only one thing: when the War of Disjunction does begin, a foreign spellwright known as the Peregrine will show us how to protect our sacred places and hence our language.”
Shannon nodded. “Some of our scholars report that all magical societies believe the Disjunction will destroy their languages and that only one spellwright might prevent this fate.”
Deirdre nodded to Nicodemus without looking at him. “And the wizards once thought he might be the Halcyon?”
Magistra Okeke leaned forward, her eyes flitting between Shannon and Deirdre.
Though Shannon’s face remained impassive, he cast a brief sentence to Azure. The parrot lowered her head, allowing the old man to stroke the feathers along her skinny neck. Nicodemus recognized this as a habit comforting for both bird and man.
At last Shannon spoke. “Our prophecy describes the Halcyon as being the child of an unknown mother, as having a birth to magic powerful enough to be felt for hundreds of miles, as forging both Numinous and Magnus before reaching twenty. All of these things describe Nicodemus perfectly.”
The pride ringing in the old man’s voice made Nicodemus’s cheeks grow hot again.
“However,” Shannon continued, “Erasmus also described the Halcyon as bearing a congenital keloid scar in the shape of the Braid rune. Nicodemus’s mark is ambiguous. More important, the prophecy predicted that the Halcyon would master many styles and wield language with elegance and justice. He foresaw the Halcyon destroying the feral kingdoms and forging a staff powerful enough to slay the reborn Los.”
“And that is why I can’t be the Halcyon,” Nicodemus insisted. “My cacography prevents me from mastering any style or producing anything close to elegant prose. For a while, the wizards thought I would outgrow my difficulty. But when it became apparent that my touch would always misspell, they knew I wasn’t the Halcyon.”
“Nicodemus,” Deirdre said, “how were you born to magic?”
He shifted in his seat. “In my sleep, when I was thirteen.”
The druid’s mouth curved almost imperceptibly upward. At the same time, the sentinel narrowed her lips.
Deirdre asked, “Do you remember what you were dreaming about the night you were born to magic?”
“No,” he lied.
The sentinel spoke. “As a cacographer you cause misspells by handling text, but have you noticed if your touch makes other things more chaotic? For example, do those near you often become sick? Or do the fires you light tend to escape the fireplace?”
Nicodemus was about to say that he had not noticed anything like that when Shannon interrupted in a low tone. “Amadi, Provost Montserrat has personally observed Nicodemus and determined that that is not the case.”
An icy sensation—half-thrill, half-fear—spread through Nicodemus. The Provost had observed him? But when and how?
Magistra Okeke stared at Shannon for a long moment. “I will see the boy’s keloid now.”
Nicodemus touched a lock of his long black hair. “There’s really no need, Magistra. The scars are misshapen. And we don’t know if I was born with it or not.”
The sentinel only stared. He looked at Shannon, but his teacher’s expression was as blank as a snow field. No help there. He looked at Deirdre. She only smiled her infuriating half-smile.
So with his heart growing cold, Nicodemus turned his chair to present his back to the sentinel, pulled his hair over one shoulder, and began to unlace his robes.
AS HE UNTIED his collar at the back of his neck, Nicodemus’s fingers ran across the keloid.
He had felt the scars countless times before, traced their every inch with his fingertips. Once he had even arranged two bits of polished brass so that he could see their reflection.
Unlike most scars, which were pale and flat, a keloid scar bulged out and darkened. Nicodemus’s complexion was a healthy olive hue, but the weals on his neck shone a glossy blue-black—like a colony of parasitic mollusks growing into his flesh.
He fussed over his hair every night so that it would remain long enough to hide the keloids. He hadn’t had to reveal them for nearly five years.
His face burned as he pushed his collar back to expose his neck and shoulders.
“Goddess!” the druid swore. “Do they hurt?”
“No, Magistra,” he said as evenly as possible.
He heard the sentinel walk over to him. “I can see the shape of the Braid in the scars.”
The “Braid” she was referring to was a rune in a common language named Vulgate; it consisted of two vertical lines connected by a serpentine line that wove between them. By itself the Braid could mean “to organize” or “to combine.”
Nicodemus had no sensation along the keloid, but he could feel the pressure of Magistra Okeke’s finger as she traced the scars down his neck. She spoke. “Druid, is the Peregrine prophesied to bear a keloid in the shape of the Braid?”
“Predicted to be born with such,” the druid answered. “There have been false Peregrines who have created such a keloid through branding. And, as I understand it, we do not know if Nicodemus’s mark is congenital.”
“But, Magistras, there’s an error in the middle of it,” Nicodemus said, his face still hot.
Magistra Okeke grunted. “Child, you don’t know how right you are.”
He tried not to flinch as her finger traced the blotch. This second scar took the imperfect shape of a written letter “k” that had been pushed over onto its legs—the same shape as the Inconjunct rune.
By itself an Inconjunct meant either “as far apart as possible” or “as in-correct as possible.” Therefore, a Braid paired with an Inconjunct could mean “to disorganize to the furthest extent” or “to deconstruct to the basic components.”
Deirdre swore under her breath: “Bridget, damn it!”
Shocked by the druid’s blasphemy against her own goddess, Nicodemus turned around. She had lost her half-smile and was frowning at his neck.
“You are distressed, Deirdre?” Magistra Okeke asked. “You thought perhaps Nicodemus was the Peregrine?”
The druid sighed and returned to her chair. “Yes, Amadi Okeke. The answer to both of your questions is yes.”
“Well, druid, I agree with your assessment,” the sentinel said. “If this scar is fate’s work, then it is a clear sign that Nicodemus is not the Halcyon. But I wonder if it might have another meaning.”
Shannon snorted. “You’re getting carried away, Amadi.” His voice softened. “Thank you, Nicodemus. You may cover your neck now.”
Dizzy with relief, Nicodemus began to tie his collar’s laces.
Deirdre sat back into her chair. “Agwu Shannon, Amadi Okeke, apologies for occupying your time.”
Returning to her seat, Magistra Okeke asked, “What does the provost think of the Inconjunct?”
“He does not believe it is a rune,” Shannon answered curtly. “He believes it is the result of human error.”
Magistra Okeke’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
Shannon opened his mouth to speak, but Nicodemus interrupted: “Magister is too kind to say that most likely my parents branded me. It might be shameful, and many may look down on my family because of it. But I’d rather face the shame than have anyone again believe that I’m involved in prophecy.”
Shannon frowned. “Nicodemus, who told you that you were branded?”
Nicodemus looked down at his boots. “No one, Magister. It’s what I figure people