Authors: Blake Charlton
ANSWER
:
We know little of Mg. Amadi Okeke other than that she has secretly sworn allegiance to the counter-prophecy faction.
ANSWER
:
In exchange for our Brother’s public pledge of support, we shall grant him full use of our Starhaven constructs; however, at this time, we are unwilling to endanger any of our few Starhaven spellwrights by assigning them to your cause.
We hope this generous support convinces our Brother to rejoin the Sons in our struggle for a united and peaceful Numinous Order.
Shannon let out a long, relieved breath. This response to his original message, sent earlier that morning, was better than expected. He ripped the sentences apart and began mulling over the answers.
The Sons were always well informed of academic politics. If they did not know of a plot against him, then he was sure none existed. That, taken with their ignorance of Nora Finn’s briber and murderer, provided strong evidence that the creature Shannon had encountered was not connected to the academy.
Amadi’s allegiance to the counter-prophecy factions was more troubling.Sentinels were prohibited from wizardly politics: a fact that did not stop many sentinels from covertly advancing a faction’s interests.
More important, Amadi’s allegiance explained why the provost—a counter-prophecy supporter—had appointed her to lead the investigation. It also explained her interest in Nicodemus’s scar shaped like an Inconjunct and why she had wanted to know what the provost had thought of it. Amadi had also asked the boy if he noticed that chaos increased around him. She must suspect that Nicodemus was not the Halcyon, but the Storm Petrel—a destroyer predicted by the counter-prophecy to oppose the Halcyon.
“Magister, how do you answer?” the bat-faced gargoyle croaked.
Shannon started; he had forgotten about the Sons’ offer of assistance. “Construct, have you read the message?”
The spell wrinkled its bat nose. “I have, as my author intended me to.”
“I do not accuse you, gargoyle, I simply need some answers. How many constructs do the Sons command? Do they still control the compluvium?”
The gargoyle lifted a chubby hand to stroke a long, batlike ear. “We do still hold that portion of the roofworld. As well as two Lornish towers and five Spirish ones. We number fifty-four light- and middle-weight gargoyles; twelve war-weight brutes—only two of quickness. There are also three guardian spells.”
Shannon idly scratched Azure’s neck and thought about this. “I would require both war-quick gargoyles to reside in the compluvium. There must also be enough middle-weight gargoyles to work the Fool’s Ladder.”
The bat-faced construct began stroking his other ear. “Your purpose?”
“I may need the war texts to guard and perhaps evacuate nine cacographic boys.”
The gargoyle blinked. “Their value?”
“They are living, breathing boys,” Shannon snapped.
The bat-faced thing shrugged. “The brutes can be edited immediately, but the Fool’s Ladder will take at least three hours to assemble.”
Shannon took a long breath. It would have been better if the Sons had committed some of their members. Powerful as war-quick gargoyles were, they were no substitute for living authors. Worse was the asking price. Publicly pledging his support to the Sons would end Shannon’s freedom from politics. He would have to commit himself to any cause the faction chose. It would make him, once again, a game piece on a bloody board.
Shannon slowly exhaled as he thought about Nicodemus. Without warning, his memory came alive with the image of his long-dead wife, her dark eyes…
“I pledge myself to Ejindu’s Sons,” Shannon announced as he forged a Numinous proclamation of his allegiance.
The construct struggled up onto its infant feet to formally accept the paragraph with a bow.
“One more thing,” the grand wizard said, removing a long cloth-wrapped object from his robes, “do you know of a creature or construct that forms flesh when vital but once deconstructed becomes this?” He unwrapped the object.
The gargoyle made a long, frowning study of the severed clay arm. “No, Magister.”
Shannon grunted. “Thank you, gargoyle. You have served me well. I wish you quiet dreams.” He bowed.
Clumsily, the construct returned the bow before plucking out its eyes and settling down on the roof to sleep.
Shannon walked back into the tower. He wasn’t any closer to discovering who or what the murderer was, but at least he had taken steps to confound the creature’s next assault.
T
HINKING MURDER
, the creature stepped through the aspen thicket and grumbled about Shannon’s failure to mount a defense. Already one dire surprise awaited the old goat in Starhaven, and soon the creature would rip another life away from him.
