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Authors: Blake Charlton

BOOK: Spellbound
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Izem edited the passages that controlled the airship's flag signals. “I can't say I like the idea, but judging by its speed, we may be the only ship able to follow it. Let's see if the fleet commander agrees with you.”
A moment later from the
Kraken
flew a signal to break formation. With a grunt, Izem dropped the
Queen's Lance
into a sharp dive and flew in pursuit of the dragon.
 
AS THE HALL
filled with seething warkites, Nicodemus was surrounded by spellwrights.
The highsmiths' plate armor spun itself into an ornate, airy meshwork that extended out from their bodies and interlocked into a cagelike construct. From their hands sprang blades and spears composed of wire-thin steel. Bellowing war cries for their king and their metallic god, the highsmiths attacked. The warkites dashed their steel talons onto the highsmiths' meshwork armor, penetrating only a few layers into the defense. In return the highsmiths thrust their weapons into the constructs, small bolts of lightning flaring out from the point of contact, scorching their sailcloth.
At first they beat back the warkites, but then a flurry of talon blows cut through the meshwork covering the lead highsmith's shoulder and jammed a talon into his neck. He jerked sidewise and fell.
When two highsmiths fought close together, their meshwork armor intertwined, forming a common barrier around them. Nicodemus began forging Magnus attack spells down his arms, but in the next instant the highsmiths had formed a circle around him and had covered him with their steel.
Wild cries came from outside this protective ring, and through the storm of white cloth he could make out druids. Some were covered with thorny skin and wielded jagged blades of polished wood. Others were covered with coats of splitters that approximated fur, their faces covered with wolf or bear masks and their hands tipped by glowing claws.
A sheet of steel emerged from the cage enclosing Nicodemus and pushed him hard on the shoulder. He stumbled to his right and then realized that the whole party was retreating farther into the hall.
“Stop; I can cast a protective text!” he yelled. “I'm the Halcyon now.”
No one seemed to hear him over the battle cries. Then they were stumbling over rubble. Amid the chaos he saw a few flashes of silver and golden text; some of the wizards still lived.
A warkite's talons broke through the meshwork near a young highsmith and filled the air around him with a spray of blood. He fell into the meshwork, no longer connected to its textual structure. The razor lattice cut him into eight pieces.
Then they reached an expansive wall of sandstone. A broad recess with a low ceiling extended into the wall. One of the highsmiths pointed at the cove and shouted. The metal mages could move freely within their lattice, thrusting outside of it with their swords or spears. One metal mage directed the group into the alcove. Once inside, they broke formation and cast their meshwork of metal and spells from the floor to the alcove's ceiling, forming a barrier to keep out the warkites. Periodically, one of them dashed through to pull a wizard or a druid back to the other side.
Of the five druids who had left the station with Nicodemus, he now counted three; of the four wizards, only DeGarn and one young woman survived; of the seven highsmiths, four now worked to maintain the meshwork barrier that was barely keeping the warkites back, and they could not hold the line much longer. The riot of slashing talons struck repeatedly against the meshwork, slowly cutting through it.
Nicodemus tightened his grip around the emerald and tried to imagine what he might write to keep the kites at bay.
A highsmith screamed as a warkite cut through one end of the barrier. The man jumped away, avoiding a talon by inches.
The kite was wriggling into the enclosed space. Nicodemus drew his hand back and was just about to cast when the sandstone ceiling seemed to melt. A long, fluid sheet of stone fell from the opening of the recess. Instantly, the sandstone enclosed Nicodemus and the survivors in pitch blackness.
 
AFTER A LONG, desperate sprint through the air, Francesca caught the Savanna Walker's tail over the Auburn Mountains and pulled them both down to crash into the redwood forest.
She saw him smash into the ancient timber, massive trunks bending slowly and then snapping with a sudden jolt that sent their branches waving in every direction. The pale dragon rolled into the wrecked timber, and she fell upon him.
But even as she flapped hard with her wings and swung her hind claws around to slash the Savanna Walker's back, she gasped for breath.
Her claws sank into his hindquarters, and Francesca felt his left hip
bend to near a dislocating angle under her pressure. Bellowing, he threw both of his wings back, striking her in the chest, keeping her from falling forward to rake him with her claws.
He squirmed free and scampered up the mountain of broken redwood. She chased but could not fill her lungs with enough air. Her mind swam with a hunger for air.
The Savanna Walker spun around and slashed at her with a foreclaw, connecting with her neck and tearing lines of pain down to her shoulder. Head spinning, she fell into a bank of ferns. As if from a far distance, she watched the Savanna Walker take flight. She gasped again, sucking so much air into her draconic maw that it uprooted a nearby fern. She spat it out.
