Spellwright

CHAPTER Six

Where Amadi sat, Shannon saw only darkness. Now, more than ever before, his blindness both frightened and infuriated him.

“You believe,” he said, forcing his voice to be calm, “I pushed Nora Finn from the Spindle Bridge?”

“I seek the truth in all places,” Amadi answered evenly.

Shannon grasped the arms of his chair so hard his fingers ached. Was her accusation a disguised attack or an earnest attempt to discover the murderer? There was no way of knowing.

“What you’re saying is absurd; I have no connection to Nora’s death.” He stood and walked to the window. “Wouldn’t I have blood on me? Nora’s or my own?”

Amadi’s chair squeaked in a way that told him she was standing. “Magister, the body was discovered five hours ago. The villain has had ample time to conceal evidence. And you are connected to the murder—twice connected. Four days ago, Astrophell sent a colaboris spell awarding Magistra Finn the Chair for which you two were competing.”

“So I killed Nora to steal her honors?” He faced the window. “Fiery blood! Do you think—”

“Secondly,” Amadi broke in, “Magistra Finn’s body was riddled with a misspell, and you are the academy’s authority on misspells.”

“I am a linguist researching textual intelligence. Of course I study textual corruption and repair.”

He heard Amadi’s boot heels click against the floor. She was coming toward him. “I wasn’t thinking of your research—although that provides a third connection. I was thinking of your mentally damaged students who misspell texts simply by touching them.”

So there it was, the Northern fear of cacographers. He turned his head to show her his profile. “My students aren’t damaged,” he said in a low tone.

“I believe you’re innocent.”

He turned back to the window.

“Magister, if you help me, I can clear your name. But I must know everything you know about misspells and misspellers.” She paused. “Your reputation makes this a perilous situation. If you’re seen as resisting my investigation, it will go poorly.”

“My reputation?”

“Every spellwright in this academy knows how important you were in Astrophell. More than a few think you are bitter, perhaps paranoid. Everyone saw how fiercely you competed with Finn for academic appointments.”

“I might be competitive, Amadi, but you know I would never murder.”

“To prove that, I need your cooperation.”

Shannon took a deep breath in through his nose. She was right. Resisting might paint him with shades of guilt.

Now, even more so than before, he had to show that he had become an innocent researcher without political ambition. “If I cooperate, may I continue my research during your investigation?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s begin with the misspellers. Why are they here?” Receding footsteps told Shannon she was walking back to her chair. Likely she wanted to sit down again. He didn’t follow. As the junior wizard, she could not politely sit while he stood. He remained by the window.

“In Starhaven,” he said, “as in other wizardly academies, a spellwright must achieve fluency in one of our higher languages to earn a wizard’s hood, fluency in both higher languages to earn a grand wizard’s staff. Spellwrights who cannot learn either may still earn a lesser wizard’s hood by mastering the common languages. But a few fail even this. Their touch misspells all but simple texts. Here, in the South, we call such unfortunate souls cacographers.”

Amadi grunted. “It’s the same in the North. We simply do not name dangerous spellwrights so.”

“In Starhaven, we do not believe such students are dangerous. We do not permanently censor magical language from cacographers’ minds; we permit them to fulfill what roles they can. At present there are maybe fifteen living in the Drum Tower. All but three are under the age of twelve.”

“Why so many squeakers?”

“Most of the older ones integrate themselves into the academy as lesser wizards.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Dangerous?” Shannon’s voice rose. “Dangerous to the cacographers? Possibly. Every so often, a text reacts poorly to their touch. Still, I’ve never seen an incident result in more than bruises or a misspelled construct. But are cacographers dangerous to wizards? Dangerous to spellwrights fluent in one or both of the world’s most powerful magical languages?” He snorted.

Shannon heard Amadi’s feet shuffle and guessed that she was shifting her weight and wishing to sit down. “Magister, this goes against what I was taught, against what you taught me.”

He planted a hand on either side of the windowsill. “I taught you long ago.”

