Spellwright (25 page)

“Ky, you’re not listening!” She pushed his hands away. “Why am I still alive? Why didn’t the beast kill me?”

“Our goddess must have manifested herself directly in you, so you could slay the beast.”

Deirdre sat up. “What are you saying? That Boann is controlling me during my seizures? Why would she do…”

Her voice died as her eyes fell on the body lying along one wall. It was covered with a ripped white cloak.

“Perhaps,” Kyran whispered, “we won’t need to find its true body? Perhaps you slew the construct before the author’s spirit could disengage?”

From her current angle, Deirdre could see nothing of the creature’s head save the clay neck, which a single sword stroke had cleaved in two.

S
TANDING ON A
tower bridge in the Imperial Quarter, the creature looked down at the Stone Court and the wizards standing guard before the Drum Tower.

“Sentinels for guards, Shannon?” he asked the air. “And wards on the doors and windows?” That would stop him from luring the boys out of the academy with dreams.

Now bolder action was needed.

Perhaps a direct attack? In the Stone Court he could spellwrite. That would let him kill the guards, disspell the wards, and move into the Drum Tower with a blade. But the sentinels might raise an alarm, or a guarding construct might attack when he was inside.

It was too risky.

He thought again about rewriting more of Starhaven’s constructs. He had already rewritten a gargoyle on the Erasmine Spire to spy on the wizard’s colaboris spells. And he had drafted a ratlike gargoyle with a large ear on its back. Perhaps he could corrupt a war-weight construct?

No, that would take too long.

The creature thought again about Shannon and pulled the back of his hand across his lips. The old human had gone to the sentinels, gaining protection but sacrificing freedom; the sentinels would now watch everything Shannon did.

This was not the intriguing counterstroke the creature had hoped for.

He thought about attacking the Drum Tower with his true body; that would be less dangerous than using a golem. Still, it was too risky. He should be able to devise a safer plan, especially now that he had encountered that girl in the druid robes.

Somewhere among the towers, a raven began to cry. The creature remembered that he still had to run down to Gray’s Crossing. “Wretched village,” he grumbled.

Leaning on the bridge’s railing, he narrowed his eyes and began to think. It was time to remove Shannon from play.

D
EIRDRE TURNED OVER
the clay head with her boot. Its face had been squashed flat against the floor. No distinguishing feature remained. Long fragments of what looked to have been hair lay scattered around on the dusty ground.

Next to her, leaning on his wooden staff, Kyran grunted. “Perhaps you killed the author along with the body?”

She shook her head. “We must assume the fiend lives. We should take the Peregrine to our goddess’s ark as soon as possible. The creature is aware of my presence now and may become more desperate.”

“We can’t reach the boy now with the sentinels guarding him. But they will keep him safe for the night. We should sleep.”

Deirdre looked at her protector. “Do you really think he is safe?”

He regarded her for a moment, his brown eyes nearly black in the green light of his spells. “We must sleep.”

W
HEN THE IDEA
came, the creature laughed out loud.

A cold wind was blowing over the tower bridge. Far below, in the Stone Court, several torches fluttered and winked. The two guarding sentinels pulled their black cloaks more tightly about their frail bodies.

The creature laughed again; the plan was brilliant. By enlisting the sentinels, Shannon had forged the tool that would be his undoing.

During the creature’s first encounter with Shannon, he had fled with Nora Finn’s research journal, hoping to find the boy’s name inside. The woman had been prudent enough to avoid that. But the creature still had the journal, and now was the time to use it.

His new plan to trap Shannon would be a challenge; he could not spellwrite within the libraries. However, he could cast texts into the libraries from outside. Entering the old fool’s rooms would be more difficult. He would have to sacrifice his present golem to place the book. Worse was the issue of time: the creature had to run down to the miserable village and back.

Still, it would be possible if he cast the curses immediately.

The creature turned and started for the nearest tower. He did not need to remove Shannon; the sentinels would do that for him.

CHAPTER
Twenty-three

When Nicodemus opened his common room door, the tapers were snuffed and the fire smoldering. Since leaving Shannon, his excitement and fear had faded. Now his empty stomach groaned, his wounded cheek throbbed, and his exhausted eyes stung.

