Spellwright

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The ghost pointed to a small stone vault and then tossed Nicodemus a sentence. “Our spectral codex is stored in there.”

Nicodemus lifted the vault’s lid and found a book, nearly the Index’s twin, lying at the bottom.

A glowing note from Tulki appeared next to Nicodemus’s hand. It read, “You need only place a hand on an open page. It might have a disorienting effect. Several hours may pass without your noticing. You might see flashes from our past-the codex also contains a history of our people.”

Nicodemus looked up at the ghost. “Will it make me sick?” When the ghost raised his eyebrows, he explained how touching the Index for the first time made him vomit.

The ghost shook his head. “That was because the Index forced Wrixlan into your mind. That will not be the case here. The Index is a tome; this book is a simple codex. However, when the sky lightens I must return to its pages. We Wrixlan ghosts never express ourselves outside of a manuscript during the day. The risk of exposure is too great.”

Nicodemus thought for a moment. “Before I begin, perhaps you could explain one more thing: you mentioned something called the First Language.”

Tulki wrote several sentences but then scratched his chin and began editing.

Nicodemus tried not to fidget as he waited.

When the response was finished, Tulki held it out while looking Nicodemus in the eye. It read, “The other eugrapher from long ago also asked about this. But I can’t satisfy much of your curiosity. I know the First Language changed our ancestors’ bodies. I know First Language prose keeps our living books alive. But that is all I know. Only by engaging a Bestiary could one learn the First Language. And only high priests were allowed to read a Bestiary in life. We ghosts won’t violate the old ways; none of us will engage our Bestiary.”

Nicodemus thought about this and then asked, “And why call it a Bestiary? Does the book describe animals?”

The ghost shook his head and wrote, “I don’t think so. I think it was a problem of translation. The Bestiary contains knowledge of the First Language. In fact, the center of any Chthonic colony is a Bestiary. It has to be that way, because a Bestiary helped us change to survive in a new realm.”

“And so these ruins were to be a new colony? That’s how you came here?”

Tulki wrote for a moment and then handed Nicodemus two paragraphs. “Not quite. This place was only a town, destroyed during the first siege. We ghosts were stranded here when Starhaven finally fell. When the legionaries breached the walls, several Chthonic warriors took our Bestiary and dashed southward. They hoped to reach the Iron Wood or the Grysome Mountains and establish a new colony. They brought with them two spectral codices. One was filled with artistic and priestly ghosts, the other with political and scholarly ghosts. I was stored in the latter.

“But the humans caught the escape party at dawn. The ensuing battle destroyed the codex holding the priestly ghosts. The living Chthonics who survived the human attack brought the Bestiary and the remaining spectral codex here to these ruins. After helping the Bestiary to write the protecting subtexts and metaspells, the living ran for the mountains and the Heaven Tree… they never made it.”

Nicodemus paused for a respectful moment before speaking. “And is your First Language related to Language Prime?”

The text gave him a quizzical look.

Nicodemus tried to explain. “Language Prime is the Creator’s language, the language of the first words, the source of all magic.”

The ghost frowned and held out a few sentences. “As I said, I am no priest. But I do remember the Neosolar Empire labeled the First Language as blasphemous. They said we were trying to alter the Creator’s text or some nonsense. They used the idea that we were distorting holy language to justify their bloodlust.”

Nicodemus read this and then said, “I must learn whatever I can about Language Prime. Your First Language might be similar to it. Is the Bestiary nearby?”

The ghost licked his lips before nodding.

“Am I capable of reading it?”

Tulki wrote a response and hesitantly held it out. “Yes… one needs only fluency in Wrixlan to engage the tome… but I fear I cannot let you do so.”

“Your religion forbids it? Is it dangerous?”

The Chthonic shook his head. “There is a little danger, but not much. And the old ways do not prohibit humans from reading it. But, you see, we allowed the last eugrapher to read the Bestiary. After engaging the text, he grew fractious. He soon left and never returned.”

Now it was Nicodemus’s turn to be puzzled. “What did he learn from the book?”

The ghost cast a reply and then looked at his feet. “He would not say.”

