Spellbreaker (24 page)

“You should have been permanently censored as a child, like all the cacographic children,” she snarled. “That would have stopped you from worshiping misspelling and error and the unholy union of human and divine language. You turned your back on the Creator.”

“Your sincerity is impressive,” Nicodemus said. “Having spent the last thirty years proselytizing neodemons into gods and goddesses, I can appreciate what you are attempting.”

“You know in your heart that you and the league are idolaters. You should be teaching the people to worship the Creator and to be thinking for themselves, rather than cowering before your idols.”

Nicodemus nodded. “I had heard that there was a new age dawning in the empire. My half-sister's metaspells making language more logical have enabled new wonders. I read a report about the cannons of Trillinon. If it's true, it is most impressive. But now you are telling me that along with your great learning and achievements you are developing the madness of war? That your young authors hope to destroy our kingdoms; when in fact, both league and empire should come together so that we might survive the Disjunction?”

She laughed. “There are some that say you're a fool, that you're the biggest fool in the league. I never thought it possible, but listening to you … Well, maybe I am doing you a favor. You're a fool if you don't already know that your petty gods and the idolaters who worship them are working to bring the Disjunction sooner. The empress has evidence that they are doing so through the Cult of the Undivided Society.”

“Who told you these things?”

“That's what you should already know. That's what any fool in your place would know.”

“Why did imperial spellwrights attack Feather Island?” Nicodemus raised his voice for the first time. “Why did you kill innocent villagers?”

“We didn't start any violence.”

“Do you know how we found you? There was a ghost ship floating out in the bay. All the men aboard were horribly burned. And so were the children. The children that you murdered. How could you?”

“We didn't harm any childr—” The pyromancer cut herself off midsentence. “We didn't.”

“Then tell me who did.”

She shook her head.

Nicodemus put the vial back into his belt purse and held his cloth bundle in both hands. “You are an intelligent woman. You know what I am capable of. You know that I believe you were responsible for what happened to those children. So know then that I will carry through with what I am about to threaten.”

She said nothing.

He held up the cloth bundle between them. “You're brave enough that maybe you could bear the pain of your hand without opium. But take a long look at this.” He unwound the cloth bundle to reveal a chunk of nightmare. In places the skin was still intact, but mostly it was a motley of ulcerations, pus, boney growths. It formed four ropes of flesh at the end of which—nearly pushed off by the force of the tumors—were four human fingernails. “These,” Nicodemus said, “are your fingers.”

The pyromancer's eyes were locked on the nightmare of flesh ravaged by the canker curses. She began breathing fast.

“This will be simple as anything,” Nicodemus said calmly. “I touch the stump of your right hand. Just a tap. I'll tell Doria that it looks like the canker is back. She'll cut off your whole hand this time. But you and I will have another one of these chats. I'll tap whatever stump they give you. Then that will need to come off. You get the picture. Or maybe I won't tell the physicians at all. Maybe I'll just let the disease rot you inside out. It's a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone but a murderer of innocents.”

The pyromancer shook her head.

“Why did you slaughter everyone on Feather Island?”

“We didn't!” She still shook her head, a film of tears made her eyes bright.

“Who did then? Tell me!”

“We didn't! We didn't!”

Nicodemus stood. “Why did you murder those children?” He threw her nightmare fingers onto the pyromancer's stomach.

“GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF OF ME!” she shrieked as her nightmare fingers rolled down to her lap.

“Why did you kill those children?”

“We didn't do it! We didn't! Oh Creator, get it off of me!”

“Who did?”

“CREATOR HELP ME! GET IT OFF OF ME!” she screamed. “Get it off! Get it off!”

Nicodemus plucked up the nightmare fingers without touching her. “Who killed the children?”

“It was one of your neodemons,” she said between sobs. “I swear on the Creator's name! We were attacked in the morning.”

“What neodemon?”

“I don't know. My regiment was hidden in Feather Village. We had bribed the locals to hide us, and early this morning we received orders to leave. I don't know where to. I don't know what we were meant to do. But when we were getting ready, a neodemon attacked us. I never got to see it. There was fire everywhere and smoke. It smelled like sulfur from the burning hells. When the smoke got into the villagers, they attacked us. They had sold us out to some neodemon that they were worshiping. Our captain ordered a counterattack. We tried to get what we could from the village before escaping.”

