Spellbound: Book 2 of the Spellwright Trilogy. Blake Charlton

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СКАЧАТЬ spellwrights could sense proximity to unknown language by a nonvisual “synesthesic” sensation. A tingling in both hands was Francesca’s synesthesic reaction to the hierophantic spells moving through the cloth that surrounded her.

      Now their rig flew over Spillwind’s Hope. The pilot moved his hands along the woven suspension lines that stretched from the canopy to their harnesses. No doubt he was casting spells within the lines.

      An instant later, the canopy changed shape and banked the kite into a sharp turn. Here the air was rising in turbulent surges. By cutting a tight circle within the upward draft, they began to recover the altitude lost during their fall.

      The wind was cold and strong but didn’t blow too loudly. She easily heard the hierophant when he said, “Once high enough, I’ll edit this rig into a jumpchute. It can pull us to the wind garden, but that’ll deplete its text. I can’t take you back without refitting.”

      Francesca cleared her throat. “Do it.”

      The pilot’s hands halted on the suspension lines, fouling the kite’s circular path. They fell a few feet before he made several movements that restored their path. The action tossed Francesca’s long braid about.

      The pilot turned to her. “Fran?”

      “Cyrus,” she said, staring straight ahead.

      He seemed about to say something more but then returned his attention to the suspension lines.

      They turned another circle. As the sanctuary passed before Francesca, she saw a commotion among the lofting kites. The yellow kite that held Deirdre was descending the final few feet to its minaret. Francesca watched the kite vanish into the Savanna Walker’s cloud of blindness. Again she shivered.

      A sudden upward gust tossed them higher and pushed her against Cyrus. She didn’t look, but from the corner of her eye she noticed that he was editing the harnesses so as to put more space between them. She said, “I thought you were off becoming an airship captain.”

      “I was,” he said curtly.

      There followed an uncomfortable silence. “Then why did you come back?”

      “I was a first mate on a cruiser flying out of Erram, but they offered me a promotion to air warden here. A warden has a better chance of making captain.”

      “Oh.” She paused. “And how long have you been back?”

      “A fortnight.”

      She started to ask why he hadn’t told her of his return but then found herself asking, “Did you marry her?”

      He moved a hand along the suspension lines. “No,” he said just loud enough to be heard over the wind. “And are you a full physician now?”

      “I am. The training was very demanding.”

      “I’m sure.”

      Something entirely different occurred to Francesca. “Cyrus, can I ask you a strange question?”

      He laughed. “You can’t make this conversation any stranger than it already is.”

      “When we were together … did you ever notice if I wore an anklet?”

      He looked over at her.

      “Around my left ankle,” she said. “Did I have a small silver chain?”

      “Sure. I remember that.”

      “You do? God-of-gods, why didn’t you tell me?”

      He studied her face as if trying to figure out if she was joking. “Why would I tell you about your own jewelry?”

      “Did we ever talk about the anklet?”

      “I was wrong, Fran; you’ve made this conversation even stranger.”

      “Just tell me. When did you first see it? Did we talk about it?”

      He paused. “I think I asked about it once when we were first together. You never replied.”

      Francesca felt her blood go cold. She had been bound by the demon—or by something with powerful texts—almost as soon as she had arrived in Avel.

      “What happened back there?” Cyrus asked.

      She took a long breath. It was a question she would like answered as well. They were almost as high as the tops of the Auburn Mountains.

      “Fran?” Cyrus asked. “Is the sanctuary truly under attack by a foreign deity?”

      Again, she didn’t answer. Could she trust him?

      “I’m Avel’s air warden. I need to know.”

      Francesca decided to stall. “You have an order from an officer of the canonist.”

      “And I am obeying it.” He studied her. “But do you know what happened?”

      She looked straight ahead.

      They flew two more circles. Suddenly Cyrus pointed to the north. “See that?” He seemed to be pointing to empty sky. “It’s an incoming airship. We aren’t expecting one for another ten days.”

      Francesca narrowed her eyes and barely made out a white speck in the blue.

      “Fran, you had better tell me everything. This is grave.”

      She looked at him, but his light brown eyes were fixed on the distant airship. “Why?”

      “That rig,” Cyrus said, pointing again, “is moving too fast to be anything other than a warship.”

      Chapter Nine

      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 СКАЧАТЬ