Spellwright

The sentinel shook her head. “There is no need to be alarmed. In less than a quarter hour, I will have two guards following the boy night and day. His tower will be textually sealed at night. The moment we have evidence that he is dangerous or connected to the counter-prophecy, we’ll censor his mind and lock him up in a cell below the Gate Towers.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Deirdre bowed.

Amadi returned the gesture and left. Slowly the sentinel’s footsteps faded down the hall.

“How much of that did you hear?” Deirdre asked.

“Enough,” Kyran said from behind her. “So it seems the black-robes have encountered the demon-worshiper you guessed was nearby. Do I need to explain about the creature turning from flesh to clay?”

She turned and saw his silhouette glimmer as he let the invisibility subtext deconstruct. “No, you bloody don’t.”

The subtext fell from Kyran’s head, revealing a stern expression. “We should take the boy now. Our goddess can protect him once we get him to the ark.”

Deirdre rubbed her eyes. “We can’t. You heard the sentinel; she’s placing guards around the boy.” The pressure on her eyelids caused floating orange-black splotches across her vision. “Ky, do you think we could find the author’s body, kill the demon-worshiper while the creature is sneaking about?”

“No. The true body could be anywhere.”

Deirdre swore. “And if Amadi Okeke gets it into her head that Nicodemus is this Petrel, she’ll censor him and send him to his death in that prison cell.”

“He wouldn’t be safe from the creature when locked up?”

She dropped her hands and gave him an exasperated look. “What would happen if you tied up a lamb and left it in the sheep pen?”

He grimaced. “The lycanthropes would come out of the woods.”

CHAPTER

Seventeen

Nicodemus stared at the flecks of stew that spangled his emptied lunch bowl.

Midday sunlight was streaming into the refectory-a wide Lornish hall lined with tapestries and clear-glass windows. Above, broad rafters marched across the ceiling and provided hanging posts for the academy’s banners. Farther down the table, several librarians whispered about the horrible news from Trillinon.

Using his spoon, Nicodemus began to flatten the drops of congealing stew on the inside of his bowl. A mash of conflicting emotions seethed within his mind.

Half an hour before, he had hurried into the refectory, heart pounding. The nightmare had been as vivid as the previous night’s dragon dream. He had been sure it had also come from the murderer, but he couldn’t imagine why the villain would send him such strange visions.

He had mulled over the nightmare’s images while fetching his stew and finding a private space to sit. The more he thought about the dream, the more it seemed that the episodes of the neophyte and the turtles were incongruous. That had calmed him somewhat. Mundane nightmares were filled with nonsensical shifts. Perhaps the bizarre sequence meant that the dream was simply a dream.

Whatever the case, Nicodemus had told himself, Shannon would know what to do about it; there was no use in worrying now.

He had tried to think about his successful first composition lecture but ended up fretting about the sentinels who had been spying on him. Did they still think him capable of murder? The question had made him think about James Berr, the murdering cacographer who had lived so long ago. Did the sentinels think he was a second James Berr?

Then he had thought about what the druid had told him. Her words had awakened a dormant longing in his heart. Could he actually be the Halcyon? After all these years of coming to terms with his disability, could his cacography be removed?

Half of him wanted to lose himself in dreams of what life might be like if the druid were correct. But the other half was wary and more than a little frightened. What if he dared to believe that he was not crippled and then, once again, discovered that it was all a lie? Could he survive a second disappointment?

He felt his belt-purse for the magical artifact Deirdre had given him. A Seed of Finding, she had called it. Even through cloth, the object made his fingers tingle.

The artifact’s power spoke to the druid’s sincerity. However, she was clearly after something more than curing his cacography. The more Nicodemus thought about it, the more he questioned her motives.

“Fiery blood,” he grumbled, flattening another drop of stew with extra force.

Then there was the advice he had given to the smart-mouthed cacographic boy in his class: “Accept your disability and you will be free,” had been the essence of his message. It had seemed true at the time, but here he was, fervently hoping that his own disability could be erased.

Did that make him a hypocrite? He brought the spoon to his lips and tapped its tip against his front teeth. “Yes,” he grunted, “it bloody well does.”

Suddenly Nicodemus wished everything would just go away. If only he could crawl back to his room and spend the rest of the day reading the knightly romance stored under his bed.