Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  Whatever Falean had said, it didn’t appear to have impressed Radhan. He scowled and wrenched his arm out of her grip. “If there’s a problem, then let me speak to them directly.” he said in his loud, strident voice.

  “That’ll be a cold day in Hel.” Falean turned away with a snarl and walked towards the corner of the stable. Munayair pressed herself against the wall as Falean stormed by in a rustle of grey silk.

  Curious, Avlingai mused, inquisitiveness like the taste of cinnamon in the back of her mind. I wonder what those two could have to argue about.

  It’s none of our business, Munayair replied. He fell silent. We’re not going to be here for much longer. The words no longer sounded convincing even in the privacy of her mind. When she looked back, Radhan had stomped off. She turned to find Chanda had also disappeared. Concerned, she searched around the stable and finally found the girl crouched in the shadowy back corner where Munayair had first seen her.

  “Are you all right?” Munayair asked softly, squatting in the straw and reaching for Chanda’s shoulder. Then she thought better of it. Sometimes Chanda’s incorporeal form was solid enough to touch, but now she was foggy and indistinct. So Munayair took her hand back and waited.

  “Is there someone you don’t want to see you?” Chanda asked. Her voice was distant and muffled. “Because if they do, they’ll only see how foolish and small and unworthy you are …”

  She must be talking about Radhan, Munayair realized. Silently she cursed herself. I should have kept her from seeing him.

  You cannot shield her from all pain, child, Avlingai said. This prison is one she must free herself from—you cannot do it for her.

  Nobody should have to face their demons alone, Munayair argued. Reaching out again, she stroked the indistinct shoulder, hoping Chanda could somehow feel it. “Chanda, I know how you feel, believe me. It’s all right to be sad—”

  “Sad?” Chanda’s head lifted sharply, a glitter of eyes behind a curtain of black hair. “I hate them,” she snarled. “If I could, I would break all their bones. If I had a feast every night, I would leave them to starve at my door! They can’t be allowed to get away with it, not anymore!”

  Munayair was so startled she could not speak. The corners of her vision wavered. Tachoul appeared, drawn by Chanda’s uncontrolled emotion as dogs to meat. They drifted closer through the shadows of the stable.

  Avlingai came alert immediately. Get out of there.

  “I can’t leave her.” Munayair whispered. She scooted closer, watching the encroaching tachoul out of the corner of her eye. “Chanda—”

  “I’m not afraid,” Chanda growled. “One day I’ll be richer and stronger than all of them. They’ll regret despising me, just watch!”

  The tachoul drew nearer with silent eagerness. Munayair leaned forward urgently. “Chanda, what do you mean? What were Journeyer Tersic and Goodman Mishra arguing about? What is he getting away with?”

  Dark eyes flashed scornfully up at her, glittering with tears and anger. “You mean you don’t know?”

  The mark itched. Avlingai breathed, She can’t be saying—

  Munayair fought to keep her voice steady. “Are you saying you have a theory about the disappearances?”

  “Theory? No. Nobody needs to guess, miss, because we all know.” She jerked her head back towards the inn. “It’s barely even a secret. The ones who disappear are always someone who disagreed with Goodman Mishra.”

  Munayair’s breath halted. She gaped like a fish.

  It makes sense, Avlingai said grimly. But is he sacrificing his enemies to appease a forest guardian, or is there something a little less spiritual going on? Is there still a black market slave trade?

  Regaining her composure enough to speak, Munayair gasped, “But if you know … why has nobody denounced him?”

  “And be the next to disappear?” Chanda shook her head. “Those khuttochs who cling onto him say it’s his right as the son of the old clan chief. Besides, who can we complain to? It’s the rich ones Above holding his leash.”

  “Does Sisue know?”

  Chanda’s upper lip lifted, but her eyes were shadowed. “If you love someone, you learn to look the other way.”

  The tachoul were closer than ever, circling. Like scavengers feasting on the dead and dying, they preyed on vulnerable spirits. Fear, anger, shock, pain, boredom, grief. Once a spirit lost control, the tachoul would latch on and drain every vestige of life, personality, color, and emotion. Then the spirit would be one of them. Tachoul, the grey ghost. There were dozens of them now, circle tightening around Chanda and Munayair.

