Spellbound (33 page)

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Authors: Blake Charlton

BOOK: Spellbound
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Just then Cyrus reached the embankment's crest. “Celeste!” he swore.
Francesca glanced at her old lover. He was looking down the embankment to where it met the savanna. When Francesca followed his gaze, she too swore: “Hell!”
There were four lycanthropes. Two of them stood on all fours on the embankment. They were as large as any horse Francesca had ever seen. Their bodies were as sleek with golden brown fur, their limbs muscular and tense. These two were facing away from the embankment, so she could not see their faces.
The two other lycanthropes were a few feet into the grass. Apparently they were standing on their hind legs because amid the waving grass, she could see their poised forepaws, their powerful necks, and their snarling maws.
Lycanthrope faces were strikingly human despite their muzzles and perked ears. Their wide all-black eyes shone with intelligence even as their lips pulled back in a snarl.
More specifically the lycanthropes were snarling at a huddle of four humanoids, dark blue of skin, blond of hair, and armed with hatchets. At their head stood a man with long black hair. He was staring at her with dispassionate green eyes.
“If you're planning on selling us to him, Luro, forget it,” she said dryly. “I'd rather be chewed into sausage filling.”
 
SHANNON'S GHOST FOUND himself falling from a book onto roof tiles. Above him stretched a sky going deeper blue with evening; only two bright stars shone. He sat up with a jerk. Last thing he had remembered, the Savanna Walker had been closing in on them. His chest was still heaving, his every sense painfully alert.
A bewildering moment passed in which the ghost looked out on Avel's serene Holy District, the red-tiled dome of the sanctuary rising from its center. Apparently, he was sitting atop a building somewhere at the district's edge. Somehow they had escaped the Savanna Walker.
Slowly, the ghost's sense of danger passed and in its wake came the now familiar sorrow of being separated from his author.
He looked around and was not surprised to see Magister Lotannu Akoma sitting on the roof tiles beside him. A complex spell had been cast upon Lotannu's head, the fine sentences running in and out of his skull. Two cylindrical passages grew out from his eyes to form lenses wide as a man's hand. It made him look like a giant gold-leafed insect. Lotannu had been one of Shannon's most accomplished students in Astrophell.
“Magister,” Lotannu said with a respectful nod.
On the ghost's other side sat Magistra Vivian Niyol. Her long, silky white hair was tossing in the wind. She'd wrapped herself and was studying him with all-white eyes.
“Magister, you are disturbingly dim,” she said gently. “You've lost a great deal of text, so you must use as few runes as possible when communicating with me. Then we'd better get you back in here.” She nodded down at the book she was holding.
The ghost extracted one of the sentences from his shoulder and translated it to
“What happened?”
and cast it to her.
“We barely avoided the half dragon,” Magistra Niyol replied. “It was my fault. I hadn't anticipated a creature able to so profoundly affect the nature of language. I will never again underestimate what a dragon might become.”
“
What of Francesca and Cyrus?
” he asked quickly. Francesca was still his best hope of finding his author and convincing him they should reunite.
“I believe and hope they escaped. But now we need you to tell us about the library in which you awoke.” She nodded to some place two or three miles north of the sanctuary.
The ghost frowned until he remembered that she was blind to the mundane world, as he had been in life.
“You still want to go after my memories?”
She nodded.
“But the half-dragon.”
“That spell around Lotannu's head allows him to see quaternary thoughts. He can locate the Savanna Walker. Presently the beast is in the sanctuary, but we are betting that with Nicodemus loose, it will soon leave.”
“But Typhon is in there.”
Vivian smiled. “The demon will not be a threat as long as I am there. On that point at least, I am correct. My mistake was failing to imagine the Savanna Walker's nature.”
“Who are you that you do not fear a demon?”
“You do not need to know.”
“An avatar?”
“Magister, you won't get an answer; don't waste your words asking.”
“A goddess?”
