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Shannon started to reply but then paused. Prophecy, being closely related to religion, was seldom discussed among different magical societies. Doing so was considered impolite at best, blasphemous at worst.
However, Shannon could not refuse a guest’s direct request. “Erasmus foresaw the War of Disjunction: the final struggle between demons and humanity that will come when the fiends escape the ancient continent and invade this one. The prophecies predict that Los will be reborn and will lead the Pandemonium—the great demonic army—across the ocean to destroy all human language. Erasmus founded the Numinous Order of Civil Wizardry to repel the Pandemonium. His prophecy predicts that the Order will prevail only if it heeds the teachings of a master spellwright known as ‘the Halcyon.’”
Deirdre shifted in her chair. “But how could any force destroy human language?”
Magistra Okeke answered impatiently: “The demons will use special spells called metaspells to decouple the meaning of language from its form.”
The druid gave the sentinel a blank look.
“What Magistra Okeke means,” Shannon explained, “is that the demons will divorce the signifier from the signified. Phrases and words will take on unexpected meanings. Civilization will crumble into animal brutishness.”
“I don’t understand your jargon,” Deirdre said. “But this interests me. The druids hold to the Prophecy of the Peregrine, which predicts that the Pandemonium will burn our groves and crush our standing stones. Our mundane and magical texts are stored within our sacred trees and megaliths.”
“I thought druids believed the War of Disjunction was imminent,” Magistra Okeke said. “Something about a fungus killing off Dralish trees.”
Still smiling, Deirdre examined the sentinel as if for the first time. “Amadi Okeke, you refer to the Silent Blight. It is a complicated issue. I would prefer not to speak of it here.”
The sentinel pursed her lips. “But perhaps you could elucidate some of your order’s beliefs, since Magister Shannon was so free with information about wizardly prophecy.”
“There’s no need to—” Shannon started to say.
“It is all right.” Deidre raised an open palm. “The Silent Blight is a…‘change,’ I suppose I must name it to non-druids. Yes, the Blight is a world change we detected a few decades ago. It is not a disease, but a…condition that is affecting all of nature. The evidence comes from the observation that certain kinds of trees are dying in each of the human kingdoms. What is causing the deaths is debated. Some believe the Blight indicates that the War of Disjunction will begin any day now. Others think it is un-related to prophecy. However, all druids agree on one and only one thing: when the War of Disjunction does begin, a foreign spellwright known as the Peregrine will show us how to protect our sacred places and hence our language.”
Shannon nodded. “Some of our scholars report that all magical societies believe the Disjunction will destroy their languages and that only one spellwright might prevent this fate.”
Deirdre nodded to Nicodemus without looking at him. “And the wizards once thought he might be the Halcyon?”
Magistra Okeke leaned forward, her eyes flitting between Shannon and Deirdre.
Though Shannon’s face remained impassive, he cast a brief sentence to Azure. The parrot lowered her head, allowing the old man to stroke the feathers along her skinny neck. Nicodemus recognized this as a habit comforting for both bird and man.
At last Shannon spoke. “Our prophecy describes the Halcyon as being the child of an unknown mother, as having a birth to magic powerful enough to be felt for hundreds of miles, as forging both Numinous and Magnus before reaching twenty. All of these things describe Nicodemus perfectly.”
The pride ringing in the old man’s voice made Nicodemus’s cheeks grow hot again.
“However,” Shannon continued, “Erasmus also described the Halcyon as bearing a congenital keloid scar in the shape of the Braid rune. Nicodemus’s mark is ambiguous. More important, the prophecy predicted that the Halcyon would master many styles and wield language with elegance and justice. He foresaw the Halcyon destroying the feral kingdoms and forging a staff powerful enough to slay the reborn Los.”
“And that is why I can’t be the Halcyon,” Nicodemus insisted. “My cacography prevents me from mastering any style or producing anything close to elegant prose. For a while, the wizards thought I would outgrow my difficulty. But when it became apparent that my touch would always misspell, they knew I wasn’t the Halcyon.”
“Nicodemus,” Deirdre said, “how were you born to magic?”
He shifted in his seat. “In my sleep, when I was thirteen.”
The druid’s mouth curved almost imperceptibly upward. At the same time, the sentinel narrowed her lips.
