Spellbound (37 page)
Authors: Blake Charlton
She frowned at this.
“How could we find him? The savanna is vast, even to the north.”
“How could we find him? The savanna is vast, even to the north.”
When Shannon read this aloud, Cyrus took her hand and said something. She looked at Shannon who wrote:
“Jasp and Flint are to take Cyrus to the wind marshal to try to enlist her help.”
“Jasp and Flint are to take Cyrus to the wind marshal to try to enlist her help.”
She shook her head.
“We can't go to such lengths just to recover my hearing.”
“We can't go to such lengths just to recover my hearing.”
Shannon replied.
“It's not just your hearing that's been lost. The Walker killed Dross and Slag. They were brothers. The beast cut Dross down, and Slag charged.”
“It's not just your hearing that's been lost. The Walker killed Dross and Slag. They were brothers. The beast cut Dross down, and Slag charged.”
Francesca brought her hands to her mouth. She had been so terrified that she'd forgotten about the dead kobolds she'd seen.
Shannon held out another sentence.
“Also, Boann's ark is gone. The beast might have taken it. We're not sure how the beast found us, but we think it has something to do with Deirdre's death and the residual bond her body had with the ark. And the beast is now wounded. If Nicodemus can catch him at night, he could deprive Typhon of one of his dragons.”
“Also, Boann's ark is gone. The beast might have taken it. We're not sure how the beast found us, but we think it has something to do with Deirdre's death and the residual bond her body had with the ark. And the beast is now wounded. If Nicodemus can catch him at night, he could deprive Typhon of one of his dragons.”
Francesca grimaced. She had forgotten that she was supposed to somehow confound the trap the demon was setting with the still-hidden second dragon. Given that she could no longer even hear, it seemed impossible that she could do anything useful, much less help Nicodemus escape a creature like the Savanna Walker.
But she looked at Cyrus and nodded. He spoke for a while. Shannon translated for her:
“He doesn't want you to worry. He promises we will get your hearing back.”
“He doesn't want you to worry. He promises we will get your hearing back.”
She shook her head.
“Tell him I'm fine. Tell him to be careful.”
“Tell him I'm fine. Tell him to be careful.”
Shannon spoke to Cyrus and then wrote to her:
“He promises.”
Once she had read this, Cyrus took her hands and kissed her cheek. She nodded and squeezed his hand. After a few words with Nicodemus and Shannon, Cyrus hiked off into the forest with Jasp and Flint.
“He promises.”
Once she had read this, Cyrus took her hands and kissed her cheek. She nodded and squeezed his hand. After a few words with Nicodemus and Shannon, Cyrus hiked off into the forest with Jasp and Flint.
Feeling more collected, Francesca stood and found Vein. Little air had spilled into his chest. She shunted the air out and gave his shoulder a pat she hoped would reassure him.
That done, she went back to the camp. Nicodemus and Shannon were searching through the ruins. Two kobold bodies, Dross and Slag, had been laid in the shade and covered with blankets. Francesca stood at their feet and said a short prayer to the Creator for them. Halfway through, she wondered if they also prayed to the Creator.
When finished, she turned back to Nicodemus and Shannon, who were picking through the remains of what had been the storehouse. Azure rode on the old man's shoulder to help him see. Both men wore hardened expressions; the Savanna Walker had killed their comrades before. This was only one battle in their ongoing war.
As she walked toward them, Francesca passed a ruined cabin and spotted on the ground a tortoiseshell comb.
She picked it up. One of its fine teeth had been broken, but the others were strong and smooth.
By patting around her head, Francesca discovered that much of her hair had come loose from her braid. She hadn't had a chance to brush it since ⦠God-of-gods, the night before Deirdre had died on her table. That had been only two days ago, but it felt like a lifetime.
She sat down on a log and pulled her braid over her shoulder. She remembered that she had often sung to herself, a rustic song about a widow waiting for the long Northern Spirish dry season to end. She could remember all the words to the song, but none of its sounds or notes. She felt hollow as she realized that music had become something she understood only in the abstract.
She began to comb out her braid. Her hair was her only vanity. It was comforting now to watch it slowly spill down around her shoulders in loose curls that shone like darkly polished oak. She'd learned that if she wore it loose like this it would distract her male patients.
When finished, she held the comb and traced the broken tooth. As she did so, she realized something strange.