He wondered what could be keeping the fool from responding. True, the murder investigation would prevent Shannon from alerting the sentinels. And true, the old human probably thought he had won time by cutting off the creature’s arm.
The memory of silver text slicing through tendon and bone made the creature flex his new hand. Maybe he’d wrench off Shannon’s arm and see if it came back.
The creature’s task in Starhaven, though of paramount importance, was a dull one. And though he looked forward to killing Shannon, he desired more practice matching wits against a human. His survival might one day depend on understanding the beasts.
All around the creature stood white aspen trees. The chill autumn nights had lacquered their leaves with bright yellow. Above, beyond the brightly colored canopy, stretched a vivid blue sky interrupted only by Starhaven’s many dark, incongruous towers.
The creature stopped, shifted his white cloak, and considered the ancient city. Different civilizations had dressed up the towers, but underneath the human frippery stood stones still Chthonic. The flowing of each thin bridge into its towers, the undulation of the walls—they spoke of stone fluidity.How the humans had slaughtered the Chthonic race was a mystery beyond the creature’s comprehension.
Indeed, the creature found human nature itself mystifying. In groups, the beasts delighted in codifying laws, religions, grammars. And yet, the creature had yet to encounter a human who did not daily commit a crime or a sin or both. Worse, humans spoke and wrote carelessly, erratically—violating their own grammars, yet easily understanding their own illogical language.
At times, the creature was amazed he had learned human communication at all. His former master had allowed him little contact with the beasts.
Perhaps more intense observation would help. He had already edited a gargoyle near the top of the Erasmine Spire so that it would monitor the wizard’s colaboris spells. Further infiltration of Starhaven’s gargoyles might be useful. The creature had thought of writing a small, rat-sized gargoyle with augmented hearing. Such a construct could gather information about how the humans lived.
A scrub jay’s cry brought his gaze downward. Twenty feet ahead lay a clearing where the younger wizards went to drink stolen wine or roll together in the grass.
The creature walked to the trees’ edge. His white cloak matched the aspen trunks. Below stretched a small clearing of knee-high grass.
As he waited, the creature thought about Shannon. The wizard had disappointed; this next counter-strike might cripple the old man.
The creature did not need to return to Trillinon now that the flawed dragon had flown. The other demon-worshipers had their orders. That left plenty of time to find the boy and replenish the emerald—a task so important, it had to be kept secret from the other demon-worshipers. The creature had wanted something like a challenge, but he couldn’t risk losing the cacographer.
To the north, a twig snapped. Moving among the trees was a short human in black robes. The plan had worked; the young were easily swayed by dreams.
But perhaps this boy was not the one he sought. Perhaps Shannon and he would play another round. Perhaps the old fool would put up a fight before the creature tore out his throat.
The black-robed human moved closer to the clearing’s edge.
The creature frowned and decided that he shouldn’t wish for a pro-longed match with Shannon. If the emerald were lost, he would have to start over.
The creature began to forge the long Language Prime sentences necessary to compose a canker curse. The War of Disjunction would come sooner if the text he was writing didn’t rip this child’s guts into bloody ribbons. The creature’s lips stretched into a long, lupine smile.
At the clearing’s edge—peering about with curious eyes for the beautiful meadow seen in a dream—was a young cacographic boy.
Nicodemus stifled a yawn and opened the door to Shannon’s quarters. The front room was a wide, sunlit place with an expanse of Trillinonish carpet, a writing desk, two bookcases, and four scroll racks.
Nicodemus removed his boots and socks in the Northern fashion and padded over to the windows. Outside the midday sun poured dazzling light onto the Bolide Garden.
Once the square had been a lush patch of grass lined with trees. Nicodemus had played among them as a neophyte. But two years ago the elms had died of an unknown disease.
Since then janitorial had undertaken a renovation of the entire square. The recent need to prepare for the convocation had stopped all landscaping and left the garden full of pale dirt.
The mounds directly below Shannon’s quarters were muddy and dark. A fountain had once stood there. One of Starhaven’s underground aqueducts must have a poorly sealed outlet at that spot.
