Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  I guess they talk about you a lot, Avlingai said. Munayair didn’t want to think about it. The idea made her itch all up and down her back.

  Lady Tarokh led them to a pavilion in the center of the courtyard. They settled onto embroidered silk cushions, inhaling the scents of slow-cooked meat and fragrant rice. The circular table was carved from mahogany, with hand-knotted silk rugs and cushions for lounging. Sachin sat next to Anjita, Falean on his other side, and Munayair between Lady Tarokh and Anjita.

  A small ceramic jug stood at each place. Munayair uncorked hers and inhaled the scent. Unlike the rustic drink at the inn, this sparkled gold and gave off a strong, heady scent of honey. She bit back a satisfied smile. Now she could test her suspicions, the theory she had been ruminating over since meeting Bast at the grove. She glanced across the table to find Sachin watching her, and she held his gaze while pouring out a bowl of wine. Raising it to her face, she took a moment to admire the bowl, which was carved from white jade in the form of a dragon with fire streaming from its mouth. Holding her breath, she took a sip and choked as paralyzing sweetness coated her tongue.

  “Sachi,” Lady Tarokh protested. “A guest is pouring her own drink! Where are your manners?”

  When she reached for Munayair’s jug, however, Munayair stopped her with a raised hand. “It’s Sayakhunii tradition.” She showed her teeth. “Symbolizes equality.”

  “Ah, I see.” Lady Tarokh relaxed, although her eyes were still worried.

  Munayair kept herself from rolling her eyes with difficulty. In her father’s tent, a guest pouring their own drink would have been considered the highest of dishonors. But the thought of either Tarokh hovering over her the whole evening set Munayair’s teeth on edge. If given a choice between someone who fawned over romantic gibberish about her culture and someone who cursed her as a blasphemer, she would gladly choose the latter.

  It’s only for a few bells, Avlingai said. Focus on testing your theory, and ignore the rest.

  In silent agreement, Munayair gulped down her cup of wine and poured another. All around, noble men and women chattered and laughed, oblivious to the darkness waiting beyond the gleam of enchanted lights. Food arrived, carried by a steady stream of servants. The smells wafting through the pavilion set Munayair’s stomach to growling.

  Lady Tarokh tore off a bite of flatbread and put it in her mouth. “Please, friends,” she gestured. “Help yourselves.”

  They dug in with a will. Crisp spring greens, mutton slow-cooked in its own fat with smoky chilies and lemon wedges. Steaming rice whiter than snow, flatbread dripping with butter and herbs, and much more. Munayair sighed as the mutton melted in her mouth. She hadn’t had good meat cooked to perfection in eight years. She chased the bite with another cup of wine.

  A few paces away in an unoccupied area of the courtyard, grass and flowers bloomed from the flagstones. Thick-canopied jungle trees grew high overhead in an instant. As Munayair watched, entranced, a shy deer no higher than her knee crept out of the trees. Stray beams of light from some unseen sun picked out the white spots on its red-brown coat. In another moment, the illusion vanished, and the courtyard came back into view. Munayair gulped her wine.

  This illusion spell is really first-class, Avlingai said. It’s rare for one to last so long.

  Someone must be behind the scenes, renewing it. Munayair drained her third cup. One of the other journeyers?

  Lady Tarokh poured Munayair another bowl of wine, then gasped. “Oh gods. I hope I didn’t insult you! Please believe I see you as an equal!” She made to pour the offending bowl back into the jug.

  “Not to worry, I am accustomed to your exotic Southern customs.” Munayair lifted the cup to her lips. Anjita’s eyes narrowed and she smacked Munayair’s knee under the table. Munayair ignored her, meeting Lady Tarokh’s gaze and trying to smile. “After all, I’ve lived among you for eight years now.”

  “I see.” Lady Tarokh tilted her head, the skin around her eyes tightening. “I confess to much curiosity about a Sayakhunii training at the Marble Hall.”

  Munayair’s fingers tightened around her cup. “It’s very rare,” she murmured. “It goes against our traditions to be taught by outsiders.” She rolled a mouthful of wine over her tongue. The cloying sweetness bothered her less this time. She was already beginning to feel light-headed. Anjita looked at her sidelong, frowning.

  Lady Tarokh cupped her chin in her hand. “I suppose our magical teaching must seem strange, even silly.”

