“For a few wizards, age or literary trauma steals our ability to see anything but magical text.” Shannon gestured to his all-white eyes. “Time did so to me. But those like me can rapidly exchange information with animal familiars.”
Two Numinous streams rushed between wizard and parrot. Now Shannon pointed his face directly at Deirdre’s. “Through this protocol, I can see through Azure’s eyes. I’m doing so now.”
Deirdre studied man and bird. “Such strange practices you wizards have.”
Again Shannon let a silence grow before he responded. “I hear druids also have strange relationships with animals. But hopefully this convocation will do more than renew treaties; hopefully it will make our different societies less strange to one another.”
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 Shannon, broke the Numinous stream and turned to preening one of Shannon’s silver dreadlocks.
Magistra Okeke spoke. “We should tell the boy why we are here.”
Shannon’s mouth tensed, and then he motioned toward three chairs. “Then let us sit. This, Nicodemus, is a fortuitous interview. Deirdre passed me in the halls this morning and inquired about you. And Magistra Okeke appeared at my door only moments ago, quite unexpectedly.”
“I would like the boy to talk about the Erasmine Prophecy,” the sentinel said, coolly regarding first Shannon and then Deirdre.
Nicodemus felt his cheeks grow hot.
Shannon turned toward the sentinel. “I see you’ve been busy researching Starhaven rumors.”
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,” Shannon said. “Nicodemus is not the Halcyon.”
“Why so certain?” Deirdre’s green eyes fixed on the old man. “Perhaps we should start with what the first wizards foresaw.”
Shannon started to reply but then paused. Prophecy, being closely related to religion, was seldom discussed among different magical societies. Doing so was considered impolite at best, blasphemous at worst.
However, Shannon could not refuse a guest’s direct request. “Erasmus foresaw the War of Disjunction: the final struggle between demons and humanity that will come when the fiends escape the ancient continent and invade this one. The prophecies predict that Los will be reborn and will lead the Pandemonium-the great demonic army-across the ocean to destroy all human language. Erasmus founded the Numinous Order of Civil Wizardry to repel the Pandemonium. His prophecy predicts that the Order will prevail only if it heeds the teachings of a master spellwright known as ‘the Halcyon.’”
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,” Shannon explained, “is that the demons will divorce the signifier from the signified. Phrases and words will take on unexpected meanings. Civilization will crumble into animal brutishness.”
“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 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 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.”
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 case.”
An icy sensation-half-thrill, half-fear-spread through Nicodemus. The Provost had observed him? But when and how?
Magistra Okeke stared at Shannon for a long moment. “I will see the boy’s keloid now.”
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.”