The sentinel only stared. He looked at Shannon, but his teacher’s expression was as blank as a snow field. No help there. He looked at Deirdre. She only smiled her infuriating half-smile.

So with his heart growing cold, Nicodemus turned his chair to present his back to the sentinel, pulled his hair over one shoulder, and began to unlace his robes.

AS HE UNTIED his collar at the back of his neck, Nicodemus’s fingers ran across the keloid.

He had felt the scars countless times before, traced their every inch with his fingertips. Once he had even arranged two bits of polished brass so that he could see their reflection.

Unlike most scars, which were pale and flat, a keloid scar bulged out and darkened. Nicodemus’s complexion was a healthy olive hue, but the weals on his neck shone a glossy blue-black-like a colony of parasitic mollusks growing into his flesh.

He fussed over his hair every night so that it would remain long enough to hide the keloids. He hadn’t had to reveal them for nearly five years.

His face burned as he pushed his collar back to expose his neck and shoulders.

“Goddess!” the druid swore. “Do they hurt?”

“No, Magistra,” he said as evenly as possible.

He heard the sentinel walk over to him. “I can see the shape of the Braid in the scars.”

The “Braid” she was referring to was a rune in a common language named Vulgate; it consisted of two vertical lines connected by a serpentine line that wove between them. By itself the Braid could mean “to organize” or “to combine.”

Nicodemus had no sensation along the keloid, but he could feel the pressure of Magistra Okeke’s finger as she traced the scars down his neck. She spoke. “Druid, is the Peregrine prophesied to bear a keloid in the shape of the Braid?”

“Predicted to be born with such,” the druid answered. “There have been false Peregrines who have created such a keloid through branding. And, as I understand it, we do not know if Nicodemus’s mark is congenital.”

“But, Magistras, there’s an error in the middle of it,” Nicodemus said, his face still hot.

Magistra Okeke grunted. “Child, you don’t know how right you are.”

He tried not to flinch as her finger traced the blotch. This second scar took the imperfect shape of a written letter “k” that had been pushed over onto its legs-the same shape as the Inconjunct rune.

By itself an Inconjunct meant either “as far apart as possible” or “as incorrect as possible.” Therefore, a Braid paired with an Inconjunct could mean “to disorganize to the furthest extent” or “to deconstruct to the basic components.”

Deirdre swore under her breath: “Bridget, damn it!”

Shocked by the druid’s blasphemy against her own goddess, Nicodemus turned around. She had lost her half-smile and was frowning at his neck.

“You are distressed, Deirdre?” Magistra Okeke asked. “You thought perhaps Nicodemus was the Peregrine?”

The druid sighed and returned to her chair. “Yes, Amadi Okeke. The answer to both of your questions is yes.”

“Well, druid, I agree with your assessment,” the sentinel said. “If this scar is fate’s work, then it is a clear sign that Nicodemus is not the Halcyon. But I wonder if it might have another meaning.”

Shannon snorted. “You’re getting carried away, Amadi.” His voice softened. “Thank you, Nicodemus. You may cover your neck now.”

Dizzy with relief, Nicodemus began to tie his collar’s laces.

Deirdre sat back into her chair. “Agwu Shannon, Amadi Okeke, apologies for occupying your time.”

Returning to her seat, Magistra Okeke asked, “What does the provost think of the Inconjunct?”

“He does not believe it is a rune,” Shannon answered curtly. “He believes it is the result of human error.”

Magistra Okeke’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Shannon opened his mouth to speak, but Nicodemus interrupted: “Magister is too kind to say that most likely my parents branded me. It might be shameful, and many may look down on my family because of it. But I’d rather face the shame than have anyone again believe that I’m involved in prophecy.”

Shannon frowned. “Nicodemus, who told you that you were branded?”

Nicodemus looked down at his boots. “No one, Magister. It’s what I figure people must say.”

Deirdre gazed out the window, all sign of interest gone.

Meanwhile the sentinel looked Nicodemus up and down. “You’ve had the scars all your life?”

Nicodemus forced himself to meet her stare. “When I was an infant, my stepmother gave me my last name because of them.”

Magistra Okeke raised her eyebrows.

“The word ‘weal’ is a synonym for ‘welt,’” Nicodemus explained. “Hence Nicodemus-of-the-weals became Nicodemus Weal.”

Shannon cleared his throat. “But ‘weal’ has another meaning. It can mean ‘the common good.’ It’s an antonym of woe.”

Nicodemus put on his bravest smile. “I’ve always said that that makes it a contranym.”

Deirdre looked at Nicodemus so abruptly he started. “Why would you say that?” The half-smile returned to her lips.

“Oh-h,” Nicodemus stuttered. “W-well, a contranym is a word that means the opposite of itself like ‘dust’ or ‘bound.’ If I’m dusting the table, you don’t know if I’m sweeping the dust off it or sprinkling some onto it. And the weal is the opposite of woe, but woe to him with a weal.”

Shannon laughed softly even though he had heard this attempt at wit before. Nicodemus gave him a grateful glance.

Deirdre was nodding. She seemed about to speak but an urgent knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” Shannon called. The door swung open to reveal Magister Smallwood. “Agwu! It’s that astounding colaboris correspondence. News most terrifying from abroad!”

CHAPTER Eleven

“Nicodemus, please attend our druid guest while I hear this news.” Shannon stood. “Deirdre, forgive us a moment.” Two Numinous arcs sprang between the old wizard and Azure as he made for the door. The sentinel followed.

Nicodemus stood and watched them go. He would have given anything to avoid being left alone with the druid.

He looked back at Deirdre. Her wide eyes and smooth skin made her seemed no older than twenty, but her slight smile betrayed an ancient, matronly amusement. “I think I handled that rather well,” she said. “Let us sit. There’s much to discuss.”

Frowning in confusion, he retook his seat.

“Nicodemus, do you know that we’re distant cousins?” the druid asked, her smile growing. “I consulted Starhaven’s genealogy library. We share a pair of great-great-grandparents.”

Nicodemus’s head bobbed backward. This was unexpected. But then he realized why the druid seemed familiar: save for her eyes, she was a younger and more beautiful copy of his aunt. “Are you Spirish?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Dralish, but of Imperial descent. Do you know what that means? The ancient continent was ruled by an Imperial family who possessed the same black hair, green eyes, and olive skin that you and I have.”

Nicodemus felt an old memory stir. “My father once said he could trace his ancestry to the first Spirish Landfall.”

Deirdre nodded. “Just so. When humanity fled the ancient continent, each member of the imperial family boarded a different ship. The Maelstrom scattered the human fleet; as a result, our relatives are spread across the land in both powerful and humble families.”

She studied him. “I have many Imperial aspects, save for my height, or rather, my lack of height. But you seem to have all the Imperial features.”

Nicodemus fought the urge to fidget with his sleeve. “It’s flattering to hear you say so.”

“It makes one wonder who your mother might be,” she said.

He looked away at the window.

“I am sorry,” she said, touching his knee. “Forgive my speculation.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said without looking at her.