Spellbound (30 page)
Authors: Blake Charlton
“I believe everything you said,” Francesca said to Vivian, “except for the things you lied about. Those things I don't believe at all.”
Vivian smiled tightly. “Francesca, I can't discern if you're a brilliant negotiator or a blathering idiot.”
“Huh,” Francesca answered thoughtfully. “Those statements might not be mutually exclusive.”
Both women were sitting on cushions in a private room on the third story of a Holy District tavern known as the Silver Palm. Vivian and Lotannu had rented rooms on the floor below. Bright sunlight poured through the wide, open windows. Somewhere nearby a priest with a powerful voice was singing devotions to Cala.
Cyrus sat at Francesca's right. His green veil was up, his turban tightly wound, and a packed lofting kite was strapped to his back. He had insisted on carrying a good deal of cloth into this meeting.
Beside Vivian, Lotannu sat dressed in his fine Verdantine clothes and wearing an expression of calm focus.
Francesca continued. “It's the lies of omission that make you seem both manipulative and academic. But I repeat myself.”
Vivian sighed, her white eyes looking down toward the floor. “And what did I omit?”
“The Halcyon, the Storm Petrel, the demon, andâoh yesâthe League of Starfall and the impending schism of the bloody Numinous Order of Civil blasted Wizardry.”
Vivian's usually imperturbable expression tensed. Lotannu shifted. Francesca couldn't help but smile. She glanced over at Cyrus, but he was frowning out the window.
“The separatists are in Avel?” Vivian asked.
Francesca nodded. “And they are rather keen on speaking to Nicodemus, which is interesting because we had a bit of a run-in with the cacographic fruitcake last night. Strangest thing, he wouldn't shut up about a God-of-gods damned demon he thinks has usurped this city. Which, if you had known
to be true, is perhaps something you should have mentioned before setting us loose in this city.”
to be true, is perhaps something you should have mentioned before setting us loose in this city.”
“You spoke to Nicodemus?” Vivian asked.
“We did.”
“And he trusts you?”
“As much as one might after a first impression involving hatchets.”
“Magistra,” Vivian said. “You are in a position to prevent bloodshed if you help Astrophell keep the rebels fromâ”
“Let's forgo the how-to-help-your-faction-continue-to-rule-the-inhabited-world section of this conversation,” Francesca interrupted, “and go back to the blasted demon usurping Avel.”
Lotannu touched Vivian's arm. “The contingency plan is stillâ”
Vivian held up a thin hand to stop him. “Francesca, I might now accuse you of omission. Let's have your complete story.”
“All right,” Francesca said and readjusted her backside on the cushion. She described almost everything that had happened to her, starting with Deirdre dying on her table. She obscured only where she was to meet Nicodemus and anything that might implicate DeGarn as the agent of the League of Starfall. Despite this, Vivian asked a few pointed questions about the wizards of the colaboris station. Francesca sidestepped the questions and continued her story.
When Francesca finished, Lotannu folded his hands in his lap and calmly asked, “And you believe Nicodemus Weal, the boy who killed all those wizards back in Starhaven? How do you know he isn't aligned with the demon?”
Cyrus answered: “We have a text that might convince you otherwise.”
Francesca picked up her clinical journal from the floor. “Don't be alarmed,” she said before opening the book. As before, the covers sprung open with a flutter of pages. Shannon's one-armed ghost fell onto the floor. The construct was less frayed than before but still very dim. Francesca guessed he could exist outside a book for only one more day before he deconstructed.
Pale as the ghost was, Vivian's all-white eyes, able to see Numinous text, locked onto him. She jumped to her feet like a woman a quarter of her age. A profusion of gold and silver sentences burst from her arms and legs. The resulting blaze was so bright Francesca had to look away. “Fiery blasted heaven!” Francesca swore. “He's not hostile, damn it!”