Nicodemus suddenly understood. “You fear that whatever upset the previous cacographer will upset me and I won’t replenish your spectral codex.”

“Please don’t be angry. If you do not help us, we will deconstruct.”

“I see your dilemma. How about a trade? I will replenish your codex now and promise to return in the future. In exchange, you will let me engage the Bestiary.”

The ghost peered into Nicodemus’s face and then composed his script. “Yes, that could work. Let us talk more after you refresh our text. But remember, if it is after sunrise when you wake, I will not be here. Wait for night and do not build a fire or cast any harsh illuminating text. I will return.”

“Agreed,” Nicodemus said, and turned to regard the spectral codex that lay within its stone vault. Its brasswork gleamed dully.

“I do this to demonstrate my good faith.” He opened the book and planted his hand on the open page.

Everything blazed white and then faded into black. Suddenly Nicodemus was not himself. Nor was he in his own time.

He was a young Chthonic male pausing from his early evening spell work. His bare feet stood on the newly built tower bridge. Its stones were still warm from the summer sunlight. He looked east. Before him stretched the dusty expanse of felled trees and rock piles.

Soon they would build towers there as well, and the city would grow even larger. Farther away stood the moonlit mountains. In the middle of the sheer rock face gaped a wide tunnel that ran into the mountain.

He remembered that long ago his ancestors had built that tunnel to escape the underworld. But sometimes, blueskin raiders had come screaming out of the tunnel to steal food, tools, and females. His people had led counterstrikes down the tunnel to kill the offending blueskins and take others as slaves.

But now a truce had been made. Wards had been written within the cave mouth to restrict passage. His people had filled the entrance with their metaspells, and the blueskins had matched this with thousands of their digging tortoise constructs. Now only official delegations could pass between the upperworld and the underworld.

In celebration of this truce, his people were decorating the rockface. A carving of ivy leaves was to represent his people’s metaspells because ivy, like his kind, grew from stony soil and could climb to great heights. A carving of a tortoise shell was to represent the blueskin’s war constructs.

The truce required both his people and the blueskins to meet at the cave mouth every year to renew the agreements of the peace. Some of his people were displeased with the truce; they wanted easier access to the Heaven Tree homestead.

But most were content, and the yearly renewal of the truce was a celebrated holiday. Some even spoke of building a bridge out to the tunnel.

However, a growing number of elders-remembering the horrors they had seen before they left the underworld-argued that they should abandon the Heaven Tree and collapse the tunnel. Only this, they said, would end all contact with the blueskins and so permanently stop the raids.

Without warning the world again dissolved into blinding white light. For a moment Nicodemus was himself again… but then everything changed.

He was now a Chthonic elder standing on a sunlit bridge in a completed Starhaven. Many years had passed. Before him stretched the Spindle Bridge. It reached out from Starhaven to land against the solid cliff face. He could see the ivy pattern and the tortoise pattern carved into the rock.

But the tunnel was gone. The bridge ran into solid stone. He tried to remember what had happened to the tunnel but found his mind was filled with terror. He shifted his palette limb underneath his tunic and looked westward. Moving across the oak savanna were two red squares, each a mile in width and length.

Sunlight glinted off helmets and spear points. These were the Fifth and the Ninth Neosolar Legions. They had come to lay siege to Starhaven.

He pulled his palette closer and cursed the sunlight. The hour had come at last. In a matter of days, he and all his people would die.

“Nicodemus!” someone called faintly. “Niiicooodeeemus!”

Abruptly Nicodemus was himself again, standing in the small Chthonic cellar. His hand was hovering above the living codex that held the Wrixlan ghosts. Tulki was gone. Looking back, he saw sunlight shining on the steps that led up to the ruined Chthonic outpost. It was morning.

“Niiicooodeeemus!” His name came again from a distant female voice. His heart tightened. How had she found him? He was supposed to be hidden.

Then he remembered the Seed of Finding. The last signal text it would have cast would have been from just outside the ruins. She must have reached that spot and started calling out.

“Niiicooodeeeeeemus!” she yelled again.

Deirdre!