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Authors: Blake Charlton
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barrage of questions about prophecy and his disability. “Magister is going to kill me.”
“Scratch?” Azure repeated.
Nicodemus looked down and realized that in his distraction he had stopped petting the familiar. “I’m sorry, Azure. I’m exhausted.” It was true—his eyes stung, his bones ached, his thoughts seemed slow as pine sap. “I’d better sleep if I’m going to help Magister tomorrow.”
“Scratch?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Finally convinced that she was not going to be petted, Azure hopped over to the window. She made her two-note whistle and flapped away into the night.
Blinking his weary eyes, Nicodemus went to the washstand and, rubbing his hands together, forged the small white runes wizards used for soap. Looking into his polished-metal mirror, he was shocked to see two pink sentences written across his forehead.
At first a scowl darkened his face, but then he laughed.
She must have written some witty prose indeed to sneak the Jejunus curse onto him without his noticing.
Careful not to trip in the dim firelight, Nicodemus stepped through thecommon room to Devin’s door. Muted voices came from the other side. He knocked and walked in.
Simple John and Devin were sitting on her bed playing cat’s cradle, John’s favorite. They looked up.
“This was well done,” Nicodemus said while gesturing to his forehead and the pink words that read:
I Hate Fun.
But I LOVE Donkey Piss!
A FTER D EVIN HAD disspelled the curse from Nicodemus’s forehead, the three floormates gossiped about other cacographers and apprentices: who might be promoted, who was sneaking into whose bed, that sort of thing.
Though still exhausted, Nicodemus was happy to stay up with his friends and forget about druids and Astrophell delegates and the other nebulous dangers the night had presented.
As they talked, John and Nicodemus played cat’s cradle while Devin brushed out Nicodemus’s long raven hair.
“Why in heaven’s name,” she grumbled, “did the Creator waste such soft, glossy stuff on a man.”
Afterward she started to braid her own wiry red hair. “You know,” she said, “I’ve never been sure why all the magical societies have to send delegates to these convocations.”
“There’s never been one in Starhaven before?” Nicodemus asked without looking up from the game of cat’s cradle.
“Not since I’ve been here. They only happen once every thirty years, and they have to rotate through all the other libraries and monasteries or whatever.”
Nicodemus chewed his lip. “Well, I don’t know all the details about why the convocations happen, but—”
“—but you’ve memorized everything Shannon’s ever said about them,” Devin interjected with a leer.
He stuck his tongue out at her and continued. “So, back during the Dialect Wars—when the Neosolar Empire was falling and the new kingdoms were forming—spellwrights would join the fighting. The result was so bloody that the people couldn’t protect themselves from the lycanthropes or kobolds or whatever. For a while, it seemed there might not be any humans left, so all the magical societies signed treaties agreeing never again to take part in the wars that kingdoms fought.”
Devin grunted. “And so now all magical societies have to renew their treaties at these conventions or we’ll all end up in lycanthrope bellies?”
Nicodemus shrugged. “Something like that. It’s complicated. Some societies cheat. I think Magister Shannon was involved in stopping the wizards and hierophants from clashing in the Spirish Civil War. But I’m not sure; he never talks about the war.”
Simple John tried to say “Simple John” but yawned instead. Nicodemus ended the game of cat’s cradle and sent the big man lumbering off to bed.
Nicodemus started for his own room but then stopped at Devin’s door. “Dev, when should I ask Shannon about teaching again? With the convocation happening, things are probably too busy.”
She was tapping
“Scratch?” Azure repeated.
Nicodemus looked down and realized that in his distraction he had stopped petting the familiar. “I’m sorry, Azure. I’m exhausted.” It was true—his eyes stung, his bones ached, his thoughts seemed slow as pine sap. “I’d better sleep if I’m going to help Magister tomorrow.”
“Scratch?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Finally convinced that she was not going to be petted, Azure hopped over to the window. She made her two-note whistle and flapped away into the night.
Blinking his weary eyes, Nicodemus went to the washstand and, rubbing his hands together, forged the small white runes wizards used for soap. Looking into his polished-metal mirror, he was shocked to see two pink sentences written across his forehead.
At first a scowl darkened his face, but then he laughed.
She must have written some witty prose indeed to sneak the Jejunus curse onto him without his noticing.
Careful not to trip in the dim firelight, Nicodemus stepped through thecommon room to Devin’s door. Muted voices came from the other side. He knocked and walked in.
Simple John and Devin were sitting on her bed playing cat’s cradle, John’s favorite. They looked up.
“This was well done,” Nicodemus said while gesturing to his forehead and the pink words that read:
I Hate Fun.
But I LOVE Donkey Piss!
A FTER D EVIN HAD disspelled the curse from Nicodemus’s forehead, the three floormates gossiped about other cacographers and apprentices: who might be promoted, who was sneaking into whose bed, that sort of thing.
Though still exhausted, Nicodemus was happy to stay up with his friends and forget about druids and Astrophell delegates and the other nebulous dangers the night had presented.
As they talked, John and Nicodemus played cat’s cradle while Devin brushed out Nicodemus’s long raven hair.
“Why in heaven’s name,” she grumbled, “did the Creator waste such soft, glossy stuff on a man.”
Afterward she started to braid her own wiry red hair. “You know,” she said, “I’ve never been sure why all the magical societies have to send delegates to these convocations.”
“There’s never been one in Starhaven before?” Nicodemus asked without looking up from the game of cat’s cradle.
“Not since I’ve been here. They only happen once every thirty years, and they have to rotate through all the other libraries and monasteries or whatever.”
Nicodemus chewed his lip. “Well, I don’t know all the details about why the convocations happen, but—”
“—but you’ve memorized everything Shannon’s ever said about them,” Devin interjected with a leer.
He stuck his tongue out at her and continued. “So, back during the Dialect Wars—when the Neosolar Empire was falling and the new kingdoms were forming—spellwrights would join the fighting. The result was so bloody that the people couldn’t protect themselves from the lycanthropes or kobolds or whatever. For a while, it seemed there might not be any humans left, so all the magical societies signed treaties agreeing never again to take part in the wars that kingdoms fought.”
Devin grunted. “And so now all magical societies have to renew their treaties at these conventions or we’ll all end up in lycanthrope bellies?”
Nicodemus shrugged. “Something like that. It’s complicated. Some societies cheat. I think Magister Shannon was involved in stopping the wizards and hierophants from clashing in the Spirish Civil War. But I’m not sure; he never talks about the war.”
Simple John tried to say “Simple John” but yawned instead. Nicodemus ended the game of cat’s cradle and sent the big man lumbering off to bed.
Nicodemus started for his own room but then stopped at Devin’s door. “Dev, when should I ask Shannon about teaching again? With the convocation happening, things are probably too busy.”
She was tapping
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