Deirdre asked, “Do you remember what you were dreaming about the night you were born to magic?”
“No,” he lied.
The sentinel spoke. “As a cacographer you cause misspells by handling text, but have you noticed if your touch makes other things more chaotic? For example, do those near you often become sick? Or do the fires you light tend to escape the fireplace?”
Nicodemus was about to say that he had not noticed anything like that when Shannon interrupted in a low tone. “Amadi, Provost Montserrat has personally observed Nicodemus and determined that that is not the case.”
An icy sensation—half-thrill, half-fear—spread through Nicodemus. The Provost had observed him? But when and how?
Magistra Okeke stared at Shannon for a long moment. “I will see the boy’s keloid now.”
Nicodemus touched a lock of his long black hair. “There’s really no need, Magistra. The scars are misshapen. And we don’t know if I was born with it or not.”
The sentinel only stared. He looked at Shannon, but his teacher’s expression was as blank as a snow field. No help there. He looked at Deirdre. She only smiled her infuriating half-smile.
So with his heart growing cold, Nicodemus turned his chair to present his back to the sentinel, pulled his hair over one shoulder, and began to unlace his robes.
AS HE UNTIED his collar at the back of his neck, Nicodemus’s fingers ran across the keloid.
He had felt the scars countless times before, traced their every inch with his fingertips. Once he had even arranged two bits of polished brass so that he could see their reflection.
Unlike most scars, which were pale and flat, a keloid scar bulged out and darkened. Nicodemus’s complexion was a healthy olive hue, but the weals on his neck shone a glossy blue-black—like a colony of parasitic mollusks growing into his flesh.
He fussed over his hair every night so that it would remain long enough to hide the keloids. He hadn’t had to reveal them for nearly five years.
His face burned as he pushed his collar back to expose his neck and shoulders.
“Goddess!” the druid swore. “Do they hurt?”
“No, Magistra,” he said as evenly as possible.
He heard the sentinel walk over to him. “I can see the shape of the Braid in the scars.”
The “Braid” she was referring to was a rune in a common language named Vulgate; it consisted of two vertical lines connected by a serpentine line that wove between them. By itself the Braid could mean “to organize” or “to combine.”
Nicodemus had no sensation along the keloid, but he could feel the pressure of Magistra Okeke’s finger as she traced the scars down his neck. She spoke. “Druid, is the Peregrine prophesied to bear a keloid in the shape of the Braid?”
“Predicted to be born with such,” the druid answered. “There have been false Peregrines who have created such a keloid through branding. And, as I understand it, we do not know if Nicodemus’s mark is congenital.”
“But, Magistras, there’s an error in the middle of it,” Nicodemus said, his face still hot.
Magistra Okeke grunted. “Child, you don’t know how right you are.”
He tried not to flinch as her finger traced the blotch. This second scar took the imperfect shape of a written letter “k” that had been pushed over onto its legs—the same shape as the Inconjunct rune.
By itself an Inconjunct meant either “as far apart as possible” or “as in-correct as possible.” Therefore, a Braid paired with an Inconjunct could mean “to disorganize to the furthest extent” or “to deconstruct to the basic components.”
Deirdre swore under her breath: “Bridget, damn it!”
Shocked by the druid’s blasphemy against her own goddess, Nicodemus turned around. She had lost her half-smile and was frowning at his neck.
“You are distressed, Deirdre?” Magistra Okeke asked. “You thought perhaps Nicodemus was the Peregrine?”
The druid sighed and returned to her chair. “Yes, Amadi Okeke. The answer to both of your questions is yes.”
“Well, druid, I agree with your assessment,” the sentinel said. “If this scar is fate’s work, then it is a clear sign that Nicodemus is not the Halcyon. But I wonder if it might have another meaning.”
Shannon snorted. “You’re getting carried away, Amadi.” His voice softened. “Thank you, Nicodemus. You may cover your neck now.”
Dizzy with relief, Nicodemus began to tie his collar’s laces.
Deirdre sat back into her chair. “Agwu Shannon, Amadi Okeke, apologies for occupying your time.”
Returning to her seat, Magistra Okeke asked, “What does the provost think of the Inconjunct?”
“He does not believe it is a rune,” Shannon answered curtly. “He believes it is the result of human error.”