She clicked her tongue in frustration. “But I’ve read of these misspellers—cacographers, as you call them. Many witches and rogue wizards come from their stock. In fact, one such misspeller was an infamous killer. He was a Southerner, lived in this academy in fact. Now, why can’t I think of his name?”

“James Berr,” Shannon said softly. “You are thinking of James Berr.”

“Yes!”

Shannon turned toward his former student. “Berr died three hundred years ago. You do know at least that, don’t you?”

Silence filled the room for a moment, then Amadi’s chair creaked a loud complaint as she sat heavily.

Shannon stiffened.

“Please continue, Magister,” she said acerbically. “What have I misunderstood? What was so terribly benign about that misspelling murderer?”

Shannon turned away and spoke in short, clipped words. “It was an accident. One of Berr’s misspells killed a handful of acolytes. He admitted guilt and they allowed him to stay on as a low-ranking librarian. The boy was only trying to learn. No one would teach him, so he experimented. Unfortunately, two years later, a misspell killed several wizards. Berr fled into the deep Spirish savanna and died.”

“So cacographers are dangerous, then?”

“Not once in the three hundred years following James Berr has there been such a dangerous cacographer. It is the Northern fascination with misspelling that makes you suspect that every cacographer is a viper in the bush. A fascination, I might add, that has been championed by the counter-prophecy faction, much to the detriment of our academies.”

“Magister, I know you have tangled with the counter-prophecy leader-ship. But I would be careful what you say. Your own provost has spoken sympathetically of their interpretation of prophecy.”

Shannon pushed a stray dreadlock from his face. “And you, Amadi, where does your allegiance lie?”

“I am a sentinel,” she replied. “We do not play the game of factions.”

“Of course you don’t,” Shannon said coldly.

“I did not come here to be insulted, Magister. I came for information.” She paused. “So, tell me, are there any Starhaven cacographers with particular strengths?”

Shannon exhaled through his nose and tried to calm down. “A few.” “And has any cacographer learned to spellwrite in the higher wizardly languages?”

Shannon turned. “What are you implying?”

“The misspell that killed Magistra Finn was written in Numinous.”

Shannon stood up straighter. “I’ll not have you trying to blame a cacographer simply because you’ve been frightened by a villain who used a misspell.”

“You were never so protective of your students in Astrophell.”

He laughed dryly. “You didn’t need protection, Amadi. These children are different.”

“Different or not, you can’t protect them from a just investigation. I ask again: Do you have a cacographer who can write in the higher languages?”

“There is one. But he would never—”

“And who,” Amadi interrupted, “is this boy?”

“My apprentice.”

CHAPTER Seven

Before Nicodemus had taken five steps away from the druids, he began forging the Drum Tower’s passwords.

Elsewhere in Starhaven stood doors that would not open unless fed hundreds of elaborate sentences. But the Drum Tower’s door required only one sentence written in a common language.

Even so, it took Nicodemus an eternity to forge the necessary dim green runes. They had a texture like coarse, stiff cloth. As he worked, he could almost feel Deirdre’s stare jabbing into his back.

As soon as the passwords were complete, he dropped them on the black door handles. A tongue of white runes flicked from the keyhole to pull them into the lock. Nicodemus waited impatiently for the tumbler spell to disengage the device. As soon as the iron bolt clicked, he slipped into the entryway and heaved the door shut.

“Bloody awful woman!” he swore. It was a relief to escape the druid’s questions about how he had failed to fulfill the Erasmine Prophecy. Hopefully she wouldn’t ask any wizards about him. Given what Shannon had said about the Astrophell delegates, renewed wizardly interest in his keloid might be more than embarrassing; it might be dangerous.

He turned and hurried up the stairs.

The Drum Tower had long been used to store the stronghold’s emergency grain cache, held against a possible siege. But because Starhaven was too far from civilization to tempt a greedy kingdom, it had never needed this surplus. Therefore no complex security spells lined the Drum Tower’s halls, and no complex passwords were needed to open its doors.

