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Authors: Blake Charlton

BOOK: Spellbound
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“You did, of course. It has your Numinous locator paragraph inscribed on the delivery notice.”
Francesca looked at Cyrus. “I didn't send that book to anyone, let alone myself.”
Above his veil, Cyrus's eyes narrowed. “Magister, can you tell if there's any malignant text in the book?”
“There is none. Any manuscript we receive is scrutinized before we admit it into the station. Let me fetch the book for you, as a sign of appreciation for taking our message to Nicodemus.”
Francesca exchanged looks with Cyrus. He nodded. “You may fetch the book,” she said. “But before we agree to play messenger for you, we'll need your assistance.”
“How so?”
“First off, get your God-of-gods damned faction under control! This city is near to blasting itself into pieces without druidic familiars flapping about and highsmiths smuggling Lornish metal into it. I want to deal with you only, not a gaggle of squabbling steelskins and branch-wavers.”
DeGarn's mouth hardened into a thin line. “I plan to make my displeasure very clear to my allies. And though I'm appalled by your uncivil treatment, by insisting to treat with me only, you've handed me a way to consolidate my authority.”
Francesca nodded. “Good. I also require a small purse of silver, say two hundred pieces.”
“Hakeem!” DeGarn swore. “Do you also want our war-weight gargoyles? The robes off our backs?”
“Don't be dramatic, Magister. You can fetch the purse while you're getting my clinical journal.”
He looked from her to Cyrus and then back again. “I don't like it.”
“You don't have to like it,” she said airily. “You just have to do it.”
“How do I know you will keep your end of the bargain?”
She met his eyes. “I swear on the Creator's name that I will bring your message to Nicodemus and return with his reply.”
DeGarn studied her for a moment and then nodded. “I'll get what you ask for.”
Cyrus looked at her. She nodded, and he touched the band of cloth wrapped around DeGarn's head. It fell away and his robes went slack. With a courtier's dignity, the old wizard stood and walked from the courtyard.
Cyrus cleared his throat. “You're sure we can trust him not to come back with his druids and highsmiths?”
“And lose access to Nicodemus?” Francesca asked. “Not likely. He's right, you know; by insisting we talk only to him, we've handed him control of his faction.”
“That was your intention?”
She bowed.
“Fran, he's right. You are perceptive at political games. Where did you learn it?”
She sighed and sat by the reflecting pool. “I suppose the infirmary is filled with politics, in a petty way at least. But really, it … just … comes naturally.”
“It's more than that. It's like you're more fully alive than you ever were back in the infirmary.”
She frowned. “I wish it was the other way around. That medicine brought me more to life. Perhaps I missed my true calling of being a fasttalking political manipulator.”
Cyrus sat beside her. “Fran, you're brilliant with patients. They love you.” He lifted his hand as if he was going to adjust his veil, but then he reached out and took her hand.
The gesture surprised Francesca a little. It also felt comforting and … familiar. She looked down at his hand but did not take hers away.
A moment later she heard herself say, “Deirdre died on my table. A master physician would have saved her.”
“You are a master physician.”
She fought the urge to deny his words; he knew nothing of medicine, so what did his words mean? But that wasn't his fault. “You're kind. But I'm truly not. I've won an appointment out here in Avel. Had I been impressive, I would have been placed in Bearselton, Tota, or … Chandralu.” This last she mentioned in a softer voice. The Infirmary of Chandralu was the most prestigious outside Port Mercy. She'd once had great ambitions.
“Nonsense,” Cyrus murmured and again squeezed her hand.
They sat in silence for a while. The day was growing warmer. In the new silence, they could hear calls of merchants hawking their goods in the nearby market. “You do have enough charged cloth to lift us out of here if DeGarn does come back hostile, yes?” she found herself asking.
“More than enough.”
They fell silent again.
A squeak from the gate's hinges made them both stand. DeGarn appeared alone, holding a small bag. He approached, a broad smile on his face. “Magistra, Hierophant, here's your purse.” He tossed a small bag to Cyrus. It clinked when he caught it. “And here is your journal.” He held out the black moleskin book. A loose sheet of paper was tied to it with a single silvery Magnus sentence.
