Spellwright Part 12

Nicodemus started again as he took the old man's meaning. A glance down the hall showed him that Amadi Okeke was still watching them. "Magister, I'm sorry. I had a nightmare last night, and I didn't get enough sleep. And this news...it's all so confusing."

"Quite understandable," Shannon said, resting a hand on his student's shoulder. Azure let out a low, grating squawk. "d.a.m.n it, not again," Shannon complained loudly. "Nicodemus, help me again with Azure."

As soon as he began to preen the bird, the old man mumbled, "Tell me briefly." Nicodemus described his nightmare as quickly as possible. When he had finished, Shannon muttered, "In the dream, were you ever two persons at once?"

"Yes!" he whispered. "Each time, right before the dragon attacked, I was not only the dragon but also an old fisherman or a solder's wife or a beggar girl watching the dragon. But the beggar girl didn't see the dragon; she saw a black cube hanging in the sky."

Shannon grimaced. "You were having quaternary thoughts."

Nicodemus looked at the old man to see if he was serious. "I thought spellwrights could reach quaternary cognition only with powerful texts cast about their minds."

"The murderer claimed he could manipulate dreams. I thought it was anempty boast, but now I remember history texts describing ancient spells that could invest sleeping minds with quaternary thoughts. It seems this nightmare was sent to you."

"So, if it was sent to me, I couldn't have caused the dragon to attack the city?"

"Correct," Shannon said with a slight nod. "Quaternary thoughts change perception, not the world. It's vital that you know you did not cause this."

Nicodemus let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. "But why would he send me such a dream?"

"I don't know. But it does imply there is a connection between the murderer and this dragon. d.a.m.n it, what if the creature is sending dreams to the other cacographic boys? How can I protect them from that? Regardless, tell no one of this. We will talk more in the compluvium." He squeezed the younger man's shoulder.

Azure stopped her grating roar, and Nicodemus fidgeted with his sleeve as a thought occurred to him. "Your family, Magister, has the Trillinon fire affected them?"

Shannon smiled. "An old friend sent a message in the last colaboris spell. My relatives are safe. Thank you for your concern. Now then, all of the deans and masters have been called to an emergency council, which is troubling because our lectures must continue. My boy, I need a favor."

Nicodemus's eyes widened. "You want me to teach a cla.s.s? Magister, I've wanted...and I've practiced...but I don't know if I can do my best under these circ.u.mstances."

Shannon nodded. "I know, you've waited for so long to teach and get the chance now of all times. Today's news might make this seem like a trivial task, but it is vital"-he squeezed Nicodemus's shoulder meaningfully-"vital that you make a good impression. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Magister," Nicodemus said, remembering what the grand wizard had said about the sentinels watching him.

"Good." Shannon released Nicodemus's shoulder. "Given today's news, no one will object to your teaching. The neophytes are all squeakers; not a one over thirteen. Your disability won't interfere. The cla.s.sroom is in Bolide Hall, third floor, western side. Outline the basic concepts of composition. After cla.s.s, go to my quarters and get as much sleep as you can before the midday meal. I keep an hour bell and the pa.s.swords for my door in the cla.s.sroom's closet. Use both. You must be rested for our work this afternoon."

Though the terrifying news had fully awakened Nicodemus, his eyes still stung with exhaustion. "Yes, Magister."

"When you wake, eat your midday meal and find me."

Nicodemus exhaled. He really was going to have to teach a cla.s.s despite the day's terrifying discoveries.

Shannon laughed softly. "I know it may seem impossible, but you must forget everything happening today and become lost in the lecture. If you enjoy the teaching, they'll enjoy the learning. Are you nervous?"

Nicodemus admitted that he was, though "shocked and overwhelmed," he said, "would be a better description."

Shannon grinned. "Understandably so, but don't let the students know or they'll devour you like a pack of lycanthropes. If anything, you want to err on the side of being cavalier." Shannon was famous for his emphatic lecture style.

Nicodemus decided to emulate his mentor's style. That meant somehow bottling up his growing fears and hopes about the prophecy.

"Well then," Shannon said with a nod. "Off with you, then, or you'll be late."

Nicodemus turned for the stairs.