A sudden yawn made Nicodemus’s jaw crack. “Heaven, bless Magister for ordering me to nap,” he murmured. Fingering the hour bell he had taken from the classroom, he thought about what Shannon had said about the murderer, the dragon, and the possibility that Nicodemus was connected to prophecy. The old man’s words filled his heart with wild hope and fear. Then there was the druid. Could he trust her?
He fought another yawn and realized that he was too exhausted to think clearly. He turned for the bedroom.
Shannon was Trillinonish by birth, but his mother had been Dralish. Her influence on Shannon’s taste was seen in the four-post feather bed that had been hauled all the way from Highland.
Sitting on the bed’s edge, Nicodemus examined the spherical brass hour bell and the rectangular mouth cut into its bottom.
From his belt-purse, Nicodemus drew a folded page that he had taken from Shannon’s desk. It contained a one-hour tintinnabulum spell.
Though it was composed in a common language, the text had a complicated structure. Normally, if Nicodemus concentrated on keeping therunes from rearranging, he could briefly touch such spells without misspelling them. However, his exhaustion would increase his chances of misspelling. So he bit his lip in concentration and peeled the spell’s first paragraph from the page.
The white words leaped into the air around his pinched fingers and pulled the sequent sentences up with them. The paragraphs began folding into a rectangular cage.
Nicodemus redoubled his focus. He had only this one tintinnabulum; misspelling it would preclude his nap.
At last, the concluding paragraph jumped up and formed a ball that flew around within the tintinnabulum cage. Each time it struck a textual wall, the ball silently deconstructed a rune segment. The spell’s cage could with-stand the ball for one hour; after that, the ball would break free and ring the bell.
Nicodemus inserted the spell into the bell’s mouth, set the device on the bedside table, and fell back onto the feather bed.
He felt his head meet the pillow; he felt his breathing slow; he felt his legs jerk as they sometimes did before sleep. But he did not feel as if he were falling asleep. He felt as if he were…spinning?
A scrub jay cried.
Nicodemus opened his eyes and found himself lying in a meadow outside Starhaven. He recognized the place as “the glen”—a clearing where students went to drink lifted wine or to lock lips.
Here he had kissed Amy Hern for the first time. That had been years ago.
It had been a quiet evening after a brief snow shower. Their every foot-step had produced a crunch, their every breath a plume of feathery vapor. Above them the sky glowed a solemn winter lavender that painted all the branches purest black. Her lips felt chapped against his lips; her tongue, hot against his tongue. They had been only acolytes.
Remembering Amy, Nicodemus winced. She was no longer Amy Hern but Magistra Amaryllis Hern—a lesser wizard in Starfall Keep. He had not seen her since her departure four years ago. Nor had he received any reply to his messages other than an impersonal note about her new life in Starfall.
In a lucid moment, Nicodemus realized that he was dreaming. He sat up expecting to wake on Shannon’s feather bed, but instead sat up in the glen.
A neophyte stood to his right. The boy had his back turned and was looking toward the aspen trees.
Something large was moving among the pale trunks. Its footfalls sent vibrations through the ground. Its breath was long, slow, bestial.
Nicodemus tried to stand but his legs were clumsy. He felt intoxicated.
The creature stepped out from the trees. Nicodemus tried to look at it but his eyes would not focus on it. The thing’s body billowed up into a mass of blurry pallid flesh. Again he struggled to stand but only fell forward. He tried to look up at the creature but again could not focus on it.
The neophyte turned to run. Drunkenly, Nicodemus got onto his knees. Just then a thin rod of flesh exploded from the monster. It shot across the clearing to impale the boy’s lower back. The child kept running.
Nicodemus tried to cry out but fell forward. Dirt filled his eyes. With clumsy hands, he cleared his vision.
Then he was no longer in the glen. He was in an underground cavern.
The ceiling glinted with quartz. The floor shone uniformly gray. Before him stood a black stone table with a body atop it. A pale cloak covered the figure. In its gloved hands lay a small gem that glowed green. The stone was lacriform—tear-shaped.