For these reasons, the tower’s top floors made an ideal home for the academy’s most severe cacographers, who could not spell the passwords for the main residential towers.

However, unlike the rest of Starhaven, the Drum Tower had limited space. This forced the tower’s master, Magister Shannon, to live elsewhere and required the older misspellers to govern the younger. Nicodemus shared such caretaking duties with his two floormates.

The oldest among them was Simple John, who as far as anyone knew could say only three things: “no,” “Simple John,” and “splattering splud.” This last was John’s favorite, which he often used when casting his many soapy janitorial spells.

Most people were terrified when they first encountered John. He stood over seven feet tall and possessed large, meaty hands. His red nose was too bulbous, his brown eyes too beady, his horsey teeth too big. But anyone who looked past John’s appearance could not help but love his gentle manner and lopsided smile.

Devin Dorshear, Nicodemus’s other cacographic floormate, was less well loved. The acolytes had nicknamed her “Demonscream Devin”.

When she was focusing, little separated Devin from a lesser wizard. However, she would often stop spellwriting halfway through a text to con-template an open window, a creaking board, a handsome wizard. This had gotten her into many unfortunate situations, none helped by her gift for screaming unlikely obscenities—a talent she effectively wielded against leaking inkwells, torn parchments, and the generally rude.

Wizards were less impressed by her effusive obscenities, and so Devin had learned to curb her foul mouth around superiors.

This is how Nicodemus, as he climbed the last few steps, knew no one with authority was present in their common room. “Ooo, you dirty son of a rat-eating butt dog!” Devin screamed. There followed a loud crash.

“Splattering splud!” Simple John called, laughing heartily. Another crash, more obscenities.

Nicodemus looked up to heaven and said, “Not since Los became the first demon has there been so much chaos as now exists on the other side of this door. Celeste, goddess, haven’t I had enough tribulations for one night? Perhaps you could put them to sleep. I promise to clean up whatever they’ve done.”

Crash, laughter, crash. “Drink goat piss, you slimy pigeon penis!”

Nicodemus frowned at the closed door. “Dev, do pigeons even have penises?”

Simple John bellowed a battle cry of “SIIIIMPLE JOHN!”

Sighing, Nicodemus opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, he jumped back to avoid a Jejunus curse that shot past in a pink blur.

Of the common magical languages, Jejunus was the weakest—so weak, in fact, that it was used only for teaching. It had a simple syntax and its large pink runes were identical to mundane letters; this meant that it was almost impossible to misspell and hence safe for cacographers. Perhaps more important, their soft, muddy texture made them safe to handle.

The curse that had missed Nicodemus’s nose by inches had read, “FIND [John’s left butt cheek] and LABEL with (I’m a gelatinous poop sucker).” Nicodemus groaned.

“Simple John!” trumpeted Simple John. Another crash.

Peering into the room, Nicodemus saw a proud John holding up several sentences that read “ERASE [Devin’s spell].”

The big man had slipped his arms out of the slits sewn into the tops of his sleeves so as to better see the language forming in his giant muscles. All around John lay overturned chairs and scattered pages.

The big man forged another Jejunus sentence in his bicep and slipped it down into his balled fist. Laughing uncontrollably, he cocked his massive arm and with an overhand throw cast “FIND and HIT [Devin’s right butt cheek].”

Almost faster than Nicodemus’s eyes could follow, the gooey pink ball shot across the room.

Devin dove behind an overturned table, but John’s curse flew over the barricade and dropped into a dive attack. Devin screamed something—likely obscene—and popped up from behind the table.

Like John, she had slipped her arms out of her sleeves. From her right hand extended an octopus-like spell, each tentacle of which read, “Edit [Simple John’s incoming spell].”

John’s obscenity was caught among the tentacles and struggled like a minnow. Devin cackled as she began to edit the curse.

As a boy, Nicodemus had loved Jejunus cursing matches. He had hurled handfuls of dirty words with his classmates, had relished flicking obscenities into rivals’ faces, had giggled uncontrollably when filthy language had splattered onto another child’s back.