"Oh, I just remembered," Shannon called after him. "You should know that one boy raises a bit of trouble and..." The old wizard's voice died. Nicodemus stopped and looked back.

Shannon was frowning. "You should know this boy, he may be a cacographer."

CHAPTER Thirteen

Nicodemus jogged through shafts of sunlight that poured in from rectangular windows. Outside the hallway shone a sky so blue it might have been enameled. The crisp autumn air smelled of smoke from the breakfast fires.

His first composition cla.s.s and he was going to be late.

He tried to focus on the upcoming lecture but his mind wandered. The real world did not seem real. Northern sentinels were investigating him for murder. An inhuman killer was hunting him for reasons unknown. His lost hope of fulfilling the Erasmine Prophecy was returning. And in response...

...in response, he was going to teach introductory spellwriting to squeakers.

It all seemed insane.

Magister knew what he was doing, he told himself while turning a corner and das.h.i.+ng up a broad staircase. After all, he was the cacographic apprentice, Shannon the grand wizard. Clearly he should handle the thirteen-year-olds while the old man dealt with the truly fearful forces of zealous sentinels, academic factions, and inhuman murderers.

Just then he reached his cla.s.sroom door and stepped inside. The room was orderly, square, filled with rows of desks. The walls were white, the arched windows wide.

However, the two dozen students dressed in neophyte robes were in chaos. The boys huddled around the windows. Some were yelling, apparently to another unsupervised cla.s.s in the next tower over. Others were spitting out of the windows, undoubtedly trying to hit the sleeping gargoyles several floors below.

The girls had congregated on the opposite side of the room. Most sat at their desks, arguing or laughing. A few were playing a game that involved singing and clapping.

"Oh..." Nicodemus heard himself say, "...h.e.l.l."

The room fell silent. As one, two dozen childish faces turned toward him.

It was then that Nicodemus realized he had been wrong: Shannon was not dealing with the truly fearful. The terror that sentinels and murderersmight induce-great though it might be-was nothing compared to the dread inspired by two dozen prep.u.b.escent students.

"You're not Magister Shannon," said a pale boy with a mop of brown hair.

Nicodemus most certainly wasn't. The old man would have marched into the room, bl.u.s.tering with jokes and commands. He would have had the squeakers racing for their seats in antic.i.p.ation.

"I'm Nicodemus Weal," he announced with a confidence he did not feel. "Magister Shannon's apprentice. I'll be giving your first lecture on composition, so take your seats."

Shockingly, the neophytes went to their desks. The boy with the brown hair raised his hand. When Nicodemus nodded, he asked, "Why don't we have Magister Shannon? Where are all the wizards?"

Nicodemus cleared his throat. "Magister, like the other wizards, has been called to an important council."

"Did he tell you the news from the North?" asked a tall girl with short black hair.

Nicodemus started to reply but then realized he did not know how much information he was supposed to share. He took in a breath and said, "I'm not sure if I'm allowed to tell you."

"Or maybe you don't know," the brown-haired boy said in a tone so earnest it-just barely-diffused his confrontational words.

"Maybe I don't," Nicodemus admitted. "But you bring up an excellent point: I didn't say if I actually had heard the news; my phrase simply suggested I had."

The boy frowned.

"That might seem trivial, but it's a good place to start when talking about spellwriting. Why might that be?"

Silence. More frowns.

"Why would I choose words that make it sound as if I know more than I do? Why might I want to use such self-aggrandizing language?"

"Because you can't be a teacher without it?" the brown-haired boy asked snidely.

Though flushed with embarra.s.sment, Nicodemus laughed. A few other students were smiling.

"Perhaps," he admitted. "I was thinking more that such language en-courages you to stop thinking about the news and start thinking about me, which would have helped focus you on the lecture material. Regardless, you must start thinking about such things now; if you are to become wizards, you must question how language is trying to manipulate you. What is it pus.h.i.+ng you to a.s.sume? How is it distracting you?"

The boy raised his hand.

But this time Nicodemus grinned at him. "Put your hand down, lad. I'm not going to tell you if I actually did hear the news from the North. That was going to be your next question, wasn't it?"

The boy nodded.

