Several seats to his right, a huddle of young lesser wizards sat gossiping. The orange lining of their hoods identified them as librarians. A few were debating how to disspell a bookworm curse, but most were whispering to each other with an urgency that suggested fresh intrigue.
Nicodemus leaned closer and caught a few details: a senior grammarian had failed to attend her evening seminar, and none of her students could find her. Some thought she had been sent to Lorn on a secret quest, another that she had jumped from a tower bridge; a few thought she had gone rogue.
Nicodemus wondered which grammarian they were talking about until one of the gossips noticed his eavesdropping and cleared his throat. He looked away.
To his left, two glassy-eyed apprentices were corresponding in a common magical language. Nicodemus watched the dim green text flit between the sweethearts.
Memories of long-ago breakfasts with Amy Hern drew a thin smile across his face. She hadn’t minded his misspelled correspondence. They had often laughed at some of the wilder malapropisms his cacography had produced.
But his smile faded when he thought about finding another woman who would want a lover whose prose was nearly indecipherable.
A moment later, John joined him and began wolfing down the first of his three bowls of oatmeal. “Good morning, John. How do you feel?”
The big man pretended to nod off into his bowl. “You’re sleepy?” Nicodemus guessed. John flashed him a lopsided smile. He put a hand on Nicodemus’s elbow.
“I’m sleepy, too,” the younger man said. “I dreamed I turned into a monster.”
“No,” Simple John said gently.
Nicodemus nodded. “I hope not.” He smiled. “John, does anyone else understand you as well as I do?”
“Simple John!” Simple John piped, brown eyes beaming.
Nicodemus nodded. “Yes, of course they do.” He patted his friend’s shoulder. “You can say more with your three phrases than I could manage with the grand library’s heaviest lexicon.”
Laughingly the big man said, “Nooooo-ooo.”
With a chuckle, Nicodemus stood up. “I have to hurry off to the old man’s study; I’ll see you tonight.” After returning his plates to the kitchen, Nicodemus left the refectory for the Grand Courtyard. It was a broad, grassy place covered with elm trees and slate-tiled walkways. Everywhere black-robed wizards strolled alone or in pairs. To the west, a horseshoe of blue-clad hydromancers stood around a statue. Nicodemus spotted a gaggle of snowy druid robes in the northeast corner. He hoped Deirdre wasn’t among them.
Cutting directly across the courtyard, Nicodemus gazed up at the airy heights of the Erasmine Spire, which at that moment was splitting a hapless cloud in two.
A lance of golden light burst from the tower’s peak and shot over the eastern mountains. Nicodemus stifled a yawn and wondered which grand wizard had cast that colaboris spell. Perhaps it had been a communication to some distant monarch or maybe even to a deity.
Nicodemus had nourished so many adolescent dreams of becoming a grand wizard-almost as many dreams as he had of becoming a knight errant. How wonderful it would have been to spend a life counseling monarchs and casting the resplendent colaboris spells that instantly carried information across vast distances. He rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes and wondered if he would ever earn even a lesser wizard’s hood.
Another dazzling colaboris spell arced over the northeastern mountains and silently struck the Erasmine Spire. An incoming message, he thought, and wondered where it came from. Abruptly a second colaboris spell flew in from the northeast to strike the Spire. Another golden blast followed on its tail.
Shocked, Nicodemus stopped. An outgoing spell erupted from the tower, this one heading north; it was answered instantly.
“Blood of Los!” he swore. Throughout the courtyard, all those fluent in Numinous stood amazed. Casting a colaboris spell required a vast amount of intricate text and therefore was done only with great justification. Usually that justification was gold; the Order maintained its great wealth by charging monarchs and deities exorbitant fees to cast the spells on their behalf. In fact, the Order had established an academy in Starhaven solely because its soaring towers and location made it an ideal relaying station. But not once had Nicodemus seen so many colaboris spells cast in such a short time. Something important must have happened.
Suddenly a flurry of the Numinous-based spells came raining in from several directions. Nearby wizards cried out in dismay.
The horizontal storm of spells went on and on until Nicodemus thought that every scroll must have been emptied and every grand wizard exhausted. But the golden barrage continued. Moments passed like hours. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the magic tempest stopped, leaving the morning sky strangely dim.
Nicodemus ran for the Erasmine Spire. Something very, very grave had just happened.
“MAGISTER!” NICODEMUS CALLED, and pushed the study door open. “There’s been a colaboris correspondence like you’ve never seen. There must have been thirty that…” His voice died.
Shannon was standing next to two strangers. The first was a tall, fair-skinned woman with blue eyes and dark dreadlocks. Silver and gold buttons ran down the sleeves of her black robe, indicating her rank of grand wizard.
The second stranger was tawny-skinned, green-eyed Deirdre. Her robes were druidic white with wooden buttons on the sleeves.
“Forgive me, Magister. I’ll wait in the hall…” Nicodemus’s words trailed off as he saw the myriad tiny cuts raked across Shannon’s face.
“It’s all right, my boy,” Shannon said calmly. “Come in. We’ve been waiting for you.” He held his research journal and was tracing the asterisks embossed on its face. “Never mind the scrapes; I was working too late and mishandled an ancient spellbook. The blast scuffed me up a bit.” He motioned to his face with the journal.
“Yes, Magister,” Nicodemus said uncertainly. Each year brought a few reports of ancient codices deconstructing, but for such a thing to happen to a grand wizard was extraordinary.
The old man’s blank eyes pointed at Nicodemus’s chest. “And you, lad, are you all right? Was there anything amiss in the Drum Tower last night?”
Nicodemus glanced nervously at the strangers. “There was a Jejunus cursing match. I’m sorry if we disturbed anyone.”
Shannon’s expression softened. “Not to worry about that. Please greet our guests.” He gestured in the direction of the wizard. “Magistra Amadi Okeke, a sentinel from Astrophell.”
Nicodemus bowed and the woman nodded.
“And Deirdre, a member of the Silent Blight delegation.”
“Your pardon, Magister,” the druid interrupted. “But I do not speak for Silent Blight concerns. My protector and I provide independent counsel.”
Nicodemus had to stop himself from staring. By night Deirdre had seemed handsome. But now that she was standing in the window’s sunlight her eyes seemed greener, her skin darker, her loose hair more glossy black. Now she was stunning and looked even more familiar.
Shannon’s blind gaze had wandered up to the ceiling. “Well then, Nicodemus, please greet Deirdre, an independent emissary from Dral.”
Nicodemus began to worry. Shannon had said that they had been waiting for him. Had his conversation with the druid last night stirred up new interest in his cacography?
He bowed to Deirdre.
“Scratch!” Azure said, and launched herself from Shannon’s chair. Nicodemus raised his forearm in time to make a perch for the incoming parrot.
“Tell me again about your bird,” an amused Deirdre said. “I thought she was your familiar and couldn’t communicate with anyone else.”
Shannon turned toward the druid. He was silent a moment before replying. “Sometimes Azure flies a message to Nicodemus, but only I can understand her dialect of Numinous.” A golden sentence flew from Shannon’s brow to his familiar’s. The bird bobbed her head and flapped her way back to Shannon’s shoulder.