When she peered back, Vivian was still on her feet and shining so luminously that Francesca could still not look directly at her. It was as if a small star were standing on the cushion a few feet away from her. Cyrus moaned.
His synesthesic reaction was nausea; around this much wizardly text, the poor man might vomit.
His synesthesic reaction was nausea; around this much wizardly text, the poor man might vomit.
“Vivian!” Francesca said, “Los damn it, but knock it off with the wartexts.”
The painful incandescence dimmed, and Francesca looked back to see the ancient woman standing, a few sentences still twining around her arms. She was staring sternly at Shannon's ghost. The dim text himself stared back at her, his ghostly dreadlocks pulled back, his expression composed and dignified.
Francesca felt her cheeks flush as she realized how foolish she must have looked when flinching. This embarrassment faded but was followed by a pang of envy. Judging by how much text Vivian had just extemporized, she was the most prolific spellwright Francesca had ever seen. Indeed, Francesca hadn't known that a body could produce so much text. The ancient woman was more talented that Francesca would ever be.
As before, Francesca's sudden surge of envy felt strangely foreign, as if they were someone else's emotions she were feeling.
In the next moment, Francesca chastised herself for indulging in such envy and self-pity. She had to be more secure. She was a physician, perhaps not a master physician, but comparing herself with other women this way was childish.
She looked at Vivian. “This is the ghost of Magister Agwu Shannon, Nicodemus ⦔ Her voice trailed off. Vivian had wasted no time speaking to the ghost but had cast to him a thick golden passage. With inhuman speed, the ghost read the message and cast an equally thick response. Vivian caught and read the spell faster than Francesca had thought possible.
Then ghost and old woman were engaged in a rapid correspondence. Mostly the words moved too fast for Francesca to read, but she caught enough to know the ghost was explaining to Vivian everything he had explained to her.
Another pang of envy filled Francesca's heart. Perhaps if she had talent like Vivian, she wouldn't have been placed for medical training in the backwater of Avel. Then, for a second time, she told herself that such a comparison was childish, but â¦
She bit her lip.
There was an emptiness in her chest. It had been there since she had first come to Avel. The needs of patients were so great, and her talents so limited. Compared with the physician she wanted to be, she was ⦠insufficient.
She looked at Cyrus, who was again staring out the window. Cyrus had never understood about her hollowness. He'd always been comfortable with
his successes. He pursued his dream of becoming an airship captain, not to quell any insecurity, but simply because of a love of soaring. She envied him that, even though it sometimes made him seem complacent. Cyrus was the steadier of the two of them. Perhaps that was why, at some level, Francesca felt that he never understood her.
his successes. He pursued his dream of becoming an airship captain, not to quell any insecurity, but simply because of a love of soaring. She envied him that, even though it sometimes made him seem complacent. Cyrus was the steadier of the two of them. Perhaps that was why, at some level, Francesca felt that he never understood her.
Just then Cyrus stood and walked over to the window. Both Vivian and Lotannu were too engaged with the ghost to notice. Francesca went to Cyrus. “What's the matter?” she whispered.
His eyes were scanning the sky. “I saw a pilot flying patrol when we came in here. That's to be expected after last night. But just now, I thought ⦠I'm not sure, but I think I saw a warkite overhead.”
“One of your military constructs?”
“Since the Civil War, âmilitary' isn't the right word for them. They're more like aerial guards against hierophantic attack. Mostly they're written to shred the canopies of hostile pilots.”
Francesca found herself leaning closer to Cyrus. Only an hour or so ago, he'd taken her hand. In a way, she didn't want him to do so again. But â¦
She touched his elbow. “Why would a warkite fly here?”
He looked at herâwide, light brown eyes between folds of green cloth.
Francesca took her hand away, suddenly regretting the touch.
“I'm not sure,” he said. “I'm not even sure it was a warkite.”