  I can’t protect you, Munayair! Avlingai cried. Sorath is watching. You need to run!

  Chanda saw the tachoul and leaped to her feet with a sharp gasp. “Is this another dream? They won’t turn me into one of them!”

  “It can’t touch you if you are calm.” Despite the loud thudding of Munayair’s heart, she kept her gaze steady on Chanda’s face. “Think of Mehan. He needs you.”

  “You stay away,” Chanda shrieked, hands balling into fists. The tachoul drew closer, silent and eager. “I won’t let you touch him!”

  “You must control yourself.” Munayair composed her voice with effort. She took Chanda’s cold, misty hand and stroked it. “When the dragon comes, she will destroy all things and then herself. Let go of emotion and be at peace.”

  Chanda turned too-old eyes towards Munayair. Her nostrils flared and her lips trembled, an expression Munayair knew all too well. How many times had Dame Savra said those words, or her father? Had she ever believed them?

  “You control what you feel,” Munayair said.

  One of the tachoul stretched a many-fingered hand towards Chanda’s face. Automatically, Munayair grabbed the shield chelka in her pocket, even knowing it was useless. Chanda pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut, jaw working. The misty grey hand hesitated. “Mehan,” she said. She took long, slow breaths, and finally her trembling eased. The tachoul paused, then vanished one by one. She opened her eyes and sobbed in relief. As Munayair brushed the thick dark hair from Chanda’s face, two cold tears fell on her hands.

  “You’re the bravest person in this village,” Munayair said.

  “I knew that already, miss.” Sunlight streamed through Chanda. Her hands passed over Munayair’s like cold mist. “I’m so hungry,” she moaned as she vanished from sight. Munayair let out a sigh that was half a laugh, and slumped to the straw, shaking all over.

  Daystar, Avlingai whispered. She’s just like you. Have you no consideration for a poor old bear?

  “I was never that brave,” Munayair replied. Tears stung her eyes. Avlingai faded back, but she could feel him thinking.

  Chapter 18: True

  As was her daily habit, Munayair stopped to check the chelka call. It still stood waiting by the river, emitting a pulsing signal every few heartbeats. And today, as every other, unaccompanied by a tiny wooden chelka. Munayair squatted beside it to check the power glyphs by the river, then sighed and let her head dangle.

  Perhaps you should consider making a new chelka, Avlingai murmured.

  She sighed. Perhaps. Although a moon had passed, she still wasn’t ready to accept that she would never see Tel again.

  Rising to her feet, she walked up the hill towards the wall of Upper Adasari. High overhead, a thunderstorm loomed while cicadas shrieked. The gate guard gave Munayair a friendly bow as she ducked past the wall, and she smiled in reply. She hated the claustrophobic walls, but that wasn’t his fault. Avlingai was silent, still musing, and she ignored him.

  Today. I’ll convince Jita to leave today. Munayair repeated the thought like a mantra. She hurried through the quiet streets, past the copper statue raising his sword to the sky, to the enclave. She trudged up the steps and pushed open the door of their room. Empty apart from Nasim, who bowed before returning to replacing fading chamak orbs.

  Munayair took off her cloak and flung it over her arm. “Good morrow, Nasim.” She
bowed. “Where’s Journeyer Mahil?”

  The girl shoved back a sweaty hank of hair and rolled her eyes at Munayair. “Where do you think?”

  Munayair sighed and hesitated, considering skipping her exercises for the day. Who would know, or care? She shook herself and started, ignoring Nasim’s curious glances. As she moved from pose to pose, her thoughts raced.

  So it was the innkeeper this whole time.

  Avlingai’s excitement itched in the back of her mind. Perhaps there isn’t even such a spirit as the Night Watcher.

  Then who saved me from falling into the well?

  A passing mercenary, perhaps? She felt his amusement. A fisherman?

  Golden eyes, gleaming like a wolf, crossed through her mind. Don’t be absurd.

  Very well, perhaps there is a spirit. But it could be under the thrall of the innkeeper, forced to do things against its nature.