  She’s putting words in your mouth, Avlingai noted, amused. Which parts of the Cayori religion do you suppose Lady Tarokh considers silly?

  Munayair forced a light tone, refilling her cup. “Not at all. The clans are mired in the past, unable to let go of archaic traditions. In sending me to the adepts, my father desired me to learn skills our shaman could never dream of.”

  And to save the Sarem-ori clan from a fate worse than death, she added silently. Avlingai, the only one who could hear, said nothing.

  She downed the rest of her drink and began shoveling food into her mouth. Anjita frowned while Sachin swirled wine in his cup. Falean sat in silence, transferring food from plate to mouth mechanically, gaze fixed on a point high on the wall.

  “Is it true word magic is still unknown among Sayakhunii?” Sachin lounged back, his head almost resting in Anjita’s lap. Her cheeks were red and her eyes bright. “If only the Bui-tarans had refused to adapt, as well. How much less of a problem they would pose now!”

  “There’s more difference between Sayakhun and Bui-tara than magical practices.” Munayair set down her wine jar with a thud.

  Lady Tarokh leaned forward, intent. “How so, Miss Sarem-Ori?”

  Careful, sister, Avlingai warned. His anger built in the back of her mind like hot coals in a fireplace. They’re baiting you. Don’t make a mistake.

  She kept her eyes on the table. The mark itched. “It’s true both countries can count the Taellori as a common ancestor. However, when the Cayori invaded, the coastal clans were either exterminated or driven into hiding in the desert. Bui-tara means ‘carved from stone’ in the language of my people, an apt description of the remnant who survived.” She swallowed wine and continued. “Taellori isn’t even the real name of my ancestors. It’s what your people called those already inhabiting the land you claimed. Cayori; Taellori, both are your words. One means ‘us,’ the other ‘not us’.”

  “That’s why I’m so fascinated by Sayakhun culture.” Lady Tarokh’s voice was very earnest. “How the clans have held onto tradition for centuries. Praying to spirits while the world frowns.”

  “Sayakhunii don’t—” Munayair stopped herself by gulping more wine. Anjita pointedly snatched Munayair’s jug and set it next to her own plate.

  “In all the legends, spirits carry prayers and petitions to the gods and return with prophecies and gifts. Even joining the battle against evil!” Lady Tarokh’s eyes sparkled, her bosom heaved. Clearly, they had reached a topic near her heart. “I’ve often wished to speak to spirits myself. Don’t you agree, Miss Sarem-Ori? Think of it, a wellspring of knowledge and power untapped for centuries!”

  I don’t think this woman knows anything about spirits, Avlingai said. Even he was beginning to sound tipsy.

  Swallowing her mouthful of wine with difficulty, Munayair considered how to reply. Her mind wandered, already foggy at the edges. Even in legends, dealings with the spirits were fraught with difficulties. No Sayakhunii, or anyone familiar with their religion, would approach the spirits for help unless in direst need. Even then never without the aid of an experienced shaman.

  She looked up and found that she had waited too long to speak. Lady Tarokh’s smile faded, while Anjita glared over the rim of her cup. Trying to think of something to say that wasn’t insulting, Munayair took another draught of wine.

  Sachin broke in cheerfully. “Spirits have other uses, as well. It’s a shame the old elemental mages have disappeared. Their strength would be invaluable to our
war efforts.”

  “Well, we have the adepts,” Anjita said, smiling.

  Sachin laughed. “Of course, but since men can use elemental magic, our strength would increase.”

  Anjita snorted. “What?”

  Munayair took advantage of Anjita’s distraction and took back her jug, pouring a generous measure into her cup. Her hands and face burned, and the room tilted around her. She lost track of the conversation, although she did notice with amusement that Anjita’s face was red and her eyes glittered with anger. In the back of her mind, Avlingai rolled around like a cub, chuffing and huffing with glee.

  I love wine, he said.

  No wonder Bast is always drunk, she thought. It feels great.

  A man from a nearby table staggered to his feet, rings and necklaces clinking as he held up his cup. He spoke loudly. “A toast to Lady Tarokh, savior of Adisara!” The courtyard rang with cheers. Illusory gold sparks rained down, settling onto hair and clothing before vanishing. Munayair, filled with goodwill, joined in the chorus and downed another cup with the rest.