“Magistra,” Vivian said behind them. Francesca turned around. “The ghost thinks his memories are stored in you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, he found a note that read âour memories are in her' and so thinks I'm somehow hiding some part of his mind.”
“Hiding it in your Language Prime text, nonetheless,” Vivian added. “Quite a blasphemy.”
“I don't have his blasted memories,” Francesca said.
The ghost began to write something, but then Vivian held up her hand. “Why did you bring him to me?”
Francesca adjusted her long braid so it hung behind her. “I'd hoped he'd provide some evidence that Nicodemus and the demon are not aligned.”
“He's convinced you of this?”
She studied the older woman's face. Her blind eyes were directed somewhere to the right of Francesca. “In combination with my encounters with Nicodemus and Deirdre, yes he has. Tonight, I will meet with Nicodemus. I want to offer him your alliance against the demon.”
Vivian became still. Lotannu looked at her. “In light of ⦔ Vivian started to say. Lotannu leaned in as if to whisper, but she continued speaking. “In light of what we have discovered, I will come with you to meet Nicodemus.”
Francesca shook her head. “He won't appear if you're with me.” She spoke slowly; she hadn't expected Vivian to agree so quickly. Something was wrong.
Now Lotannu did lean in, but instead of whispering, he placed a paragraph in Vivian's hand. She read it and handed another paragraph back. “Francesca, I cannot let you go.”
“I'm sorry?” Francesca asked.
“The ghost may unwittingly be Typhon's agent. If he has convinced you, then he may have made you the demon's agent as well.”
With a quick backhand motion, the ghost cast a spell that broke into three sentences: one floated to Vivian, another to Lotannu, the last to Francesca. She translated it,
“I might not know who edited me, but I am no servant of the Disjunction.”
“I might not know who edited me, but I am no servant of the Disjunction.”
Vivian's expression softened. “Ghost, you don't know what you are. To win my trust, we must retrieve your memories.”
“For the last time,” Francesca exclaimed, “I do not have his memories hidden inâ”
“Magistra,” Vivian interrupted, “the memories are not in you or any woman.”
Everyone looked at Vivian. Then Shannon cast out three copies of a question:
“They're not?”
“They're not?”
Vivian turned to the ghost. “The note you read, it had the words âour memories are in her' flanked by bloodstains?”
The ghost nodded.
“And because there was no capitalization or punctuation, you assumed some mark was obscured?”
Again the ghost nodded.
Francesca spoke. “He guessed the first letter was obscured so it should have read âYour memories are in her.'”
Vivian seemed to ignore this. “And this note was on a book?”
The ghost nodded for a third time.
“Then we have to go into the sanctuary and find that library.”
“But the demon is in there.”
Vivian shrugged. “It doesn't matter.”
Francesca turned to Lotannu and said, “So you know she's out of her mind, right?”
Vivian spoke louder. “The ghost's memories are written in the book that the note was resting on.”
“And how the blasted hell do you know that?” Francesca asked.
“You were so preoccupied with the obscured first letter that you forgot about the last.”
Francesca frowned until she realized what she meant. “It's not âyour memories are in her' but âyour memories are in here.'”
The ghost wrote a quick sentence.
“But who would keep my memories in a book but cast me?”
“But who would keep my memories in a book but cast me?”
Suddenly it made complete sense to Francesca. “Someone who isn't a spellwright,” she said. “Deirdre told me, when we were in the kite and she was fighting off a seizure, that she'd sent someone to help but that she wasn't sure if it had worked. It hadn't made any sense at the time.”
Lotannu was frowning at her. “But how could Deirdre have gotten to the library?”
“She'd been brought in from the lycanthrope attack bleeding and with the curse on her lungs. She wasn't in a dangerous condition until I tried to disspell that curse and it moved to her heart. With the curse only on her lungs, she could have slipped away to the hierophantic library. She would have been short of breath and bleeding, but she could have done it. She must have known which books you and your memories had been stored in but not how to cast them into you.”
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