Typhon put himself between her and Berr.
“There can be coexistence.”
“Only if I want to coexist.”
He folded his arms in what was supposed to be a stance that conveyed power.
“I will do anything to ensure both Disjunctions survive.”
“Could you stop me?”
“I would sacrifice anything.”
“Anything?”
He studied her with eyes of blank onyx.
“What must I do to convince you?”
She laughed.
“Oh, you don't need to convince me,”
she wrote and then leaned over her author.
“You need to convince my lover.”
Â
NICODEMUS STOOD BEFORE the colabois station. The day was windy but bright and warm. Nicodemus considered the station's massive redwood doors and wondered once again if he was insane for trusting Francesca. From the square behind him came the market's chatter.
Nicodemus took a long breath. He had chosen to put his faith in Francesca. And at present, with Shannon dying and a civil war brewing, he had nothing to act on but faith.
It was time to pay a visit to Magister DeGarn. He eyed the large brass knocker hanging on the station's door. Working it would begin a long chain of protocol: introducing himself to DeGarn and then the representative druids and highsmiths, explaining the urgency of the situation, providing evidence of who he was, negotiating what they would want from him in return for their protection.
A smaller door had been hung within the two massive ones. Around its handle shone the silvery glow of a Magnus lock and tumbler spell. Nicodemus balled his hands into fists. It was time to skip straight to the evidence.
He grabbed the locking text and sent a jolt of cacographic force running
through it. The text misspelled in such a way as to coil backward and disengage the bolt.
He pushed the door open and stepped into a courtyard filled with hanging plants and a reflecting pool. Charging around this serene body of water were two war-weight gargoyles, each possessing a man's muscular body and lion's head.
Nicodemus proceeded calmly. Within moments the two constructs were circling him, baring their fangs and snarling. On the rooftops, ravens sounded a cacophonous alarm. Human faces filled the courtyard windows.
Nicodemus was walking toward the station's main entrance when two massive stone arms wrapped around his shoulders. A leonine gargoyle had pounced on him from behind. Nicodemus grabbed the construct's hand and, by focusing his cacography, blasted all text out of the gargoyle's arms, freezing them into place.
The gargoyle jumped back, lifting Nicodemus. He groaned as the air was squeezed out of him. But then Nicodemus managed to slip his shoulders out of its grasp. He flopped onto the ground, grabbed one of the gargoyle's legs, and misspelled its text.
He rolled away and jumped to his feet. Now hobbled by one paralyzed leg, the snarling gargoyle limped away. Nicodemus turned to the other protective creature. It eyed him warily.
“Stop!” a thin voice cried.
Nicodemus turned to see a crowd of wizards emerging from the station's double doors. At their front stood a short wizard with a sparse white wreath of hair. His robes boasted badges worn by a deanâan honor bestowed on colaboris station commanders.
Nicodemus nodded to the man. “Magister DeGarn.”
The grand wizard's eyes widened when he was named. He studied the partially misspelled gargoyle intently, then looked back. “Nicodemus Weal?”
Nicodemus bowed.
DeGarn cast Numinous spells to each of the leonine gargoyles, both of which became still as statues.
A young woman and two older men dressed as servants emerged from a side door. The woman held a metal tray. Nicodemus nodded to her. She nodded back with more confidence than he would have expected from a servant. They had to be highsmiths.
“Magister Nicodemus Weal!” DeGarn cried. “A year spent searching for you, and now you have found us.”
Nicodemus studied the academics and silently prayed Francesca was right about their political motivations. If she wasn't, this would be his end.
“Magister, I didn't want to be found by spellwrights whose prophecies might label me a demon worshiper.”
DeGarn studied Nicodemus with intelligent eyes. “And the Cleric Francesca has told you that we do not consider you the Storm Petrel? That Starfall does not hold with the counter-prophecy?”
Nicodemus nodded, but just then noticed two men and a woman all dressed in druid white standing along the far wall. He nodded to them. They returned the gesture.
Nicodemus looked back to DeGarn. “She told me of the League of Starfall, who wish to keep the south free from a newly forming northern empire.”
DeGarn spread his arms. “And that is what we are.”
“I have come seeking your protection.”
The grand wizard smiled. “And so you shall have it.”
“And what would you have me do in return?”
“Pledge to be the league's Halcyon as we prepare to withstand the Disjunction.”
“I am not a Halcyon now, and I might never be.”
The grand wizard looked uneasy. “Perhaps you can explain?”
