Spellbreaker (73 page)

John woke when Nicodemus entered the study and announced that a ship from Chandralu had docked that morning. A messenger had brought a package to the compound. Nicodemus opened it to find a stack of letters from Doria.

He sat down by the fire and went through them, reading the important passages aloud for John and Dhrun. Age might have slowed Doria down, but it hadn't blunted her wit, as evidenced by her satirization of Chandralu's politicians. Next Doria complained that the rebuilt city was too large and sprawling and that the sudden proliferation of spellwrights was creating more snobbery among the old guard of hydromancers than there ever had been before.

In other news, Doria reported that Lolo and Holokai's reincarnation had fused into a new divinity complex. This was not surprising. The rise of magical literacy had reduced the amount of prayer and forced many deities to devise creative ways of garnering and conserving divine language.

More distressingly, Doria reported that throughout all the human lands, the birthrate was falling. This had been an unexpected consequence of Leandra's world change. Spellwrights had been unable to conceive children together before the change and very few could manage it now. There was talk that with the rising expertise in Language Prime—by far the most difficult magical language for any spellwright—it might be necessary for humanity to start writing, rather than conceiving, their progeny. Nicodemus could not speculate as to if that was even possible, but he had no doubt that whatever the future held, it would be interesting.

When Francesca returned, Nicodemus stopped reading. Everyone in the compound could tell by her expression that it had not been a good day in the infirmary. Nicodemus put the letters away and drank tea with his wife while waiting for dinner. One of her patients had died unexpectedly and no one was sure why.

Francesca was filled with doubts as to whether she had done the right thing for her patient, while at the same time being filled with certainty that the other physicians and some of the nurses had done the wrong thing for her patient. Nicodemus had long ago realized that these two feelings were almost universally present in any practicing physician. Fortunately, the tea soothed Francesca and they went in to a dinner of salmon, potatoes, kale.

Since losing her draconic text, Francesca had begun to age. She had strands of gray among her long brown hair and laugh lines around her eyes. In response to the stressful day in the hospital, she drank one more than her usual glass of wine. At first it made her moodier, but then she began to laugh longer and louder at the family jokes. To Nicodemus, she was as beautiful as she had been when they both had been young and foolish and fighting for their lives in Avel.

That night, under heavy sheets to keep away the winter chill, Nicodemus and Francesca gently made love. It didn't happen as much as it used to, but it was still one of the few things in life that never disappointed.

Later, when their room was filled with three moonlight, Nicodemus woke from a nightmare about their daughter. He had been in the crater lake again, swimming with Leandra's lifeless body toward the shore. But instead of hauling her onto the rocks, paralysis washed through him and he drowned beside his daughter.

The bed now felt oppressively hot. He peeled off the topmost blanket and after wrapping it around his shoulders padded out onto the tiny wooden balcony. Their compound stood atop a hill north of the city's center, and from this vantage point Nicodemus looked out on the few late-burning lamps and a wide river made glassy bright by three moons. Beyond, the hills and their dark forests were slowly being covered by fog. The air was bracingly cold and smelled of the cypress trees and the sea.

Nicodemus hugged his blanket tighter and thought of distant Starhaven. The dark spires would be under a sheet of snow now. He thought of himself as a boy, of Magister Shannon. That gave him pause, made him blow out a long breath that turned to feathery vapor in the cold moonlight. Magister Shannon, the old man had been the only father Nicodemus had ever truly known. He thought of Shannon's Numinous ghost, wondered what it was doing in the necropolis below Starfall Keep.

It was, Nicodemus realized, time for him to think about ghostwriting. Maybe he didn't need to start creating his textual replacement just yet, but he should research the subject.

A gust of wind sent Nicodemus's long hair flying. As he gathered it in, he thought about the city of Avel surrounded by wind-tossed savanna. He thought about his daughter sailing in a catamaran over bright blue waters.

More than anyone else he had ever known in his life, Leandra had exhibited the limitless potentials—grand and grotesque—of a soul. He thought of those she had murdered and those she had saved. She had been gone from his life for so long and would be gone much longer. He thought then, a foolish and idle fancy, that he could hear the particular silence she made in death. He supposed the world would ring with that silence until she returned, if she ever did.

This heartache he struggled with was an old one. After twelve years of battling it, he still was not immune to the hollowness the heartache produced; however, he could put it aside more quickly, which is what he did while looking north at the white-capped mountains.

Looking at the distant peaks, Nicodemus shook off his solemnity. He had come to the comfortable and final stage in life. He would become the hoary-headed professor and watch his family intertwine its fate with the young city around them. And although Nicodemus's place would evermore be in the academy, he could look out at the rediscovered continent that rolled away before him and know there would be relics to discover, landscapes to explore, love and blood and desire and disgust. All that. Same as there had been. Same as there always would be. The difference was that it was no longer he who would venture out to find it.

