to find the sunbeam gone from the steps. Only the fading light of dusk came down the stairs.
They were—all three of them—sleeping against the far wall. The Index lay beside Nicodemus, and John was looking at him with frightened eyes.
“Nico,” the big man whispered, “you know it was what Typhon made me do?”
When Nicodemus said that he did, the big man closed his eyes and let out a long breath.
“Are you all right, John?”
The other man pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No,” he said as tears came to his eyes. Nicodemus reached out and took his hand. John said nothing.
In the silence, Nicodemus could hear the wind whistling through the trees. Somewhere far away, a rook called.
John studied him with wet brown eyes. “Are you all right, Nico?”
Nicodemus didn’t look away when his own tears came. “No,” he said. “No.”
CHAPTER
Thirty-seven
Outside Shannon’s cell, a man cried out as if dying.
The old wizard tried to hurry out of his bed but the Magnus chains wrapped around his wrists jerked him back.
He was still spellbound.
Worse, the censoring text locked around his mind kept him from seeing magical language and made the resulting blackness seem to spin. He was truly blind now.
The cry came again. Moving more slowly, Shannon put his legs over the side of the bed and arranged his robes. He would face the end with dignity.
A thud sounded from the direction of the door. He did not flinch. The thud came again, accompanied by the crack of breaking Magnus sentences.
Shannon straightened his dreadlocks, smoothed his beard. Another thud and the door gave way with a metallic squeal.
Silence, then the clicking of leather boot heels on stone.
“Rash of you to come in your true body,” Shannon said as calmly as he could. “The sentinels will know of your existence after you kill me.”
“Kill you?” Fellwroth asked with amusement. Something stirred the air beside Shannon. “Nothing so simple, Magister. Come.”
Suddenly Shannon was on his feet, hands stretched out before him as Fellwroth pulled him along by his chains.
“I’m no use to you,” Shannon called. “The boy’s gone. You’ll never find out who he is now that—”
“Nicodemus Weal is in the forest south of here,” Fellwroth rasped. “Yes, I know his name. And, yes, I could flush him out of hiding. But at best that would start a time-consuming chase; at worst, it would kill the whelp.” They were hurrying down a long hallway. “You will carry a message to him.”
They turned and suddenly Shannon was stumbling up stairs. “I don’t know how to find him,” the old wizard said, fighting the dizziness caused by the censoring text.
“Magister, you’re a miserable liar,” Fellwroth rasped. “I’m going to release you, and you’re going to carry my message to the boy.”
Shannon shook his head. “Even if I could find him, I would never do so.” The stairs ended and again Shannon was walking down a hallway.
Fellwroth snorted. “You insult my understanding of human motivation. I know you’d never go to him if I tracked you. I will not follow. Double back five times over. Romp around in the forests all night looking for a subtextual tracker. You’ll find nothing. When you’re satisfied, take my message to the boy.”
Cold wind blew across Shannon’s face. They had left the hallway and were walking in the open air.
“The end game begins,” Fellwroth croaked. “It doesn’t matter that the sentinels know of me. We play on a field outside of Starhaven now. Should the wizards catch Nicodemus and bring him back here, I would have no trouble pulling him from their prisons. In fact, that’s my message to the boy: you and he are to return to Starhaven and place yourselves in the sentinels’ custody. I will use a sand golem to retrieve both of you the instant the black-robes have you.”
“What makes you think we would do such a thing?”
Fellwroth’s footsteps began to produce wooden thuds. Shannon frowned. Could they be walking across the drawbridge?
“You can’t feel it yet, Magister,” Fellwroth hissed, “but I have laced the muscles around your stomach with a Language Prime curse named canker. It forces the muscles to forge dangerous amounts of text. But I’ve edited this version to slow its progress. I call it logorrhea. It won’t kill you in an hour or even a day. It will grow stronger and stronger until it bursts your stomach. If fortunate, you’ll succumb to fever. If unlucky, you will digest your own entrails.”
Shannon could hear the wind rushing through the trees. Somehow