Spellwright

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

As Nicodemus followed the ghostly Chthonic down into the ruined village, he reviewed everything he knew about ghostwriting.

He knew it was something powerful spellwrights did when nearing death. He knew the process involved an advanced form of what Shannon had called impressing: a complex Numinous matrix was written within a ghostwriter’s head; over time the matrix became a magical copy of the ghostwriter’s mind. A textual body was then written around this magical mind and never allowed outside of the author’s living body. Eventually, author and text became one being.

Wizards ghostwrote in Numinous, and the few ghostwriters Nicodemus had seen glowed golden from heel to head.

Nicodemus also knew that when ghostwriters died, their ghosts lived on in a text-preserving resting place. Starhaven’s ghosts dwelled below the stronghold in the necropolis.

Nicodemus also remembered that there were several types of misspelled ghosts. A “ghast” was a ghost that attacked other texts or the spellwrights who tended the necropolis. A “ghoul” was a ghost that refused to leave its body, often resulting in a half-animated corpse.

Fortunately, the ghost walking ahead of Nicodemus was not misspelled. Though transparent, its image and textual integrity seemed uncorrupted-a shocking feat for prose that had to be nearly a thousand years old.

Presently, Nicodemus was following the ghost down a steep, crumbling stairway to the ruined Chthonic village. Above them a growing wind was blustering through the trees.

“Magister,” Nicodemus said to the ghost as they descended, “How should I address you?”

The Chthonic soul stopped to smile at Nicodemus and hand him three purple sentences. They read, “You may call me Tulki. In our language, ‘Tulki’ is the masculine form of the word for ‘interpreter.’ In life, I was an ambassador between our people and your ancestors.”

When Nicodemus looked up from this message, he saw the ghost studying him with wide amber eyes. Tulki formed another two sentences in his arm and held them out. “I am assuming your ancestors were of the Neosolar Empire. You wear the black robes.”

After reading this, Nicodemus hugged the Index closer to his chest. The Neosolar Empire had slaughtered the Chthonics with the help of a young Numinous Order. “I was born Spirish,” he said.

Tulki nodded and wrote his reply: “Yes, I realize the Neosolar Empire collapsed long ago. I heard once that it was modeled after the Solar Empire on your ancient continent. I would like to have learned more. But now, follow me.”

The ghost’s silken ponytail flew over his shoulder as he turned and loped forward on all three limbs. Nicodemus followed the soul into the rubble and ivy.

As they went, the ghost tossed a paragraph over his shoulder. Nicodemus nearly slipped as he hurried to catch and read the passage. “You should know that our magical languages will be rough on your skin. When those constructs leave your body, they will score welts on you. Nothing permanent. That is why Chimera, our goddess, gave my people such delicate and pale skin. When alive, we could painlessly write and remove spells from our skin. But this made our hides weak. It was one reason why your ancestors eradicated us so easily.”

Reading this made Nicodemus slow down.

The ghost stopped and looked back at Nicodemus before tossing him a short text. “Don’t be alarmed; I am not angry. I assume you are a scholar as well. Aren’t you here for research?”

After he finished reading, Nicodemus looked up. “Research?”

Tulki quickly offered another paragraph. “You are a eugrapher researching eugraphic languages, no? Both our languages-Wrixlan and Pithan-are eugraphic. What else would bring you here? You have a living tome there in your hand.”

Nicodemus looked at the Index. “Living tome?”

The ghost frowned as he produced another reply. “That Index’s parchment is kept alive by its First Language prose. Maybe you don’t know: our languages can be written only on living skin. Your constructs chose to store themselves on your body rather than in the Index; they will be much stronger for it. That is the beauty of our languages: we can make our bodies textual.”

Nicodemus looked from the Index to the ghost. “I don’t understand.”

The ghost’s chest rose and fell in a silent sigh before he held out a reply: “Your living tome taught you Wrixlan, one of our languages, because you are a eugrapher, yes?”

“I am a cacographer.”

Tulki shook his head as he wrote a response. He flicked it to Nicodemus. “That is what our last visitor said so long ago. But consider that all eugraphers misspell in the wizardly languages. They try to make the spelling logical. That is why your mind is attracted to Wrixlan; it is logical and therefore eugraphic. Do you not spell more accurately in Wrixlan?”