But that had been long ago, before the wizards had moved him into the Drum Tower.

“HEY!” he boomed. Both combatants looked at him. “WHAT IN THE BURNING HELLS IS GOING ON HERE?”

Even though Nicodemus was the youngest of the three by thirty years, he had long ago assumed the roles of housekeeper and disciplinarian.

Perhaps mistaking Nicodemus’s anger for irritation at being excluded, Simple John cast “FIND [Nicodemus’s ear] and SOUND (a sick donkey farting).”

Nicodemus quickly wrote “FIND and ERASE [any spell]” in the back of his hand and flicked the spell into the air. It careened into John’s curse and knocked both texts out of existence with a wet pop. If needed, Nicodemus could flood the room with similar censoring texts.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nicodemus barked. “What if one of the younger cacographers had walked in just now? We’d be in a fine state then. There’d be cursing matches up and down the tower until spring. Or what if a wizard had stopped by? With the convocation on, the repercus-sions would be horrible.”

The other cacographers fell silent. Simple John swallowed his smile and hung his head.

“What’s it to you, Nico?” Devin sneered. “Afraid Shannon’ll find out? Afraid the old man won’t let you teach your precious class?”

“Devin,” Nicodemus said, leveling his gaze at the short redhead, “how many penitences do you have left for the flooded privy prank?”

She glared at him.

“Don’t you see that our place in Starhaven is not secure? As Magister Shannon just reminded me, our disability puts an extra burden on us. And we all know that in other academies cacographers aren’t treated so well. Astrophell censors magical language out of their cacographers.”

“As if that would be so bad, to leave this place,” Devin groused.

“Well excuse me, my lady. I was unaware of your noble blood.” Nicodemus dipped into a mock bow. “Because that’s what it’d take to find a life as comfortable and safe as we have here. As an illiterate, you might end up a scullery maid, but think of John. How would he get by?”

“No,” Simple John protested softly.

Devin lowered her eyes and dropped her spell. An uncomfortable moment passed.

In the awkward silence, Nicodemus felt a slow sinking sensation. Could he call his floormates reckless when, only an hour ago, he had misspelled a library gargoyle? If caught, his mistake would have damaged the reputation of cacographers far more than the discovery of a simple cursing match.

“Dev, John, I’m sorry,” he said in a softer tone. “I had a rough night in the library and disappointed Shannon. He’s worried about some of the convocation’s delegates. It might even be dangerous for us to be seen misspelling.”

Neither of the other cacographers spoke. John was looking at his boots, Devin scowling at the ceiling.

“I’ll help clean up,” Nicodemus said wearily.

They worked silently. Simple John righted the tables while the other two shifted chairs and retrieved the pages strewn about the floor. Twice Nicodemus saw Devin and Simple John smirking at each other, but when they noticed him watching they jumped back to work.

When finished, Nicodemus snuffed the tapers and trudged into his bedroom. It was cold for the first time since last spring. Autumn was growing old.

He forged the ignition words and tossed them into the small fireplace. A spark spell caught the text and then set the kindling aflame. Light flickered across the modest chamber and Nicodemus’s few possessions: a sleeping cot, a desk, two chests, a washstand, a chamber pot.

Under the bed sat a stack of mundane books. Among them was a knightly romance he had bought from a Lornish peddler. The fellow had promised that this particular romance, The Silver Shield, was the best one yet.

Nicodemus’s love for knightly romances sometimes followed him into his sleep. Since he had arrived in Starhaven, Nicodemus had spent countless hours imagining night terrors to populate the nearby forest. In both his dreams at night and daydreams, he would venture out to vanquish the imagined monsters.

He smiled now, thinking of the strange antagonists his young mind had imagined. Uro was a giant insect with a spiked carapace and scythelike hands. Tamelkan, the sightless dragon, possessed tentacles that grew from his chin. And of course there was Garkex, the firetroll, who spouted flame from his three horns and fiery curses from his mouth.

