Spellwright

“But the humans caught the escape party at dawn. The ensuing battle destroyed the codex holding the priestly ghosts. The living Chthonics who survived the human attack brought the Bestiary and the remaining spectral codex here to these ruins. After helping the Bestiary to write the protecting subtexts and metaspells, the living ran for the mountains and the Heaven Tree… they never made it.”

Nicodemus paused for a respectful moment before speaking. “And is your First Language related to Language Prime?”

The text gave him a quizzical look.

Nicodemus tried to explain. “Language Prime is the Creator’s language, the language of the first words, the source of all magic.”

The ghost frowned and held out a few sentences. “As I said, I am no priest. But I do remember the Neosolar Empire labeled the First Language as blasphemous. They said we were trying to alter the Creator’s text or some nonsense. They used the idea that we were distorting holy language to justify their bloodlust.”

Nicodemus read this and then said, “I must learn whatever I can about Language Prime. Your First Language might be similar to it. Is the Bestiary nearby?”

The ghost licked his lips before nodding.

“Am I capable of reading it?”

Tulki wrote a response and hesitantly held it out. “Yes… one needs only fluency in Wrixlan to engage the tome… but I fear I cannot let you do so.”

“Your religion forbids it? Is it dangerous?”

The Chthonic shook his head. “There is a little danger, but not much. And the old ways do not prohibit humans from reading it. But, you see, we allowed the last eugrapher to read the Bestiary. After engaging the text, he grew fractious. He soon left and never returned.”

Now it was Nicodemus’s turn to be puzzled. “What did he learn from the book?”

The ghost cast a reply and then looked at his feet. “He would not say.”

Nicodemus suddenly understood. “You fear that whatever upset the previous cacographer will upset me and I won’t replenish your spectral codex.”

“Please don’t be angry. If you do not help us, we will deconstruct.”

“I see your dilemma. How about a trade? I will replenish your codex now and promise to return in the future. In exchange, you will let me engage the Bestiary.”

The ghost peered into Nicodemus’s face and then composed his script. “Yes, that could work. Let us talk more after you refresh our text. But remember, if it is after sunrise when you wake, I will not be here. Wait for night and do not build a fire or cast any harsh illuminating text. I will return.”

“Agreed,” Nicodemus said, and turned to regard the spectral codex that lay within its stone vault. Its brasswork gleamed dully.

“I do this to demonstrate my good faith.” He opened the book and planted his hand on the open page.

EVERYTHING BLAZED WHITE and then faded into black. Suddenly Nicodemus was not himself. Nor was he in his own time.

He was a young Chthonic male pausing from his early evening spell work. His bare feet stood on the newly built tower bridge. Its stones were still warm from the summer sunlight. He looked east. Before him stretched the dusty expanse of felled trees and rock piles.

Soon they would build towers there as well, and the city would grow even larger. Farther away stood the moonlit mountains. In the middle of the sheer rock face gaped a wide tunnel that ran into the mountain.

He remembered that long ago his ancestors had built that tunnel to escape the underworld. But sometimes, blueskin raiders had come screaming out of the tunnel to steal food, tools, and females. His people had led counterstrikes down the tunnel to kill the offending blueskins and take others as slaves.