"Good lad. Persistence is spellwriting's most important ingredient. What's your name?" "Derrick, Magister."

Nicodemus widened his eyes. "Derrick Magister? You're a wizard already?" A few of the students laughed. The boy frowned. "I-"

Nicodemus put his hand to his mouth in mock surprise. "But you're so young!" A few more students laughed.

"I meant you, Magister," Derrick said in a tone heated enough that Nicodemus knew he should stop.

"Well, I'm flattered, Derrick. But as I mentioned, I'm only an apprentice." He turned to the cla.s.s. "This may be horrible for you, but today you'll have to call someone over twenty by his first name!"

A few amused smiles.

"Let's practice." He pointed to the girl with short black hair. "Your name?"

"Ingrid."

He pointed to himself. "My name?"

She opened her mouth but only blushed. Her neighbor leaned over, but Nicodemus rushed in. "No, no, you're ruining the obnoxious-new-teacher effect."

This won him a few more nervous laughs.

The smiling girl only grew redder.

"Nnnn..." he started for her. "Nnnnicooo..."

She continued experimentally, "Nicodermis?"

He squawked, "I sound like a skin disease."

Genuine laugher.

"Sorry to pick on you, Ingrid, but it's Nicodemus." He turned to the cla.s.s. "So, now all of you, my not-a-skin-disease-name is?"

As the cla.s.s laughingly said his name, Nicodemus noticed the sunlight by the windows began to s.h.i.+mmer. "Well then, let's start properly," he said, moving toward the window. "This is a short lecture, and I'll try to make it lively if..."

He paused. The s.h.i.+mmering air moved away from him. Warmth spread across his cheeks. Only with an effort could he stop his smile from wilting.

"...make it lively if you pay close attention." He kept his tone casual even though he was now certain a subtextualized spellwright, most likely a sentinel, was in the room.

"So, how does one acquire magic language?" he asked, turning to the cla.s.s. "Really it's no different from learning a verbal or mathematical language. First, we learn the symbols. Verbal languages use letters, mathematical languages numbers, magical languages runes. However, anyone with a quill and an inkhorn can forge mundane text. Anyone with eyes can see mundane text. But to see or forge magical text, one must be born with a magically receptive mind."

The boy with brown hair, Derrick, leaned over and whispered loudly to a friend.

Nicodemus walked toward the boys. "Note that when spellwrights speak of 'literates,' they are speaking of those who might achieve magical literacy. All of us in this room are literate; we are fortunate enough to be among the few born with magically sensitive minds."

He stopped before Derrick, who was now forced to stop his whispering.

"Why are most humans born magically illiterate?" he asked rhetorically. "Some authors-sadly a few wizards among them-believe that the Creator has privileged spellwrights, that we are inherently better than the illiterates. Some authors feel we are meant to rule society. I will remind you-as Magister Shannon reminded me when I was a neophyte-that all of our parents are illiterate. Without illiterates we wouldn't exist. Indeed, we owe them a great debt. We aren't meant to rule, but to serve-"

Derrick spoke up. "I don't understand. Why wouldn't we exist?"

Nicodemus studied him. "Spellwrights can't produce children. Moreover, the illiterate life is harder than ours."

"I'm sorry, Nicodemus, but I still don't understand." Derrick's tone seemed earnest, but the boys around him were snickering.

Nicodemus narrowed his eyes "What don't you understand?"

"Why we can't produce children." This sponsored a wave of nervous t.i.ttering.

"Spellwrights are sterile," Nicodemus answered, keeping the embarra.s.sment from his expression only with supreme effort.

"You mean we're clean?" Derrick asked, his voice cracking with amus.e.m.e.nt. His neighbors broke into open laugher.

"No, Derrick," Nicodemus said, staring straight at the boy. If Derrick was going to force the issue, best to get it over with. "I mean that spellwrights can't conceive children when they have s.e.x."

The room now rang with laughter. Nicodemus wondered if he could ever regain the cla.s.s.

"s.e.x?" Derrick said with counterfeit shock and raised his hands to his cheeks. "Oh, my virgin ears!"

"Oh, your virgin everything else," Nicodemus shot back in a deadpan tone.