Adventure would be for others now; Tarakam likely, when he was old enough.

“Nico?” Francesca said sleepily.

He turned and saw her coming onto the balcony, naked and so pale she seemed to glow in the moonlight. He opened up his blanket and she came to him. He still found it pleasing to see how her fair shape fit into his dark one. He wrapped the blanket around them both.

She pressed her face against his chest and mumbled, “Feet are cold.”

“But all the moons are out tonight.”

“They'll still be out if we're in bed.” She mashed her face into his chest again. “Another nightmare about Lea?”

“Just a brief one.”

“You okay now?”

“Okay now.”

“Back to bed?”

“All right,” he said and took a last look at the distant mountains. Then he walked into a bedroom that seemed unimaginably black after the moonlight. They slipped under the covers and he listened to the sound of her breath.

In the moment when he was poised between this world and that of a dream, Nicodemus marveled at the limitless potentials, good and bad, that humanity might discover in itself now that it was composed of so many extraordinary authors.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are two stories in every novel—one between the first and final words, another only hinted at in the acknowledgments. This other, obscured story features a cast of unsung and magnificent people who helped the author create and refine.
Spellbreaker
is no different.

I plotted this book as a medical student and drafted it in the calm months between graduation and intern year. During this time, my father, Dr. Randolph Charlton, was
Spellbreaker
's first reader and supporter. Dad did everything from editing early drafts to housing me when my financial aid ran out. Of course, his influence on my writing started long before then. Ten years ago, when I moved in with Dad to help him cope with chemotherapy, he taught me many hard lessons about the themes of disease, cancer, and healing—which feature throughout this trilogy. I'm fortunate to be able to dedicate this book to him. I've also been blessed that my mother and sister, Louise and Genevieve, have been so supportive of my writing.

This book had many editorial guardian angels. Foremost among them is Miriam Weinberg, at Tor, who helped me polish the prose, condense the plot, and deepen character development. Nina Lourie at Macmillan provided wise advice and support when the trilogy was orphaned. Patrick Nielsen Hayden at Tor adopted the series at a time of great need. Natasha Bardon of Harper Voyager UK greatly improved several early drafts and helped me enrich each of the characters. My literary agent, Matt Bialer, provided advice and support throughout all the twists and turns.

Beta readers are the best thing that can happen to a writer, and I had some of the best happen to me. Megan Messinger took an early, messy draft and told me exactly how to fix the plot holes. Ross Eaton saved me from embarrassment by finding a wide array of errors and inconsistencies; he also provided incredibly helpful tips about how to improve several scenes. Dr. Nina Nuangchamnong provided expert critiques for those scenes involving obstetrics and advice about how to respectfully world-build those aspects of Ixos inspired by Southeast Asia. Dr. Sanjay Reddy—a master clinician and, to my surprise, a big epic fantasy fan—was one week my attending physician on general medicine wards, the next my line editor and advisor about South Asia–inspired Ixos. Kevin Moffitt critiqued this book with a keen eye and used his expertise as a professor of hydrogeology to help me dream up the hydromancers and the city of Chandralu. John Kwiatkowski, of the amazing bookstore Murder by the Book, found several key inconsistencies and provided expert critiques.

Finally and most importantly, the Spellwright Trilogy has enjoyed the support of the many enthusiastic and patient readers—many of whom have been gracious enough to befriend me via social media or my blog. Many times I've been humbled and inspired by the accounts of how readers or their loved ones have adapted to, struggled with, or triumphed because of unique personal differences or disabilities. To my readers, I am grateful that you have followed me during the journey of these past three books and hope that you will join me again for the next.

 

T
OR
B
OOKS BY
B
LAKE
C
HARLTON

Spellwright

Spellbound

Spellbreaker

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Blake Charlton
is now a proud dyslexic, but as a boy he hated the condition that kept him effectively illiterate. He learned to read fluently by sneaking fantasy novels into seventh grade special-ed study hall. Since then he has been (in no particular order) a JV football coach, a high school English teacher, bald, a medical student, a chronically semi-employed writer, a resident physician, and a special-education advocate. He is currently a clinical fellow in cardiology at the University of California, San Francisco.

Blake's nonfiction has appeared in the
Journal of the American Medical Association
Internal Medicine
,
The British Medical Journal
, and
The New York Times,
among others.

Blake's science fiction short stories have appeared in the
Seeds of Change
and the
Unfettered
anthologies.
Spellbreaker
is his third novel and the final installment of the Spellwright Trilogy.

You can visit Blake at
www.blakecharlton.com
. Or sign up for email updates
here
.