Nicodemus held his gaze. “If we are to come to an agreement, we must be honest with each other.” He looked at the druids and the highsmiths. “I am descended from the ancient imperial family that ruled the Solar Empire. I am no master of ordered language. At present, my heritage manifests itself as an ability to misspell almost any text. As you just saw.” He nodded to the misspelled gargoyle.
No one answered him.
“My half sister is Astrophell's Halcyon-in-waiting,” he continued. “And she can write spells of a complexity beyond your ability to imagine. I saw her disguised in her own prose yesterday. She is here in Avel, and she gave me this.” He gestured to the wound on the right side of his head.
The druids whispered to one another, and the wizards shifted uncomfortably.
“My half sister is poised to become an empress, but I want none of that life. I will be neither your political toy nor your ruler. I will pledge myself to your independence from my half sister's rule, but no academy or kingdom will control me, and I shall not control them. Do we understand each other?”
DeGarn coughed. “We have agreed that you should come to Starfall Island, which is to be neither Lorn nor Dral but neutral. And I may confidently say that many Ixonians do not cherish the idea of a dominant force in Trillinon. Judging from my latest intelligence, most of the Ixonian
Archipelago will soon join us ⦠should we obtain a champion against the Disjunction.”
Nicodemus nodded. “In a short time, a Spirish fleet will lay siege to this city to reclaim it from the demon who has come to rule it. It seems the hierophants and the Spirish crown will soon align themselves with my sister.”
DeGarn replied. “Then all the greater is our need for a League of Starfall.” He gave Nicodemus a meaningful look and then looked at the druids and highsmiths.
Nicodemus paused, unsure what he should say next.
DeGarn nodded encouragingly.
“Today, you have an opportunity ⦔ Nicodemus began uncertainly, “ ⦠to strike at a demon before my sister's forces do so. To win my pledge, you must follow me today in this task.”
No one spoke. DeGarn frowned at him. “What do you mean?” asked the young woman among the highsmiths.
“I'm going into the sanctuary after Typhon,” he replied, looking around the courtyard. “And if the spellwrights of your League of Starfall can bring me out alive, then you can have me.”
When marching into battle, druids wore plates of wooden armor, trading sober white robes for lacquered green, black, and gold. Not to be outdone, highsmiths donned armor of metal plates so polished they shone like mirrors.
Druid and highsmith had not marched together since the Dialect Wars, when the Neosolar Empire had crumbled and the ancient landfall kingdoms had regained their autonomy. The first rebellions against the empire had erupted in the South, with the Pact of Branch and Blade against the legions. But no sooner had the imperialists been driven up the peninsula than the southlanders had been at each other's throats, bitter enemies ever since.
Now, as Nicodemus strode through the streets of the Holy District, he was flanked by five druids, seven highsmiths, and four wizards, all glancing uneasily at him and one another.
During the hour it had taken the party to ready itself, an alarm had sounded through the city. The hierophants had spotted an air fleet approaching from the ocean. Outside the station, the market bustled as citizens bought up all the food and supplies they could before rushing home.
When Nicodemus's party had emerged, they found the streets empty save for bands of watchmen dashing about on hurried errands. Small formations of lofting kites crisscrossed the sky.
They turned a corner and beheld the sanctuary. Nicodemus grunted in surprise. Flying above the massive dome were three airships, each larger than the
Queen's Lance
and kept aloft by huge lofting sails. Hierophants crawled all over the ships, adjusting cloth and tending to the long lines that tethered them to the dome.
It wouldn't be long now.
At the gates to the sanctuary complex, Nicodemus found a regiment of guards. Their captain called out to him by name, claiming that he was expected.
Wearily, Nicodemus led his party behind a knot of guards, through a series of hallways, and then up a flight of stairs and into a massive space with a vaulted ceiling of finely carved redwood. Nicodemus believed this
place was known as the Hall of Ambassadors. Rows of pillars stretched out before him like trees in an orderly stone forest.
He turned to regard the sanctuary guards, but they had turned their backs to prevent anyone else from entering the hall. Nicodemus looked around the glorious room. The spellwrights around him did likewise.
Nothing happened.
So Nicodemus walked farther into the Hall. About halfway across the floor, he saw a tall wooden throne standing before a massive screen that formed the hall's back wall. He stopped.
All of his spellwrights collapsed and lay motionless.
His heart kicking, Nicodemus spun around but saw only rows of pillars and slanting late afternoon sunlight.
