Spellwright

enough slack on the fettering spells to make Amadi step backward.

“Do you find anything strange in the Drum Tower?” he asked. “Maybe not clay, but any earthen metal, granite or steel or-”

“Dust,” she said automatically. “There was a smaller mound of splinters, but dust was all about the common room and especially in a pile with a torn white sheet.”

Shannon’s blank eyes widened. “The arm I cut off the clay golem had a white sleeve.”

Amadi shook her head. “Magister, this tale of golems is too much to swallow. Texts from the ancient continent?”

“Amadi, by naming him the Storm Petrel, you admit that the bonds holding the demons to the ancient continent are loosening. And yet you refuse to accept the possibility that magic from the ancient continent has already crossed the ocean.”

Amadi said nothing.

“If you had guarded the boy properly, none of this would have happened,” Shannon said sternly. “The least you can do now is-”

“Enough,” Amadi snapped. “I did guard the boy properly given the bookworm infestation. You slipped him the key needed to escape the Drum Tower. It is you who must clear his name. And there’s only one way to do that: help us find the boy. Magister, please. Help us recover the Index and capture the Storm Petrel.”

He scowled.

Amadi took a long breath. Perhaps the old man was right. Perhaps she should not have withdrawn the guards from the Drum Tower. If the provost discovered that she had wasted the chance to contain Nicodemus, she might soon join Shannon in a prison cell. “Can you find the boy?” she asked patiently. “Do you know where he might be?”

He shook his head. “If I did, I wouldn’t take you to him. By invoking the counter-prophecy, you have ensured that he cannot be safe in Starhaven. The provost is likely to censor magical literacy out of the boy the instant he’s found.”

“But you must have taught him a cipher for a broadcast spell.”

“If I did, I should never use it,” Shannon snapped. “You could pretend to pardon me or even stage a prison escape. You could watch me then and see if I go to him. But I will never seek him out so long as I have the slightest suspicion that you are following me.”

Amadi began to pace the tiny cell. “Why do you protect the boy?”

“Have you considered that he might truly be the Halcyon?”

“What under heaven could suggest that he is the champion of order in language?” she asked. “His cacographic mind that is infecting the entire stronghold with misspells? His keloid that symbolizes increasing chaos? The death and ruin that follow him as a storm follows a petrel at sea?”

“Open your eyes, Amadi! A construct of ancient language was murdering my students one by one to reach him. Who else could bring ancient language to this continent but a demon?”

Amadi pursed her lips.

The old man continued. “Amadi, it is this demonic construct that has led you to suspect me wrongly. A demonic construct that has you worrying about the counter-prophecy when you should be worrying about the true one.”

Amadi opened her mouth, but a sharp knock at the cell door interrupted her. “Enter,” she called. The door swung wide to reveal one of the guards, a short man with a curly red beard.

“What is it?” Amadi demanded.

“Message from your secretary,” the guard replied and looked down at a green paragraph in his hands.

“Magistra,” he read, “the druids Deirdre and Kyran cannot be found. The druids of the Silent Blight delegation claim no knowledge of their disappearance.” The guard looked up. “It’s signed by Magister Kale.”

“Los’s fiery blood!” Amadi swore. “What else can go wrong?”

CHAPTER Thirty-four

As Nicodemus followed the ghostly Chthonic down into the ruined village, he reviewed everything he knew about ghostwriting.

He knew it was something powerful spellwrights did when nearing death. He knew the process involved an advanced form of what Shannon had called impressing: a complex Numinous matrix was written within a ghostwriter’s head; over time the matrix became a magical copy of the ghostwriter’s mind. A textual body was then written around this magical mind and never allowed outside of the author’s living body. Eventually, author and text became one being.

Wizards ghostwrote in Numinous, and the few ghostwriters Nicodemus had seen glowed golden from heel to head.

Nicodemus also knew that when ghostwriters died, their ghosts lived on in a text-preserving resting place. Starhaven’s ghosts dwelled below the stronghold in the necropolis.

Nicodemus also remembered that there were several types of misspelled ghosts. A “ghast” was a ghost that attacked other texts or the spellwrights who tended the necropolis. A “ghoul” was a ghost that refused to leave its body, often resulting in a half-animated corpse.

Fortunately, the ghost walking ahead of Nicodemus was not misspelled. Though transparent, its image and textual integrity seemed uncorrupted-a shocking feat for prose that had to be nearly a thousand years old.

Presently, Nicodemus was following the ghost down a steep, crumbling stairway to the ruined Chthonic village. Above them a growing wind was blustering through the trees.

“Magister,” Nicodemus said to the ghost as they descended, “How should I address you?”

The Chthonic soul stopped to smile at Nicodemus and hand him three purple sentences. They read, “You may call me Tulki. In our language, ‘Tulki’ is the masculine form of the word for ‘interpreter.’ In life, I was an ambassador between our people and your ancestors.”

When Nicodemus looked up from this message, he saw the ghost studying him with wide amber eyes. Tulki formed another two sentences in his arm and held them out. “I am assuming your ancestors were of the Neosolar Empire. You wear the black robes.”

After reading this, Nicodemus hugged the Index closer to his chest. The Neosolar Empire had slaughtered the Chthonics with the help of a young Numinous Order. “I was born Spirish,” he said.

Tulki nodded and wrote his reply: “Yes, I realize the Neosolar Empire collapsed long ago. I heard once that it was modeled after the Solar Empire on your ancient continent. I would like to have learned more. But now, follow me.”

The ghost’s silken ponytail flew over his shoulder as he turned and loped forward on all three limbs. Nicodemus followed the soul into the rubble and ivy.

As they went, the ghost tossed a paragraph over his shoulder. Nicodemus nearly slipped as he hurried to catch and read the passage. “You should know that our magical languages will be rough on your skin. When those constructs leave your body, they will score welts on you. Nothing permanent. That is why Chimera, our goddess, gave my people such delicate and pale skin. When alive, we could painlessly write and remove spells from our skin. But this made our hides weak. It was one reason why your ancestors eradicated us so easily.”

Reading this made Nicodemus slow down.

The ghost stopped and looked back at Nicodemus before tossing him a short text. “Don’t be alarmed; I am not angry. I assume you are a scholar as well. Aren’t you here for research?”

After he finished reading, Nicodemus looked up. “Research?”

Tulki quickly offered another paragraph. “You are a eugrapher researching eugraphic languages, no? Both our languages-Wrixlan and Pithan-are eugraphic. What else would bring you here? You have a living tome there in your hand.”

Nicodemus looked at the Index. “Living tome?”

The ghost frowned as he produced another reply. “That Index’s parchment is kept alive by its First Language prose. Maybe you don’t know: our languages can be written only on living skin. Your constructs chose to