She paused to catch her breath. “More and more of the villagers started to attack us, but some killed themselves. There was lava and smoke everywhere. A few of us hid in the Near Tower. We could feel the ground shake as the neodemon walked about on the village's Shelf. It was hell.” She began sobbing.

Nicodemus sat down, his mind working hotly. If she were telling the truth then the ruins would make more sense: half of the buildings looted, half of them untouched.

“It was either one of your neodemons, or your cults have finally helped the ancient demons cross the ocean,” the pyromancer said. “The worst was the children. They just began to scream and scream until suddenly they just died. Just dead.” Another sob.

Nicodemus had never encountered a neodemon powerful enough to do what was described. He had a sinking feeling in his gut.

The pyromancer continued. “Those of us in the Near Tower gathered all the cloth we could so that the hierophants could write lofting kites to get us off the island. The neodemon seemed to leave the island. All we had to do was fend off the occasional surviving villager who would attack us. But then you came and killed everyone.”

“Everyone but that one hierophant who escaped,” Nicodemus said calmly. “Where was he going?”

She shook her head, mucus glistening on her upper lip. “To the rest of the imperial expedition. I don't know where it is. Only the wind mages know.”

“How many are in the expedition?”

“They didn't tell us anything else. We're just scouts.”

“And who is leading the expedition?”

“Magister Lotannu Akomma.”

“Of course,” Nicodemus grumbled. “Of course Vivian would send him.” He cleared his throat. “Why send scouts to the bay?”

“The empress found some evidence that the Cult of the Undivided Society is trying to bring on the Disjunction. That's all I know. Creator help me. Creator forgive me but that's all I know. It was one of your demons who attacked. This is all your fault! You have to stop worshiping the demons and trust in the Creator and the empress. You have to.” She began sobbing again.

“Was your expedition scouting in preparation for an invasion?”

“I don't know.”

Nicodemus took in a long breath. An imperial expedition was somewhere close enough for a hierophant to reach via lofting kite. Whether the empire intended an invasion or some smaller action, this would mean bloodshed. No two ways around it.

“What else should I know?” Nicodemus asked in a softer voice.

“I've told you everything. Creator forgive me but I did.” More tears.

Nicodemus took the vial from his belt purse. “You did the right thing, Magistra.” She shook her head and began sobbing harder. Nicodemus waited patiently. “You have been through hell. I am sorry for that.”

Her breathing finally slowed.

Nicodemus stepped closer. “You need this for the shock as much as for the pain in your hand.” He held up the tincture of opium. “Here, Magistra.”

“I don't care if it's poison,” she said in the pitiful voice of one who has been sobbing and now has a stuffed nose. “I hope it is poison so that I don't have to live with these memories anymore.”

“It is not poison, Magistra. It will make you sleep. I am sorry I had to be so rough with you; I needed to know the truth. No one will hurt you now.”

He offered the vial again, and this time the pyromancer leaned her head forward and greedily drank down its contents. Nicodemus did not blame her.

She made a scrunched up face. “It's bitter.”

For a moment Nicodemus felt a pang of nostalgia; her expression reminded him of Leandra's when she had been a girl and he had forced her to take medicine. He fetched a water skin from the wall and squirted some of it into her mouth. She swallowed and continued to cry.

Nicodemus sat on the stool again. Gradually, his prisoner began to breathe slower and slower until he was sure she was asleep. He picked up the horror that was her remaining fingers and wrapped them in cloth. Just outside the cabin, he found Doria staring at him with hard eyes.

“You heard?” he asked.

“Did you have to be so cruel?”

“You heard what attacked Feather Island?”

Doria's expression softened slightly. “The results don't always justify the methods.”

“What if Feather Island was attacked, not by a neodemon, but by a demon from the Ancient Continent? What if the River Thief wasn't lying?”

Doria only frowned.

“Not to mention the imperial forces somewhere in the bay? Still think I was too cruel?”

“You weren't actually going to give her the canker curse, were you?”

