forced himself to meet her stare. “When I was an infant, my stepmother gave me my last name because of them.”
Magistra Okeke raised her eyebrows.
“The word ‘weal’ is a synonym for ‘welt,’” Nicodemus explained. “Hence Nicodemus-of-the-weals became Nicodemus Weal.”
Shannon cleared his throat. “But ‘weal’ has another meaning. It can mean ‘the common good.’ It’s an antonym of woe.”
Nicodemus put on his bravest smile. “I’ve always said that that makes it a contranym.”
Deirdre looked at Nicodemus so abruptly he started. “Why would you say that?” The half-smile returned to her lips.
“Oh-h,” Nicodemus stuttered. “W-well, a contranym is a word that means the opposite of itself like ‘dust’ or ‘bound.’ If I’m dusting the table, you don’t know if I’m sweeping the dust off it or sprinkling some onto it. And the weal is the opposite of woe, but woe to him with a weal.”
Shannon laughed softly even though he had heard this attempt at wit before. Nicodemus gave him a grateful glance.
Deirdre was nodding. She seemed about to speak but an urgent knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” Shannon called. The door swung open to reveal Magister Smallwood. “Agwu! It’s that astounding colaboris correspondence. News most terrifying from abroad!”
“Nicodemus, please attend our druid guest while I hear this news.” Shannon stood. “Deirdre, forgive us a moment.” Two Numinous arcs sprang between the old wizard and Azure as he made for the door. The sentinel followed.
Nicodemus stood and watched them go. He would have given anything to avoid being left alone with the druid.
He looked back at Deirdre. Her wide eyes and smooth skin made her seemed no older than twenty, but her slight smile betrayed an ancient, matronly amusement. “I think I handled that rather well,” she said. “Let us sit. There’s much to discuss.”
Frowning in confusion, he retook his seat.
“Nicodemus, do you know that we’re distant cousins?” the druid asked, her smile growing. “I consulted Starhaven’s genealogy library. We share a pair of great-great-grandparents.”
Nicodemus’s head bobbed backward. This was unexpected. But then he realized why the druid seemed familiar: save for her eyes, she was a younger and more beautiful copy of his aunt. “Are you Spirish?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Dralish, but of Imperial descent. Do you know what that means? The ancient continent was ruled by an Imperial family who possessed the same black hair, green eyes, and olive skin that you and I have.”
Nicodemus felt an old memory stir. “My father once said he could trace his ancestry to the first Spirish Landfall.”
Deirdre nodded. “Just so. When humanity fled the ancient continent, each member of the imperial family boarded a different ship. The Maelstrom scattered the human fleet; as a result, our relatives are spread across the land in both powerful and humble families.”
She studied him. “I have many Imperial aspects, save for my height, or rather, my lack of height. But you seem to have all the Imperial features.”
Nicodemus fought the urge to fidget with his sleeve. “It’s flattering to hear you say so.”
“It makes one wonder who your mother might be,” she said.
He looked away at the window.
“I am sorry,” she said, touching his knee. “Forgive my speculation.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said without looking at her.
“Nicodemus, I must tell you something.” She paused. “Please carefully consider what I say next.” She leaned forward. Paused. “You have been crippled by a horrible curse.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You are cursed.”
“In which language?”
“In no magical language of this land.”
“Forgive my skepticism, but if I haven’t been cursed in a known magical language, then how can you see it?”
Deirdre folded her dark hands on her white lap. “There are many things that cannot be seen by writers of the new magics.”
“New magics?” Nicodemus frowned at her odd diction.
The druid nodded. “When our ancestors crossed the ocean, most ancient magics were lost. Only the Dralish and Verdantians preserved their ancestral ways, which evolved into the old magics. All other magic has been invented since then.”
He knew that what she was saying was true. “But what does this have to do with a curse? And shouldn’t we speak of old languages, not old magics?”
Deirdre’s mouth tensed for a moment but then relaxed into its usual half-smile. “Magics, languages, it’s all one. The point is that while the new languages might be more powerful, they restrict their writers’ vision; they prevent their writers from knowing the wisdom of the ancient continent.”
“And they prevent us from seeing curses?” Nicodemus asked skeptically. “Forgive me, but I did spend last night disspelling a curse from my forehead.”
The druid waved his words away. “Wizards call any malevolent text a curse. What infected you is different. It was written in a language from the ancient continent and therefore left an aura dimly visible to those fluent in the old languages but invisible to those fluent only in the new.”
“All right, say I have been cursed. What infected me? Is it some disease I’ve got?”
Deirdre was silent for a moment. Then she leaned forward and said, “Isn’t it obvious, my friend, that someone has stolen your ability to spell?”
Nicodemus blinked. “That’s impossible. No known spell—”
“This curse comes from the ancient world, where knowledge of how language could affect the body was far greater. The histories describe magic that could regrow a severed arm or restore the memories lost to a blow on the head.”
Nicodemus could not deny what she said; the ancients had had an in-comprehensibly sophisticated understanding of the mundane world, including medicine.
The druid continued, “Your curse was one such ancient spell. It must have invaded your mind and stolen its growth or altered its development. Whatever the case, it removed the part of your mind needed to spellwrite correctly.”
“But who would want to curse me?”
“There are men and women in every human kingdom who worship demons,” she replied. “We know little of them other than that they have formed a clandestine order. They call themselves the Disjunction because they wish to initiate the War of Disjunction. Whoever has cursed you must be among their number.
Nicodemus’s throat tightened. “You think I’m the Halcyon.”
Deirdre eyed the door. “Last spring, my goddess commanded me to travel to Starhaven, where I would find a ‘treasure wrapped in black and endangered by the falling night.’” She motioned to Nicodemus’s black robe. “The Dralish prophecy predicts that the Peregrine will be an orphaned foreigner—one born to magic in the dreamworld.”
“But the keloid,” Nicodemus exclaimed. “You saw that it’s not a true Braid. You swore, in fact. You agreed with Magistra Okeke that I can’t—”
She held up a finger. “Amadi Okeke asked if I were distressed and if I had thought you