“Fiery heaven,” he grumbled, picking his way across the darkened common room. What if he were not excused from apprentice duty in the morning? Would he have to avoid a golem while mopping—

His left shin slammed into something hard. Whatever it was clattered on the floor. “Blood of Los!” he swore. By feeling around with his hands, he discovered a chair’s square legs. The squeaking of a bed frame came from Simple John’s room.

Nicodemus righted the chair. “Bind those idiots for not cleaning up,” he growled. “When I—”

A door opened to spill a vertical beam of firelight into the darkness. “Simple John?” Simple John asked.

Nicodemus’s anger melted. “It’s all right, John. I just tripped.” The door swung wide to fill the common room with the shifting light of the big man’s fire. “John, I’m fine.”

Simple John inspected Nicodemus’s face with concern. “No,” he said while plodding over to his fellow cacographer. A powerful hand landed on Nicodemus’s shoulder.

“Really, John, the cut was just a research accident. There’s no need—”

“No,” Simple John said before enveloping Nicodemus in a hug. “Simple John,” Simple John said while mashing Nicodemus’s head into his chest.

At first Nicodemus leaned into the massive wall that was John and let his arms hang limp. But after a moment, he half-heartedly returned the hug. Simple John released him and said, “Splattering splud!”

“Splattering splud,” Nicodemus agreed. “That about describes my life: splattering splud.”

They exchanged goodnights and Nicodemus stumbled into his chamber. He’d forgotten to put the paper screen in the window and now the room was cold.

“Oh, hang it all,” he sighed and tossed the ignition words into the fireplace. Soon a flame danced among the logs and illuminated his room’s usual disarray. He untied his belt-purse and tossed it onto his cot.

At the sound of a knock, he turned to see Devin standing in the doorway. She was pinning a cloak about her shoulders and trying on different frowns.

“I heard you come in,” she grunted. “I’ve been put on nighttime janitorial duty. The bloody provost wants the refectory cleaned in the dark so that none of the foreign—blood and fire! What happened to your cheek?”

Nicodemus covered it with his hand. “Nothing. An accident during Shannon’s research.”

“Nico, don’t be stupid about wanting a linguist’s hood. If Shannon’s giving you work you can’t safely handle you should—”

“Dev, I’m fine.”

She held her hands up. “All right, all right. No need to be fussy. But it proves what I was saying about how Starhaven treats us. You think illiterates get cut up when doing their chores?”

Nicodemus sat heavily in on his sleeping cot. “And, Dev, I’m sorry about what I said today in the refectory—about your wanting to get married. I just assumed that because you gossip so much about who’s fooling around with whom…well, that—”

“It proves you’ve got donkey dung for brains, I agree,” Devin retorted. “But you’re not entirely worthless; everything you told me about Los becoming the first demon helped with Magistra Highsmith today.”

Nicodemus opened his mouth, but before he could make a sound she said, “Anyway, like I said, I have to go to janitorial in the refectory. I’ll be back at some unholy hour in the morning. It’s just you and John here tonight. The young ones are asleep despite all the excitement the sentinels outside caused.”

She ticked off a few obscenities about sentinels writing wards on their door. “I have to call out and wait for the guards to open the door.” She looked up. “You know why they’re bottling us up or why we’re not allowed to leave Starhaven?”

Nicodemus shook his head. He had promised Shannon his silence.

“Well, if any of the cacographic girls get upset tonight they’ll be coming to you. Think you can handle that?”

When Nicodemus said that he could, she left without closing the door. Tiredly he rose and shut it himself. When he turned back, he saw his newest knightly romance lying under his cot. A weak smile creased his lips.

After lighting a bedside candle and covering the window with its paper screen, he sat on the bed and retrieved the book. It was
The Silver Shield.
The peddler had wanted seven Lornish pennies for the romance; Nicodemus had talked him down to four.

It was a plain codex, leather-bound, without metalwork, and clasped with a simple rawhide cord.

Lightly, he ran his fingers down the spine and remembered the many long between-duties hours he had spent reading.