She smiled. “Clearly the goddess of youthful beauty, no?” She indicated her blind eyes and knobby, spotted hands. “Magister, please, tell us where we might find this library.”
The ghost frowned.
“Why aren't you sending word to Astrophell and demanding an army in support?”
She nodded. “A fair question. A force in Lurrikara waits to assist us. However, getting word to them has proved difficult. Francesca informed us that League of Starhaven separatists have infiltrated Avel. Our suspicions fell on Magister DeGarn and those under his command in the relay station. Lotannu interrogated several of the gargoyles surrounding the station and confirmed our suspicions. Therefore, we cannot cast a colaboris spell to Lurrikara until we travel over the mountain to Coldlock Harbor. From there, I will extemporize a colaboris and cast it from the lighthouse.”
“Extemporize a colaboris spell?”
Vivian only smiled.
“Magistra, you must tell me who you are!”
“I am much more interested in learning who you are.”
“You mean recovering my memories?”
“You too might want to know if the demon edited your prose. I suspect your author would also be curious about that fact.”
The ghost felt his chest tighten. The hope of reunion was almost too much to bear. He looked at Lotannu and then back to Vivian.
“I will tell you. When will we sneak in?”
Vivian nodded toward Lotannu. “As soon as that nightmare half dragon moves.”
On their trek through the savanna, Francesca thought about snide things to say to Nicodemus.
It was tough going. Two kobolds were far ahead, widening the path they had made when traveling to the lycanthrope homestead. Even so, Francesca found it difficult to keep her balance on the wet ground strewn with slick grass stalks.
Behind her, Nicodemus walked barefoot on the tangle. Whenever she glanced back, she found him gazing out into the grass sea. He would notice her watching, meet her gaze, and then look away. Ahead, Cyrus was having as much trouble as she staying upright. Every half mile or so, the hierophant would compound his troubles by attempting to wrap a strip of his ruined robes into a makeshift turban and veil. It never went well.
Though Francesca had to focus on the path, she glanced up into the grass sea. She had always supposed that the savanna was composed of a single species of grass and nothing else, that it was uniformly composed the way the reservoir was uniformly water. In fact, the savanna was exuberantly diverse.
Some species of grass grew as thin as bootlaces, reaching only five feet and bending in any wind so as to lash her neck and shoulders. Elsewhere the grass grew as thick as a man's hand and stretched up to nine feet, reminding her of the bamboo forests around Port Mercy. In the groves of such grass grew an understory of vines and shade flowers. In one tall grove they discovered a flock of black and lavender birds that produced warbling cries. With a flutter so loud as to sound like fire, they took wing to become a cloud of dark feathers.
There were many rabbitlike creatures, their fur as gray as shadow, which she only glimpsed before they fled. Once something large and feathered bounded away through the grass. With joyful cries, two of the kobolds hurled hatchets after it. Francesca was relieved neither weapon hit its mark. Once, Nicodemus knelt and placed his palm to the ground. Curious, Francesca did the same and felt it vibrating to a steady beat. “What is it?” she asked.
Nicodemus answered, “Something heavy and with feet.”
She sighed. “Ask a stupid question …” Slowly, the vibrations lessened and disappeared.
On they went through endless variations of grass and green. When the sky began to darken, Francesca walked close to Cyrus. “Do you think Vivian survived the Walker attack?” he asked.
Francesca snorted. “God-of-gods but that woman has almost as high an opinion of her abilities as our cacographic crackers-for-brains does.” She looked back at Nicodemus. He was peering into the grass but then turned to her. Green eyes in a dark face.
“But who knows,” she said, turning back to Cyrus, “maybe Vivian killed the Savanna Walker. She certainly acted like she could.”
“I think she's dead,” Cyrus said grimly. “I think we should talk crackerbrains into taking me to the wind garden so I can warn the marshal of polytheistic insurrection in Avel.”
“Why don't you ask cracker-head then?”