  If Radhan was the one telling the spirit who to take, he must have picked Chanda and her twin, as well. He turned them over because their father was Bui-taran, she thought, boiling rage rising inside her. The mark burned. An embarrassment, a stain on the family.

  How are the sins of the father the child’s fault? Avlingai snapped. It’s injustice to punish her for her parents’ mistake.

  One thing’s sure, this can’t go on any longer.

  What can you do? You’re not an adept, Avlingai reminded her.

  She worked her body until she was warm and breathing hard. Then she mopped off her face and neck and changed into a fresh tunic. Hesitating, she cast about for something else to do, aware she was stalling. Finally, she stuffed a sheaf of papers from her bedside table into her pocket. Closing the door behind herself, she trudged back down the stairs.

  At the center of the enclave was an open courtyard used for meals, food preparation, and—often—sparring matches. Munayair turned her steps in that direction. Clanking weapons, shouts, and cheers greeted her as she passed into open air, back into Sorath’s glare. Spectators clogged the courtyard, intent on a fierce conflict. Anjita and a third-year journeyer, Fareshteh Nemati, scuffled around holding padded wooden wasters. Kicking up clouds of dust, eyes hot and intent, faces locked into scowls of concentration.

  They had fallen into a certain pattern as the days passed. Munayair would spend her time either in the room or down in the inn stable, while Anjita enjoyed the company of the journeyers and Sachin. At least the young lieutenant wasn’t in evidence today. Munayair blessed the heavens for that small favor. His laugh set her back teeth on edge.

  Suddenly, Anjita’s head dipped and her shoulders tightened. She launched herself into the air, a whirlwind of movement, blow after blow falling on her retreating opponent. Fareshteh’s eyes narrowed and she lunged, lightning-quick, weapon flashing. A sharp rap reverberated around the courtyard, followed by a jarring thud. Anjita collided with the dusty ground.

  Gasping, Munayair pushed her way through the crowd, stumbling to her knees beside Anjita’s quivering body. There she hesitated, hands trembling. Fareshteh shoved her aside and turned Anjita over. Everyone sighed with relief to see her laughing so much she shook all over. She saw the rows of concerned faces looking at her and laughed all the harder. “That is going to hurt tomorrow,” she remarked, still wheezing.

  “Numbskull!” Munayair whacked her. “If that blow had hit square—”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Naya,” Anjita said. “Concussions are almost never fatal. Which of us is the healer?” Munayair glared. Glancing behind her, Anjita pleaded, “Please reassure her, Falean, or I’ll never hear the end of this.”

  Munayair whirled to see Falean standing beside the entryway, watching without expression. Immediately, Avlingai came alert. She’s still upset, he noted. How could a village innkeeper have agitated the head of the adept enclave so?

  Who could he have picked to upset her? Munayair replied. Another child, like Chanda? Maybe one of the journeyers?

  “You are a touch reckless, Journeyer Mahil.” Falean came forward and hauled Anjita to her feet. “I am glad you are not hurt.”

  “Nothing damaged but my pride.” Anjita touched the side of her head and winced. “I look forward to many more. Maybe one day you’ll even fight me yourself, Falean.”

  Say something to her, Avlingai said. In any conspiracy, there’s always a weak link. And she’s ready to break.

  Munayair smiled at Falean and bowed. She racked her brain for a cunning way to approach the topic. ‘Do you often argue with the innkeeper’ was too straightforward. ‘Care to explain all these forged spells’ was definitely accusatory. She dithered.

  Wish her good morrow, to start with, Avlingai urged. Get her talking.

  Something about Falean’s pale, carefully-smooth face made Munayair nervous, and she swallowed against a dry mouth.

  “Any luck with the juyios?” Anjita asked.

  “Nothing.” Falean handed Anjita a cloth to wipe her sweating face and neck. “I had another idea for what the problem might be, so I’ll return it later.” She turned away without a backward glance, massaging her neck.

  She’s getting away! Avlingai cried.

  “I need a bath,” Anjita groaned, still rubbing her head as she turned towards Munayair. “And food, not in that order.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Munayair replied, looking after Falean’s departing form. “I have to do something.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going upstairs to change.” Anjita left in a clatter of boots.

