However, it was clear that the last signal had come from somewhere in this forest-hence Fellwroth's current, systematic combing of the mountainside. Presently, he followed a deer trail into an elm thicket. He had hoped the keloid's signal texts would recommence, but now it seemed the boy's new protector was blocking them indefinitely.

Here the wind was producing a continuous snow of falling leaves. Fellwroth scowled; without another keloid signal, his current search was unlikely to reveal anything other than more autumnal foliage.

A few hours ago he had spoken to a subtextualized Nicodemus on the road to Gray's Crossing. Had his words convinced the boy? Likely not. If Nicodemus meant to surrender, the whelp should have returned to Starhaven by now, and none of Fellwroth's rewritten gargoyles had reported such.

Fellwroth s.n.a.t.c.hed a falling leaf out of the air and wondered why Nicodemus had not accepted his offer.

Only two possibilities suggested themselves: first, threats against Nicodemus's life might be insufficient to win the boy's surrender; or second, the whelp might feel safe now that he had a protector to block the keloid's signals.

Fellwroth crushed the leaf and considered who might be concealing Nicodemus. Not a deity; he would have sensed another divine presence by now. Nor could it be the girl druid acting alone.

Perhaps it did not matter who was hiding Nicodemus. Perhaps he could threaten something other than the boy's life.

He looked toward Starhaven. The dark elm trees blocked everything from view but the lofty Erasmine Spire. A slow smile pulled on his pale lips as a plan formed in his mind.

He would need to use his true body, and it would take a day to move everything into place. Even so, the plan was perfect.

The leaves were falling faster now. Fellwroth laughed. He knew of at least one thing Nicodemus valued more than his life.

"YOU GAVE HIM access to the Index?" Amadi squawked. access to the Index?" Amadi squawked.

Shannon was sitting calmly on his prison cell cot. The guards had written a weblike censoring spell around the old man's head, blocking him from all magical language. Now his blindness would be complete.

Though he must have been exhausted, the old wizard wore a calm expression. "Without my anti-golem spell, Nicodemus would have been helpless."

"Magister, the provost himself suspects Nicodemus is the Storm Petrel, the champion of chaotic language. I can have no more stories of your clay-"

Shannon learned forward. Thick Magnus texts kept his wrists and legs spellbound to the wall, but there was enough slack on the fettering spells to make Amadi step backward.

"Do you find anything strange in the Drum Tower?" he asked. "Maybe not clay, but any earthen metal, granite or steel or-"

"Dust," she said automatically. "There was a smaller mound of splinters, but dust was all about the common room and especially in a pile with a torn white sheet."

Shannon's blank eyes widened. "The arm I cut off the clay golem had a white sleeve."

Amadi shook her head. "Magister, this tale of golems is too much to swallow. Texts from the ancient continent?"

"Amadi, by naming him the Storm Petrel, you admit that the bonds holding the demons to the ancient continent are loosening. And yet you refuse to accept the possibility that magic from the ancient continent has already crossed the ocean."

Amadi said nothing.

"If you had guarded the boy properly, none of this would have happened," Shannon said sternly. "The least you can do now is-"

"Enough," Amadi snapped. "I did guard the boy properly given the bookworm infestation. You slipped him the key needed to escape the Drum Tower. It is you who must clear his name. And there's only one way to do that: help us find the boy. Magister, please. Help us recover the Index and capture the Storm Petrel."

He scowled.

Amadi took a long breath. Perhaps the old man was right. Perhaps she should not have withdrawn the guards from the Drum Tower. If the provost discovered that she had wasted the chance to contain Nicodemus, she might soon join Shannon in a prison cell. "Can you find the boy?" she asked patiently. "Do you know where he might be?"

He shook his head. "If I did, I wouldn't take you to him. By invoking the counter-prophecy, you have ensured that he cannot be safe in Starhaven. The provost is likely to censor magical literacy out of the boy the instant he's found."

"But you must have taught him a cipher for a broadcast spell."

