Spellbound (14 page)
Authors: Blake Charlton
Deirdre nodded.
“The Silent Blight is the result of the Disjunction's attempts to change how Language Prime and therefore how all language exists in this world.”
“What kind of change?”
Cala drew in a long breath. “It has to do with the differences between deities and humans. Both types of beings are language made life. But humans are made from Language Prime, deities are not.”
“From what languages are deities made?”
The canonist shook her head. “I know only that each deity is written in a unique divine language with unique affinities. Our divine text is stored within an ark, just as your Language Prime is stored within your bodies.” She touched her fingers to her cheek. “My divine language has an effect on sandstone and is stored in the ark housed within the dome.”
Deirdre had to struggle to keep her voice calm. “But, if I may, how is Typhon seeking to change Language Prime?”
“The demon is using the emerald that contains Nicodemus's ability to spell; he's using it to make Language Prime more like the divine languages.”
“But how?”
The demigod shifted in her chair. “By making it impossible for Language Prime to misspell.”
Francesca followed Cyrus down several hallways to a narrow room furnished with a long table and many chairs. Two candles flickered on one wall. The warm air smelled faintly of wood smoke. After the jumpdeck's brilliant skies and icy winds, the place was a shock of warm, confined darkness.
“The pilot's mess,” Cyrus announced while stepping beside her. “Hungry?”
“As a wolf in midwinter. I can't remember the last time I ate.”
He pulled out a chair for her and headed for a doorway that led to some kind of pantry. Francesca sat. A thousand tiny pains, of which she had previously been unaware, disappeared from her thighs and calves. She'd been on her feet since before sunrise.
“You used to make that sound every night when you came back from the infirmary,” Cyrus called from the kitchen.
Francesca hadn't been aware that she had made a sound. But when she thought about it, she remembered a plaintive moan. She massaged her left shoulder. “Is it safe to talk here?”
Cyrus returned holding a pewter pitcher and plate. She watched intently as he set down the food: Spirish flatbread and thinly sliced hard cheese. She waited for him to fetch two clay cups and pour water into them. “If we keep our voices down, this place will be as safe as any in the tower.”
Using her right hand, Francesca folded a flatbread around a slice of cheese. “So now do you agree that we're lambs who've fallen in with lycanthropes?” she asked before taking a bite. The bread was slightly stale, a little tough. But the cheese was rich, tasting sharply of the long season it had aged. It made her mouth water all the more.
“We haven't fallen, Fran. We've been pushed.”
“You think Deirdre set us up?” She took another bite.
He sipped his water. “Maybe. Maybe it was someone else.”
She had to chew fast and swallow. “That's a damned lot of trouble to warn a freshly trained cleric and a midrank hierophant about a possible resurgence of polytheism.”
“Don't be academic, Fran,” he said tiredly. “Call it what it is.”
“Fine,” she said, swallowing again. “Fine. A bloody Second Spirish Civil War. Still doesn't make any sense. Who'd go through that much fuss so that we could figure this out? What, exactly, are we supposed to do about it?”
He raised his veil so that it hung loosely. “I don't know. But Deirdre was right about my ignorance of what's happening in Avel. So you can take this damned sentence off my heart.” He tapped his chest. “We're in this together now.”
“Are we?” Francesca asked before finishing her flatbread and rolling another. “Do tell me how.” She took another bite and studied Cyrus's brown eyes. He met her gaze evenly. She wished he hadn't raised his veil. She couldn't tell if he was frowning or smiling or smirking.
“I'm a hierophant and a Spirishman,” he said. “How could I not try to stop a Second Civil War? I'm caught in the middle of all this just like you.”
Francesca had no doubt he was earnest, and yet ⦠there had to be something else. “What do you mean âjust like' me?”
“Deirdre told you that Typhon brought me back to Avel as a screen, yes? Because I didn't know anything about this situation?”
Francesca nodded.
“What she meant was that I didn't know about the brewing rebellion. I hold the office of air warden by the grace of Canonist Cala, but for the past three years I have served under captains appointed by the Celestial Court. Nowhereânot in Sharptree or on any of my shipsâhave I heard that Cala might rebel. So, why bring in a hierophant who has a royalist pedigree and no inkling of the fomenting hostilities? How could that be a screen?”
