Spellbound: Book 2 of the Spellwright Trilogy. Blake Charlton

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СКАЧАТЬ kobolds out of the Pinnacle Mountains to hunt Typhon. All but these five had been killed by lycanthropes or demon worshipers.

      Nicodemus spoke to Shannon. “The Walker just fell from the canonist’s quarters.”

      “A clash between Cala and the beast?” the old man asked.

      “Possibly, or the demon is disciplining the Walker. Either way, things are looking worse. We should get out of the daylight.”

      The old man adjusted his gray robes. “I could have told you that. But where? Under the Sliding Docks?”

      Nicodemus shook his head. “Reservoir’s full.”

      “Merchant Dal?”

      “Not after what happened to the ware house last time.”

      “Old Fatima’s gang then?”

      “She still is offering a price on my life.”

      Shannon snorted. “My boy, what did you say that night in her bedroom?”

      Nicodemus grimaced. “What about Guy Fire’s crew?”

      “Remember what Vein did to his brother’s left hand?”

      “It wasn’t Vein’s fault. He should have had more sense than to suddenly grab a kobold. And Guy doesn’t even like his brother.”

      Shannon sighed. “Still, won’t work. So that leaves the boys at the abandoned gate house.”

      Nicodemus looked at the dome. “They might be our only option.” He paused. “What about hiding in the burn?”

      “Who’s running that territory now?”

      Nicodemus looked back. “The old dog still.”

      Shannon scowled. “I’d rather chew glass.”

      “Magister, the old dog is not that obnoxious.”

      Shannon only narrowed his blind eyes.

      “All right,” Nicodemus said with a sigh, “maybe he is.”

      Chapter Fifteen

      Francesca opened her eyes as something hard dug into her armpits.

      A confused moment passed before she remembered her attempt to disspell Cyrus and his counterattack with the cloth of the landing-bay wall. She must have fainted after he censored her mind. She stood up straighter and the pain left her armpits. Her robes, still iron stiff with hierophantic spells, had kept her from falling to the floor.

      Cyrus was standing in front of her, calmly arranging his robes.

      “Perhaps this is simply a misunderstanding,” he said in a controlled tone. “We both want the same thing. I’ve sworn to Celeste to serve Avel. As a healer, you also want to serve its citizens. But it’s my duty to report any threat. When we talk to the tower warden and the marshal, you’ll see they’re trustworthy. In the meantime, I will keep you censored.”

      A sudden memory made Francesca look down at her leg. She could not see the ball of decaying signal texts she’d cast earlier.

      Cyrus spoke. “Trying to spellwrite will only make you dizzy.”

      Francesca’s cheeks flushed hot. She berated herself for not realizing the landing bay’s cloth walls were textualized. “Cyrus, you’re making a mistake,” she said as evenly as she could. “This is dangerous. You must uncensor me.”

      He stopped straightening his robes and looked at her. “No, Francesca, I won’t.” He lowered his veil, and began to unwind his turban.

      She’d watched this ritual many times before. It made them both quiet. His thick black hair was shorter than she remembered but still cascaded down about his head in loose curls. His complexion was light brown, his nose aquiline. His strong jaw was made more prominent by a trimmed, jet-black beard. “I don’t know you anymore,” he said. “I can’t trust you like I once did. There’s too much at stake.”

      “You mean, you still haven’t forgiven me.”

      “Perhaps not. But that’s not what this is about.”

      “Isn’t it?”

      He frowned. “You think I’m being irrational?”

      “You have too much faith in your order. The Avel hierophants might have been corrupted.”

      “By a demon who crossed the ocean? Francesca, that’s madness.” He stepped closer. “You can’t trust this Deirdre woman.”

      Francesca tried to touch her own face but found her arm still trapped in her stiff robes. “Cyrus, she died on my table and then came back to life. She’s not a woman; she’s an immortal avatar. Something horrible is happening in Avel, so we have to be smart.”

      “And I’m not being smart?”

      “You’re being a loyal soldier.” A shadow passed above them as a lofting kite alighted in a different landing bay.

      He crossed his arms. “And that’s still what hierophants are to you? Loyal, unthinking Spirish soldiers? Not authors like the exalted wizards?”

      “You take duty and hierarchy too far.”

      He threw his hands up. “How do you do it, Fran? I catch you when you fall out of a kite. I fly you away from some blasted aphasia curse. I even bind and censor you, and you still manage to patronize me. Don’t you see that for once you’re not in control?”

      He was beginning to breathe faster. Francesca felt a grim satisfaction. The more she could upset him, the better.

      She shook her head and felt her stiff collar rub against her neck. “I don’t mean to patronize you, Cyrus. You’re right, I can’t trust Deirdre. But I can’t trust the tower warden or the air marshal either. I can’t trust anyone.”

      His hands clenched. “I am sorry, Francesca, but just this once you have to trust me.”

      “No, I don’t. You’re going to release me.”

      “You’re censored. You can’t order me around.”

      She kept her voice calm. “I can. You just don’t know what’s best now.”

      “Holy bloody canon! That’s it! I’m done talking to you,” he snapped and then grimaced and touched his chest. “You’re impossible.” He grimaced again, and then shook his left hand. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

      “Cyrus, it’s started. You’re in danger,” Francesca said earnestly. “You must listen to—”

      “Damn it, I’m not going to waste my time!” He turned and marched toward the wall flap. “I’ll be back in …” After a few steps, he brought his hand to his chest and gasped.

      “You feel a crushing pain СКАЧАТЬ