Magistra Okeke’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
Shannon opened his mouth to speak, but Nicodemus interrupted: “Magister is too kind to say that most likely my parents branded me. It might be shameful, and many may look down on my family because of it. But I’d rather face the shame than have anyone again believe that I’m involved in prophecy.”
Shannon frowned. “Nicodemus, who told you that you were branded?”
Nicodemus looked down at his boots. “No one, Magister. It’s what I figure people must say.”
Deirdre gazed out the window, all sign of interest gone.
Meanwhile the sentinel looked Nicodemus up and down. “You’ve had the scars all your life?”
Nicodemus forced himself to meet her stare. “When I was an infant, my stepmother gave me my last name because of them.”
Magistra Okeke raised her eyebrows.
“The word ‘weal’ is a synonym for ‘welt,’” Nicodemus explained. “Hence Nicodemus-of-the-weals became Nicodemus Weal.”
Shannon cleared his throat. “But ‘weal’ has another meaning. It can mean ‘the common good.’ It’s an antonym of woe.”
Nicodemus put on his bravest smile. “I’ve always said that that makes it a contranym.”
Deirdre looked at Nicodemus so abruptly he started. “Why would you say that?” The half-smile returned to her lips.
“Oh-h,” Nicodemus stuttered. “W-well, a contranym is a word that means the opposite of itself like ‘dust’ or ‘bound.’ If I’m dusting the table, you don’t know if I’m sweeping the dust off it or sprinkling some onto it. And the weal is the opposite of woe, but woe to him with a weal.”
Shannon laughed softly even though he had heard this attempt at wit before. Nicodemus gave him a grateful glance.
Deirdre was nodding. She seemed about to speak but an urgent knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” Shannon called. The door swung open to reveal Magister Smallwood. “Agwu! It’s that astounding colaboris correspondence. News most terrifying from abroad!”
CHAPTER Eleven
“Nicodemus, please attend our druid guest while I hear this news.” Shannon stood. “Deirdre, forgive us a moment.” Two Numinous arcs sprang between the old wizard and Azure as he made for the door. The sentinel followed.
Nicodemus stood and watched them go. He would have given anything to avoid being left alone with the druid.
He looked back at Deirdre. Her wide eyes and smooth skin made her seemed no older than twenty, but her slight smile betrayed an ancient, matronly amusement. “I think I handled that rather well,” she said. “Let us sit. There’s much to discuss.”
Frowning in confusion, he retook his seat.
“Nicodemus, do you know that we’re distant cousins?” the druid asked, her smile growing. “I consulted Starhaven’s genealogy library. We share a pair of great-great-grandparents.”
Nicodemus’s head bobbed backward. This was unexpected. But then he realized why the druid seemed familiar: save for her eyes, she was a younger and more beautiful copy of his aunt. “Are you Spirish?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Dralish, but of Imperial descent. Do you know what that means? The ancient continent was ruled by an Imperial family who possessed the same black hair, green eyes, and olive skin that you and I have.”
Nicodemus felt an old memory stir. “My father once said he could trace his ancestry to the first Spirish Landfall.”
Deirdre nodded. “Just so. When humanity fled the ancient continent, each member of the imperial family boarded a different ship. The Maelstrom scattered the human fleet; as a result, our relatives are spread across the land in both powerful and humble families.”
She studied him. “I have many Imperial aspects, save for my height, or rather, my lack of height. But you seem to have all the Imperial features.”
Nicodemus fought the urge to fidget with his sleeve. “It’s flattering to hear you say so.”
“It makes one wonder who your mother might be,” she said.
He looked away at the window.
“I am sorry,” she said, touching his knee. “Forgive my speculation.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said without looking at her.
“Nicodemus, I must tell you something.” She paused. “Please carefully consider what I say next.” She leaned forward. Paused. “You have been crippled by a horrible curse.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You are cursed.”
“In which language?”
“In no magical language of this land.”
“Forgive my skepticism, but if I haven’t been cursed in a known magical language, then how can you see it?”
Deirdre folded her dark hands on her white lap. “There are many things that cannot be seen by writers of the new magics.”
“New magics?” Nicodemus frowned at her odd diction.
The druid nodded. “When our ancestors crossed the ocean, most ancient magics were lost. Only the Dralish and Verdantians preserved their ancestral ways, which evolved into the old magics. All other magic has been invented since then.”