Francesca took the codex and looked at the paper. It did indeed contain her own locator paragraphs. Above them, someone had written, in faint black ink “To Station.”
She frowned. Who would bother to send her journal? No doubt the other clerics were hopping mad she'd disappeared from infirmary duty. But they wouldn't send her a book—a furious message perhaps, but not her own clinical journal. Unless perhaps a note were written within the journal?
She tucked the codex under her arm and found DeGarn smiling. “I want to thank both of you again for agreeing to carry our message—”
“There's no need, Magister,” Cyrus interrupted while looking up at the roof surrounding the courtyard. “Your allies can see we will treat only with you.”
Francesca looked up and felt a small thrill to see thirty or so ravens perched on the gutters. All their heads were pointed at the same angle and moving in unison.
DeGarn nodded. “As you say, Hierophant. Please know that if either you or Nicodemus should require assistance or protection, we will provide it.”
“Thank you, Magister,” Francesca said. “We shall return with his reply. For now, you will leave us in private and not assign any followers …” she looked at the ravens, “ … of any kind.”
“Of course,” DeGarn said before bowing first to her and then Cyrus. At last, the old wizard turned and walked from the courtyard. The instant he opened the gate, all the ravens took wing and flew away over the roof.
Francesca waited until it was quiet enough to hear the calls of vendors in the market. “That went rather well.”
Cyrus looked at her, and she wondered if he would take her hand again. “Who do you think sent you the book?”
She looked down at the codex. “I'm not sure.”
“Aren't you going to open it?”
“I suppose I must.” She grabbed hold of the sentence that bound the paper to the journal and was about to break it but her hand paused.
Something seemed … off.
“What's wrong?” Cyrus asked.
“I'm not sure. It just …”
“Do you want me to open it?”
“No, no.” Suddenly she felt foolish. “It's probably nothing.” With a pull, she broke the Magnus sentence.
The book flew open and a large, transparent head covered with silvery dreadlocks emerged from the pages. With a shout, Francesca dropped the codex and jumped backward. The book hit ground, its pages flipping past as an ethereal neck, then chest, and then arms spilled out of the book.
Suddenly, Francesca was surrounded by a wall of protective cloth. Cyrus was yelling and all around her wind blasted.
Then she realized that the frayed textual being—now lying on the terracotta tiles and blinking in the sunlight—was Shannon's ghost.
Deirdre chewed her lip while looking at the loose pages and candle stubs strewn across her desk. Her buildings stood on the eastern side of the sanctuary complex. The rooms were simple but spacious—white walls, Lornish chairs and tables, a four-post feather bed. Outside her door, morning sunlight was drying the night's rain off a few young palms and the gravel path that led toward the dome.
Deirdre's stomach made a croaking protest. She hadn't eaten or slept in far too long. After encountering Nicodemus, she'd spent most of the night mucking around the North Gate District, doing her best to ensure that the watchmen wouldn't find their query. Toward dawn, she'd returned to the sanctuary and reported her failure to Typhon. The demon had listened and then dismissed her. She had asked what his plans were regarding the two academic wizards. Rather than answer, the demon had ordered her not to investigate the matters and sent her away to attend to her duties as his Regent of Spies.
She couldn't disobey the demon directly, not without killing herself again. But she could review reports from her agents in hopes of learning more about the two Astrophell spies. But after a sleepless night at her desk, she had learned little. If a Kestrel had carried black-robes to Avel, then Astrophell and the Spirish Crown had brokered an alliance despite a century of animosity. No doubt Nicodemus's half sister, the Halcyon-in-waiting, was involved. But exactly how was unclear. All reports put her in Ogun, treating with representatives from Starhaven and Starfall Keep, not Spires.
Deirdre was mulling over the situation when the sound of boots on gravel made her look up. Amal Jaen, the clerk, was hurrying toward her. She jumped to her feet and ran to him. “What is it?”
“I-in …” he stuttered. “I-i-in … h-h-hall …” His eyes were wide and bloodshot. She'd never seen him so frightened.
“Is something happening in the Hall of Ambassadors?”
