Spellwright

Nicodemus shook his head. “I thought the body must be in a cave where the Spindle Bridge meets the mountain. There must be some connection to the ivy and hexagon patterns carved into the mountain face. But in the Chthonic visions, I saw that the cave into the mountain had disappeared after the Spindle Bridge was built. And Shannon probed the rock before the bridge and found nothing. There must be some other connection. It’s frustrating. I can’t consult the ghosts again until tonight.”

He popped a blackberry into his mouth and stared down at the tattoos that covered his hands and forearms. It was strange to think about Garkex and the other night terrors being written across his body.

Deirdre was still studying him. “The dreams might not matter. We’ll be safe when we reach my goddess’s ark. When will you be ready to run to Gray’s Crossing?”

Nicodemus paused, a berry at his lips. “When I met the golem, it was coming up from Gray’s Crossing.”

He had told Deirdre about his strange dreams, his encounter with Fellwroth, and his dealings with the Chthonic ghost. But he had not told her what Fellwroth had said about the struggle between two factions-one demonic, one divine-to breed a Language Prime spellwright.

“Fellwroth must be watching Gray’s Crossing,” he continued. “He might anticipate our trying to reach your goddess’s ark.”

Deirdre shook her head; her raven hair gleamed even in the half-light. “A dozen armed devotees-two of them druids-guard the stone. And it’s well hidden; Fellwroth wouldn’t know where to find it.”

Her wide eyes widened; her dark cheeks flushed darker. “Nicodemus, we are so close now. My goddess can sense you nearing. She longs to protect you.”

Nicodemus put the blackberry in his mouth and chewed it slowly. “Deirdre, who is your goddess?”

A soft smile curled her lips. “She is Boann of the Highlands, not a powerful deity, but a water goddess of unsurpassed beauty, a dweller of the secret brooks and streams that flow among the boulders and the heather.”

Nicodemus thought about what Fellwroth had told him. “Does she have many Imperials-those that look like us-in her service?”

“A few,” she said, eating another berry. “My family has done so for time out of mind. In the Lowlands, my cousins serve her. But you must understand that she is a Dralish deity. The Lornish occupy the Highlands still. Those of us holding to the old ways must hide-”

Nicodemus interrupted. “Does she direct your family as to whom they might marry?”

This made Deirdre’s eyebrows sink. “We never marry without her blessing.”

“Is she trying to produce a Language Prime spellwright?”

“Language Prime?”

“Maybe she called it the First Language. Have you heard of that?”

Deirdre only frowned.

“No, you haven’t. But did your goddess know that Typhon had crossed the ocean? Has she been struggling against him for long?”

“Nicodemus, what are you driving at?”

He looked down. “Nothing. Only thinking aloud.”

Fellwroth had said that those opposing the Disjunction-the Alliance of Divine Heretics-would kill Nicodemus on sight. But Nicodemus distrusted the monster. If the Alliance wanted a Language Prime spellwright so badly, they might be willing to help Nicodemus recover the missing part of himself in return for his service.

For this reason, Nicodemus hoped that Deirdre’s goddess was a member of the Alliance. Clearly Deirdre did not want him dead; she could have broken his neck long ago.

The problem was that Deirdre didn’t seem to know about Language Prime or whether her goddess was a member of this Alliance.

But then again, she might know more than she was letting on. Nicodemus needed a way to learn more about her.

Suddenly the blackberry in his mouth became sour. He knew what he had to do. “Deirdre,” he said softly, “Kyran is dead.”

She looked away. “I know.” The room’s faint light glowed on her smooth cheeks and accentuated her youthful appearance.

Nicodemus continued, “He died fighting Fellwroth in the compluvium… saved my life. He gave me this script.” Holding out his empty right hand, Nicodemus pulled Kyran’s final spell from his chest with his left. “He asked that I give it to you.”

Deirdre looked down at his right hand and then away. “Read it to me,” she whispered.

Nicodemus’s heart began to strike. “I’d rather you take it.”

Again she looked at his right hand and shook her head. “Please, read it to me.”

A silent pause.

“Deirdre,” Nicodemus said gently, “you’re illiterate.”

She looked at him as if he had turned into a frog. “I learned to read fifty years before you were born.”

“Not mundane language, magical language. You can’t read even the common magical languages. You’re not a druid.”

She started to say one thing and then stopped. Started to say another, stopped. “How did you know?” she managed at last.

“When I told you of Kyran’s spell, you looked at my right hand.” He nodded to the hand in question, which he had stretched out as if offering something.

She frowned “And?”

“I’m holding the text in my left.”