we know which one to bed?”
“Something like that. At least we're sure we don't want to get in bed with the demon, should he exist. So, do we tell Vivian what we know before or after I go back to treat Vein?”
He looked at her. “Don't you have to close the tear in his lungs?”
“No. After a few days of Shannon working the shunting spell, the lung will close on its own.”
“You didn't tell Nicodemus that.”
“We need bargaining power with him too.”
“For a physician, you're ruthless.”
“Cyrus, my dear, my honey, my turtle dove of unsullied and slightly nauseating innocence, all practicing physicians are ruthless. A ruthless game requires a ruthless player. I'll do what I must, say what I must to end the game with the fewest possible corpses. Cyrus, are you listening to me?”
They had just turned onto an empty street. He pointed to a spot on the road. “How about here for your hare-brained plan?”
“But it's so wet.”
“Everywhere's wet.”
She sighed. “Here it is then.” She let herself fall forward, hitting the cold street with a muddy splat. A moment later she heard and felt Cyrus hit the ground next to her. They lay still. Francesca tried to slow her heartbeat and breathing. Despite the waterproofing text Cyrus had cast into her robes, cold water was seeping through an opening near her neckline. She felt the skin on her chest and stomach thrill into goose bumps.
The rain fell harder. Above them several ravens croaked as if in surprise. Francesca fought the urge to frown. What had gotten them excited? But the birds soon quieted down. The rain surged, beating hard upon her back and making such a liquid racket that she couldn't hear anything else.
The water had now seeped down her sternum and, agonizingly, was pooling around her left breast. It took every dram of her restraint not to push herself up.
“NOW!” Cyrus bellowed, grabbing his left sleeve and casting it away.
Francesca sat up. A spray of raindrops struck her face as the cloth shot forward.
Cyrus was already on his feet. She struggled to join him. The rain was letting up, and the night was filled with a tortured yowling. About ten paces away, Cyrus's cloth had wrapped itself into a small bag that was rolling through a puddle.
As she drew closer, Francesca could see small claws tearing through the cloth. But no sooner did the claws cut fabric than the threads wove themselves back together. “You got it!” she laughed. “You got it!”
“Whatever it is,” Cyrus grumbled and then reached for the bag. His left
arm and shoulder were now bare to the rain. The instant his fingers touched cloth, the bag became still and silent. He looked up at her.
“What?”
“I just activated a disspell in the cloth.”
She looked at the still bag. “So it was a construct?”
“Give me some light,” he muttered while reaching for the cloth again.
Francesca extemporized several flamefly paragraphs. The rain had dwindled to a fine drizzle, which slowly pushed the incandescent sentences down.
Cyrus touched the bag, and it split itself open to reveal a motionless gray cat. “What under heaven?” Cyrus said as he bent closer. Tentatively he poked the cat's side. “It's stiff and … hard. Like it's made out of stone under its fur.” He rolled it over and its petrified legs stuck straight up. “It's heavy.”
“But how could it be a gargoyle and avoid my eyes or Magister Shannon's eyes?” Francesca had forgotten about the cold water running down her robes. Now she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hug warmth back into her aching left breast.
The cloth around Cyrus's hand split itself into fine, sharp strips that cut into the cat.
“Oh Creator, not on a cat! Don't—” She had to look away even though she had used sharp words to open thousands of human bodies.
“It's not alive,” he grumbled.
Still, she looked away to a nearby shack where several ravens had perched. Something was strange about the birds … but before she could figure out what it was, Cyrus made a low, thoughtful sound. She looked down. Cyrus had taken the skin off the feline construct as if it were an orange peel. Now, reflecting the incandescence of her flamefly paragraphs was a quicksilver-smooth body. As he turned it over in his hands, she could see that it had only one eye—the right eye, which was made of polished brass.
A realization flashed through Francesca's mind. “Los in hell!”
Cyrus stood. “What? What is it?”
The thoughts were coming too fast to articulate. “Of course, he was such a damned … snot! And he had all those questions for me. The bastard was pumping me for information!”
“What in Celeste's name are you talking about?”
“Cyrus, we've seen this thing before, we just didn't think … I didn't think …” her voice trailed off.
Cyrus's veil moved as if he were frowning. He bent back down to pick up the bag. As he did so, the cloth leapt to life, wrapped around his arm,
and reformed his sleeve. “Can you explain a little better what—” He paused and then pointed. “Fran, look.”
He was pointing up to the ravens on the shack. With a sudden thrill of surprise, Francesca realized what had bothered her about them before. There must have been twenty of them, all perched on the gutters, all their heads tilted to the exact same angle. Twenty or so corvid eyes, bright as black jewels, stared back at her. “What are they doing?” she asked.
Suddenly all the dark birds took flight and, with a flutter of wings, were gone. Save for dripping gutters, the night was dead silent.
“Well, that wasn't a vaguely threatening and frighteningly indecipherable phenomenon,” Francesca said flatly. “Or anything.”
BOOK: Spellbound
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