“They are unharmed,” said a low, rumbling voice.
Nicodemus turned around and saw Typhon's massive alabaster body. The demon's all-black eyes studied Nicodemus keenly. His expression seemed somber. “Your cousin, Ja Ambher has deprived them of sensation and movement. I have determined that the League of Starfall should support you, so they will be restored when the siege begins.” Here the demon nodded toward the distant Auburn Mountains. What looked to be tiny billowing clouds were rising above the dark skyline. It took Nicodemus a moment to realize that these were warships. Nicodemus looked back to Typhon. “Where is Francesca?”
“This way,” the demon said and walked toward the throne.
Nicodemus watched him but did not move.
Typhon stopped and looked back, his expression seemed exhausted, almost sad. “Nicodemus, my son, I have precious little time to show you why Deirdre sacrificed herself and why Francesca is now so devoted to you.”
Ten years ago Nicodemus had confronted Typhon, and the demon had spoken with the same concerned tone. Back then it had confused Nicodemus. Now it terrified him.
“You must understand the truth about the Disjunction,” Typhon said before turning back toward the throne. “You are about to become the Disjunction.”
Tentatively, Nicodemus followed.
“The religions of your era teach that Los rebelled against humanity because of some human sin,” Typhon rumbled. “The truth is that Los rebelled against humanity because he came to believe that the Creator didn't exist.”
Nicodemus lowered his brows. “Los was a god before he was a demon. How could a deity be an atheist?”
Typhon sniffed. “Trust me, the irony was not lost on Los or any of his disciples. But we could not refute his arguments. We, the oldest deities,
knew where we had come from. So when he began to perfect language, we pledged ourselves to his quest. When your ancestors discovered this, the war between deities and demons began.”
“Demon,” Nicodemus interrupted, “where is Francesca?”
Typhon reached the dais before the throne. “She is with you now.”
Nicodemus looked around but saw nothing but pillars.
Typhon climbed the dais and stood in front of the throne. “You can't perceive her yet because you do not understand what she has fully become.”
“And what is that?”
The demon sat in his throne. “A derivative of a ghost and a portion of my godspell. She is also a summation of all the choices and experiences she gained since I let Deirdre set her free.”
“You knew of Deirdre's plan?”
Typhon nodded. “Deirdre was not capable of betraying me, though she tried. I limited that part of her soul long ago.” His voice sounded flat. “My son, you must understand what a deity is, what a demon is. It may sound like blasphemy.”
Nicodemus said nothing.
The demon nodded and then continued: “The first gods were nothing more than constructs. During the Dawn Age, humanity did not yet realize that they could create magical runes. But they did so unknowingly when creating their religious texts. Life was so primitive that those first authors lived in terror of natural disasters: floods, fires, droughts, earthquakes. They invented fictionsâgods and goddesses who could control these disasters. The goddess who brings the rains, the god who stops the earthquakesâyou understand.
“Over centuries, humanity's religious writings created powerful spells, and the action of its prayers forged magical runes that gave these young constructs power. Drawing on the strength of their worshipers, these religious spells grew until they became the first deities. To this day, all deities require many worshipers to provide them with text unknowingly generated through prayer. In return, the deities provide a service for their worshipers. Cala, for example, reinforced this sandstone to keep the lycanthropes out of the city and the water in the reservoir.”
Typhon paused to nod toward the distant dam. Then he leaned forward. “You are the first human on this continent to learn the truth: deities are merely intellects written by humans. It may disappoint you, but the truth of the matter is that you created us, not the other way around.”
Nicodemus met the demon's eyes. “It does sound blasphemous. All religions will tell you that deities are embodiments of the Creator, that the divine race was made first.”
Typhon smiled. “Humanity lost the truth during the Exodus across the ocean.”
“I don't see what this has to do with Francesca or even with the Disjunction.”
Typhon leaned back in his throne. “Los didn't attack humanity. Los created a metaspell that made it impossible to err in language.”
“As you are doing now to Language Prime, to cause the Silent Blight?”
“The metaspells I am casting prevent misspelling only in Language Prime. Los's metaspells prevent error of any kind.”
Nicodemus blinked.
“Life is self-perpetuating language,” the demon said and pointed to Nicodemus. “Living things like you are made of Language Prime, but all living things are mortal and vie with each other. Dying and killing are vital to propagating life. Language Prime is inherently chaotic. To generate originality, Language Prime needs death to cull its chaos. A Language Prime error that is too great causes disease. A Language Prime error that provides advantage allows that text to destroy other texts. Death propagates that change. You are written in mortal words.”