She knew that such combs came only from the Ixonian Archipelago, that Port Mercy was among those islands, and that she had spent nearly a decade there learning to become a cleric. And yet she could not recall seeing a single tortoiseshell comb there. She frowned as she realized that she could not picture the city of Port Mercy or the clerical academy.
She thought about her mother's combing song. She knew the words; she knew her mother had sung it; but she had no memories of a comb moving through her childhood hair, of her mother's face, or ⦠anything to do with her home. It was as if she had read a biography about her own life but not lived it.
She jumped as the shock of realization moved through her.
She looked up toward the ruined storehouse and found Nicodemus looking at her while he dragged away a beam. The instant he saw her looking at him, he turned back to the beam.
She paused as she realized that he'd been staring at her, likely at her hair. It almost made her smile before she remembered her discovery. “Nicodemus,” she called, hopefully understandably. “Shannon.”
When the men came to her she looked between them and then handed Shannon a sentence. When the old man read it aloud, she saw the pain on Nicodemus's face increase.
It read:
“Every memory I had of my life before I came to Avel is gone; the Savanna Walker stole them.”
“Every memory I had of my life before I came to Avel is gone; the Savanna Walker stole them.”
Cyrus had been in the wind marshal's quarters only once before, years ago. Marshal Oria had called him in and offered to promote him if he joined the Sharptree expedition. One of Cyrus's old shipmatesâa young and pretty pilot named Sylviaâwas stationed on that expedition. The marshal had given Cyrus a day to decide.
He hadn't seen Francesca until late that night, when she returned to their quarters exhausted. She had only four hours to sleep before starting another shift. When he mentioned his possible promotion, they quarreled for an hour. Almost frantic that she would now get only three hours of sleep, Francesca had threatened to find an empty cot in the infirmary. He relented.
The next morning, Cyrus accepted the promotion. After writing a brief farewell letter to Francesca, he flew out to Coldlock Harbor and shipped out on the evening tide.
And now Francesca had come crashing back into his life. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He had been the one who left, and now he had returned. He liked to think that he lived as he flew, with practiced precision and taking only calculated risks. But Francesca had been like a powerful ridge lift, at once unpredictable and turbulent but also uplifting. Perhaps things between them had failed because they had been too young, too volatile.
Now they were older, wiser. She was a physician; he of sufficient rank to one day make captain. Provided they survived the current crisis, he would still need to wait a year at least for an airship. Perhaps here in Avel they could start again. Then after he made captain ⦠well ⦠she had always wanted to practice in a larger eastern city, and he would be able to fly her anywhere. It was an attractive daydream. But it was only a daydream.
First he had to confront the growing potential for violence in Avel and track down the beast that had stolen Francesca's ability to hear.
Cyrus looked around the rooms. They were large for hierophants' quarters: colorful rugs, cushions, ornate screens, several plants that looked related to Ixonian banana trees. It was more or less the same as it had been
all those years ago. Except for the man he had just censored and bound in sailcloth. He was new.
all those years ago. Except for the man he had just censored and bound in sailcloth. He was new.
Voices sounded down the hall. A moment later the door opened and Marshal Oria and Captain Izem stepped inside. They stopped when they saw Cyrus and his prisoner. With a flurry of motion, the newcomers set blazing blue paragraphs flying across their robes. Their cloth billowed up, ready to strike.
Cyrus removed his veil.
“Cyrus?” Izem asked.
“Captain,” he said with a bow and then faced Oria. “Marshal, apologies for violating protocol.”
Izem shut the door and locked it while Oria walked toward the bound man. “Who?”
“A young pilot unfortunate enough to rescue me when I came stumbling out of the forest. Unsuspecting, he wove me into his rig, trying to get away from the lycanthropes.”
Izem turned to Oria. “If I can fight our way to the drop deck, I can get the
Queen's Lance
aloft in an hour.”
Queen's Lance
aloft in an hour.”
She shook her head and looked at Cyrus. “Talk fast. You may have just touched off the Second Civil War.”
Cyrus reported everything he had discovered in Avel, including his encounters with Nicodemus Weal, the man's suspicion of a demon in Cala's court, the hierophants who had attacked Nicodemus's party, and finally the disastrous encounter with the Savanna Walker.
“Did anyone see you come in here?” Oria asked.
Cyrus shook his head. “I had my veil up and controlled my prisoner through his robes. Also, you should know he admitted to supporting Cala's independence, though he denies any knowledge of a demon.”