“Because he's not making eyes at me …”
“Is there some fundamental aspect of male nature that compels you people to say something obnoxious every hour, or do you train to be regular with your idiocy?”
“Look back at him and he'll look you in the eye and then look away.”
“I'm right in front of him. Of course he'll notice when I look back. Anyone walking behind someone who isn't a thickskull would—”
“Just do it.”
She didn't answer. But in a few moments, the path veered to the west. She turned as if to look in their new direction but then glanced at Nicodemus.
He had turned his head to one side and was frowning. One of the kobolds behind him seemed to be talking. Francesca was about to tell Cyrus that he understood human emotion as well as a brain-damaged goat. But then Nicodemus looked at her. His expression was as blank as ever, but his eyes lingered on her face a moment too long. Francesca looked away with the abruptness that universally communicates to interested males the sentiment “piss off” without requiring the woman to say it aloud.
“Is this when I say ‘I told you so'?” Cyrus asked.
Francesca ignored him.
“Go convince him to take me to the wind marshal.”
“You talk to him. I don't know anything about wind marshals or polytheistic rebellions.”
Cyrus looked back at her. “But I'm not a six-foot-tall brunette with dimples and an obnoxious wit. Besides, don't you like his attention?”
“Would you like the attention of a half-naked, arrogant killer who thinks part of his mind has been stolen and put into a bauble? It's not exactly flattering. He'd stare at anything with breasts.”
Cyrus nodded. “He's still more likely to listen to you. Go on, find out what his plans are and then get him to take me to the wind garden.”
Francesca said nothing for a long moment. Then she felt foolish about her reluctance. So what if it was going to be awkward? She slowed her pace until Cyrus was far ahead.
“Are you all right, Magistra?” Nicodemus asked in his flat tone. “Are you having trouble balancing?”
“Only when I'm walking,” she said airily and then pretended to slip.
Nicodemus didn't laugh at her gag; rather, he stopped abruptly and backed away.
Francesca wondered why he did this until she remembered the canker his touch had created on the kobold's forearm. She shivered thinking about what would have happened if he had bumped into her. She hurried forward.
“How long until we reach your camp?” she asked.
“At this speed, maybe two hours.”
“What happens then?”
He was silent for a long time and then said, “Deirdre is dead.”
Francesca looked back to see if he was serious. His face was blank. The man was as cold as a construct. She looked away in disgust. “I'm sorry to hear it.”
Nicodemus emotionlessly described Boann's misery and dissolution. When finished, he said, “We had been trying to follow whatever plan Deirdre had in play. For so long, we've hoped to free her. It's unclear what should be done next.”
“You're voice is so flat it sounds like you could be talking about the weather.”
“I don't understand.”
“Never mind,” she quickly said. “I am very sorry to hear about Deirdre.”
He made a low noise, maybe a grunt of annoyance, maybe a sound of gratitude.
She didn't care. “After we saw you last, Cyrus and I caught the cat that wasn't alive.” She related everything that had happened to her.
“I don't trust the ghost,” Nicodemus said when she finished describing the textual spirit. “If it got out of its book, Typhon wanted it to get out.”
Francesca explained how she thought that Deirdre had inexpertly cast the ghost and gotten blood on the note that had read, “Your memories are in here.”
“And Vivian wants to fetch the book out of the sanctuary?” Nicodemus asked.
“If the Savanna Walker didn't drive her mad, I'm guessing she'll attempt it. She thinks almost as highly of her talents as you think of yours.”
“I'm only a cacographer,” he replied automatically. “I work hard and have been fortunate in my teachers and students.”
“A fine sentiment of humility,” she said, trying to keep her tone free of irony—well, mostly free. “We might find aid from DeGarn and the League of Starfall.”
“Without the emerald, I'm no Halcyon. If anything, I'm the Storm Petrel. They're more likely to kill me than support me. And I've no doubt that Vivian came to Avel with my half sister's orders to assassinate me.”
