Copyright © 2005 by Blake Charlton. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
Home Samples Prolog Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
An hour later, when the kitchen walls were clean, Nicodemus poured the sludge down the privy. With a sentence dangling from his fist, he dragged the astringent spell upstairs to the kitchen's library. Because of the late hour, the room was quiet except for the librarian's heavy breathing. The man had dozed off with his head on a desk. A small lake of drool stained the table beneath his open mouth.
Nicodemus stepped closer and saw the saliva oozing dangerously near to an opened codex. A spellbook? Curious to see what language the librarians were writing in, Nicodemus turned his head so he could read the topmost line: "Culinary Library Manifest: 58th of Autumn, 1571 After Landfall." There followed a list of the library's spells, their conditions, and their present location. It was mundane text, written in ill-mixed iron-ink. Disappointing.
"Argos, you're going to ruin your codex," Nicodemus said while sliding the book away from the drool. Though only two years older than Nicodemus' twenty-four, Argos had already grown a dense black beard. He and Nicodemus had entered Starhaven as neophytes nearly fourteen years ago.
Argos sat up with a jolt. "What? What?" he sputtered while knuckling spittle from the corner of his mouth. "Oh, Nicodemus; you're back." He reached for his book. "You...checked out an astringent spell, yes? Have you seen to its maintenance?"
With a nervous cough, Nicodemus dangled the text before Argos. The librarian didn't notice the other man's discomfort; he was scanning the spell for hostile words, missing lines, or deconstructing paragraphs. Nicodemus had checked and rechecked for any transcriptional errors. But as Argos frowned at each sentence, he began to worry that he had reversed a rune sequence.
"Around," Argos said, carving a circle in the air with his index finger. Like a fisherman displaying his catch, Nicodemus turned his sentence to show the spherical spell's every side.
"It looks new," Argos grunted. "Did you have to replace most of it? I hope the evening librarian didn't give you a tattered spell."
"No, no," Nicodemus blurted. "I had a lot of scrubbing to do, and the central argument wore thin. It wasn't any trouble to rewrite."
"Much appreciated." The librarian yawned as he held out a blank scroll. "Please put it in K-34." Mumbling thanks, Nicodemus took the rolled parchment and walked down the ordered shelves that held the kitchen's culinary and janitorial spells.
"Fiery Blood!" Argos swore. Nicodemus looked back. The other man had just noticed the drool. His face reddened as he set to wiping the saliva with his sleeve. Smiling, Nicodemus turned back. Argos had been a disagreeable youth, but perhaps he was worth befriending now.
Having reached row K, Nicodemus walked down to the empty slot 34. Dropping the scroll's lower dowel exposed a field of yellow parchment scored with pale markings. Nicodemus frowned; Argos had given him a palimpsest.
A spellwright could preserve a spell by inscribing its sentences onto parchment. However, one could not store a given text on the same page too often--doing so burnt rune-shaped footprints, called excoriations, into the page. Such scratched pages inevitably became palimpsests--finicky, scarred manuscripts that slowly lost their ability to retain magical language.
After scanning the excoriations on his scroll, Nicodemus saw that a librarian had too often stored the sieve-like tamisium spell on it. His frown soured into a scowl. Setting his astringent onto this palimpsest was going to be difficult.
With his right hand, Nicodemus tied the astringent to a rung on the scroll rack and considered the spell. It was a simple text, written in Tactus--the most common of telekinetic languages--and in a dry, perfunctory style. Mostly it consisted of small energetic rune sequences that lifted away bits of grime or grease. A few organized paragraphs gave the text its spherical shape. Overall, it was an elementary spell; the kind of thing taught to second year acolytes.
Nicodemus studied the radiant white Tactus runes until he was ready. Then, with practiced quickness, he snatched the spell with his right hand. The words had a hard, wooden texture. The world exploded with light as line upon line of shimmering language danced before his eyes. Careful not to rearrange any runes, Nicodemus mentally unfolded the spell into the rectangular form of a written page and then pinned it onto the exposed parchment with the first three fingers of his left hand. The resplendent language abandoned his sight and inscribed itself onto the parchment.
A paragraph's edge began to slide down a tattered portion of the palimpsest. "No you don't," Nicodemus growled while jamming a knuckle against the paragraph, forcing it into more intimate contact with the parchment.
When the spell finally set, Nicodemus sighed and wound up the scroll. It fit neatly into its empty slot. Back in the center aisle, he covered a yawn with a balled fist and made for the library's entrance. His black apprentice robes billowed behind as he went.
"Working late?" he asked the librarian.
Argos stopped scrubbing the desk and grunted. "I'm hoping to earn my hood in codicology before the year's out."
"Codicology?" Nicodemus raised an eyebrow.
"The study of the codex as a physical object. We discern what cover, binding, and stitching is best for each manuscript. But before I can apply, I'm obliged to work a double library clerkship." Argos smiled. "What about you? What's got you working so late?"
"Magistar Shannon," Nicodemus said with a weary but satisfied smile, "is helping me earn my wizard's robes from the linguists; I'm assisting his research."
"That's right," Argos said with a nod. "I had heard you were his new boy."
Nicodemus lowered his brows. New boy?
Argos continued. "That makes you an apprentice janitor and an apprentice linguist? Does Shannon have you teaching a class?"
Nicodemus looked away. "Not quite yet...but I'm very much looking forward to it."
"You might want to pester him about that; they'll keep you in apprentice robes until your fifty unless you get some teaching under your belt." The librarian sniffed. "So then, what does Shannon have his new boy doing?"
Nicodemus cleared his throat. "Magistar has written a spell that allows grand wizards to pull my runes into their bodies. It helps them spellwrite longer texts. If enough grand wizards feel I'm helpful, they might give me my wizard's robes."
Argos grunted. "But what about janitorial?"
Nicodemus' smile faded.
Argos chuckled. "You're strong enough to clean out the stronghold by yourself. We could send the simpletons who can't learn Numinous or Magnus back to the mage guilds."
Nicodemus changed his mind: maybe he disliked Argos after all. "I still work janitorial half of each day; they're reluctant to let me go. But I was hoping to avoid scrubbing walls for the rest of my life. Shannon was kind enough to take me in." He feigned a cough. "So, under whom would you study codicology?"
"Come now," replied Argos, "I'd still be an apprentice too if I were trying to serve two disciplines. It's not so bad in janitorial. You have to look at it in context. Considering your misspelling, janitorial isn't so bad." Argos smiled through his thick beard.
Nicodemus clenched his hands. "I suppose you'd like that."
"I'm sorry?" Argos asked, his smile sinking.
"I quite understand," Nicodemus said, stone-faced. "The once high and self-important Nicodemus Weal reduced to trapping rats and soaping floors."
"Now, Nicodemus," Argos lectured, "there's no need to be sensitive. I just meant that after all that trouble with the Erasmine Prophecy and your not being the Halcyon--"
"I've not forgotten the time you and the Allston brothers cursed me behind the refectory," Nicodemus growled. "I was spellbound for three hours before a wizard found and untangled me."
"That was years ago," Argos huffed, "and we were only boys."
Nicodemus balled his hands into fists. "I know how you used to curse Simple John."
Argos sniffed. "So you're righteous as a Spirish Monk now that Shannon has made you his new pet cripple? You know something, Nicodemus? You'll need to get over yourself someday."
"I might," Nicodemus retorted, searching for a searing remark. "But you, Argos will need to wash the drool off your sleeve tonight!" He spun round and stormed out of the library.
Fingering his damp sleeve, Argos stared at the other man's back. "Ass," he hissed.
Home Samples Prolog Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five