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 Shannon was so free with information about wizardly prophecy.”
“There’s no need to—” Shannon started to say.
“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 un-related 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.”
Shannon nodded. “Some of our scholars report that all magical societies believe the Disjunction will destroy their languages and that only one spellwright might prevent this fate.”
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 Shannon and Deirdre.
Though Shannon’s face remained impassive, he cast a brief sentence to Azure. The parrot lowered her head, allowing the old man to stroke the feathers along her skinny neck. Nicodemus recognized this as a habit comforting for both bird and man.
At last Shannon spoke. “Our prophecy describes the Halcyon as being the child of an unknown mother, as having a birth to magic powerful enough to be felt for hundreds of miles, as forging both Numinous and Magnus before reaching twenty. All of these things describe Nicodemus perfectly.”
The pride ringing in the old man’s voice made Nicodemus’s cheeks grow hot again.
“However,” Shannon continued, “Erasmus also described the Halcyon as bearing a congenital keloid scar in the shape of the Braid rune. Nicodemus’s mark is ambiguous. More important, the prophecy predicted that the Halcyon would master many styles and wield language with elegance and justice. He foresaw the Halcyon destroying the feral kingdoms and forging a staff powerful enough to slay the reborn Los.”
“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 Shannon interrupted in a low tone. “Amadi, Provost Montserrat has personally observed Nicodemus and determined that that is not the
“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 Shannon was so free with information about wizardly prophecy.”
“There’s no need to—” Shannon started to say.
“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 un-related 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.”
Shannon nodded. “Some of our scholars report that all magical societies believe the Disjunction will destroy their languages and that only one spellwright might prevent this fate.”
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 Shannon and Deirdre.
Though Shannon’s face remained impassive, he cast a brief sentence to Azure. The parrot lowered her head, allowing the old man to stroke the feathers along her skinny neck. Nicodemus recognized this as a habit comforting for both bird and man.
At last Shannon spoke. “Our prophecy describes the Halcyon as being the child of an unknown mother, as having a birth to magic powerful enough to be felt for hundreds of miles, as forging both Numinous and Magnus before reaching twenty. All of these things describe Nicodemus perfectly.”
The pride ringing in the old man’s voice made Nicodemus’s cheeks grow hot again.
“However,” Shannon continued, “Erasmus also described the Halcyon as bearing a congenital keloid scar in the shape of the Braid rune. Nicodemus’s mark is ambiguous. More important, the prophecy predicted that the Halcyon would master many styles and wield language with elegance and justice. He foresaw the Halcyon destroying the feral kingdoms and forging a staff powerful enough to slay the reborn Los.”
“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 Shannon interrupted in a low tone. “Amadi, Provost Montserrat has personally observed Nicodemus and determined that that is not the
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