Then Francesca realized what had happened. Typhon's texts had detonated too close to her. At the time, she had worried only about how each explosion had tossed her about. She had not thought about the shockwaves coursing through her solid muscles and organs until they reached the delicate sacs of tissue in her lungs. The shockwaves damaged the sacs so that she had started to slowly leak blood and fluid into her lungs. It was a condition called blast lung. She had seen it most often in survivors of explosive lycanthrope spells. They would arrive in the infirmary, frightened or confused but otherwise healthy. Moments later they would suffer severe breathlessness and then drown in their own bodily fluid.
Typhon must have known that he could not harm her outright. He knew he could not affect his immediate future but that he could prevent her from chasing down the Savanna Walker.
And indeed, the demon's sacrifice had succeeded. She now lay in a bed of ferns, gasping for air. The demonic texts of her body leapt into action as they realized she was in mortal danger. Her divine spells would convert the great mass of her dragon's body into energetic prose and return her to an unharmed human form.
As the transformation began, she lost her quaternary cognition. The future became merely an abstract thought: “those things that are yet to come.” She could no longer imagine how she had ever seen the future as a landscape.
Her vision began to dim. She saw only a blurry outline of dark trees against a vivid sky. Then, faintly, she saw something large and dark hovering in the air. It produced, she thought, an outline similar to that of the
Queen's Lance.
Something like sleep washed over her, and she could see no image other than that of the Savanna Walker. The pearly dragon, bleeding down his back, his hind leg held at a painful angle.
The beast, its destiny finally come around, was now flying over the deep
ocean, winging its way to the ancient continent, where it would ensure that Los be reborn.
 
ONE OF THE druids produced a white flame from a wooden object in her hand. For a moment Nicodemus couldn't understand who was standing before him. The woman was dressed like a Spirish noble and had textured red-brown skin. Her eyes, shockingly, were composed of linear bands of tawny, tan, white, and dark gray.
Then he realized she had to be the only creature who could have made sandstone liquid. He bowed. “Canonist Cala?”
She nodded. “Nicodemus Weal.”
He returned her nod.
“You may tell your foreign spellwrights to put away their curses.” She turned her strange eyes to the druids and highsmiths. The metal mages bristled with blades and fine mesh armor while the tree worshipers were all thorns and spiny fur.
Nicodemus held up his hand, unsure if they would care a whit for what he did. But blessedly the sharp words, wood, and metal were blunted.
The canonist returned her strange eyes to Nicodemus. “My sanctuary is running with blood. Several thousand warkites swarm over its dome and through its halls. Maybe a dozen of my devotees are left alive. Of those, perhaps two knew the extent to which the demon Typhon usurped my rule of this city. And they weren't honest to begin with.”
She looked at the other spellwrights. “Indeed, I do not know of any other witnesses save for those here who can swear that a demon ruled within these walls. A fleet loyal to the high goddess, Celeste, flies above my city. Within the hour that fleet will dock and declare martial law. I have no doubt that ships and caravans filled with the soldiers of the Queen's army are now making their way from Dar. If I am to survive, if I am to continue to keep the dam and perimeter walls standing, I need others to corroborate my account of what took place today.”
Nicodemus cleared his throat. “Canonist, we will swear to bear witness. In return, I would ask—”
She held up her hand. “You don't need to ask, Nicodemus Weal. You are the scion of the League of Starfall in a city soon to be occupied by forces sympathetic to your half sister.” Again she looked at the druids and highsmiths. “If any of you want to live long enough to smuggle your champion out of this kingdom, you will bend a knee to him now and take on his oath to be my witness.”
Without hesitation, every spellwright knelt.
Shannon woke when someone took his hand. He had been dreaming of his Trillinonish mother, her dark skin, the banyan tree near his childhood home. But now someone was talking to him, and he woke to remember the pain in his gut, his age, his failing health. But he also remembered that his ghost had returned, that they were again one being.
Blinking, Shannon sat up and formed a textual connection with Azure so that he could see through her eyes. And suddenly he was looking at Nicodemus, dressed in a heavy blue cloak. The boy was kneeling beside him. They were in a tent with the sound of rain striking the taut canvas.
“Magister. Magister,” Nicodemus kept saying. “Magister. It's me. It's done. Magister.” The boy wore the most peculiar expression as if he could not decide to be jubilant or sad.
Suddenly the last of the sleep washed out of Shannon's mind and he understood. “Creator!” he swore. “You came back?”
Nicodemus nodded and squeezed his arm.
Suddenly Shannon saw through Azure's eyes Nicodemus's bare hand on his own forearm. With a feeble cry, Shannon tried to pull away. But the boy only laughed and held out his other hand; on it lay a tear-shaped emerald. “Your canker curse is gone.”
