Authors: Blake Charlton
Nicodemus listened carefully. At times, to Shannon’s surprise, he found himself being consoled by his student. It gave him a hollow feeling.
Worse, Shannon’s old body began to suffer from bouts of severe fatigue. Often his stomach hurt after meals and sometimes he had difficulty in the privy. As the days got colder, he spent more and more time sleeping before the fire.
One day, he felt too weak even to walk with Nicodemus. The result was an argument: Nicodemus insisted that he would soon be strong enough to pursue Typhon. Shannon had refused to listen and pointed out that Nicodemus’s precious Chthonic language functioned only in the dark and neither Typhon nor his half-sister’s agents would do him the favor of attacking only at night.
Shannon tried to emphasize the importance of learning to harness hisnew Language Prime fluency and using the Index to research Typhon. But Nicodemus had only stormed out of the house, yelling that he would not watch Shannon die when there was a chance he could recover the emerald.
That evening, both student and teacher apologized. But nothing was resolved.
Shannon did know moments of happiness when he saw flashes of the boy he had known back in Starhaven. Toward late autumn, during one chill afternoon, snow sifted down through the Heaven Tree’s boughs.
Shannon and Nicodemus set out to wage a snowball fight. Azure acted as Shannon’s eyes, and Boann—not being tangible enough to pick up a snowball—judged the contest. But so few flakes made it to the valley floor that Nicodemus and Shannon soon resorted to the traditional Jejunus cursing match. Shannon, having a linguist’s trove of dirty words, easily won.
But the flashes of boyish Nicodemus grew rarer as his warplay training grew more intense. He was befriending the kobolds, coming to trust them in the way that soldiers came to trust one another. It was a bond that Shannon had never known.
Nicodemus talked incessantly of the New Moon War: a ceremonial gathering of all the kobold tribes. On the night when the three moons were dark, they would emerge from the underground to occupy a plateau deep in the Pinnacle Mountains. The plateau had held the kobold capital city before the Neosolar Empire destroyed it.
Each tribe would send a party of ten warriors into the ruins to hunt for a golden bough that a kobold priest had hidden. The party that returned with the bough won their tribe the right to protect for the year the crown of the last kobold queen.
When the winter solstice approached, and the Heaven Tree’s scarlet leaves began to fall, Nicodemus left with his kobold warriors for the New Moon War. Boann went with them, but Shannon had to stay behind. It would be hard enough, claimed the kobold chieftain, to bring one human to the gathering. Two would be impossible.
Left alone, Shannon found his days passed slowly. His appetite and energy had improved, but he slept poorly and spent most hours nervously walking the valley.
After the longest fortnight of Shannon’s life, the kobold party returned with Nicodemus on their shoulders. He wore a jagged gash on his jaw, a large bandage around his chest, and an ancient band of steel on his head.
He had won the New Moon War and had brought home fifty more kobold followers.
As luck would have it, Nicodemus returned the night before Midwinter’s Day. The kobolds held a feast around the bonfire. Shannon sat next tothe boy during dinner. He wanted to hear everything about the New Moon War, but the kobolds kept up such a racket with their singing and dancing and boasting that no communication was possible. Two of the blueskins started to fight before Nicodemus stopped them with a barked command.
Later that night it began to snow. Again few flakes made it to the valley floor, but it was enough to end the feast. The kobolds all bowed to Nicodemus and retreated to their caverns.
Shannon took his student back into their house, checked on his wounds, which were not worrisome, and fell into a deep sleep of relief.
He awoke to a bitterly cold and dark morning with an inch of snow on the valley floor. While they ate, Nicodemus recounted the war among the kobold ruins. One kobold tribe had disbelieved that Nicodemus was the prophesied savior. Their party had ambushed his during the New Moon War. At first Nicodemus bragged of how his warriors had rebuffed the attack, then he grew solemn as he remembered the enemy kobolds he had killed. Shannon made him retell everything twice.
After they ate, Nicodemus went back to sleep. He awoke when it stopped snowing in the afternoon. “It’s Midwinter’s Day,” he said, looking out a window to the clearing sky beyond the Heaven Tree. “They’ll be celebrating back in Starhaven.”
Shannon agreed that they would be. “Doesn’t seem right that there’s so little snow on this holiday.”
