was a disadvantage in the air. That wasn’t to say that Cyrus was unusually short. In fact, standing five inches below six feet, he was the tallest pilot Francesca had ever met.
“We’ve landed. You have some things to explain,” he said, gathering the jumpchute into his arms. Abruptly, the chute cut itself in a hundred different places and then wove itself back together to form a rectangle of neatly folded cloth.
Looking at the sailcloth, Francesca considered the hierophantic high language, Sarsayah, which could focus its energy only within cloth. In the air, Sarsayah texts dissolved into powerful currents of wind.
Only heart muscle could produce Sarsayah runes, meaning that a hierophant could produce text only slowly. For this reason, they wore voluminous robes to store great amounts of text. With every heartbeat, hierophants cast a few magical sentences into their right ventricle. When the heart contracted, it propelled blood and sentences into the lungs. With every breath, hierophants exhaled a few magical sentences. To capture this language, they wore veils almost constantly.
Francesca was not fluent in Sarsayah; she could not see its runes. Cyrus had said they shone with pale blue light. Years ago, she had watched him sleep and imagined the veil tied loosely around his mouth filling with words that shone like the morning sky.
She looked him in the eye. A curl of black hair had escaped his turban. He had said that flying here would expend most of the text in his lofting kite and robes. Given that she didn’t trust Cyrus, that left one question: Just how much text did he have left? What she was about to tell him could spark a confrontation, possibly even violence.
Francesca wasn’t a prolific spellwright; her gift lay in perfecting intricate medical texts. Still, she could forge wizardly runes with all of her muscles, whereas Cyrus could forge hierophantic runes only with his heart muscles. She could overpower him if it came to a contest of extemporizing magical text.
She glanced down at the ball of Magnus in her thigh. It was still radiating a shower of signal spells. For good measure, she began writing a golden disspell in her arm muscles.
“Cyrus, what I’m about to say might sound far-fetched. But what I saw in the sanctuary makes me believe we have to investigate a grave possibility.”
When he didn’t reply, she continued: “Deirdre claimed that the War of Disjunction has already begun.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It might sound like madness, but listen. A demon named Typhon might have crossed the ocean and taken control of Avel. Deirdre claimed to be his Regent of Spies. She believes that most every hierophant in the city unknowingly serves the demon.”
Cyrus laughed and looked up. “But that’s insane.” He seemed to be waiting for her to say something. When she replied only with a level stare, he laughed again. “But it is crazy. It’s … Deirdre must be mad.”
“We can’t ignore her; she knew your passwords.”
“She did and she couldn’t have learned them without connections in the canonist’s court, but still … It’s just not possible.”
Francesca studied Cyrus’s eyes. “Deirdre thinks you might be the only wind mage not yet bound to the demon. She said Typhon brought you back to the city as some sort of screen. I’m not sure what that means, something about your being unaware of the canonist’s situation.”
Cyrus looked to the flap where the apprentice had disappeared. “This is … it’s just crazy.”
“How well do you know Avel now? Do you know who the Regent of Spies is?”
He turned back to her. “No one outside the canonist’s advisors would know that. Cala might not even appoint a Regent of Spies. And as for Avel … I know it well enough. I’ve started to command the city’s kites.”
A nearby seagull scolded another. “Cyrus, you’ve only been here a fortnight. Deirdre knew your passwords and gave you an order. She commanded you not to tell anyone about what you saw. It’s your duty to obey her.”
“My first duty is to protect the city. Fran, there’s just no way a demon—”
“God-of-gods, Cyrus, it’s Francesca now! How many times must I tell you? Heaven aflame!”
He sniffed. “My grandmother used to say heaven aflame as well as God-of-gods.”
Francesca exhaled in exasperation. She’d grown up on the border between Spires and Verdant. As a result she’d developed a diction and accent that most everyone else considered antique. It grew more pronounced when she was upset. Cyrus knew his mention of it galled her.
“Cyrus,” she said evenly, “this is not about us.”
His voice became cold. “Whoever said it was?”
She looked him in the eyes. “I’m sorry things ended as they did.”
“Why should you be sorry?” he said, returning her gaze. “I’m certainly not sorry. You’re now a physician. And I’m one step away from making captain. Clearly, we made the right decisions.”
Francesca paused. His tone sounded genuine, but … well, she had always thought that he had felt differently about their parting. “Of course,” she said at last. “Of course. I’m sorry.” She paused. “But, Cyrus, Deirdre also told me a rogue wizard is somewhere in or near Avel. A man named Nicodemus Weal.”
Cyrus started to say something but then stopped. He went to a corner of the landing bay and put down the neatly folded red jumpchute. “Nicodemus Weal? The mad apprentice that killed a bunch of wizards in Starhaven ten years ago? The one that got the academics all worked up about prophecy?”
Glad to see Cyrus away from the red cloth, Francesca went to him. “It sounds mad, but we can’t dismiss the claim. Deirdre said he might be staying with the Canic people in the North Gate District. When we know things are safe in the sanctuary, you have to take me back to Avel to investigate.”
“Francesca,” he said and then paused. “I agree that this affair requires investigation. But not by you or me. You’re a cleric; I’m a pilot. You should be healing; I should be flying. I will discuss this matter with the wind marshal and the tower warden. Between the three of us, we can secure an audience with Canonist Cala. A proper investigation will be launched.”
Francesca felt her hands go cold. She eyed his robe. Perhaps she was wasting time talking. With every breath he was slowly replenishing his text. “Cyrus,” she said evenly, carefully, “your logic would be impeccable if it weren’t for the possibility that a damned demon is controlling Avel and so the canonist.”
He shook his head. “It’s too far-fetched. I’ll be careful when discussing this with the tower warden and the marshal.”
Heat flushed across Francesca’s face. It was hard to keep her tone level. “What if they’re serving the demon?”
He looked at her. “You’ve just been through a harrowing experience. Something attacked the sanctuary. A woman claiming to be an avatar pushed you out of a lofting kite. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Francesca fished the Numinous disspell she’d been writing in her bicep and moved it into her balled fist. “I am thinking perfectly clearly, thank you. And I cannot allow you to tell the tower warden or the marshal of this matter. It’s too dangerous.”
“It is my duty to.”
“Your duty is to protect Avel. If a demon …”
He was shaking his head. “You can’t stop me.”
Hot fear rose inside Francesca; she had to stop him. She searched for her most authoritative tone. “I will stop you, Cyrus. I must.”
He folded his arms. “So this is why you wouldn’t talk when we were aloft? So you couldn’t toss a wizardly disspell at me without knocking us both out of the sky? You always were a more powerful spellwright, but you must know—” He started