different dialect of the common magical languages; the common runes have different meanings for us.”
“And my keloid means something different to you?”
The druid’s smile widened. “To us, the Braid means ‘to combine’ or ‘to grow.’ More important, the second mark on your neck is an exact copy of a rune called the Crooked Branch.”
“And its meaning?”
“It describes something that is wild or unrestricted. So the combination of a Crooked Branch with a Braid would mean ‘wild or unrestrained growth.’” The druid laughed. “I swore when I saw your keloid, not because it excludes you from our prophecy, but because it describes you as difficult to govern or contain.”
Nicodemus shook his head. “But you still don’t know if my keloid is congenital or not.”
The druid cocked her head to one side. “You don’t like the possibility that you might fulfill our prophecy?”
Nicodemus stammered but couldn’t come up with a reply.
She shrugged. “Well, I need no further convincing. Here you are, just as my goddess said you would be—wrapped in black and endangered. Gravely endangered. Someone has maneuvered you into this haven of new magic, where druids almost never come. Our first task is to free you from Starhaven.”
“But I’m not imprisoned.”
“Nicodemus Weal, think of what your keloid and your curse mean. Someone has stopped you from becoming the Peregrine. It is not safe here.”
“But I’m surrounded by wizards. Who could harm me here?”
“Who? The one who cursed you, of course.” She shook her head. “Nicodemus, you were not meant to be crippled.”
Her words filled Nicodemus with giddiness and confusion. What if she was correct? What if his cacography was a mistake? Everything would change. He would change. His life would begin again.
Deirdre’s eyes widened. “Your heart knows I am right. Listen to me. Do you know what an ark is?”
Nicodemus looked away. “Cacographers aren’t instructed in theology.”
“An ark is a vessel that contains a deity’s soul and much of her power. With Kyran and a dozen devotees, I have brought my goddess’s ark to this place. If we could bring you to the ark, my goddess may lift your curse.”
Nicodemus pursed his lips. Was it possible?
Deirdre continued excitedly. “We could not bring the ark up to Starhaven. This place is filled with ancient Chthonic magic that would damage the artifact. So instead we have placed it under guard in that village…the one down on the Westernmost Road. I can’t remember the name.”
“Gray’s Crossing.”
The druid smiled. “The same. My party has taken rooms at the inn there. And all of the devotees, two of them druids, now guard the ark. We simply need to slip you free from Starhaven and bring you down to Gray’s Crossing so that my goddess can protect you. From there we shall ride to the civil forests of Dral to begin your druidic training.”
Something in the way the druid spoke—perhaps the zeal in her eyes, or maybe the urgency in her tone—cooled Nicodemus’s excitement. “But why should your goddess want to heal my cacography?”
“Because you’re the Peregrine!” she exclaimed, leaning forward. “The defender of our civilization!”
The woman’s bright eyes seemed free of deceit; still Nicodemus did not trust her. “I can’t go with you.” He put his now trembling hands in his lap.
Deirdre’s smile faltered. She started as if waking from a dream. “Yes,” she said, the excitement draining from her face. “The Braid and the Crooked Branch. I couldn’t expect less.”
“Even if I trusted you completely, I couldn’t leave Starhaven. Numinous and Magnus spellwrights may not forsake the Order. If I left Starhaven, they’d send sentinels to cast a censorship spell on me to snuff out my literacy.”
The druid tapped a forefinger against her pursed lips. “It seems your jailer has planned well. You are trapped. We must assume that such a clever enemy has planted conspirators among the wizards.”
“Conspirators?” he said with a laugh. “Look, the Creator knows I want what you say to be true, but there’s no evidence for it.” He stood and walked to the window.
“Nicodemus, unless you trust me now, there will be violence,” Deirdre said, her voice suddenly full of fervor. “The one who cursed you will discover my presence and the presence of my goddess. Blood will be shed in Starhaven.”
Despite the sunshine coming through the window, Nicodemus shivered. Deirdre’s every expression suggested that she sincerely believed what she was saying. However, there was a desperation in her tone, a maniacal excitement in her eye.
Nicodemus had seen such passion before—seen it grow and then wither in every young cacographer that came through the Drum Tower. Like a crippled child, Deirdre must have hung her every desire on one hope.
“My apologies, druid,” he said, meeting her eyes, “but I cannot trust you so blindly. I will discuss this with Magister Shannon.”
Again the zealous glow melted from the druid’s expression and left only the wry half-smile. “Here I was worrying that your keloid marked you as too headstrong to be controlled. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It is worse that you are uncontrollable in this way.”
Nicodemus turned to the windowsill. “And what way is that?”
“You are frightened. Insecure, dependent on your master, childish.”
Nicodemus closed his eyes; her words felt like a punch in the gut. But he kept his thoughts calm. He had had plenty of practice surviving brutal honesty.
“Deirdre, I won’t guess your age.” He turned his face up to feel the sunshine. “Despite your looks, you must be decades older than I am. No doubt I’m a child next to you. I haven’t even guessed what game you are playing. But at least I see that you are a game-player and would make me a game-piece.”
Deirdre spoke in a dry, accusing voice. “I have put myself in great danger by warning you of your curse.”
Nicodemus took a long breath. She was still vying for advantage, still trying to convince him. On unsteady legs, he returned to his chair. “Deirdre, I’m a cacographer, a cripple, a mooncalf apprentice. I do not plan; I do not scheme. But twenty-five years of retardation have taught me how to tell the painted from the plain, the guileful from the genuine.”
The druid regarded him. “And how to speak masterfully.”
“Flattery.” He closed his eyes and pressed four trembling fingers to his forehead. “I know that Magister is plain and that you are painted. I will tell him.”
She shook her head. “Then listen to me, game-piece Nicodemus. One day you will not have the luxury of hiding behind your disability. One day soon you will have to paint your face and play my game or die.”
He said nothing.
“Before you tell Shannon,” the druid said coolly, “consider that he might, perhaps unknowingly, serve our enemy.”
Nicodemus started to protest, but she held up her hand. “And perhaps he does not. But men speak with loose tongues. Telling Shannon what I told you may start rumors. At present, your jailer doesn’t know that you are aware of him. Informing Shannon may alert him to your new knowledge. Informing Shannon may ignite a bloody struggle before Kyran and I are ready to defend you.”
Nicodemus frowned. “If Shannon were a demon-worshiper, he never would have left me alone with you.”
Deirdre cocked her head to one side. “You care for him.”
Nicodemus blinked.