He knew that what she was saying was true. “But what does this have to do with a curse? And shouldn’t we speak of old languages, not old magics?”
Deirdre’s mouth tensed for a moment but then relaxed into its usual half-smile. “Magics, languages, it’s all one. The point is that while the new languages might be more powerful, they restrict their writers’ vision; they prevent their writers from knowing the wisdom of the ancient continent.”
“And they prevent us from seeing curses?” Nicodemus asked skeptically. “Forgive me, but I did spend last night disspelling a curse from my forehead.”
The druid waved his words away. “Wizards call any malevolent text a curse. What infected you is different. It was written in a language from the ancient continent and therefore left an aura dimly visible to those fluent in the old languages but invisible to those fluent only in the new.”
“All right, say I have been cursed. What infected me? Is it some disease I’ve got?”
Deirdre was silent for a moment. Then she leaned forward and said, “Isn’t it obvious, my friend, that someone has stolen your ability to spell?”
Nicodemus blinked. “That’s impossible. No known spell—”
“This curse comes from the ancient world, where knowledge of how language could affect the body was far greater. The histories describe magic that could regrow a severed arm or restore the memories lost to a blow on the head.”
Nicodemus could not deny what she said; the ancients had had an in-comprehensibly sophisticated understanding of the mundane world, including medicine.
The druid continued, “Your curse was one such ancient spell. It must have invaded your mind and stolen its growth or altered its development. Whatever the case, it removed the part of your mind needed to spellwrite correctly.”
“But who would want to curse me?”
“There are men and women in every human kingdom who worship demons,” she replied. “We know little of them other than that they have formed a clandestine order. They call themselves the Disjunction because they wish to initiate the War of Disjunction. Whoever has cursed you must be among their number.
Nicodemus’s throat tightened. “You think I’m the Halcyon.”
Deirdre eyed the door. “Last spring, my goddess commanded me to travel to Starhaven, where I would find a ‘treasure wrapped in black and endangered by the falling night.’” She motioned to Nicodemus’s black robe. “The Dralish prophecy predicts that the Peregrine will be an orphaned foreigner—one born to magic in the dreamworld.”
“But the keloid,” Nicodemus exclaimed. “You saw that it’s not a true Braid. You swore, in fact. You agreed with Magistra Okeke that I can’t—”
She held up a finger. “Amadi Okeke asked if I were distressed and if I had thought you were the Peregrine. Both of those things were true. She assumed that your keloid disqualifies you from being the Peregrine.”
“It doesn’t?”
Deirdre’s half-smile returned. “We Dralish use a different dialect of the common magical languages; the common runes have different meanings for us.”
“And my keloid means something different to you?”
The druid’s smile widened. “To us, the Braid means ‘to combine’ or ‘to grow.’ More important, the second mark on your neck is an exact copy of a rune called the Crooked Branch.”
“And its meaning?”
“It describes something that is wild or unrestricted. So the combination of a Crooked Branch with a Braid would mean ‘wild or unrestrained growth.’” The druid laughed. “I swore when I saw your keloid, not because it excludes you from our prophecy, but because it describes you as difficult to govern or contain.”
Nicodemus shook his head. “But you still don’t know if my keloid is congenital or not.”
The druid cocked her head to one side. “You don’t like the possibility that you might fulfill our prophecy?”
Nicodemus stammered but couldn’t come up with a reply.
She shrugged. “Well, I need no further convincing. Here you are, just as my goddess said you would be—wrapped in black and endangered. Gravely endangered. Someone has maneuvered you into this haven of new magic, where druids almost never come. Our first task is to free you from Starhaven.”
“But I’m not imprisoned.”
“Nicodemus Weal, think of what your keloid and your curse mean. Someone has stopped you from becoming the Peregrine. It is not safe here.”
“But I’m surrounded by wizards. Who could harm me here?”
“Who? The one who cursed you, of course.” She shook her head. “Nicodemus, you were not meant to be crippled.”
Her words filled Nicodemus with giddiness and confusion. What if she was correct? What if his cacography was a mistake? Everything would change. He would change. His life would begin again.
Deirdre’s eyes widened. “Your heart knows I am right. Listen to me. Do you know what an ark is?”