Oria lowered her own veil to grimace. Then she turned to Izem. “Captain, have this prisoner assigned to your ship. Explain his disappearance however you can. Then have him discretely flown to Coldlock Harbor. No dramatics like last time.”
He bowed. “Yes, my lady.”
“Marshal,” Cyrus blurted, “permission to suggest a plan of action.”
“What do you want, Warden?”
“Captain Izem's assistance searching the Northern Savanna for the Walker.”
She stared at him. “Maybe you don't understand the importance of the situation. Izem couldn't tell me until we were in private, but Celeste has ordered the entire western fleet to Lurrikara. They're ready to cross over to Avel. Those two black-robes, Vivian and Lotannu, are on some mission to
defuse the situation. Something to do with this supposed demon and finding Nicodemus Weal. Given what you said, it seems they'll fail. That being so, I cannot spare Izem to chase after some strange creature.”
defuse the situation. Something to do with this supposed demon and finding Nicodemus Weal. Given what you said, it seems they'll fail. That being so, I cannot spare Izem to chase after some strange creature.”
Cyrus thought fast. His first instinct was to explain how desperately he needed to recover Francesca's ability to hear. But that would mean nothing to the marshal. So he found himself saying, “My lady, if the wizards are here to apprehend Nicodemus, then might I assume that it is also our Celeste's desire that we apprehend Nicodemus?”
Oria pursed her lips and looked at Izem. “Do you remember the wording of the orders?”
“I do,” he said. “And I believe that the warden's interpretation is correct. If we can bring Nicodemus into our custody, we must.”
Cyrus cleared his throat. “Let me fly Nicodemus out to hunt this creature. If Nicodemus dies, that will be the end of that. If he kills the Walker, surely that will weaken whatever power is ruling Avel. Perhaps more important, Nicodemus will be in our custody.”
Oria kept her lips pursed. “I don't like the idea of Izem being away.” She drew a breath in through her nose. “I have spent the last few days bringing those pilots faithful to Celeste into the garden tower and sending the rest to Avel. If violence breaks out, the wind garden must survive.”
Cyrus resisted the urge to renew his argument.
“However,” she said slowly, “sending Izem's warship away would reduce the tension between tower and city.” She looked at the captain. “How fast can you make a run to Dar, out to Lurrikara, and back here?”
“A day with full sails. But we'd have to find the creature before we could begin the run.”
Oria nodded. “But you might take my report to Dar and the fleet. Very well, Captain, your orders are to search for this beast for a day. If you do not find it, begin your run.”
He bowed. “As you command.”
Oria turned to Cyrus. “Warden, you've just talked yourself aboard a warship.”
Â
FRANCESCA HELPED NICODEMUS and Shannon salvage what they could from the wrecked storehouse. Afterward, they trekked farther into the forest and made new camp in dark shade. In brief golden paragraphs, Shannon explained why the coming night might be a soggy one: redwood pine needles condensed moisture in the air to make it rain on their roots. This happened most when cold fog came in from the sea. Though there was no rain in the dry season, the fog rolled in each night and burned off each midmorning.
As they worked, Nicodemus and Shannon bickered. Francesca tried to follow along, casting requests for translations. Shannon complied when he could, but the argument often absorbed all his attention.
Francesca grew tired of this and sat down to brush her hair again. This seemed to give Shannon an unfair advantage as Nicodemus glanced at her every few moments. Francesca felt a little guilty for handicapping the younger man, but only a little. After what had happened to her, she deserved a small indulgence.
Once finished with her hair, she tried to rejoin the conversation by casting sentences to both Shannon and Nicodemus. But the younger man jumped away as if the spells might burn him. The old man replied only briefly.
So Francesca asked if she could head out for a walk. The old man reassured her that the forest lycanthropes wouldn't come near a kobold camp. She wandered at first, heading toward the nearest finger of the narrows. Though she'd spent years gazing at the redwoods from one infirmary window or another, she'd never been among them.
The giant trees grew to impressive height, their branches forming dense canopies, the spaces between which were filled with dark, flitting birds. The little sunlight that slipped through the branches glided down in slender beams. The forest floor was green with arching ferns and smaller, tilted laurel trees.
Wandering farther, Francesca began to feel as if the whole world was made of solemn groves and sunlight. But then she saw a black-headed blue jay, its beak open and its tiny feathered chest contracting. She couldn't hear if the bird was singing or squawking.