Through Azure, Shannon stared at the gem in confusion.
“I'm sorry to rush you, Magister, but we need to move quickly. Things are happening fast in Avel. I'm taking you into the city right away. I've already spoken to Vein, Jasp, and Flint. I'm sending them back to the Pinnacle Mountains. They've fought long enough for our cause. They'll leave tonight, disguised and riding with a few of our Lornish messengers.”
“Our Lornish messengers,” Shannon repeated as he suddenly became aware of the noises from outside the tent. Jasp was calling excitedly to Vein.
For the first time, Nicodemus's expression became more serious. “Magister, I am sorry, but we have to get back to the city right now. My half sister is moving with astonishing speed. And the book I left with you, the one with your ghost—I need it back. You still have that of course? Yes?”
“Of course,” Shannon said and gestured to a small chest at the other end of the tent. “It's right there.”
As Nicodemus hurried to retrieve the codex, Shannon pressed a hand to his stomach. It still hurt. “But, Nicodemus … I don't feel any … different.”
With the book in his arms Nicodemus returned to his bedside. His expression was now somber. “With the emerald I could remove all of your cankers, but I could not reverse the damage they had done.” He paused. “I'm afraid your … age … limited what I could do. Language Prime texts change as they age. All living creatures have mortality written into their texts, and I couldn't …”
Shannon nodded. “You couldn't make me into a young man.” Then he laughed. “Here you are, returned alive, with a cure for my cankers and all I can do is complain.”
“No, Magister. It's—”
Shannon interrupted him by reaching out for Nicodemus's hand. Now it was the boy's turn to reflexively flinch away. They both laughed.
Tentatively, Nicodemus brought his hand back and, for the first time in a decade, teacher and student clasped hands.
 
FRANCESCA STOOD IN front of the window and looked up into the rainstorm.
She had returned to consciousness on the
Queen's Lance.
Cyrus had tended to her while Izem flew them back to Avel. Chills and a sense of spinning had plagued her. Her frail human body felt confining, infinitely more vulnerable than the glory she had been.
They had returned to a city in a surprising state of order. The bloodshed had been contained to the air and the sanctuary, sparing most of the population.
After they had docked and Captain Izem reported to the fleet commander, Cyrus had taken Francesca to a Holy District tavern that had been commandeered by the fleet. In a private room on the top floor, she had fallen into a sleep filled with troubling dreams of the Savanna Walker flying over the ocean.
Sometime later, she'd woken to the soft black-and-white sound of rain on the roof. Rain clouds had blown in from the ocean and made the evening sky dark. A young man, one of the tavern owner's sons, had brought her a bowl of lentils. He tried to tell her something, his words flashing every color from magenta to manila. She told him that she couldn't hear. When he left, she devoured the lentils and fell back to sleep.
She'd woken the following morning feeling weak and feverish. It was
still raining. Breakfast was flatbread and cheese. A young hierophant had brought her two messages. The first was written in Cyrus's cramped hand, stating that he would visit as soon as he could possibly escape his duties. The second was a simple Numinous script from Nicodemus:
“May I see you?”
Her response spilled out of her arms and read,
“You God-of-gods damn better see me soon, or I'll bite your head off. And I mean that in the nonmetaphorical, dragon-based decapitation sense.”
But then she remembered his shocked expression when he had seen her devouring Typhon. She wrote simply
“Hurry to me”
and sent it off with the young hierophant.
She spent the time waiting, napping. She bathed with a basin of firewarmed water, changed into a clean set of clothes with a fine lavender longvest. She found a comb to tame her tangled hair into its long, dark curls. Now it was near midday. The sun had broken through a few times, but presently the rain was coming down in sheets. Despite this, two of the massive airships flew from tethers on the sanctuary's dome. A third ship, the
Queen's Lance
she thought, was flying slow circuits around the city, no doubt meant to demonstrate that a new power occupied the sanctuary.
Francesca stared at the ship, its wings making tiny reflexive adjustments. She let her eyes go out of focus and thought about her mind. She was not human. She never had been. Her thoughts were moving faster and faster as she regained her health. One day, she hoped, she would regain prognostic quaternary cognition. As to whether she might ever return to her draconic body, she could not say.
Three glossy black sounds flashed behind her. A knock at the door? Francesca turned to see Nicodemus standing in the threshold. He was lowering the hood of a heavy blue rain cloak. His long black hair had been combed straight back, and his green eyes were fixed on hers. His expression was intense but unreadable. Was he frightened of her now? Did he still want her?
“Well,”
she wrote with an airiness she did not feel,
“aren't you going to tell me I've lost weight?”