"If I did, I should never use it," Shannon snapped. "You could pretend to pardon me or even stage a prison escape. You could watch me then and see if I go to him. But I will never seek him out so long as I have the slightest suspicion that you are following me."

Amadi began to pace the tiny cell. "Why do you protect the boy?"

"Have you considered that he might truly be the Halcyon?"

"What under heaven could suggest that he is the champion of order in language?" she asked. "His cacographic mind that is infecting the entire stronghold with misspells? His keloid that symbolizes increasing chaos? The death and ruin that follow him as a storm follows a petrel at sea?"

"Open your eyes, Amadi! A construct of ancient language was murdering my students one by one to reach him. Who else could bring ancient language to this continent but a demon?"

Amadi pursed her lips.

The old man continued. "Amadi, it is this demonic construct that has led you to suspect me wrongly. A demonic construct that has you worrying about the counter-prophecy when you should be worrying about the true one."

Amadi opened her mouth, but a sharp knock at the cell door interrupted her. "Enter," she called. The door swung wide to reveal one of the guards, a short man with a curly red beard.

"What is it?" Amadi demanded.

"Message from your secretary," the guard replied and looked down at a green paragraph in his hands.

"Magistra," he read, "the druids Deirdre and Kyran cannot be found. The druids of the Silent Blight delegation claim no knowledge of their disappearance." The guard looked up. "It's signed by Magister Kale."

"Los's fiery blood!" Amadi swore. "What else can go wrong?"

CHAPTER Thirty-four

As Nicodemus followed the ghostly Chthonic down into the ruined village, he reviewed everything he knew about ghostwriting.

He knew it was something powerful spellwrights did when nearing death. He knew the process involved an advanced form of what Shannon had called impressing: a complex Numinous matrix was written within a ghostwriter's head; over time the matrix became a magical copy of the ghostwriter's mind. A textual body was then written around this magical mind and never allowed outside of the author's living body. Eventually, author and text became one being.

Wizards ghostwrote in Numinous, and the few ghostwriters Nicodemus had seen glowed golden from heel to head.

Nicodemus also knew that when ghostwriters died, their ghosts lived on in a text-preserving resting place. Starhaven's ghosts dwelled below the stronghold in the necropolis.

Nicodemus also remembered that there were several types of misspelled ghosts. A "ghast" was a ghost that attacked other texts or the spellwrights who tended the necropolis. A "ghoul" was a ghost that refused to leave its body, often resulting in a half-animated corpse.

Fortunately, the ghost walking ahead of Nicodemus was not misspelled. Though transparent, its image and textual integrity seemed uncorrupted-a shocking feat for prose that had to be nearly a thousand years old.

Presently, Nicodemus was following the ghost down a steep, crumbling stairway to the ruined Chthonic village. Above them a growing wind was bl.u.s.tering through the trees.

"Magister," Nicodemus said to the ghost as they descended, "How should I address you?"

The Chthonic soul stopped to smile at Nicodemus and hand him three purple sentences. They read, "You may call me Tulki. In our language, 'Tulki' is the masculine form of the word for 'interpreter.' In life, I was an amba.s.sador between our people and your ancestors."

When Nicodemus looked up from this message, he saw the ghost studying him with wide amber eyes. Tulki formed another two sentences in hisarm and held them out. "I am a.s.suming your ancestors were of the Neosolar Empire. You wear the black robes."

After reading this, Nicodemus hugged the Index closer to his chest. The Neosolar Empire had slaughtered the Chthonics with the help of a young Numinous Order. "I was born Spirish," he said.

Tulki nodded and wrote his reply: "Yes, I realize the Neosolar Empire collapsed long ago. I heard once that it was modeled after the Solar Empire on your ancient continent. I would like to have learned more. But now, follow me."

The ghost's silken ponytail flew over his shoulder as he turned and loped forward on all three limbs. Nicodemus followed the soul into the rubble and ivy.