Nicodemus was silent for a moment. “Maybe I’ll hike up to the topmost canopy and see the snow. There’s a small Chthonic fortress among the boughs. Its watchtower has a splendid view.”
Shannon had never been up that high, but he did not think he could keep up with the younger man. He told Nicodemus to go alone.
W
HEN
N
ICODEMUS REACHED
the watchtower at the top of the Heaven Tree, he took in the vast panorama of snowy mountains. Far to the north stood the slim black silhouette of the Eversong Spire.
The Chthonic watchtower had long ago lost its roof and now a foot of snow covered the place. He cleared off what had once been a table and settled in to watch what was left of the year’s shortest day melt into dark.
When the setting sun bathed the world in a burgundy light, Shannon’s loud breaths sounded from the stairs.
Nicodemus ran to help the old man with the last few steps. “Magister,” he scolded, “you should have told me you were coming up. I would have walked with you.”
“Then you would have wasted your time walking with an old man,” the wizard huffed. Nicodemus helped him sit.
“Fiery blood, but I’m tired,” Shannon said, putting Azure in his lap and surrounding her with his cloak. The parrot stuck her head out of her new cloth nest so she could continue seeing for them both. “What a wonderful view!” the old man said with a wrinkled smile.
Far ahead of them, the Erasmine Spire shone with the sunset’s glow. Gradually Shannon’s breathing slowed.
A colaboris spell erupted from the Spire and flew over the eastern horizon and into the coming night.
“A boy is trapped in an academy,” Nicodemus said softly. “He learns he is incomplete. He sees those around him suffer. For a moment he glimpses himself entirely before he escapes. But no matter where he goes, no matter what he becomes, he will cause or witness suffering. Still, he wants nothing more than to try to end the suffering.”
Shannon said nothing for a while. “You know that I have begun to ghostwrite?” he asked.
“An impressing matrix shines about your head when you sleep,” Nicodemus said without looking over. “It shines in Azure’s mind as well. I think it has something to do with dreaming. Have the cankers grown worse?”
To see them with his Language Prime fluency, Nicodemus would have had to touch the old man. He dared not.
Shannon took a long breath. “No. In fact, I’ve been feeling better. I suppose this improvement is temporary. There’s no way of telling. I believe we will recover the emerald in time to cure the thing growing in my gut. But…I don’t want to be caught unawares. I’m ghostwriting…as a precaution.”
Nicodemus nodded. “It is a race, then, between my training and your disease. If I lose, you die.”
Shannon sighed. “There is no race, Nicodemus. To help fight the Disjunction, you must learn to control your Language Prime fluency. You must do that alone; I cannot teach it to you. And now that the Index is misspelled, only you can use it to learn about Typhon. Those tasks will take years if not decades. Leave this valley before then and you won’t be able to oppose the demons. You won’t even be able to survive.”
“Magister, the kobolds say I am the most powerful spellwright they have ever known. And I command a small army of their warriors.”
The old man shook his head. “Kobolds rarely leave their underworld. A kobold army would be helpless on the war field. And, Nicodemus, your spells only function in the dark. You must continue to train in the wizardly languages. If you run after Deirdre and the emerald before then, it won’t take Typhon or your half-sister long before they realize you’re powerless in daylight.”
“I won’t watch you die!” Nicodemus replied hotly. “I know what I must do now.”
Shannon opened his mouth as if to object but then shook his head. They both fell silent.
Gradually the sun sank below the horizon and the stars made their slow debut. A wind picked up and began to sing its whistling song among the bare branches.
“Nicodemus, you haven’t escaped Starhaven,” Shannon said. “You think you’re out here. You think your strength lies in your Chthonic texts or in your skill as a commander. You think you’re incomplete without the emerald. You can’t see that your true strength is already inside of you. And that means you’re still in that academy.” He nodded toward the spire. “You’re still running from golems.”
Nicodemus pursed his lips but said nothing.
“You must realize that you are complete now.”
The young man shook his head. “You are dying. Deirdre is enslaved. The purpose of my life is to regain the emerald and end my disability. Nothing will be right until then.”
Shannon began to protest but then stopped.
They sat together, in silence.
A
N 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 deniedits 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. Thenshe 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.
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.”