Francesca saw where he was going. “You're a loyal monotheist to keep other monotheists from suspecting,” she said before sipping the water. It was cold and very good. “A political smoke screen.”
“Exactly,” he said, gently touching her arm.
She leaned slightly away from him.
He looked at his hand and drew it back. “But ⦠if I suspect a rebellion, I become a liability to the polytheists. Unless I'm careful, I could end up the first casualty of the Second Civil War.”
“Lovely,” Francesca grunted and put her flatbread down. “So let me guess, now you want to run to loyalist superiors and report what you suspect to them?”
He shook his head. “I can't make accusations without proof. I'm in this as deep as you are. It's my duty to discover what is happening here and report it to the Celestial Court soâ”
Suddenly Francesca understood and interrupted with a laugh. “This is your best chance of being made a captain.”
He blinked at her. “I'm sorry?”
“You used to tell me how hard it was to become a captain. How there were so few ships, how captains lived so long. Without connections in the Celestial Court or a celebrated reputation, a would-be captain has to wait half a century for a ship. But if you”âshe pointedâ“deliver proof of a brewing rebellion to the Celestial Court, your name will go to the top of the list.”
He folded his arms. “The idea did occur to me, yes, but it is not my primary motivation.”
Francesca laughed again. “Oh, yes, of course, you want to do the right thing. Who in all the hells wants to do the wrong thing? But that's not what suddenly made you want to cooperate. Heaven aflame, Cyrus, I spellbound your heart. What else could make you want to work together if not your own personal interest?”
“The chance to irritate you even more through cooperation,” he said flatly.
She laughed with pleasure. “I knew it!”
“So then, are we in this together? Or are youâ”
Francesca grabbed his arm. “Stop,” she whispered. “Stop talking.”
“What is it?”
She could feel the ropelike muscles jump under his robes. “I'm not ⦔ she said. “I think I saw ⦔ But she couldn't say what it was that she thought she had seen. Perhaps a faint golden glimmer? But it had been too faint to have been a spell. Unless â¦
She stood and faced the door. They were standing in the dark hallway, a man and a woman, both dressed in wizardly black.
Their approach had been perfectly silent. Francesca had caught no movement from the corner of her eye. And yet no hint of wizardly text shone about them. Had they wanted to spy on her, they could have hidden under a subtext. “Magistra, Magister,” she said stiffly.
Cyrus's chair scraped across the floor as he stood.
“Cleric Francesca DeVega?” the woman asked.
“Yes?”
“Word's come back from the city,” the woman reported. “The aphasia has dissipated. No one knows where it came from or what caused it. We were flying on the
Queen's Lance,
which has just docked. May we join you?”
Queen's Lance,
which has just docked. May we join you?”
“Of course,” Francesca said neutrally.
The two newcomers stepped into the mess hall, almost in unison. The first was a woman, tall, slender, olive skinned, fine features. Even in the
dim light, her waist-length hair shone snowy white. It was held in loose ponytail by silver bands bedizened with bits of turquoiseâa traditional decoration of Verdantine noblewomen.
dim light, her waist-length hair shone snowy white. It was held in loose ponytail by silver bands bedizened with bits of turquoiseâa traditional decoration of Verdantine noblewomen.
The man was taller, strikingly handsome with wide eyes, prominent cheekbones, skin the color of roasted coffee beans. His hair hung in a short cascade of dreadlocks.
As they approached, Francesca realized that the woman had her hand on the man's shoulder. Her eyes were as white as bleached paper. They were walking together because the man was leading her.
When training in Astrophell, Francesca had encountered a few old wizards who had read so much magical text that their eyes clouded over. They became blind to the mundane world but gained a heightened ability to see magical text. Most of these authors had been ancient souls: centuries old, frail, wizened, bent over with age. But the woman standing before Francesca had straight posture and cheeks only slightly wrinkled. She moved with the ease of someone half her age.
Looking at the woman's robe, Francesca discovered a badge displaying a silver eight-pointed star on a field of red. Only the Deans of Astrophell could wear such a device.
That explained the contradiction of relatively smooth skin and cloudy eyes. Any Dean of Astrophell would be, without doubt, one of the most powerful wizards alive and hence very slow to age.
“Please, let us sit,” the woman said as she felt along the back of a chair and then maneuvered herself into it.
Francesca and Cyrus slowly sat.
