Читать книгу Spellbound: Book 2 of the Spellwright Trilogy - Blake Charlton - Страница 15

Shannon-the-text touched his fingertips to those of Shannon-who-still-lived. Golden light flushed down the ghost’s arm as his author replaced lost text. He became aware of how each of his sentences was an analogy for part of his author’s body. He became aware that he was not his author or even his author’s mind, for there was no mind without body. And yet … at the same time he was his author. It was impossible, but it was so. He was a creation.

The ghost shuddered to know reunion with this glorious body, this frail body, infested by unrestricted growth. Here was the burden of disease and age. Here was death, so close.

The ghost withdrew his hand. “Shouldn’t we be one?” he asked, but his throat could make no noise.

“Write to me in Numinous,” his author said.

The ghost cast a golden sentence that would read, “What happened to us? I thought you were murdered.”

His author caught the words and translated them. “Murdered,” he said with a frown. “Why would I have been murdered?”

The ghost wrote a quick sentence. “I woke in a library, holding a Numinous sentence that claimed I’d been killed and needed to discover the murderer and warn Nicodemus.”

His author winced. “Last summer, Typhon’s hierophants stormed our safe house in the North Gate District. They killed some of Nicodemus’s students, nearly killed me. They stole you from me. I thought they had deconstructed you … I had given up hope.” He looked back down the hallway. “Come into the darkness before someone sees me.”

Stepping farther into the shadows, the ghost wrote another question: “But who wrote the note about your murder?”

Again his author winced. “That doesn’t matter now. We’ve found you. Come.”

From the dark came a sound like bare feet slapping floorboards. Then a commanding whisper: “Magister, we’re going now. The Walker’s preoccupied with the infirmary kites. Can you run?”

The ghost sucked in a breath. The voice filled him with memories of Starhaven and the Heaven Tree, of lessons and arguments and a fierce olive-skinned, green-eyed young man.

His author replied, “Nicodemus, come see whom I’ve found.” The old man’s voice quavered, and the ghost was touched that his author was so moved.

The footfalls sounded again.

This far into the hallway there was little light, but the ghost could still make out the figure that appeared. He was older, barefoot, and dressed only in leather pants that ended at the knees. A thin scar ran along his left side, and his long black hair was tied into a ponytail. There were other, inhuman figures in the shadows.

When Nicodemus noticed the ghost, he leapt back into the dark. “Magister, get back! Typhon’s corrupted it.”

Shannon-the-author shook his head. “Nico, don’t worry.” Again he moved farther into the dark. “Remember what we discussed.”

The old man walked on, but the ghost did not follow. His author should have demonstrated more joy or relief at their reunion. Dread filled the ghost as he understood. His author’s grief was not for what had happened; he was grieving for something that was about to happen. Suddenly the ghost knew what his author had “discussed” with Nicodemus.

Shannon-the-author turned back to the ghost. The old man closed his eyes. “Nicodemus,” he whispered, “do it quickly.”

The ghost turned to flee, but out of the dark flew Nicodemus, teeth bared and fists clenched around unseen wartexts.