Nicodemus looked away. “Cacographers aren’t instructed in theology.”
“An ark is a vessel that contains a deity’s soul and much of her power. With Kyran and a dozen devotees, I have brought my goddess’s ark to this place. If we could bring you to the ark, my goddess may lift your curse.”
Nicodemus pursed his lips. Was it possible?
Deirdre continued excitedly. “We could not bring the ark up to Starhaven. This place is filled with ancient Chthonic magic that would damage the artifact. So instead we have placed it under guard in that village…the one down on the Westernmost Road. I can’t remember the name.”
“Gray’s Crossing.”
The druid smiled. “The same. My party has taken rooms at the inn there. And all of the devotees, two of them druids, now guard the ark. We simply need to slip you free from Starhaven and bring you down to Gray’s Crossing so that my goddess can protect you. From there we shall ride to the civil forests of Dral to begin your druidic training.”
Something in the way the druid spoke—perhaps the zeal in her eyes, or maybe the urgency in her tone—cooled Nicodemus’s excitement. “But why should your goddess want to heal my cacography?”
“Because you’re the Peregrine!” she exclaimed, leaning forward. “The defender of our civilization!”
The woman’s bright eyes seemed free of deceit; still Nicodemus did not trust her. “I can’t go with you.” He put his now trembling hands in his lap.
Deirdre’s smile faltered. She started as if waking from a dream. “Yes,” she said, the excitement draining from her face. “The Braid and the Crooked Branch. I couldn’t expect less.”
“Even if I trusted you completely, I couldn’t leave Starhaven. Numinous and Magnus spellwrights may not forsake the Order. If I left Starhaven, they’d send sentinels to cast a censorship spell on me to snuff out my literacy.”
The druid tapped a forefinger against her pursed lips. “It seems your jailer has planned well. You are trapped. We must assume that such a clever enemy has planted conspirators among the wizards.”
“Conspirators?” he said with a laugh. “Look, the Creator knows I want what you say to be true, but there’s no evidence for it.” He stood and walked to the window.
“Nicodemus, unless you trust me now, there will be violence,” Deirdre said, her voice suddenly full of fervor. “The one who cursed you will discover my presence and the presence of my goddess. Blood will be shed in Starhaven.”
Despite the sunshine coming through the window, Nicodemus shivered. Deirdre’s every expression suggested that she sincerely believed what she was saying. However, there was a desperation in her tone, a maniacal excitement in her eye.
Nicodemus had seen such passion before—seen it grow and then wither in every young cacographer that came through the Drum Tower. Like a crippled child, Deirdre must have hung her every desire on one hope.
“My apologies, druid,” he said, meeting her eyes, “but I cannot trust you so blindly. I will discuss this with Magister Shannon.”
Again the zealous glow melted from the druid’s expression and left only the wry half-smile. “Here I was worrying that your keloid marked you as too headstrong to be controlled. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It is worse that you are uncontrollable in this way.”
Nicodemus turned to the windowsill. “And what way is that?”
“You are frightened. Insecure, dependent on your master, childish.”
Nicodemus closed his eyes; her words felt like a punch in the gut. But he kept his thoughts calm. He had had plenty of practice surviving brutal honesty.
“Deirdre, I won’t guess your age.” He turned his face up to feel the sunshine. “Despite your looks, you must be decades older than I am. No doubt I’m a child next to you. I haven’t even guessed what game you are playing. But at least I see that you are a game-player and would make me a game-piece.”
Deirdre spoke in a dry, accusing voice. “I have put myself in great danger by warning you of your curse.”
Nicodemus took a long breath. She was still vying for advantage, still trying to convince him. On unsteady legs, he returned to his chair. “Deirdre, I’m a cacographer, a cripple, a mooncalf apprentice. I do not plan; I do not scheme. But twenty-five years of retardation have taught me how to tell the painted from the plain, the guileful from the genuine.”
The druid regarded him. “And how to speak masterfully.”
“Flattery.” He closed his eyes and pressed four trembling fingers to his forehead. “I know that Magister is plain and that you are painted. I will tell him.”
She shook her head. “Then listen to me, game-piece Nicodemus. One day you will not have the luxury of hiding behind your disability. One day soon you will have to paint your face and play my game or die.”