As they went, the ghost tossed a paragraph over his shoulder. Nicodemus nearly slipped as he hurried to catch and read the pa.s.sage. "You should know that our magical languages will be rough on your skin. When those constructs leave your body, they will score welts on you. Nothing permanent. That is why Chimera, our G.o.ddess, gave my people such delicate and pale skin. When alive, we could painlessly write and remove spells from our skin. But this made our hides weak. It was one reason why your ancestors eradicated us so easily."

Reading this made Nicodemus slow down.

The ghost stopped and looked back at Nicodemus before tossing him a short text. "Don't be alarmed; I am not angry. I a.s.sume you are a scholar as well. Aren't you here for research?"

After he finished reading, Nicodemus looked up. "Research?"

Tulki quickly offered another paragraph. "You are a eugrapher researching eugraphic languages, no? Both our languages-Wrixlan and Pithan-are eugraphic. What else would bring you here? You have a living tome there in your hand."

Nicodemus looked at the Index. "Living tome?"

The ghost frowned as he produced another reply. "That Index's parchment is kept alive by its First Language prose. Maybe you don't know: our languages can be written only on living skin. Your constructs chose to store themselves on your body rather than in the Index; they will be much stronger for it. That is the beauty of our languages: we can make our bodies textual."

Nicodemus looked from the Index to the ghost. "I don't understand."

The ghost's chest rose and fell in a silent sigh before he held out a reply: "Your living tome taught you Wrixlan, one of our languages, because you are a eugrapher, yes?"

"I am a cacographer."

Tulki shook his head as he wrote a response. He flicked it to Nicodemus. "That is what our last visitor said so long ago. But consider that all eugraphers misspell in the wizardly languages. They try to make the spelling logical. That iswhy your mind is attracted to Wrixlan; it is logical and therefore eugraphic. Do you not spell more accurately in Wrixlan is what our last visitor said so long ago. But consider that all eugraphers misspell in the wizardly languages. They try to make the spelling logical. That iswhy your mind is attracted to Wrixlan; it is logical and therefore eugraphic. Do you not spell more accurately in Wrixlan?"

"I...I did respell a subtext," Nicodemus said and then stopped as something occurred to him. He looked back at his translation of the ghost's message. Surprisingly, it seemed to have no misspellings. True, his disability prevented him from recognizing many misspelled words; however, when he translated in Numinous, he produced so many errors that even his cacographic mind could identify the resulting misspellings.

"Celestial Canon," he swore softly. "Does this mean I'm not a cacographer in your purple language?"

Now smiling, the ghost formed a reply in his arm and held it out. "That's right. My people have known for a long time that the condition you call 'cacography' is a mismatch between language and mind. Wizardly spelling is arbitrary. Because you are a cacographer, your mind rejects that arbitrariness. In fact, your mind is drawn to languages with logical spellings, such as Wrixlan. That is why your dreams wrote the constructs that now score your skin. And that is why the Index taught you our language. You are sure you did not come here for research?"

After reading this, Nicodemus looked up nervously. "No, Magister, I'm not a researcher. But I want to learn more about why I'm not a cacographer in..." He let his voice trail off as Tulki began to compose a reply.

The ghost forged several sentences within his forearm, stopped, erased two sentences, edited a few others, and then continued forging.

Nicodemus fidgeted impatiently until Tulki held out a completed response. It read, "Then I must apologize. When I found the delightful night terrors you had written, I was sure their author would one day discover a Wrixlan tome and so learn to see his own dark fantasies. Nearly three hundred years ago we were visited by another eugrapher-a pa.s.sionate young male. He wanted to learn everything about eugraphy. He looked like you. But, then again, most human males look alike to me. However, returning to my point, maybe ten years ago, I discovered your constructs in the forest and tried to convince them to bring you here if they ever found you. But most were adamant about wanting to-pardon my frankness-eat you."

"Eat me?" Nicodemus laughed in surprise.

Tulki nodded and held out another paragraph. "Thankfully they led you here instead. My apologies for what might now seem like an abduction. But if you're not a researcher...that changes everything. Now I fear for the sixty-three other ghosts dwelling here. I had hoped you might help us. Three centuries have pa.s.sed since that last eugrapher visited. He refreshed our texts in exchange for our teachings. Long before him, we received Chthonic spellwrights from the Heaven Tree. But it seems the mountain homestead has perished."