She walked with purpose toward the narrows. There were a few fern banks she had to fight through and a steep ravine to traverse, but then she came across bushes growing among gray boulders. Picking her way through these, she found herself standing in the sunlight.
After the forest's darkness at noon, the brightness was dazzling. The narrow before her was perhaps twenty feet wide, its glassy surface a green mirror for the sky. Slow, circular ripples expanded across the water from a point somewhere to her right. Francesca looked down just in time to see the shell and languid hind legs of a turtle disappearing into the deeper green.
She stood and looked around. Everything was still.
Slowly, she tied her hair into a ponytail and pulled off her stole and robe, then her boots and underclothes. Naked, she crept to the waterline so she could dunk her clothes. She cast a few frothy white runes into the cloth before washing out the soapy texts. Then she hung the clothes on the bushes to dry.
She had begun to sweat and so dipped her ankles into the water and found it surprisingly warm. She paused and looked down at her body. It was strange how often she examined the bodies of others but how rarely she examined her own. Usually bathing was a hurried ritual, racing through the motions so she could get to her patients. Now she truly looked at herself: her tall frame; pale skin, solar white in the sunlight; long legs that had always been too muscular for her liking; her waist, no longer as narrow as it had been; her breasts still too small. She ran a hand down her stomach. Fortunately it was still flat ⦠well, flat enough that her iliac bones were visible on either side of her pelvis. Her navel had a bit more padding around it now. She noted a few red dots, cherry angioma. She sighed again. Cherry angiomata were a normal sign of aging skin.
She wasn't young anymore.
And now she was deaf and had lost the most personal memories of her life. Could she still be a physician? Had she retained enough knowledge? How could she listen to her patientsâtheir stories, their hearts, their lungs, the gurgling of their guts? She crouched, wrapped her arms around her legs, expected to cry. But she didn't.
The sun became hot on her shoulders. She sat back and felt the warm rock on her backside. A breeze picked up. She stretched her legs out into the water. Using her hands, she scooted farther and farther into the water until she slid off the rock.
Though the sun had heated the upper layers of water, the deeper green was startlingly cold. She launched herself into a crawl. She knew that in Port Mercy she and her classmates had snuck away from the university to splash in the warm Ixonian Sea. And yet she had no specific memories of swimming. Again she had the feeling that she had read her own biography but not lived it.
She crossed the water and swam back. The exercise warmed her, and she stroked along the bank until she found a small gravelly beach. Crouched in a warm pocket of shallow water, she took handfuls of the fine gravel and scrubbed her face and back.
Suddenly worried someone would steal her clothes, she swam back to her rock. But her things were untouched. She pulled herself onto the rock and lay out to dry.
At first she shivered, but the sun above and the rock below were warm. At some point, she must have fallen asleep because she woke with trembling hands and began to cry for her lost hearing and memories. At first she fought the tears, but then she curled into a ball. She wept until she felt calmer, almost numb.
She rose, washed her face, and dressed. The shadows were longer now,
and she supposed she had slept for an hour. Shannon and Nicodemus had likely finished arguing. She could return to camp without being ignored. But she wanted to be alone for a little while longer. So she wandered down the bank, frightening frogs and turtles into the water as she went. It was often tough going; bushes grew densely by the water, and they forced her to take detours into the forest. The farther she went, the higher the bank rose, until she was walking along a ledge that dropped ten feet to the water. Here the redwoods grew up to the edge and left the bank in dark shadow.
and she supposed she had slept for an hour. Shannon and Nicodemus had likely finished arguing. She could return to camp without being ignored. But she wanted to be alone for a little while longer. So she wandered down the bank, frightening frogs and turtles into the water as she went. It was often tough going; bushes grew densely by the water, and they forced her to take detours into the forest. The farther she went, the higher the bank rose, until she was walking along a ledge that dropped ten feet to the water. Here the redwoods grew up to the edge and left the bank in dark shadow.
As she walked, Francesca tried to decide how she was feeling. Mostly numb, she supposed, but there was fear below the surface, along with shock and agony ⦠and hope of recovering her hearing and memories.
A boulder required Francesca to walk into the forest a ways. As she did so, she realized that she hadn't seen a single dead tree near the camp. Everywhere else the forest was strewn with them. The Silent Blight seemed to be less severe here.
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