Spellwright

Somewhere among the towers, a raven began to cry. The creature remembered that he still had to run down to Gray’s Crossing. “Wretched village,” he grumbled.

Leaning on the bridge’s railing, he narrowed his eyes and began to think. It was time to remove Shannon from play.

DEIRDRE TURNED OVER the clay head with her boot. Its face had been squashed flat against the floor. No distinguishing feature remained. Long fragments of what looked to have been hair lay scattered around on the dusty ground.

Next to her, leaning on his wooden staff, Kyran grunted. “Perhaps you killed the author along with the body?”

She shook her head. “We must assume the fiend lives. We should take the Peregrine to our goddess’s ark as soon as possible. The creature is aware of my presence now and may become more desperate.”

“We can’t reach the boy now with the sentinels guarding him. But they will keep him safe for the night. We should sleep.”

Deirdre looked at her protector. “Do you really think he is safe?”

He regarded her for a moment, his brown eyes nearly black in the green light of his spells. “We must sleep.”

WHEN THE IDEA came, the creature laughed out loud.

A cold wind was blowing over the tower bridge. Far below, in the Stone Court, several torches fluttered and winked. The two guarding sentinels pulled their black cloaks more tightly about their frail bodies.

The creature laughed again; the plan was brilliant. By enlisting the sentinels, Shannon had forged the tool that would be his undoing.

During the creature’s first encounter with Shannon, he had fled with Nora Finn’s research journal, hoping to find the boy’s name inside. The woman had been prudent enough to avoid that. But the creature still had the journal, and now was the time to use it.

His new plan to trap Shannon would be a challenge; he could not spellwrite within the libraries. However, he could cast texts into the libraries from outside. Entering the old fool’s rooms would be more difficult. He would have to sacrifice his present golem to place the book. Worse was the issue of time: the creature had to run down to the miserable village and back.

Still, it would be possible if he cast the curses immediately.

The creature turned and started for the nearest tower. He did not need to remove Shannon; the sentinels would do that for him.

CHAPTER

Twenty-three

When Nicodemus opened his common room door, the tapers were snuffed and the fire smoldering. Since leaving Shannon, his excitement and fear had faded. Now his empty stomach groaned, his wounded cheek throbbed, and his exhausted eyes stung.

“Fiery heaven,” he grumbled, picking his way across the darkened common room. What if he were not excused from apprentice duty in the morning? Would he have to avoid a golem while mopping-

His left shin slammed into something hard. Whatever it was clattered on the floor. “Blood of Los!” he swore. By feeling around with his hands, he discovered a chair’s square legs. The squeaking of a bed frame came from Simple John’s room.

Nicodemus righted the chair. “Bind those idiots for not cleaning up,” he growled. “When I-”

A door opened to spill a vertical beam of firelight into the darkness. “Simple John?” Simple John asked.

Nicodemus’s anger melted. “It’s all right, John. I just tripped.” The door swung wide to fill the common room with the shifting light of the big man’s fire. “John, I’m fine.”

Simple John inspected Nicodemus’s face with concern. “No,” he said while plodding over to his fellow cacographer. A powerful hand landed on Nicodemus’s shoulder.

“Really, John, the cut was just a research accident. There’s no need-”

“No,” Simple John said before enveloping Nicodemus in a hug. “Simple John,” Simple John said while mashing Nicodemus’s head into his chest.

At first Nicodemus leaned into the massive wall that was John and let his arms hang limp. But after a moment, he half-heartedly returned the hug. Simple John released him and said, “Splattering splud!”

“Splattering splud,” Nicodemus agreed. “That about describes my life: splattering splud.”

They exchanged goodnights and Nicodemus stumbled into his chamber. He’d forgotten to put the paper screen in the window and now the room was cold.

“Oh, hang it all,” he sighed and tossed the ignition words into the fireplace. Soon a flame danced among the logs and illuminated his room’s usual disarray. He untied his belt-purse and tossed it onto his cot.

At the sound of a knock, he turned to see Devin standing in the doorway. She was pinning a cloak about her shoulders and trying on different frowns.

“I heard you come in,” she grunted. “I’ve been put on nighttime janitorial duty. The bloody provost wants the refectory cleaned in the dark so that none of the foreign-blood and fire! What happened to your cheek?”

Nicodemus covered it with his hand. “Nothing. An accident during Shannon’s research.”

“Nico, don’t be stupid about wanting a linguist’s hood. If Shannon’s giving you work you can’t safely handle you should-”