The demon pointed to himself. “But we, the deities and demons, are not written in Language Prime. We are written in languages that have no inherent chaos. We are self-aware language. The originality for our language comes from the intellects that design us. Because error does not generate our creativity, we do not need death to cull us. On the ancient continent, religious doctrine held that the Creator made humanity and humanity made the deities. Deities were servants of the empire.”
Typhon held up a pale finger. “Los refused to recognize humanity as holy. He held that there was no Creator and therefore deities need not serve humanity. He wanted to create a world populated by self-aware language, by immortal language.”
Nicodemus cleared his throat. “So the Disjunction is an attempt to end death?”
The demon smiled. “Precisely. By replacing Language Prime with self-aware language, the Disjunction will bring about an eternal golden age.”
“Golden, unless you happen to be alive.”
“Ahh, hence your cousin and your lover,” Typhon said with a pale smile. “Originally, Los wanted to eradicate Language Prime. Until ten years ago, I had a similar goal. The storybook dragon I wrote was meant to fly across the ocean and revive Los. But Fellwroth squandered that dragon. So after you helped me to destroy Fellwroth, I fled into the savanna in Deirdre's body. When I encountered the Walker and recognized that he was an imperialâalthough an imperfect oneâI used the Emerald of Aarahest to
partially transform him into a dragon who could bring about the Disjunction by crossing the ocean.”
Nicodemus balled his hands into fists as he remembered nearly killing his cousin. “But he resisted you?”
The demon shrugged. “Nothing I couldn't overcome. But it was his cacographic mind that was weak. I had depleted half of the emerald's strength. I was nowhere close to producing a viable dragon; to do that I would have had to recharge the emerald by touching it to you. But I knew you would train to avoid just that outcome. I needed to convert you.”
Nicodemus swallowed. “So using the emerald's remaining strength and a ghost, you created Francesca and imbued her with Language Prime so that I would think that she was human? So she might seduce me?”
“Francesca was not written to seduce you; she was written to love you.”
“So that I would fall in love with her? So she could talk me into helping you complete the Savanna Walker or the second dragon?”
The demon sighed. “Ah, the second dragon. Before I answer that question, let me tell you that after you helped me escape Fellwroth, I realized the Disjunction might not be a war. Death is the agony of mortality. If the Disjunction seeks to end death, why shouldn't humanity join us?”
Somewhere above them, men began to shout. Typhon turned and pointed to the two fleets of airships now moving toward each other. “Avel's rebellion begins. My son, you must understand that dragons are hybrids of Language Prime and magical language. They are never only one thing but always many potential things. So why not create a dragon that would bring humans and demons closer together? I set out to write a dragon who could create a hybrid race. A dragon who would begin the Disjunction on this continent.” The demon paused. “Of course, I needed an intellect with a superb understanding of the living body, an intellect that understood human disease and mortality.”
Nicodemus frowned. He remembered Francesca's warning: that Typhon would claim that she had betrayed him. And yet what the demon was proposing sounded plausible. “Francesca, being a physician, was supposed to convince me to help complete this second dragon?” Nicodemus asked.
The demon chuckled. “There is no need to convince you. You have already completed the second dragon.”
Nicodemus felt his heart grow cold. “How? Francesca touched the emerald to my skin when I was sleeping and then took the gem to you?”
Typhon shook his head. “It is far simpler than that. I did not need a physician as an intermediary. Here.” The demon cast something at Nicodemus with a backhanded flick of his wrist. “This will give you brief fluency in my language.”
Nicodemus stood perfectly still. Nothing happened. Then suddenly he understood why the demon had used the word “intermediary,” and they both came within his ability to perceive.
One instant, he and Typhon were alone. The next, beside the demon stood a latticework of sentences, luminescent with deep ruby light and forming long bones and muscles. As Nicodemus's comprehension of the text advanced, he saw how the sentences were part of a massive body, James Berr's body.
Now Nicodemus could look past the deep red words and see his cousin's true shape: Berr had grown to fifteen feet in height; and yet, for all his size, Berr seemed lean, almost delicate. The scales that covered him from tail to top shone nacreous white. Expansive wings folded neatly behind his back. His lips were pulled back to reveal long curved teeth. He stared with eyes large and opalescent.