of dangerous misspells, a few accidents, but nothing that should concern you as a delegate. As a sentinel, my first concern is maintaining safety throughout the convocation. To that end, I entertain all theories of what might be causing these odd events.” She paused. “If the druids also know of a counter-prophecy and could identify Nicodemus as—”
“We do not believe in a counter-prophecy,” Deirdre interrupted.
“But perhaps those concerned with the Silent Blight might think differently? Should I speak to the other druidic delegates?”
Deirdre shook her head. “We do not believe in a counter-prophecy of any kind. And the druids are not at all certain the Blight is connected to prophecy. I fear we cannot help you.”
“I see. Thank you, druid, for your time.” Amadi stood and stepped toward the door.
Deirdre rose with her. “If there is any other way I can help, you have only to ask.”
Amadi paused by the threshold. “Perhaps…” she said, turning back. “I wonder if you could tell me…do the druids know of a construct that appears to be made of flesh, but once deconstructed becomes clay?”
The strength seemed to drain from Deirdre’s legs. “Have you encountered such a creature?” she asked in what she hoped was a tone of disbelief, not shock.
The sentinel was studying her face. “I surprise you. Don’t think me mad for asking such a question. Magister Shannon and I were debating if such a thing was possible.”
Deidre forced her lips to smile. “I do not think it mad to wonder such things. We must always seek new understandings.” She paused. “What if Nicodemus truly is the dangerous spellwright of your counter-prophecy?”
The sentinel shook her head. “There is no need to be alarmed. In less than a quarter hour, I will have two guards following the boy night and day. His tower will be textually sealed at night. The moment we have evidence that he is dangerous or connected to the counter-prophecy, we’ll censor his mind and lock him up in a cell below the Gate Towers.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Deirdre bowed.
Amadi returned the gesture and left. Slowly the sentinel’s footsteps faded down the hall.
“How much of that did you hear?” Deirdre asked.
“Enough,” Kyran said from behind her. “So it seems the black-robeshave encountered the demon-worshiper you guessed was nearby. Do I need to explain about the creature turning from flesh to clay?”
She turned and saw his silhouette glimmer as he let the invisibility subtext deconstruct. “No, you bloody don’t.”
The subtext fell from Kyran’s head, revealing a stern expression. “We should take the boy now. Our goddess can protect him once we get him to the ark.”
Deirdre rubbed her eyes. “We can’t. You heard the sentinel; she’s placing guards around the boy.” The pressure on her eyelids caused floating orange-black splotches across her vision. “Ky, do you think we could find the author’s body, kill the demon-worshiper while the creature is sneaking about?”
“No. The true body could be anywhere.”
Deirdre swore. “And if Amadi Okeke gets it into her head that Nicodemus is this Petrel, she’ll censor him and send him to his death in that prison cell.”
“He wouldn’t be safe from the creature when locked up?”
She dropped her hands and gave him an exasperated look. “What would happen if you tied up a lamb and left it in the sheep pen?”
He grimaced. “The lycanthropes would come out of the woods.”
CHAPTER
Seventeen
Nicodemus stared at the flecks of stew that spangled his emptied lunch bowl.
Midday sunlight was streaming into the refectory—a wide Lornish hall lined with tapestries and clear-glass windows. Above, broad rafters marched across the ceiling and provided hanging posts for the academy’s banners. Farther down the table, several librarians whispered about the horrible news from Trillinon.
Using his spoon, Nicodemus began to flatten the drops of congealing stew on the inside of his bowl. A mash of conflicting emotions seethed within his mind.
Half an hour before, he had hurried into the refectory, heart pounding. The nightmare had been as vivid as the previous night’s dragon dream. He had been sure it had also come from the murderer, but he couldn’t imagine why the villain would send him such strange visions.
He had mulled over the nightmare’s images while fetching his stew and finding a private space to sit. The more he thought about the dream, the more it seemed that the episodes of the neophyte and the turtles were incongruous. That had calmed him somewhat. Mundane nightmares were filled with nonsensical shifts. Perhaps the bizarre sequence meant that the dream was simply a dream.