Dreaming of monsters and battles was a childish pleasure, Nicodemus knew, but it was one of the few he had known.

Looking at the book again, he sighed. His eyes were too weary to read.

He flopped onto his cot and began to untie his robe at the back of his neck. His hair could use brushing.

He was looking around for his comb when the sound of flapping wings came to his window. He turned to regard a large bird with vivid blue plumage. Bright yellow skin shone around her black eyes and hooked beak. “Corn,” croaked the bird in her scratchy parrot voice.

“Hello, Azure. I don’t keep corn in my room. Did Magister Shannon give you a message for me?”

The bird cocked her head to one side. “Scratch.”

“All right, but the message?”

The bird hopped onto the cot and waddled over to Nicodemus. Using her beak to grab onto his robes, the familiar pulled herself onto his lap and presented the top of her head to be scratched; Nicodemus obliged.

“Azure, the message from Magister is important.”

The bird whistled two notes before casting a barrage of golden sentences from her head to Nicodemus’s.

Languages like Numinous, which could manipulate light and other text, were often used to encode written messages. The spell that Azure had just cast was one such.

The problem was that Numinous had a complex structure, and so a cacographer’s touch misspelled all but the simplest Numinous sentences. That is why Nicodemus had to work quickly to translate Shannon’s message. The longer he held the text in his mind, the faster his disability would distort its spelling.

Numinous runes possessed fluid shapes resembling tendrils of smoke or threads of spun glass. Translating them made a spellwright’s fingers feel as if they were touching smooth glass. As he worked, Nicodemus’s fingers twitched with phantom sensation.

Shannon’s message was complicated, and when Nicodemus finished translating, it was garbled:

Nicodemus—

Do n’t discuss tonight’s conversaton w/ anyone, incldng roomates. V. important to atract littel attn. As planed, come to my study direclty after brecfast. You are excused from aprentice duty four the day.

—Mg. Shannon

Azure presented the back of her head again. “Scratch?”

Nicodemus absently stroked the bird’s feathers. Shannon’s instruction to avoid attention was worrisome. Nicodemus did not know what was prompting the old man’s vigilance, but he had no doubt that it was serious.

“Sweet heaven, the druids,” Nicodemus whispered, remembering how his attempt to impress Deirdre had elicited a barrage of questions about prophecy and his disability. “Magister is going to kill me.”

“Scratch?” Azure repeated.

Nicodemus looked down and realized that in his distraction he had stopped petting the familiar. “I’m sorry, Azure. I’m exhausted.” It was true—his eyes stung, his bones ached, his thoughts seemed slow as pine sap. “I’d better sleep if I’m going to help Magister tomorrow.”

“Scratch?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Finally convinced that she was not going to be petted, Azure hopped over to the window. She made her two-note whistle and flapped away into the night.

Blinking his weary eyes, Nicodemus went to the washstand and, rubbing his hands together, forged the small white runes wizards used for soap. Looking into his polished-metal mirror, he was shocked to see two pink sentences written across his forehead.

At first a scowl darkened his face, but then he laughed.

She must have written some witty prose indeed to sneak the Jejunus curse onto him without his noticing.

Careful not to trip in the dim firelight, Nicodemus stepped through the common room to Devin’s door. Muted voices came from the other side. He knocked and walked in.

Simple John and Devin were sitting on her bed playing cat’s cradle, John’s favorite. They looked up.

“This was well done,” Nicodemus said while gesturing to his forehead and the pink words that read:

I Hate Fun.

But I LOVE Donkey Piss!

AFTER DEVIN HAD disspelled the curse from Nicodemus’s forehead, the three floormates gossiped about other cacographers and apprentices: who might be promoted, who was sneaking into whose bed, that sort of thing.

Though still exhausted, Nicodemus was happy to stay up with his friends and forget about druids and Astrophell delegates and the other nebulous dangers the night had presented.

As they talked, John and Nicodemus played cat’s cradle while Devin brushed out Nicodemus’s long raven hair.