“I… I did respell a subtext,” Nicodemus said and then stopped as something occurred to him. He looked back at his translation of the ghost’s message. Surprisingly, it seemed to have no misspellings. True, his disability prevented him from recognizing many misspelled words; however, when he translated in Numinous, he produced so many errors that even his cacographic mind could identify the resulting misspellings.

“Celestial Canon,” he swore softly. “Does this mean I’m not a cacographer in your purple language?”

Now smiling, the ghost formed a reply in his arm and held it out. “That’s right. My people have known for a long time that the condition you call ‘cacography’ is a mismatch between language and mind. Wizardly spelling is arbitrary. Because you are a cacographer, your mind rejects that arbitrariness. In fact, your mind is drawn to languages with logical spellings, such as Wrixlan. That is why your dreams wrote the constructs that now score your skin. And that is why the Index taught you our language. You are sure you did not come here for research?”

After reading this, Nicodemus looked up nervously. “No, Magister, I’m not a researcher. But I want to learn more about why I’m not a cacographer in…” He let his voice trail off as Tulki began to compose a reply.

The ghost forged several sentences within his forearm, stopped, erased two sentences, edited a few others, and then continued forging.

Nicodemus fidgeted impatiently until Tulki held out a completed response. It read, “Then I must apologize. When I found the delightful night terrors you had written, I was sure their author would one day discover a Wrixlan tome and so learn to see his own dark fantasies. Nearly three hundred years ago we were visited by another eugrapher-a passionate young male. He wanted to learn everything about eugraphy. He looked like you. But, then again, most human males look alike to me. However, returning to my point, maybe ten years ago, I discovered your constructs in the forest and tried to convince them to bring you here if they ever found you. But most were adamant about wanting to-pardon my frankness-eat you.”

“Eat me?” Nicodemus laughed in surprise.

Tulki nodded and held out another paragraph. “Thankfully they led you here instead. My apologies for what might now seem like an abduction. But if you’re not a researcher… that changes everything. Now I fear for the sixty-three other ghosts dwelling here. I had hoped you might help us. Three centuries have passed since that last eugrapher visited. He refreshed our texts in exchange for our teachings. Long before him, we received Chthonic spellwrights from the Heaven Tree. But it seems the mountain homestead has perished.”

Nicodemus’s eyes widened. “The Heaven Tree is real? The Chthonics escaped across the Spindle Bridge? Is that what it is used for?”

The ghost smiled. “So you are curious! Before I answer, I wonder if you will replenish our spectral codex-the living book that holds our ghostly texts. We simply require the touch of a Wrixlan spellwright. In return, I will answer all the questions you may have.”

Nicodemus thought for a moment. “A murderous creature called a golem-it is something like a construct-is hunting me. Can you hide me?”

Tulki’s smile faded. The ghost formed a sentence in his palm and stared at it for a moment before tossing it to Nicodemus. It read, “Are you a criminal or a legionary?”

“Neither,” Nicodemus replied.

This time Tulki’s response came quickly. “Then I will not ask why it is chasing you. You may share that when you are ready. However, I must know how this construct is tracking you?”

Nicodemus touched the back of his neck. “There is a curse laid upon me that broadly casts a signal text.”

The ghost smiled again. “Then we can help. In this place lies our most powerful living tome. Translating its name was difficult. The term the legionaries chose was ‘Bestiary.’ It is a great book that hides these ruins with a visual subtext, which you surely already saw. The Bestiary also fills this place with an ancient metaspell that deconstructs any magical literature attempting to leave. So your curse’s signaling spell will not escape this resting place.”

Nicodemus took a deep breath in relief.

Tulki nodded vigorously as he presented another paragraph. “What’s more, any non-Wrixlan construct will rapidly deconstruct if it enters here. Likely this golem would suffer the same if it came here. Your night terrors understood how dangerous this place is for constructs; that is why they inscribed themselves on your skin as soon as you arrived. Parts of them are Wrixlan, but mostly they consist of Pithan-our language that affects the mundane world, like your Magnus. If you replenish our spectral codex, we shall happily allow you to stay in this sanctuary.”