He read this, smiled, shook his head ruefully.
She wrote another for him.
“Who knew that eating nothing but the remains of defeated demons could slim a girl's waistline?”
She turned to show him her profile.
He laughed bright orange and walked closer.
“Is there anything in this world you can't laugh at?”
His spelling was perfect; he must be touching the emerald.
Her expression became grave.
“There is only one thing so horrible that I could never laugh at it.”
He searched her face.
“What?”
She took a breath, closed her eyes, and handed him two words:
“Menstrual cramps.”
“Fran!”
he flicked at her.
“I thought you were serious!”
She caught his hand and then his eyes. He stopped smiling. Slowly, she raised his hand to her cheek and looked at him. With trembling fingers she put a golden question into his hand:
“Do you still want me?”
He pulled her close and kissed her. His embrace tightened, and she felt as if the vast potential of her mind and body were containable within the circle of his arms.
Relief flooded through her. She could feel in his mouth and see in the sound of his breath his need for her. It was how it had been in Coldlock. They fought the urge to gulp each other down as they stumbled toward her bed. Only slowly could they control their thirst for each other.
When, at last, they lay exhausted beside each other, Nicodemus looked into her eyes.
“Typhon was telling the truth about your creating a second Disjunction, wasn't he?”
She took his hand.
“Typhon did not realize what we are together. Your cacography and my mind changes who we can be. It makes the future fluid. I've seen it.”
“You are certain?”
She scowled at him and then kissed him.
“Don't be dense. Of course I'm not certain. Who can be absolutely certain of anything?”
“What if we're making a mistake? What if this is what the demons want?”
She grabbed his shoulders.
“What if separating is a mistake? What if there's some prophecy out there about a charmingly dense cacographer and a beautiful she-dragon discovering how to repel the Disjunction?”
“Charmingly dense?”
She kissed him hard and rolled on top of him.
“If this is what charmingly dense earns me, what do I get if I can pull off dashingly idiotic?”
“I'd have to lock the doors to show you.”
He laughed but then grew more serious.
“Fran, after you defeated Typhon, you ate his body.”
Shame made a cold knot in her stomach.
“An instinct, nothing more. I ground him into nothing so that he could never revive himself.”
“You're certain?”
“You can only play the charmingly dense card so many times.”
He didn't laugh.
“Fran, why didn't you just leave me in Coldlock? Why have me walk into the sanctuary ignorant of what you were?”
She brushed his hair back.
“The emerald. It's all you've ever wanted. I wanted it for you … and yet, I wish you would not want it. I wish you would put it away.”
Nicodemus nodded.
“Because without it I change you? I increase your freedom when I am cacographic?”
“Yes, that is part of it; I can tell you are touching the gem now.”
He pulled his collar down to reveal the tear-shaped emerald on a silver chain. Gently he took it off and put it on the bed beside them. She felt a rush of heat run through her body; he was cacographic again. She looked him in the eyes.
“I want us to always be as we were in Coldlock.”
He looked from her to the emerald.
“I always thuoght it was the missging part of me. But I feel no differant when I hold it.”
She ran her hand over his stomach.
“I could make you feel different.”
He laughed red.
“Mabye not just now. We have to leve for Starfall in for hours. Can you be ready?”
“Four hours?”
He sighed.
“The Godess Celsete is fling down from Mount Spires to proclame my half sister the Halycon. I must not be in the city, or even in the relm, by the time she arives.”
“But your sister is a cacographer now.”
“
Aside from Lotannu and the too of us, no one else nows that the Walker stole her abilety to spell. Vivian, or whatver her true name is, has a politicel mind and all the training to rule an empire. And Trilinnon, Verdant, and Spires have decieded they must create an empire. What the world beleives her to be is more important that what she is.
”
Francesca thought about this.
“You would like her to be the Halcyon?”
Nicodemus looked at the emerald.
“Haeven knows she'd be beter at it than I would.”
She thought about this.
“It's not an ability to spell that makes you unique. It never has been.”
He looked away to the window.
She took his hand.
“How will we get to Starfall?”
“Carevan. DeGarn has sent a colaboris spell to League of Starfall agents in Starhaven. They will meet us on the road and acompany us to Highland, where a company of highsmiths and druids will join us. Can you get ready at such short notise?”
“I'm ready now.”
“Good, I have a few things to atend to in the sanctary. I'll send one of the highsmiths to you. They've become rather ademant about protecting you and me. There are two outside your door right now.”
Francesca frowned at the door and something crossed her mind.
“I will always be a physician, wherever we go. You need to know that. I won't stop practicing.”
He smiled.
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“I can't imagine living without it.”

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