Nicodemus's eyes widened. "The Heaven Tree is real? The Chthonics escaped across the Spindle Bridge? Is that what it is used for?"

The ghost smiled. "So you are curious! Before I answer, I wonder if you will replenish our spectral codex-the living book that holds our ghostly texts. We simply require the touch of a Wrixlan spellwright. In return, I will answer all the questions you may have."

Nicodemus thought for a moment. "A murderous creature called a golem-it is something like a construct-is hunting me. Can you hide me?"

Tulki's smile faded. The ghost formed a sentence in his palm and stared at it for a moment before tossing it to Nicodemus. It read, "Are you a criminal or a legionary?"

"Neither," Nicodemus replied.

This time Tulki's response came quickly. "Then I will not ask why it is chasing you. You may share that when you are ready. However, I must know how this construct is tracking you?"

Nicodemus touched the back of his neck. "There is a curse laid upon me that broadly casts a signal text."

The ghost smiled again. "Then we can help. In this place lies our most powerful living tome. Translating its name was difficult. The term the legionaries chose was 'Bestiary.' It is a great book that hides these ruins with a visual subtext, which you surely already saw. The Bestiary also fills this place with an ancient metaspell that deconstructs any magical literature attempting to leave. So your curse's signaling spell will not escape this resting place."

Nicodemus took a deep breath in relief.

Tulki nodded vigorously as he presented another paragraph. "What's more, any non-Wrixlan construct will rapidly deconstruct if it enters here. Likely this golem would suffer the same if it came here. Your night terrors understood how dangerous this place is for constructs; that is why they inscribed themselves on your skin as soon as you arrived. Parts of them are Wrixlan, but mostly they consist of Pithan-our language that affects the mundane world, like your Magnus. If you replenish our spectral codex, we shall happily allow you to stay in this sanctuary."

Nicodemus nodded. "Then we have an agreement."

The ghost glowed brighter as he smiled. "Most wonderful. What shall I call you?"

"Nicodemus Weal."

"Nicodemus Weal, you might find it agreeable to dwell with us for a long time. We have much to teach. Would you like to learn about our people?"

When Nicodemus said he would, the ghost straightened with professorial pride. "Then follow me as I explain," Tulki wrote and then began to lope further into the ruins on all three limbs, pausing only briefly to cast another paragraph: "I'll start with the Heaven Tree; it does exist deep in the mountains.There was a bridge that led to it. But our metaspells and the blueskin constructs have since blocked the way. No human may reach the Heaven Tree Valley now."

Nicodemus had difficulty reading while walking among the stones. The Chthonic, however, had no trouble writing and navigating the rubble. The ghost moved easily with his thin right arm acting as a third leg.

"Did you lose your left arm in the war against the Neosolar Empire?" Nicodemus asked tentatively.

Tulki stood and looked back with an amused expression. "No, no," the ghost wrote. "All our people have only one 'arm,' as you call it. Indeed, that was a chief reason why our peoples went to war."

"But how could such a-" His voice died.

The ghost had unb.u.t.toned his tunic where the garment covered his left shoulder. A long, ashen limb unfolded. A membrane of skin stretched from shoulder to wrist. The four fingers hung two or three feet long, and between them grew the same membranous skin.

Tulki formed a sentence in this sail of skin. Then the ghost peeled the text off and cast the spell to Nicodemus. It read, "Translating our word for this 'arm' is difficult. Your closest word might be 'palette.'"

Tulki formed another paragraph within the membranous skin and then cast it to Nicodemus. "Appreciate that more skin gives a Wrixlan author more writing s.p.a.ce. You black-robes carry books to hold more text. But our bodies are our texts. Long ago, our ancestors dwelled under the mountains with the greenskins and blueskins. Then the first Chthonic tribe created our dialects. It was then that the G.o.ddess Chimera helped shape our bodies to escape the brutal underworld of the blueskins."