  Munayair shifted her weight from foot to foot, then darted after Falean’s departing back. Catching one grey sleeve, she said, “Journeyer Tersic, I wanted to ask you something.”

  Falean blinked, blank-faced. “Yes, Miss Sarem-Ori? What can I do for you?”

  “You said you were experienced with glyphs, didn’t you?” Munayair opened her eyes wide, hoping to appear hopeful and a little forlorn. “I’ve run into a problem and I was hoping you could offer some advice.”

  That’s right, lay it on thick, Avlingai said.

  “Well …” Falean hesitated, then turned to face Munayair. “I suppose I have some time. What can I do?”

  “I’m ashamed to ask,” Munayair whispered. She selected a sheet of paper from her pocket and held it out. Drawn on it was one of the strange glyphs she had found in the village, carved into a fisherman’s drying rack. “I wrote this haircutting spell wrong, and I left the book back in the Hall. Would you please check it for me?”

  Falean took the paper and held it up to the light. Still putting on the role of the anxious young student, Munayair watched the skin around Falean’s eyes tighten. On that expressionless face, she might as well have gasped with shock.

  Avlingai’s voice was quiet and full of triumph. She knows.

  “Is something wrong?” Munayair asked, as innocently as she dared.

  Falean’s eyes flickered to her face. “I thought Journeyer Mahil said your affinity was glyphs,” she said, gaze narrowing.

  Avlingai came alert. Play dumb!

  “Oh dear,” Munayair said, dropping her eyes and pressing her hands to her cheeks. “It must be very wrong! I’m so flustered, Journeyer Tersic. Please don’t judge my skill from one mistake. I’ve only seen it a few times, and never used it myself before.”

  Falean searched her face for a moment longer. Then she pulled a grease pencil from her sleeve and held the paper against the wall, sketching out a glyph over the one that was written. She wrote furiously and pressed hard, and in a moment she turned back to Munayair, holding out the paper without any expression. “There. I think you’ll find that’s the solution to your problem.” After another polite bow, she was gone.

  She’s rattled, Avlingai purred. A hammer has been weakening this link for some time, I would say.

  As she slowly walked toward the stairs, Munayair studied the glyph Falean had drawn. This isn’t a hair cutting spell.

  It’s a command spell for chelka, isn’t it? I’ve seen it before, but I don’t remember the phrase.


  Munayair’s step halted. ‘Stay away.’ Or even ‘get away’, depending on the context.

  It’s a warning. Falean is telling us to stay out of it, Avlingai murmured.

  Other journeyers were beginning to stare. Munayair forced herself to continue walking on leaden feet. Her hand was trembling so she could hardly see the glyph anymore. She had to grip the handrail to keep her balance like an elderly woman.

  Curious phrase to use. It’s the same one in the fairy tale, isn’t it?

  Yes, the Boney Man. Munayair began ascending the steps slowly, eyes tracing the rough lines of the glyph. A Cayori bedtime story.

  The boy who goes into the woods despite all warnings and is eaten by a shadow.

  Anjita would remember it better. A curious reluctance came over Munayair. She preferred not to remember the times she and Anjita spent giggling in their room, telling ghost stories. A phrase floated to the front of her mind. He comes limping out of shadows cast by the lone moon.

  That’s right.

  Still in a brown study, Munayair pushed open the door. A loud whoop greeted her, scaring her out of her skin. Anjita ran over to the door, excited to the point of dancing like a colt. “Look—look what Lady Tarokh sent for me!”

  Clutching her pounding heart, Munayair stepped into the room. A sea-green brocade skirt trailed over the edge of Anjita’s bed, with a bodice and tasseled shawl to match. She looked from it to Anjita. “Sachin’s mother? You’ve met her?”

  Anjita skipped around the room, whirling the skirt in her hands. “We ran into her in the market a few days ago and Sachi had already told her all about me. She said I was charming and artless and, best of all, invited us to join them for dinner tonight. Please, Naya, say you’ll come!”

  Munayair balked. “I have no fancy dress to wear in such company. Besides, I’m exhausted.”

  “Exhausted?” Anjita snorted. “It’s barely noon!”