“There is no such thing as completing yourself. You have always been complete, and you won’t-”

For the first time he could remember, Nicodemus deliberately interrupted his teacher. “If I am already complete, if all I will ever be is your pet cripple, then I don’t know why we’re bothering to keep me alive!”

Both men stopped.

Suddenly Nicodemus realized that he had nearly shouted his last two words. He turned away.

The bridge’s railing stood before him. He put both hands on it and tried to catch his breath.

Far below them, a falcon circled above the scattered pines and boulders. Some of the trees had died and withered into wooden skeletons.

“Pet cripple,” Shannon said slowly. “I see.”

“I know how you pick a retarded boy out of every generation,” Nicodemus answered. “Devin knows too. Fiery heaven, the whole academy knows!”

A silence grew until the breeze picked up enough to make their robes luff.

Finally Shannon spoke in a low, rough tone. “Exile from Astrophell nearly crushed me. I lost everything-my wife, my son, my sight, my research. I could have let the loss rot me from the heart to the skin.”

Nicodemus looked back toward his mentor.

Azure had laid her head down near Shannon’s chin so the old man could scratch her neck.

“My research became futile,” the wizard said solemnly. “I had discovered such wonderful things in Astrophell. But in this academic backwater, I couldn’t accomplish a quarter of what I did before. In Astrophell, I had a cadre of brilliant apprentices working to advance my studies. Here I taught cacographic neophytes how to avoid hurting themselves. Politics became a constant reminder of my sins.”

The old wizard sniffed in annoyance. “I wasted years longing for what I had lost. Until, one day, a cacographic boy came to me in tears to thank me for all I had done. In truth, I had done little more than what was required. But I saw how moved the child was, how badly he needed kindness. I saw in him a way to live again. His name was Allen, a Lornish boy. He’s in Astrophell now. The Northerners don’t have the slightest suspicion that he, now a hooded librarian, is a cacographer.”

Shannon paused. “You think I made you my apprentice because I pity you? Because I keep a cacographer around to lord my ability over him? To feel as grand as I did when speaking before the Long Council? Well, if you think so, Nicodemus Weal, you’re a fool.”

The younger man was silent for a long moment. “But why then did you choose me for an apprentice?”

Shannon pointed to his milky-white eyes. “I chose you because in the past I have understood cacographers and they have understood me. I chose you because I thought I could help you the most. Besides, you are a useful apprentice. When you cast wordweave, I can complete spells in a quarter of the usual drafting time.” The old man grunted. “Have we talked about this enough for you?”

When Nicodemus did not answer, the old man started off toward the mountainside. “Come then. The sentinels will catch up with us soon.”

They walked most of the distance to the rock face without talking. Their footfalls echoed loudly, almost unnaturally so. Nicodemus had to take a deep breath before he could break the silence: “I’m sorry, Magister. It’s just… with the possibility of ending my cacography-”

“I quite understand,” Shannon said curtly as they stopped before the mountain’s sheer rock face. “Now let us move on. Do you know why we’re walking the Spindle Bridge?”

“Because Magistra Finn was murdered here?” Nicodemus stared at the carved outlines of giant ivy leaves.

“Exactly. I wondered if there was a reason she died on this bridge. I wanted to look at the mountainside with my blind eyes. I thought maybe I could see through the stone to some hidden spell, some clue.” He sighed. “And my vision pierces the stone but sees nothing beyond.”

He wrote a few Numinous sentences and thrust them into the mountainside. “And it seems that there’s nothing but rock before us.”

Nicodemus stepped back and looked at the hexagonal design on the bridge’s other side. “Magister, you said the Language Prime runes were hexagonal. Do they resemble that Chthonic pattern at all?” He pointed.

Shannon shook his head. “I’ve examined that carving a thousand times since I first arrived at Starhaven. But I can find no resemblance.”

Nicodemus glanced at his teacher. Was the old man still upset? “Magister, do you believe the stories about the Chthonics crossing this bridge to escape the Neosolar armies? Do you think they ran away to the Heaven Tree Valley?”

“No, the historians were correct: our ancestors slaughtered every last Chthonic.” He turned back toward Starhaven. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”

Nicodemus waited a moment before following the old wizard. “Then what are we going to do?”

“Research our enemy,” Shannon said. “We know the murderer’s made of flesh until we cut him; then he turns to clay. We need to find a mundane text about such creatures. Normally researching such an obscure topic would take the rest of the autumn. But you and I might modify the research we’re to complete this afternoon with Magister Smallwood.”

Nicodemus found himself looking back at the carvings. “I don’t understand.”

“We’re researching a powerful artifact called the Index. It allows one to quickly search through many texts. Nothing as powerful as what they have in Astrophell, but still impressive. Your task will be to distract Smallwood and the sentinels at the project’s end so that I might secretly peek into the Index.”

“But why don’t we simply tell them what we need to do?”

Shannon shook his head. “Neither Smallwood nor the sentinels would permit it. You will see. After that we must sleep. This day has been like a bad dream.”

“Bad dream,” Nicodemus echoed. He stopped and turned to look again at the Chthonic carvings.

The wizard also stopped. “What’s the matter?”

Nicodemus opened his mouth, trying to articulate the images flashing through his mind.

“In my dream, the one when I napped,” he finally managed to say, “I was in an underground place and there was a white-robed body that held a green gem.” He looked at Shannon. “Magister, a green gem! And the murderer said he needed me to replenish an emerald!”

The old man frowned.

Nicodemus pointed to the mountain’s ivy carvings. “In the dream, the floor was covered with ivy. And out of the darkness came strange turtles. There were hundreds of them, hissing and dying horribly as their shells cracked.”

“I don’t understand. Turtles?”

“Look, that hexagonal pattern,” Nicodemus said, pointing to the other Chthonic carving, “is the pattern of a turtle shell.”

DEIRDRE SPRINTED THROUGH the dark hallway. On her left were dark Chthonic doorways; to her right, the barred windows.

Already she could hear frantic footfalls. The thing was after her again.

She raced around the tower and up the stairs on the other side. Suddenly the ceiling burst into a thousand flapping creatures.

Bats! They had been nesting on the ceiling. The floor was soft with their droppings.

She ran on. The sword wound on her ribs was shallow and mending fast, but still it sent agony lancing down her side with every breath. Her robe was wet with blood.

Behind her the creature shrieked.

Redoubling her efforts, she flew around the tower and charged up the next flight of stairs-only to come to a sliding halt.

Before her stood an opening to a tower bridge. The bright midday sun beat down on the gray stones. “No.” She couldn’t leave the tower; outside of Starhaven’s walls the creature could wield magic. “No!” Frantically she turned around.

Footsteps were echoing up from the stairwell.

She ran to one of the small black doors that lined the hallway’s inner wall. It was a thick, metal portal. On top sat a squat barred window.