Spellwright

“For a few wizards, age or literary trauma steals our ability to see anything but magical text.” Sha

Two Numinous streams rushed between wizard and parrot. Now Sha

Deirdre studied man and bird. “Such strange practices you wizards have.”

Again Sha

Nicodemus had never heard the old man be so hesitant and so cautious with his words.

Azure, apparently having looked around the room enough for Sha

Magistra Okeke spoke. “We should tell the boy why we are here.”

Sha

“I would like the boy to talk about the Erasmine Prophecy,” the sentinel said, coolly regarding first Sha

Nicodemus felt his cheeks grow hot.

Sha

With a half-smile, the druid looked from one wizard to the other before adding, “I am also interested in this prophecy.”

The sentinel narrowed her eyes at the other woman.

Three grand authors in one room, each distrustful of the others-Nicodemus would have felt safer if the study were full of starving lycanthropes.

“Regarding prophecy, there is little to tell,” Sha

“Why so certain?” Deirdre’s green eyes fixed on the old man. “Perhaps we should start with what the first wizards foresaw.”

Sha

However, Sha

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,” Sha

“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 Sha

“There’s no need to-” Sha

“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 unrelated 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.”

Sha

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 Sha

Though Sha

At last Sha

The pride ringing in the old man’s voice made Nicodemus’s cheeks grow hot again.

“However,” Sha

“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 Sha

An icy sensation-half-thrill, half-fear-spread through Nicodemus. The Provost had observed him? But when and how?

Magistra Okeke stared at Sha

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.”

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