  Lady Tarokh pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh my,” she murmured. “I wish they wouldn’t make such a fuss.”

  “What do they mean, savior?” Anjita gnawed at her lower lip, a sign of repressed anger. Her eyes glittered at Sachin.

  Somebody’s in trouble, Avlingai crooned. His vast amusement echoed through Munayair’s mind. A courteous servant refilled her jug, and she mumbled thanks.

  Singsong, she muttered, “and it’s not me for a change.”

  “This city owes everything to my mother,” Sachin announced. He didn’t show any sign of recognizing the danger in Anjita’s sparking glare. His cheerful smile glowed as bright as ever. “Ten years ago, she brought us back from the brink of ruin and disaster.” He lifted his own cup, then downed it in one gulp.

  “You praise me too much, darling,” Lady Tarokh protested with a smile.

  Another toast was made, the familiar refrain: “Until the dragon comes.” Then another.

  The night wore on. Munayair lost count of how many bowls she had drunk. She couldn’t feel her fingers, and her head tipped, ready to topple off her shoulders. Voices echoed around her, but she couldn’t concentrate on them. Each new swallow of wine choked her, and she toyed with the half-empty bottle dispiritedly. As her bleary gaze traveled around the room, a fox trotting across the marble floor caught her eye. Its russet coat was sleek and shiny, and its enormous ears swiveled from side to side.

  Tricky, ricky, silky fox, Avlingai sang.

  Sensing Munayair’s attention, it glanced up at her just before it faded, golden eyes flashing. She sat up, filled with sudden, burning determination. She poured another bowl of wine with trembling hands, spilling a great deal. She had to meet Night Watcher, no matter what it took.

  An elbow collided hard with Munayair’s ribs. “Oof.” She lifted her head with difficulty to find Anjita glaring at her. “’s wrong?” On her other side, Lady Tarokh waited with a concerned, questioning look. Munayair realized she was holding out a bansuri, a long, graceful flute carved from bamboo.

  Journeyer Mahil, Avlingai murmured, your elbows are … very sharp.

  “She’s showing us some of her collection,” Anjita growled in her ear. “It’s a rare Taellori item.”

  Munayair ducked her head in belated thanks and took the flute in unsteady hands. She knew very little about musical instruments, but she inspected the flute with interest. Glyphs were inscribed along its length.

  Compulsion spell, Avlingai noted. Whoever hears the song will forget to fear.

  Useful, Munayair thought. I wonder if it works.

  She lifted the flute to her lips and coaxed out a shrill squawking until Anjita took it away and shoved something cold and square in her hands. “Here’s the illusion spell from the grateful merchant. Five gods, I should never have introduced you to liquor.”

  Munayair blinked down at a small box carved from shiny black stone. The conversation passed over her as she inspected it. The stone was fine-grained black marble, the lid so closely fitted she wondered if it might be waterproof. The complicated gold filigree latch took her seven tries to open. Inside was a fine grey powder, which she sifted through fascinated fingers.

  Avlingai fought against drunkenness as a bear wades upriver against a swift mountain current. Ash.

  Like all illusion spells, she replied. Why is this one so unusual?

  Sniff it, can you? She brought her hand to her nose, imagining his sensitive nostrils flaring with interest. Mountain juniper. Lightning-struck.

  Those only grow in the northern mountains of Bui-tara, she thought. Almost impossible to get in the south. This must have cost a lot of money.

  He giggled, a strange sound coming from a bear. Steal a handful.

  She gasped aloud. “Av!”

  Voices rose, and she lifted her eyes to see Sachin and Anjita arguing again. Tigers appeared as the illusion spell responded to the emotion, roaring and pacing, eyes flashing, pelts as red as fire. Their lashing tails passed through the tent poles. Munayair watched in fascination, only half-attending to the argument itself.

  “... it’s nonsense to correlate physical strength to magical ability.” Anjita’s cheeks were flushed bright red. “There’s simply no connection between the two! Any adept can tell you that her ability was at its peak when she was young and her body was smaller and weaker.”

  “All the same,” Sachin drawled, “the savages would never have been beaten without elemental mages. Regardless of physical strength, you have to admit that a source of magic men can use would be a boon to our society.”

