that…I mean, perhaps you’re jumping to conclusions.” He paused. “Let me ask it this way: Do you think Nicodemus is the one of prophecy?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good, good, of course.” The door latch clicked. “I’ll have the guardian spells cast within an hour. I’ll see you tomorrow after midday?”
“Indeed,” Shannon said and then waited for the door hinges to creak before adding, “Timothy, truly, thank you.”
“Quite welcome, Agwu. Quite welcome.” The door clicked shut.
Puffing out his cheeks, Shannon retrieved his research journal from his desk. It was a leather-bound codex about two hands tall. Its spine and face were each embossed with three asterisks, allowing him to identify the book by touch. He opened it and began to write a few notes about the day. He worked for a quarter hour before an unexpected light made him look up.
He could not see his door physically, but he knew exactly where it was. It usually formed a dark rectangle amid the glow of his bookshelves. Where the darkness should have been, there now shone a cloud of golden paragraphs.
Experience told Shannon that he was looking through the door to an incandescent flamefly spell being cast in the hallway.
His first thought was that Smallwood had returned. But Timothy knew the hallways; he rarely cast a single flamefly paragraph, much less a swarm. The author of this spell wanted a good deal of light when navigating Starhaven’s hallways.
Most likely a foreigner.
Shannon squinted at the text. It was written with bold words and complex sentences. The author favored compound appositives, an unusual structure.
Shannon grimaced in recognition. It had been a long time since he had seen this spellwright. “Creator save me, what else is going to happen tonight?” he muttered, waiting for the author to knock.
But she did not knock. He closed his research journal. Moments passed. He could see her prose but not her body. Strangely, she let the flamefly paragraphs deconstruct into heatless cinders that snowed down to the floor. What was she waiting for?
Affecting his warmest tone, he called out, “You may come in, Amadi.”
Slowly the door hinges squeaked. A woman’s calm voice said, “I see that old Magister Shannon isn’t as blind as rumor claims.” The door clicked shut.
Shannon smiled as he stood. “Old? I’m not so antique as to forget your sharp tongue. Come and embrace your ancient teacher.”
Memory guided him around the desk. Amadi’s approaching footsteps were light, hesitant. But her embrace was strong and quick. He had forgotten how tall she was. “But the rumors are true,” he said while stepping back: “I’m as blind as a cave fish.”
She paused. “You don’t look old enough to have lost sight.”
He chuckled dryly. “Then it’s your eyes we should worry about. I’m nearly done with my second century.”
“Magister, I’ll be sorely disappointed if it’s only age that stole your vision,” Amadi said in the same teasing tone she had used as a girl. “I’ve heard stories, legends even, about how you blinded yourself by reading forbidden texts in the Spirish Civil War or by combating twenty mercenary authors while your beard was on fire.”
Shannon had been counterfeiting good humor, but now a genuine laugh escaped his lips. “The truth is nothing so scintillating.”
“But you don’t seem that old.”
“You always were a stubborn one.” He laughed again and shook his head.
In Astrophell, Shannon had made several powerful enemies who might have planted an agent in the Northern delegation. For this reason, any Astrophell wizard was a potential threat; and yet, despite the danger, he en-joyed talking to his former student and remembering a past life.
“Amadi, I plan to begin ghostwriting in five years,” he said in a more playful tone. “So don’t bother with flattery about how young I might seem; it only reminds me of your advantage. My familiar is not about to look at you for me. And I’m curious to see you after…how long has it been? Fifty years?”
Amadi’s leather soles whispered against the floor. “Your fingers may look,” she said, suddenly closer.
This was unexpected. “That…” His voice died as she took his hands and placed them on her brow.
An uncomfortable pause.
Then his fingertips flowed onto her brief eyebrow ridge; down over her deep-set eyes; up the sharp nasal promontory; softly over the two pursed lips; along the delicate chin.
His memory provided color: ivory for her skin, sable for her hair, watery blue for her eyes. Imagination mixed touch with recollection to produce the image of a pale wizard with fine dreadlocks and an impassive expression.