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 doubtI’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.
Her infuriating half-smiled returned. “Game-piece Nicodemus, beware of Shannon. He is only a man. If he is your jailer, then he might be an imperfect one. Leaving you alone with me might have been simply a mistake.” She paused. “Don’t you wonder what caused those unusual cuts across his face?”
Nicodemus opened his mouth to defend the old man, but before the words came, muffled voices sounded at the door.
“They’re coming back.” Deirdre leaned forward and took his hand. “Nicodemus, if you remember anything, remember that the wizards are more than they seem. Shannon is more than he seems. We must get you tomy goddess’s ark in Gray’s Crossing; you will be safe there. Until then, take this.”
From the folds of her robe, she withdrew a small sphere of polished wood and placed it in Nicodemus’s palm. A root wound around the object.
“It is called a Seed of Finding,” she said softly. “If