“G-go-governors.”
“In the Hall of Governors? It's happening now?”
He nodded and tried to reply. Rather than wait for an answer, Deirdre took off at a dead run. The priests and servants working on the grounds stopped their tasks to watch her dash through courtyards and down walkways.
At last she reached the reflecting pool that stood before the Hall of Governors. She could not yet see anyone but forced herself to a walk. Quickly, she ran her hands through her black hair, attempting to appear appropriate for a diplomatic encounter.
But as she hurried along a path that ran beside the myrtle bushes, she still could not see anyone in the hall. Was she too late? Had the black-robes come and gone? Had Francesca or Nicodemus been captured?
The morning was silent. No voices rang out across the courtyard.
Deirdre ran the last steps into the hall. It seemed empty. The rug, cushions, and braziers had all been removed. She peered into the deep corners to see if someone was talking in the shadows but saw nothing but darkness.
Her breath coming faster, she looked back out onto the courtyard but saw only the reflecting pool. She licked her lips and tried to think clearly. Perhaps Amal hadn't meant the Hall of Governors. Should she run back to find him? Or perhaps she should find Typhon and …
She stumbled to her left.
She struggled to keep her balance and found it difficult until she looked at the floor.
Suddenly she understood, and terror bloomed in her mind. Amal had not been stuttering; he had been made into a devotee. When she had looked into the back of the hall, she hadn't seen nothing but shadows. She hadn't seen at all.
She tried to yell or even simply think the creature's true name, but in the next instant her skin went numb, her eyes blind.
 
CYRUS UNWOUND HIS turban and rubbed his temples. He and Francesca had taken a private room in the tavern. Presently, Francesca was sitting next to him on a cushion and staring at something he could not see.
Francesca had explained that the invisible something was Shannon's ghost, who had woken in a hierophantic library and found a note claiming his author had been murdered. She had described the other aspects of the ghost's story between bouts of arguing with him.
“You're sure the note read ‘our memories are in her' and nothing else?” Francesca asked. She held out her hand, reading a sentence from the ghost. “Yes, but how could memories be stored in me?” Another pause. “I know the other note told you to find me. You told me that already.” Pause. She read another sentence. “No!” Pause. “As I said, Nicodemus only said
that my Language Prime shines brighter. How could Language Prime hold your memories?” She read another sentence. “Of course I'm sure I don't have any of your memories. God-of-gods! Memories of being a blind, parrotloving, cranky old man isn't something I'd forget! Burning hells, peeing while standing up would be memorable enough—”
“Francesca,” Cyrus tried to interrupt. She ignored him.
From what Cyrus had heard, the ghost was dim and fraying around the edges. Apparently the poor construct was almost frantic to reunite with his author and his insistent tone was agitating Francesca. Again Cyrus tried to calmly interrupt, “Francesca, Shannon.”
She ignored him. “No, I think you're right about that,” she said to the ghost. “I agree: ‘our memories are in her' is probably incomplete. Sure. The blood could have obscured a letter to make it, ‘Your memories are in her,' but that still doesn't make a snap of sense. What else can you tell me about—”
“Francesca!” Cyrus said loud enough to interrupt. He looked at her and then where he guessed the ghost to be. “Shannon.” He paused. “You've been at this for an hour, and it's going nowhere.”
Francesca looked at him for a moment. Then she plucked something out of the air. “No, not always. But he gets fussy when people aren't paying attention to him.”
“So will you pay attention to me now?” Cyrus growled.
“I'm listening.” She read another sentence. “We're listening.” She smiled innocently.
Cyrus exhaled. “We're not going to discover who separated ghost from wizard here and now. We don't have any proof. However, the ghost might be a form of proof by himself.”
Francesca lowered her eyebrows. “Proof of what?”
“That some force within the sanctuary is hostile to Shannon and Nicodemus. Someone who can see the ghost might be convinced that the sanctuary and Nicodemus are not allies but enemies.”
Francesca wrinkled her short nose. “Cyrus, who in all the hells would care about th …” Her voice died off. “Oh … right,” she said while looking at the empty cushion next to her. “Them.”
