Spellwright

Two fortnights passed slowly, and then autumn descended upon them with a bout of freezing rain. The cold painted scarlet onto the Heaven Tree’s topmost leaves.

Shannon had not once needed to vomit logorrhea bywords. It seemed that Nicodemus had subdued the old man’s cankers with the emerald.

As the days grew colder, the leaves farther and farther down the Heaven Tree blushed red. But few ever fell.

It was a time of talking and reflection. After the evening meal, Nicodemus and Shannon often sat before the fire, recounting Simple John’s bravery or grieving for Devin.

With only three occupants, the valley could be a lonely place. Lectures and conversations had a way of exhausting themselves into silence.

So on some autumn afternoons, Nicodemus wandered. He scaled every inch of the Heaven Tree and the valley walls, discovering private grottoes and coves. He learned to hunt rabbits and goats, learned to fish the lake’s dark waters. But he never learned to cook. Those meals he prepared drew Shannon’s increasingly graphic but good-natured ridicule.

Sometimes after evening study, Nicodemus wandered the green valley floor. He would think of Devin or Kyran and grow glum, or of Deirdre and grow impatient. Time passed as before, slowly.

Then, one chill night, Nicodemus woke to hear Boann calling his name. Outside their house, he found the goddess standing in the middle of the cobbled street.

The three moons were full. Their glow filtered through the great boughs to fill the valley in a diffuse light.

“Walk with me down to the lake,” the goddess said in her calm, singsong voice. Nicodemus followed her out of the small Chthonic city and into a field of waist-high grass. “Tonight,” she said, as they walked, “you begin an education that neither Shannon nor I could give you.”

Nicodemus said nothing. They reached a raised, grassy bank that overlooked the lake. In the moonlight, the usually limpid pool was purest black. Boann turned to him and said, “When we leave this place, you will be in the greatest danger that-”

“Goddess,” Nicodemus hissed and sank into a crouch. “Hold very still. Up ahead, on that rock, there’s a subtextualized kobold spellwright. His prose style is shoddy.” He crouched lower in the tall grass. The figure he could make out shone with dim violet sentences. The kobold was crouched atop a boulder that overlooked the water and, judging by his silhouette, was looking the other direction. “I don’t think he’s seen us,” Nicodemus whispered.

Boann did not move. “They call it warplay,” she said calmly. “It teaches young kobolds how to survive their constant tribal wars. I’m telling you this because they believe you are the human prophesied to restore kobolds to the glory they knew before the Neosolar Empire destroyed their kingdoms.”

“Keep your voice down,” Nicodemus whispered and pulled the tattooed attack spell from his hip. Holding it low in the grass to hide its shine, he let the text fold into a flickering broadsword.

“Each night, they will teach you a new lesson. Tonight’s lesson, I believe, is the tactical importance of a decoy.”

Nicodemus froze and then looked up at the goddess. “A deco-”

The charging kobold hit him from behind and wrapped two cloth-covered arms around his chest. The force of the tackle knocked the indigo sword from Nicodemus’s hands and launched both of them into the air. There was a horrible moment of falling as the kobold bellowed out victory. Then they struck lake water with a jarring splash. Twisting violently, Nicodemus slammed his fist into what he assumed was the monster’s face and reached for a blasting spell he had tattooed down his back.

BOANN WATCHED NICODEMUS and the kobold splash into the lake. Beside her Shannon and an ancient kobold chieftain deconstructed their subtexts. Shannon cleared his throat. “Was it truly necessary to deceive the boy? At least we could have told him that you had spoken with the kobold tribe.”

Boann shook her head. “Now he will never forget this lesson.”

Shannon frowned as his parrot eyed the water under which Nicodemus had disappeared. “You are sure this warplay won’t kill him?”

Just then a blast of what looked like indigo fire erupted from the lake’s surface. Because she was a goddess, Boann could see all magical languages. Presently, she watched the shockwave of Nicodemus’s spell blow water and the kobold attacker high into the air. The yelling humanoid landed on the muddy bank with a thud. An instant later, a sputtering Nicodemus emerged in the shallows. He was stripped to the waist and peeling a wartext from his side.

“Yes, Magister, quite sure it won’t kill him,” Boann said dryly. “I’m more concerned he will kill one of his instructors.”

The chieftain sniffed in disdain. “Any kobold who could be killed by a human new to skinwriting, savior or no, deserves to die.”

Boann smiled tightly. “And how good is Nicodemus in your languages?”