Shannon slowly exhaled as he thought about Nicodemus. Without warning, his memory came alive with the image of his long-dead wife, her dark eyes…

“I pledge myself to Ejindu’s Sons,” Shannon announced as he forged a Numinous proclamation of his allegiance.

The construct struggled up onto its infant feet to formally accept the paragraph with a bow.

“One more thing,” the grand wizard said, removing a long cloth-wrapped object from his robes, “do you know of a creature or construct that forms flesh when vital but once deconstructed becomes this?” He unwrapped the object.

The gargoyle made a long, frowning study of the severed clay arm. “No, Magister.”

Shannon grunted. “Thank you, gargoyle. You have served me well. I wish you quiet dreams.” He bowed.

Clumsily, the construct returned the bow before plucking out its eyes and settling down on the roof to sleep.

Shannon walked back into the tower. He wasn’t any closer to discovering who or what the murderer was, but at least he had taken steps to confound the creature’s next assault.

THINKING MURDER, THE creature stepped through the aspen thicket and grumbled about Shannon’s failure to mount a defense. Already one dire surprise awaited the old goat in Starhaven, and soon the creature would rip another life away from him.

He wondered what could be keeping the fool from responding. True, the murder investigation would prevent Shannon from alerting the sentinels. And true, the old human probably thought he had won time by cutting off the creature’s arm.

The memory of silver text slicing through tendon and bone made the creature flex his new hand. Maybe he’d wrench off Shannon’s arm and see if it came back.

The creature’s task in Starhaven, though of paramount importance, was a dull one. And though he looked forward to killing Shannon, he desired more practice matching wits against a human. His survival might one day depend on understanding the beasts.

All around the creature stood white aspen trees. The chill autumn nights had lacquered their leaves with bright yellow. Above, beyond the brightly colored canopy, stretched a vivid blue sky interrupted only by Starhaven’s many dark, incongruous towers.

The creature stopped, shifted his white cloak, and considered the ancient city. Different civilizations had dressed up the towers, but underneath the human frippery stood stones still Chthonic. The flowing of each thin bridge into its towers, the undulation of the walls-they spoke of stone fluidity. How the humans had slaughtered the Chthonic race was a mystery beyond the creature’s comprehension.

Indeed, the creature found human nature itself mystifying. In groups, the beasts delighted in codifying laws, religions, grammars. And yet, the creature had yet to encounter a human who did not daily commit a crime or a sin or both. Worse, humans spoke and wrote carelessly, erratically-violating their own grammars, yet easily understanding their own illogical language.

At times, the creature was amazed he had learned human communication at all. His former master had allowed him little contact with the beasts.

Perhaps more intense observation would help. He had already edited a gargoyle near the top of the Erasmine Spire so that it would monitor the wizard’s colaboris spells. Further infiltration of Starhaven’s gargoyles might be useful. The creature had thought of writing a small, rat-sized gargoyle with augmented hearing. Such a construct could gather information about how the humans lived.

A scrub jay’s cry brought his gaze downward. Twenty feet ahead lay a clearing where the younger wizards went to drink stolen wine or roll together in the grass.

The creature walked to the trees’ edge. His white cloak matched the aspen trunks. Below stretched a small clearing of knee-high grass.

As he waited, the creature thought about Shannon. The wizard had disappointed; this next counter-strike might cripple the old man.

The creature did not need to return to Trillinon now that the flawed dragon had flown. The other demon-worshipers had their orders. That left plenty of time to find the boy and replenish the emerald-a task so important, it had to be kept secret from the other demon-worshipers. The creature had wanted something like a challenge, but he couldn’t risk losing the cacographer.

To the north, a twig snapped. Moving among the trees was a short human in black robes. The plan had worked; the young were easily swayed by dreams.

But perhaps this boy was not the one he sought. Perhaps Shannon and he would play another round. Perhaps the old fool would put up a fight before the creature tore out his throat.

The black-robed human moved closer to the clearing’s edge.

The creature frowned and decided that he shouldn’t wish for a prolonged match with Shannon. If the emerald were lost, he would have to start over.

The creature began to forge the long Language Prime sentences necessary to compose a canker curse. The War of Disjunction would come sooner if the text he was writing didn’t rip this child’s guts into bloody ribbons. The creature’s lips stretched into a long, lupine smile.

At the clearing’s edge-peering about with curious eyes for the beautiful meadow seen in a dream-was a young cacographic boy.

CHAPTER Fifteen

Nicodemus stifled a yawn and opened the door to Shannon’s quarters. The front room was a wide, sunlit place with an expanse of Trillinonish carpet, a writing desk, two bookcases, and four scroll racks.

Nicodemus removed his boots and socks in the Northern fashion and padded over to the windows. Outside the midday sun poured dazzling light onto the Bolide Garden.

Once the square had been a lush patch of grass lined with trees. Nicodemus had played among them as a neophyte. But two years ago the elms had died of an unknown disease.

Since then janitorial had undertaken a renovation of the entire square. The recent need to prepare for the convocation had stopped all landscaping and left the garden full of pale dirt.

The mounds directly below Shannon’s quarters were muddy and dark. A fountain had once stood there. One of Starhaven’s underground aqueducts must have a poorly sealed outlet at that spot.

A sudden yawn made Nicodemus’s jaw crack. “Heaven, bless Magister for ordering me to nap,” he murmured. Fingering the hour bell he had taken from the classroom, he thought about what Shannon had said about the murderer, the dragon, and the possibility that Nicodemus was connected to prophecy. The old man’s words filled his heart with wild hope and fear. Then there was the druid. Could he trust her?

He fought another yawn and realized that he was too exhausted to think clearly. He turned for the bedroom.

Shannon was Trillinonish by birth, but his mother had been Dralish. Her influence on Shannon’s taste was seen in the four-post feather bed that had been hauled all the way from Highland.

Sitting on the bed’s edge, Nicodemus examined the spherical brass hour bell and the rectangular mouth cut into its bottom.

From his belt-purse, Nicodemus drew a folded page that he had taken from Shannon’s desk. It contained a one-hour tintinnabulum spell.

Though it was composed in a common language, the text had a complicated structure. Normally, if Nicodemus concentrated on keeping the runes from rearranging, he could briefly touch such spells without misspelling them. However, his exhaustion would increase his chances of misspelling. So he bit his lip in concentration and peeled the spell’s first paragraph from the page.

The white words leaped into the air around his pinched fingers and pulled the sequent sentences up with them. The paragraphs began folding into a rectangular cage.

Nicodemus redoubled his focus. He had only this one tintinnabulum; misspelling it would preclude his nap.