No, he silently vowed, he would not be ruled by fear.

He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. The image of the emerald returned, instantly, vividly. A warm tingling spread across his face. Instinctively, he knew then that what Fellwroth had said was true-the gem was seeking to return to him.

The thought of regaining the emerald made his heart race.

“Calm yourself,” he whispered, struggling to control his roiling emotions. He needed to think logically. His next step should be to find Deirdre and learn what he could from her.

Just then the monsters carried him into a pine thicket so dense that they were surrounded by complete blackness. Even midday sunlight would not penetrate here.

Garkex puffed small flames from his horns. The resultant light pierced the gloom to reveal a small cliff face that extended in both directions. The night terrors tramped directly toward it as if it weren’t there. Nicodemus had just enough time to throw his arms up before they crashed into the rock face.

Nothing happened.

When he lowered his hands, Nicodemus saw that they had passed right through the small cliff face onto a moonlit promontory. He swore and looked back. The rock wall had been a fiction, an ingeniously written subtext.

Garkex let out a screech, and the night terrors gently set Nicodemus down on a patch of moss.

The party now stood on a knoll that overlooked a moonlit clearing scattered with ivy-covered stone arches, low towers, and crumbling walls.

Nicodemus stared. Once this must have had been one of Starhaven’s outlying Chthonic villages. He had read of how the Neosolar Legion had destroyed all such settlements during the Siege of Starhaven.

But why had these ruins been hidden by a subtext?

Garkex began talking rapidly and gesticulating at Nicodemus and the Index. The other monsters bowed. Suddenly Garkex’s right arm dissolved into a cloud of indigo runes.

“You’re constructs!” Nicodemus exclaimed. “Written in the Index’s purple language.”

The firetroll marched up to Nicodemus and held out his right hand. Tentatively Nicodemus placed his own palm on top of the construct’s. Garkex said something softly as he shook his partially deconstructed arm. A glowing sentence fell from the troll’s text. The violet words landed on the back of Nicodemus’s hand and bore into his skin.

He cried out and jerked his hand back.

But the firetroll was whispering softly and pointing to his arm. In amazement, Nicodemus turned his hand over and saw that the sentence had been tattooed onto his skin.

Nicodemus knew that every magical language could inscribe itself into only one type of medium. The common and wizardly languages took only to paper or parchment. Druids set their higher languages only into wood. The highsmiths etched their spells only on metal. And apparently whoever had created the Index’s violet language had tattooed their prose into living skin.

Slowly Garkex disintegrated into prose and wrote himself onto Nicodemus’s forearm. It was unsettling, but painless, to watch the spell slip under his skin.

When it was finished, Nicodemus marveled at the flowing script now coiling down his hand and forearm. Next Tamelkan, the eyeless dragon, appeared before him and began to write herself onto Nicodemus’s other arm.

And then all of the monsters were on him, disintegrating and tattooing themselves into his skin.

“Wait,” Nicodemus said, suddenly afraid. “Not so many; I…” His voice died.

It was over. Every last one of the night terrors was gone.

He stared down at his hands. He hiked up his robes to look at his shins. He even peered down his collar at his chest. Everywhere he was inscribed with flowing, violet text.

“I imagined all of you for my boyhood dreams,” he said while examining the language on his palms. “So how could I have written you? I learned the Index’s purple language a few hours ago, but I dreamed up Garkex when my voice broke, Fael and Tamelkan when I still had pimples.”

He shook his head. Maybe he actually had gone mad. “How could I have written you?”

A glow made him look up. Floating before him was a purple spell.

“Who cast that?” Nicodemus called, looking around for the spell’s author. “Who’s there?”

The night was empty save for the rubble, silent but for the wind in the trees.

The spell floated toward Nicodemus. He raised his hands and stepped back.

But the spell stopped and unfolded into two parts.

Now curious, Nicodemus peered at the first subspell. It was an instructional text describing how the purple language could encode for written language.

Familiar with analogous protocols that allowed wizards to conduct silent conversations in Numinous, Nicodemus quickly grasped how the spell functioned.

The second part of the purple spell seemed to be an encoded sentence. Nicodemus grabbed it and applied the translation protocol. The resulting line read, “It was Starhaven who wrote them.”

Nicodemus puzzled over those words until he remembered staring at the tattoos on his hand and asking, “How could I have written you?”

Again fear jolted through him. “Who cast this?” he repeated and again spun around in a frightened attempt to find the mysterious spellwright. “Who’s there?”

No sound came, but as Nicodemus turned round again he discovered another purple spell floating in the air.

Tentatively, he caught the paragraph and translated it.

The indigo language you refer to is called Wrixlan. It is our language for manipulating light and text, much like your Numinous. Wrixlan metaspells fill Starhaven. Your mind sought out Wrixlan because it is eugraphic. You dreamed of these creatures, and Starhaven’s metaspells sympathetically took the shape of your dreams. When your creatures achieved enough intelligence, the language governing Starhaven perceived them as a threat and so banished them. That is why the constructs hated you so. You had unknowingly exiled them.

“Who are you?” Nicodemus’s wide eyes darted about but saw nothing but ruins and ivy vines. “Where are you?”

As before Nicodemus found another Wrixlan paragraph floating behind him. He grabbed and translated it.

I see the products of your adolescent purple prose have forgiven you. They could have stored themselves in your living codex. But they will draw more strength from your skin. I have been trying to convince them to bring you here.

Nicodemus shook his head. “What do you want? Show yourself!”

This time he saw the textual response form in midair. It looked as if the characters were condensing from moonlight. It read,

I want only a small favor. I can offer many answers. You are in no danger; we are weak. We cannot affect the physical world and can affect the textual world only slightly.

Nicodemus swallowed hard, realizing what this meant. “You’re dead?”

The construct appeared first as a soft violet glow among the ivy vines. Then tiny indigo sparks formed in the air and began to swarm, slowly coalescing into legs and a torso.

As the construct moved toward Nicodemus, it became more solid and took on shades of white, indigo, and gray. But its prose never congealed completely. Nicodemus could see through the construct to the collapsed buildings on the other side.

At first glance it might have been mistaken for a human child of eight or ten. Its spindly legs presented knobby knees and wide feet. Its slight torso was covered by a white tunic that afforded a short sleeve for the right arm only.

The construct didn’t seem to have a left arm. But its right arm was long and graceful, with a large elbow joint and narrow forearm. Its single hand was wide, its fingers long and slender.

The spell was climbing toward Nicodemus on an ivy-covered staircase. As it moved, it leaned forward to use its elongated right hand as an extra foot.