Francesca smiled. She had thought he would react this way. “Cyrus has another suggestion. If you take him to the wind garden, he can convince the marshal that the rising polytheistic sentiment is a threat to Celeste. I don't know if he'll mention the demon. That is a large bite to chew, but—”
“No good,” Nicodemus interrupted. “If a Kestrel flew Vivian into Avel, then the Celestial Court must be aligned with Astrophell. They'll want me dead.”
“This seems a theme in your life.”
“I'm hoping it won't be the final theme.”
“In any case, Cyrus needn't mention you in his report. You don't even need to be here. We might smuggle you and your students away from here. Think about it. Let Celeste, a high goddess, deal with Typhon. She'll tear him to divine pieces.”
Nicodemus said nothing. She waited, expecting him to pipe up with any of several objections she anticipated. But still, he was silent.
She looked back. He was, as before, gazing into the grass ocean. His expression was passive, but now there was a hint of something else about his eyes that made him seem exhausted. Or was it sadness? “What?” she asked.
He didn't look at her. “Let me talk it over with Magister Shannon.”
“You have doubts.”
“Avel is home to many people.”
“Nearly forty thousand.”
“I worry Typhon may go to ground before Celeste can act. And I worry Celeste might blast the city to ruins to eliminate him.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Once you get your emerald, you're going to become the Creator-made-flesh. Then you'll poke both the demon's eyes out using only your nose.”
Nicodemus cleared his throat. “What happens if you don't make your metaphors overly emphatic? Does your head explode or something?”
She smiled slightly. “I've never dared try.”
“My students are quite fond of you now that you've saved Vein. They'd be willing to hold your head together while you experiment with restrained language.”
“No. I don't think you'd respect me afterwards.”
He sniffed with amusement.
“And furthermore, forget restrained language, if you can't be exuberant about life, or at least emphatic, why go on living?”
“Perhaps philosophy and not medicine was your true calling.”
“Philosophy is far too barren. Come up with an idea, and you have an idea. But mend a girl's broken leg and she might live long enough to become a grandmother.”
“I supposed that in philosophy one idea might inspire another, that two ideas might become a greater idea. In my conception, philosophy is prolific.”
“You can't have a conception.”
“And why not?”
“You're a man.”
“So why can't a man have a conception.”
“You don't have the anatomy for it.”
He chuckled. “What kind of anatomy, other than a brain, does one need to conceive?”
“I'll tell you when you're older.”
“I'm thirty-five.”
“Someone really should have told you by now.”
He chuckled. “Don't baby me.”
“That statement is pregnant with meaning.”
“Twinned meaning?”
“Oh, no, not me. I avoid double meanings, give them a wide berth.”
He chuckled again. “It's a relief to talk to someone who goes in for wordplay. With Magister so sick, he's not inclined to it. And my students, well, puns usually incite violence in kobold culture.”
Francesca sighed. “Cyrus gets rather worked up if I go on too much.”
“If that's the worst of your problems, you two don't have many problems.”
She glanced back and saw that Nicodemus was smiling at her. She looked away. “So, you'll consider taking Cyrus to the garden tower?”
“I will talk to Magister.”
She looked back again and saw he was still smiling, but now the expression seemed like a remnant of an older emotion. “Is there another reason you hesitate to take Cyrus to the wind marshal?”
He didn't speak for a few steps but then said: “Perhaps no good reason.”
“What's your bad reason?”
“Just … the emerald. If you call in Celeste, I'll never recover it.”
“Right, the emerald, the missing part of yourself. The piece that would have made you complete and a mighty savior.”
“Yes, that piece,” he said in an exhausted tone. “The piece that could have defeated Typhon, or at least freed Deirdre before she died. The piece that could cure Magister before he dies.”
For some reason, his tone annoyed Francesca. “What if someone else can defeat Typhon and cure Shannon?”
“I would be overjoyed.”
“But would you still want the emerald?”
He was silent for a moment. “I don't see why I wouldn't. As long as I don't have it, I'm disabled.”

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