Nicodemus nodded. “Then we have an agreement.”

The ghost glowed brighter as he smiled. “Most wonderful. What shall I call you?”

“Nicodemus Weal.”

“Nicodemus Weal, you might find it agreeable to dwell with us for a long time. We have much to teach. Would you like to learn about our people?”

When Nicodemus said he would, the ghost straightened with professorial pride. “Then follow me as I explain,” Tulki wrote and then began to lope further into the ruins on all three limbs, pausing only briefly to cast another paragraph: “I’ll start with the Heaven Tree; it does exist deep in the mountains. There was a bridge that led to it. But our metaspells and the blueskin constructs have since blocked the way. No human may reach the Heaven Tree Valley now.”

Nicodemus had difficulty reading while walking among the stones. The Chthonic, however, had no trouble writing and navigating the rubble. The ghost moved easily with his thin right arm acting as a third leg.

“Did you lose your left arm in the war against the Neosolar Empire?” Nicodemus asked tentatively.

Tulki stood and looked back with an amused expression. “No, no,” the ghost wrote. “All our people have only one ‘arm,’ as you call it. Indeed, that was a chief reason why our peoples went to war.”

“But how could such a-” His voice died.

The ghost had unbuttoned his tunic where the garment covered his left shoulder. A long, ashen limb unfolded. A membrane of skin stretched from shoulder to wrist. The four fingers hung two or three feet long, and between them grew the same membranous skin.

Tulki formed a sentence in this sail of skin. Then the ghost peeled the text off and cast the spell to Nicodemus. It read, “Translating our word for this ‘arm’ is difficult. Your closest word might be ‘palette.’”

Tulki formed another paragraph within the membranous skin and then cast it to Nicodemus. “Appreciate that more skin gives a Wrixlan author more writing space. You black-robes carry books to hold more text. But our bodies are our texts. Long ago, our ancestors dwelled under the mountains with the greenskins and blueskins. Then the first Chthonic tribe created our dialects. It was then that the goddess Chimera helped shape our bodies to escape the brutal underworld of the blueskins.”

“Blueskins?”

Tulki took a moment to compose a reply. “Your word for them is ‘kobolds,’ and for greenskins, ‘goblins.’ They too write on their bodies. But their hides are tough, their dialects savage. They brand themselves. Our dialects require elegance. Our goddess used the First Language to adapt our bodies to our words. Our skin became soft and amenable to Pithan and Wrixlan; we wrote more and more on our left arms, and so we needed more and more skin.”

The ghost nodded to his palette before casting the next paragraph. “Through Chimera’s First Language, our left arms grew into palettes. You see why our ancestors thought each other monstrous. A Chthonic born with two arms would be like a human born with three.”

Nicodemus could only nod.

Tulki looked to the sky and then tossed out two quick sentences: “Dawn is not far. We must go underground.” With that, he hurried further into the rubble.

Following as quickly as he could, Nicodemus asked, “But what of Wrixlan being eugraphic? Can it cure my cacography in the wizardly languages?”

Without slowing, Tulki threw a reply over one shoulder. “No, but I don’t see what there is to ‘cure,’ as you say.”

By the time Nicodemus had finished reading this, Tulki had ducked inside an ancient building that still had much of its roof. Nicodemus followed and discovered that inside the hovel a set of narrow stairs led down into darkness.

The ghost’s body began to shed a soft, indigo light. “Mind your big feet,” he warned with a quick spell and then descended the stairs. “We hope you will stay with us and replenish our codex many times over the years. To remain hidden from the construct, you must stay underground during the day.”

“Why?” Nicodemus asked while negotiating the tiny steps.

“Because bright light, especially sunlight, deconstructs Wrixlan. Your ancestors used this to slaughter us. By night, we possessed spells as powerful as any human text. But by day, we were defenseless. How we used to dread the dawn when the blood-hungry legionaries would come.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and now stood in a rectangular cellar with a low ceiling and blank stone walls. “You must loathe me,” Nicodemus whispered.

Tulki smiled. “On the contrary, Nicodemus Weal, if you replenish our text, you will become one of the few humans I have ever truly liked.”