 
BLIND, NUMB, AND deaf, Deirdre tried to yell or simply remember the Savanna Walker's true name, but the beast must have muffled her voice and damaged her memory. She tried to thrash, but without sensation she couldn't know if her blows were landing or even if her limbs were moving. Perhaps the beast was killing her.
Moving a limb was nothing Deirdre had ever had to think about. Now
it was all she could think about. She focused her every desire on resisting, on escaping the nothingness in which the Savanna Walker had trapped her. But her sense of time was gone. How long had she been struggling? Moments or hours?
Fear closed around her mind. Again and again she reached out for perception—the lightest touch, the faintest smell—but there was nothing. Her mind was floating in … absence. It was the most horrible of prisonhouses.
She searched again for sensation. Nothing.
Searched again. Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Time passed. Or maybe it did not.
She couldn't tell.
Perhaps the beast had killed her. Perhaps this was one of the flameless hells that housed the less wicked souls. Was this a punishment, to be forever alone with her memories and regrets?
She thought of her life long ago in Highland, the husband her family had chosen for her and whom she had left to serve Boann. She thought of her two sons. She had never known them. They would be old and gray by now, possibly dead. She wondered if she had grandchildren or even great grandchildren. She remembered Kyran, her old lover, with whom she had betrayed Boann's trust, and whom she had led to his death in Starhaven.
Perhaps this was a flameless hell.
Something flashed before her, blurry, blue, vaguely round. Then it was gone.
It took her a moment to realize that she'd just seen a glimpse of sky through a horseshoe arch.
She wasn't dead. She thought about the present situation. The Savanna Walker had corrupted Amal's mind, made him into a devotee. She had mistaken his aphasia for a simple stutter and run into a trap. The Walker's cunning wasn't surprising, but his power was. After she had thrown him from the dome, the beast should have been weak. Typhon should have limited the beast's freedom so that it could not attack her.
The vision of blurry blue returned and this time did not fade. Slowly the image came into focus. She was indeed looking up through an arch at sky streaked with thin, wispy clouds. There was no sound, smell, touch, temperature.
She tried to sit up but could barely lift her head. The Walker had nearly paralyzed her. Her head fell back.
Only Typhon could have enabled the Savanna Walker to move this fast
and this freely. But why? Had the demon discovered that she'd been deceiving him?
That didn't seem likely. If the demon knew she had been dissembling, she would now be dead. No, this had to be the Savanna Walker's doing. The beast couldn't kill her. Or rather, if he did, he'd be compelled to recapture her once the demon's soul revitalized her.
Deirdre tried to sit up again. This time her arms moved. It was a bizarre sensation since she could feel neither texture nor warmth nor coolness. She rolled over and looked out on the reflecting pool and myrtle bushes.
Why would Typhon give the Savanna Walker so much strength without warning her? She pushed herself up, but her legs still flopped uselessly.
Then, suddenly, she realized why the demon had empowered the Savanna Walker. Typhon always used the best tool at hand. And now in Avel, there were two hostile authors possessing special powers. What better tool to eliminate them than aphasia?
But why had the beast struck first against Deirdre? She had no objections to the beast's eliminating the foreign authors. Deirdre would have interfered only if the Walker were going to attack …
Deirdre's arms faltered and her face struck the floor. She felt no pain, only a jolt of motion. But fear was throbbing through her body. She knew why the Savanna Walker had left her paralyzed, and she had to stop him. But how could she stop the creature when she couldn't even stand? What was more, Typhon had compelled her not to interfere; even if she could go charging after the beast, she would suffer a fit of spasms the moment she attacked.
Perhaps one of her agents could act for her. She tried to call out. Though deaf, she could feel her voice in her throat. She yelled and yelled, but no one came. She was being foolish. The beast was not stupid. If he had planned her paralysis, he would have ensured no one would come near this hall.
She looked around the courtyard for a way to stop the beast. But there was only sunlight on green leaves and still water.
Deirdre tried to turn herself around to see if there was something within the hall that might help her. But as she began to roll over, she stopped and looked back at the reflecting pool.
Realizing what she had to do, Deirdre began to drag herself forward.

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