“I am Magistra Vivian Niyol, Deputy Vice-Chancellor of Astrophell. This is my colleague, the master linguist Magister Lotannu Akoma.” She gestured to the handsome man who was now standing behind her and resting one hand on her shoulder. He nodded stiffly to Francesca and then to Cyrus.
“We have come from Trillinon on a particular errand, and I would like to appeal to you as a physician for help.”
“All that way just for medical advice?” Francesca said, deliberately misunderstanding the other woman. “I didn't know my reputation has spread toâ”
Magistra Niyol smiled and interrupted. “No, I didn't cross the continent to complain of joint pain.”
“Then it's your companion perhaps? His expression is sour enough I'd suspect something in the stomach. Maybe constipation?”
The dark-skinned man studied her but kept his face stern.
The old woman, however, broadened her smile and said, “My, you are
entertaining.” Before Francesca could reply, the old woman continued in a warmer tone: “Will you call me Vivian, rather than Magistra? You are not bound to the wizardly academy anymore, so perhaps we can dispense with the formalities.”
entertaining.” Before Francesca could reply, the old woman continued in a warmer tone: “Will you call me Vivian, rather than Magistra? You are not bound to the wizardly academy anymore, so perhaps we can dispense with the formalities.”
Francesca put her hands in her lap. “I am glad to hear you say this, Vivian. I would hate to remind you that as a cleric, I am under no obligation to obey you. Please call me Francesca.”
The ancient nodded. “Tactfully said, Francesca. And you needn't worry; I won't be ordering you about. I believe that you and I might share enough goals that our work will be more ⦠collaborative.”
“I hadn't imagined a wizard of your rank would be used to collaboration.”
“My dear, I'm dreadful at it. Those around me instantly obey everything I say without a whisper of complaint, most especially young Lotannu here. He's meek as a fawn.”
The man behind her snorted with amusement.
Francesca smiled tightly. “Well then, I'll compensate for him by being doubly obstinate.”
Vivian turned her head toward Francesca. “I hope you won't mind my saying so. But there is something about how you speak. It's not quite an accent you have; though I would say you were raised in Verdant. But there is something oddâ”
“I was born deep in the Burnt Hills on the border between Spires and Verdant. It's a sparse land, and people there have an antique way of speaking.” She glared at Cyrus, but he kept his face blank and his eyes fixed on Vivian.
“Antique,” the ancient wizard repeated. “Yes, I see. Odd, I was born into an era when everyone spoke that way. But I've since lost the ability to affect that accent. But you haven't, even though you are so much younger? That is odd, isn't it?”
“Odd as legs on a fish,” Francesca said. “Speaking of odd, why do you not have a familiar whose eyes you might see through?”
Vivian sighed. “I do have one, a dear friend. She's an old coyote with a silver coat. Named Ista. Sadly, I could not take her on the airship. And, for reasons you will soon understand, I could not bring her into Avel on my errand. Which brings me back to why I'm asking for your help.”
Cyrus cleared his throat. “Excuse the interruption, Magistra. I am Cyrus Alarcon, Air Warden of Avel. Before you ask for our help, could you tell us what your errand in Avel is?”
The ancient woman arched a white eyebrow. “Our help? I was speaking only to the cleric.”
“I ⦠I only assumed that ⦔ Cyrus stammered. Francesca noticed his hands fidgeting in his lap.
“I should be happy to have your assistance as well, Magister Hierophant,” Vivian said calmly.
Cyrus straightened in his chair. “Then I hope you will satisfy my curiosity.”
Vivian widened her blind eyes. “Oh my, it's been long since a young man asked me for satisfaction, I barely know what to do.” She fanned her face with her small right hand. “Did you hear that, Lotannu? Do you think I could satisfy him?”
“Vivian,” Lotannu said in a deadpan tone through his still-stern expression, “you're frightening the natives.”
Francesca felt her face flushing hot. “We're not ⦔ she started to say but then fell silent as she looked over at Cyrus.
Other books
The Bancroft Strategy by Robert Ludlum
The Ghost and the Dead Deb by Alice Kimberly
Summer Secrets by Freethy, Barbara
Unmasked by Nicola Cornick
Rare Objects by Kathleen Tessaro
The Wife by Meg Wolitzer
Mammoth Boy by John Hart
The far side of the world by Patrick O'Brian
Sand Sharks by Margaret Maron