a Language Prime spellwright so badly, they might be willing to help Nicodemus recover the missing part of himself in return for his service.
For this reason, Nicodemus hoped that Deirdre’s goddess was a member of the Alliance. Clearly Deirdre did not want him dead; she could have broken his neck long ago.
The problem was that Deirdre didn’t seem to know about Language Prime or whether her goddess was a member of this Alliance.
But then again, she might know more than she was letting on. Nicodemus needed a way to learn more about her.
Suddenly the blackberry in his mouth became sour. He knew what he had to do. “Deirdre,” he said softly, “Kyran is dead.”
She looked away. “I know.” The room’s faint light glowed on her smooth cheeks and accentuated her youthful appearance.
Nicodemus continued, “He died fighting Fellwroth in the compluvium…saved my life. He gave me this script.” Holding out his empty right hand, Nicodemus pulled Kyran’s final spell from his chest with his left. “He asked that I give it to you.”
Deirdre looked down at his right hand and then away. “Read it to me,” she whispered.
Nicodemus’s heart began to strike. “I’d rather you take it.”
Again she looked at his right hand and shook her head. “Please, read it to me.”
A silent pause.
“Deirdre,” Nicodemus said gently, “you’re illiterate.”
She looked at him as if he had turned into a frog. “I learned to read fifty years before you were born.”
“Not mundane language, magical language. You can’t read even the common magical languages. You’re not a druid.”
She started to say one thing and then stopped. Started to say another, stopped. “How did you know?” she managed at last.
“When I told you of Kyran’s spell, you looked at my right hand.” He nodded to the hand in question, which he had stretched out as if offering something.
She frowned “And?”
“I’m holding the text in my left.”
“THERE WERE OTHER clues,” Nicodemus added. “Your diction is wrong. You refer to spells and text as ‘magic’—no spellwright would use such a general term. You never unbuttoned your sleeves when we were fleeing Starhaven. You claimed to wield a different kind of magic, but any kind of spellwriting would require you to look at your arms. And then there’s your greatsword. A man of six feet would need both hands just to lift that weapon. You toss it about as if it were a feather.”
Deirdre closed her eyes and pressed a slender hand to her cheek. “Only the druids were called to the convocation. I couldn’t get into Starhaven without the disguise.”
Nicodemus said nothing.
She looked at the stairwell. The sunbeam was moving up the steps. Maybe three hours had passed since midday. “I am Boann’s avatar. Do you know what that means?”
“Theology was thought to be wasted on cacographers. I only know what they say in the stories.”
She nodded. “Deities sometimes invest worthy devotees with portions of their souls. Just as golems carry the spirits of their authors, we avatars carry the souls of our deities. If we die before our divine souls can disengage, then part of the divinity dies with us. And those who carry souls of the high gods and goddesses become the heroes of your stories—warriors with impenetrable skin, bards with hypnotic voices, and so on.”
She smiled sadly. “Boann is nothing so powerful. My gifts are simple: I do not age, I heal with extraordinary speed, and for a brief time I may possess the strength of ten or eleven men.”
Nicodemus was confused. “Why did you come looking for me?”
“What I said before is true. Last spring, Boann ordered me to attend the Starhaven convocation where I would find a ‘treasure wrapped in black.’ You asked if she knew of Typhon. Perhaps she did and didn’t tell me. Now that I think on it, she must have known the demon had hidden you here. Why else send me?”
Nicodemus glanced back to make sure the Index still lay behind him. “Deirdre, I didn’t tell you everything Fellwroth told me.” He explained what he knew about Language Prime and the monster’s claim about two factions striving to breed a Language Prime spellwright.
Deirdre listened with her head resting against the wall. When he finished, she spoke in a flat, exhausted voice. “If they do exist, the Alliance of Divine Heretics is well named. The belief that there is no savior—noHalcyon for the wizards, no Peregrine for the druids, no Cynosure for the hierophants—is perilously heretical. It denies all prophecies, and the high deities use those prophecies to