As the logs in the fire began to crackle, Nicodemus opened the cover and stared at the first line. He passed his eyes over it four times, but each time he saw the letters and not the words. His attention wandered to the illuminations drawn in the margins. Two mounted knights charged each other. A spear-wielding soldier battled a black, scaly-tongued monster.

He lay back, propped up his head on a pillow, and he rescanned the first line. But still his mind refused to read. Slowly, carefully, he traced a finger along the illuminations.

In the morning perhaps he would scold himself for sentimentality, but now his chest rose and fell with a slow sigh.

As a boy he had wanted to escape into such a story. In his dreams, he had populated the nearby woods with imaginary monsters that he could venture out to defeat.

He had wanted to don armor and clash with Tamelkan, the eyeless dragon, or Garkex, the horned firetroll, or maybe a neo-demon who distorted magical language for its own purposes. He had wanted to restore the peace, save the kingdom, be the hero.

One of these boyhood longings echoed through his heart now. Slowly he laid the open book on his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to find the dreams of youth.

He wanted to see a flock of birds, white as snow, flying high above bare stone peaks that surrounded a verdant valley. He wanted a sword on his hip and a chance to walk down into that valley at sunset. He wanted to find night resting on the waterfalls, golden firelight half-hidden in the human dwellings.

And so he fell slowly, gently into sleep. At first he dreamed of the things he had longed for, and he knew peace.

But then came the nightmare.

M
AGISTRA
A
MADI
O
KEKE
stifled a yawn as she began another circuit around the Dagan Courtyard with her secretary.

“But what if neither Shannon nor Nicodemus is connected to the recent deaths?” Kale asked, rubbing his eyes.

It was late and they had been discussing their investigation for hours.

As Amadi considered Kale’s question, she looked out into the courtyard. The wide rectangular space was illuminated by incandescent prose strewn along the surrounding spires and vaulting arcades.

Walkways divided the yard into quarters, each of which held flower gardens with a few stone benches tucked into shrub-lined alcoves. On some of these sat green-robed hierophants enjoying the crisp air after a night of treaty negotiation in stuffy libraries.

In the courtyard’s center stood a copse of aspen trees, their outermost leaves already autumn gold.

Amadi turned back to Kale. “It’s exceedingly unlikely that we will discover a delegate or another academic who wished Nora ill. That’s why we must focus on Shannon.”

Kale shook his head. “Magistra, you’ve always said a sentinel can’t afford to ignore unlikely possibilities. Shouldn’t we question more Starhaven wizards and foreign delegates?”

“Kale, you’re upset that I withdrew some authors from your investigations. But we are terribly shorthanded, and we must guard the Drum Tower and Shannon.” She exhaled in exasperation. “I’m still amazed by his story of a creature turning from flesh into clay.”

Kale shrugged. “Maybe the old man’s lost his wits.”

“Or maybe he only wants us to think he’s lost his wits. Or maybe Nicodemus truly is the Storm Petrel and has corrupted the old fool’s mind. It’s all too dangerous with those two.”

Kale looked at her. “And what of the provost’s request to post more sentinels around the delegates’ sleeping quarters?”

Amadi rubbed her eyes. “Sweet heaven, that’s right. If a delegate ends up dead, the provost will have me skinned alive. But how can we come up with any more authors?”

“I’ve inspected the wards on the Drum Tower,” Kale said carefully. “It would take a master spellwright to disspell them. Perhaps the guards are superfluous?”

Amadi chewed her lip as they turned a corner. “Tempting, but no; we’ll leave the guards until I know more about Shannon’s story. There’s a chance he’s telling the truth.”

Kale said nothing.

Amadi looked back at the courtyard. “Starhaven must be the strangest bit of architecture humans have ever inhabited.”

“Why’s that?”

She gestured first at the courtyard in general and then at the aspen trees in its center. “Look at these interlacing arches, these brightly tiled fountains. We’d have to ride clear up to Dar for a better example of royal Spirish architecture. And yet at the center of all these minarets are aspens.Aspens! There should be palm fronds swaying in a sea breeze, not gold leaves quaking in thin mountain air.”

Kale smiled. “It is odd to think of the royal Spirish colonizing this place. They must have been miserable when it snowed.”