  “That’s the heresy of Bui-tara,” Anjita said, shaking her head. “It’s impossible to even consider it, Sachi. I wouldn’t expect a man of action like yourself to understand the details of religion and politics. It’s not a law of the keepers or even the adepts. The Lady of Spirit herself forbids any man to work her magic.”

  “Elemental mages draw on a different source of power, unrelated to Lady Bader, so how can it offend her?” He turned to Falean. “Journeyer Tersic, you must have something to say on this topic?”

  “I’m certain the keepers would disagree with your argument, Young Lord Tarokh.” Falean’s face remained devoid of emotion even as her knuckles whitened around her cup. “However, one thing all historians agree on is that elemental mages did once exist. While it is blasphemy to pray to spirits, they continue to live among us as an untapped source of power. The problem is not bias, but knowledge. The bonding spell was lost when the Hall of Records was burned during the schism.”

  “Dangerous talk.” Anjita’s strident voice cut right through Munayair’s head. “The keepers have good reason to fear the return of elemental mages. They’re famously unstable and have power to far exceed ink magic.”

  “What do you think of all this, Miss Sarem-ori?” Sachin winked over his cup. Munayair yanked her hand out of the box and tried to look interested as he continued. “Journeyer Mahil tells me you are quite the spirit-charmer. You must know more about elemental spirits than any of us.” His intent eyes belied the light tone.

  Munayair blinked at him to resolve the colorful blobs wheeling across her vision. She remembered not liking him, but at the moment she was having a hard time remembering why. She giggled, reaching over to tap his nose, missed, and poked his cheek instead. Blinking, he winced away. “Silly,” she giggled. Anjita looked faintly revolted. “You don’t charm spirits, magic doesn’t work on them.”

  “Oh?” Lady Tarokh leaned in, eyes wide with interest. “You possess such a gift? Is that why you do not wear the grey robe? I thought that was out of respect for your Sayakhun heritage.”

  “Mother,” Sachin admonished.

  “Oh gods. My apologies.” Lady Tarokh sat back, blinking. “In my excitement, I have strayed into ill manners. I hope you can forgive me.” She pressed Munayair’s hand.

  Goodwill spread through Munayair. “Oh, of course.” She grinned widely. “Of course,
of course. No harm done. Why, if I had a copper vati for every sideways look I’ve gotten since I came out of the lake, I’d be … I’d be a …” She counted on blurry fingers. “Well, I’d be able to buy that stuffy Khalifah of Arshvan, for sure.”

  “Lake?” Sachin repeated curiously, but no one paid him any mind.

  Lady Tarokh nodded seriously. “I understand, Miss Sarem-ori, no one better. The looks I get when I dare go out in the village! They blame me for this awful kidnapping business, after I’ve worn myself to the bone trying to bring the monster to justice.”

  “We understand,” Anjita said, throwing a significant look at Munayair.

  “I’ve put out a reward to anyone who can lead me to his lair,” Sachin said. “I mean to catch him before summer’s end.”

  With a clatter, Falean dropped her knife and reached for her wine bowl. Her hands trembled and she sloshed the contents into her plate.

  Oopsie, Avlingai said.

  “At times, Young Lord Tarokh, you remind me of that young boy I first met.” Falean’s laugh shrilled in their ears. Everyone looked at her in surprise. “Always so certain of yourself.”

  “Ah, yes, so many memories.” Sachin’s eyes narrowed and his voice dripped with honey. “All those hot summer days cloistered in my schoolroom learning to read. You were such a blessing to me, Journeyer Tersic. You taught me so many things.”

  Falean’s backbone straightened and bright spots of color blossomed on her cheeks. “I can’t take credit for everything you’ve become,” she said with a smile, sipping from her cup. Her grey eyes sparkled with something resembling mirth, but not unlike rage. “Some things were your natural gifts, and others I suppose you learned from your parents.”

  Sachin lowered his head, but not before some strong emotion passed over his face. Guilt? Or anger? Munayair could not make it out. I never knew these two were so close, she thought.

  Does the playboy have a conscience after all? Avlingai wondered.

  Sipping her wine, Falean continued. “I am reminded of a promise you made me in the schoolroom, Young Lord Tarokh. You recall? Looking back, I am not sure you kept your word.”