“I hope not, my old friend. I hope not.” He shook his head. “But I just don't know.” He started down the hall. “See that the prisoner is not in any pain, but do not forget to keep her bound and censored.”

“Yes, my Lord Warden,” Doria said coldly to his back.

Nicodemus pressed a hand to his face and blew out a long breath. War. It was going to be war. Either with the empire or with the demons of the Ancient Continent. He didn't know which was worse.

His train of thought stopped when he heard a sudden exhalation. Then a wooden thump. He looked up and saw that he was passing by Rory's cabin. There came a muffled groan as if in pain. Farther down the hall stood two sailors, both looking at the cabin with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

“What is it?” Nicodemus asked.

“We saw the Lornishman heading this way,” one of them whispered.

“Fiery heaven,” Nicodemus swore. This was the last thing he needed. Couldn't Rory and Sir Claude put their damned stupid feud aside for one bloody moment? Nicodemus kicked the door open ready to break up the fight and deliver a blistering tirade. “CREATOR DAMN IT ALL,” he began to bellow.

He was therefore shocked to discover that the two men with arms locked around each other were not trying to kill each other. They were kissing.

Passionately.

The tirade froze in Nicodemus's throat. Rory's eyes turned to Nicodemus and bulged. He leapt away from Sir Claude, tripped over his hammock, and avoided falling only when the knight caught him by the waist.

Sir Claude looked at Nicodemus with a calm expression of challenge. But Rory's face became a mask of shame. In fact, the druid was looking past Nicodemus and into the hallway to see if anyone else was there.

Suddenly the events of the past months reshuffled themselves in Nicodemus's mind: the rivalry between Rory and Sir Claude, the words seemingly spoken in anger, Sir Claude's insistent renewal of the conflict, the few times both men had been missing together, and now Rory's obvious desire to keep what had just happened secret. The reshuffle completed. Nicodemus understood. Both of them wanted it, but only one of them wanted it hidden.

Nicodemus cursed himself as a fool for not seeing it earlier and then became acutely aware of the sailors in the hallway. Reflexively, he stepped into the cabin and slammed the door to keep anyone from seeing.

He looked at Rory. Rory looked back at him with fear. They both looked at Sir Claude, who only shrugged. Then Rory looked at the door behind Nicodemus, obviously thinking of the sailors who would be listening on the other side.

Nicodemus doubted the sailors would care if they found out about the two men; Ixonians were accepting in that regard. But Rory was Dralish, and in the South such relations were illicit. Rory, like most in his culture, would want to keep such affections private. So Nicodemus didn't want to reveal … But now he had to … How could he …

Suddenly it came to him. Nicodemus raised his voice. “CREATOR DAMN IT ALL,” he bellowed. “HOW IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS DIVINE CAN YOU TWO KEEP UP A GOD-OF-GOD'S DAMNED CHILDISH FEUD AT A TIME LIKE THIS?”

But of course this was the best time to be together. When better than after the trauma of battle to seek comfort in a lover's arms?

Nicodemus continued to yell. “I HAVE HAD IT UP TO MY EYEBALLS WITH YOUR FIGHTING!” Nicodemus paused, unsure what to say next.

Rory nodded vigorously. “Keep going,” he mouthed. “Keep going.”

Sir Claude rolled his eyes.

“THIS IS THE LAST GOD-OF-GOD'S DAMN TIME I AM GOING TO CATCH YOU TWO KIS—” Nicodemus stopped himself. “KICKING EACH OTHER WHEN YOU'RE DOWN.” He improvised.

Rory kept nodding vigorously. Sir Claude shook his head.

“SO…” Nicodemus yelled, “I AM ORDERING YOU TWO TO STOP FIGHTING. AND … uhh … BY MY COMMAND THE TWO OF YOU ARE CONFINED TO THIS CABIN. YOU'RE GOING TO WORK THIS OUT LIKE CIVILIZED MEN. AND WHEN YOU COME ON DECK IN CHANDRALU, WE WILL HAVE PEACE. IF YOU DON'T I WILL PERSONALLY … um … WRING YOUR GOD-OF-GOD'S DAMNED NECKS UNTIL YOU COUGH UP BLOOD.”