Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  Muanyair’s stomach fell. She thought of the haunting ballad he had sung the first night she had spent in the village.

  He gnawed at his lower lip. “We were going to lose the inn, what’s been in Sisue’s family for seven generations. So when Chetana Tarokh came and said, ‘Just give us one name a month, and we’ll make sure you’re taken care of.’ Yeah, I did it. So Sisue doesn’t ever know what it’s like to live like that.”

  Munayair swallowed back the lump in her throat. “Does she know what you’ve done?”

  “No, I swear it.” For the first time fear shone in his eyes. “I don’t want her to know. I want to keep her safe. She still thinks we live in a good world, a fair world.”

  “She’s going to find out, Radhan,” Munayair said. Searching his face, she said, “In truth are all things set free.”

  His eyebrows lowered and he scratched his wrist. “Where did you hear that?” he growled. “Nobody’s spoken that nonsense in a dozen years.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She glanced over her shoulder. “But whoever said it was very wise.”

  In a few moments she was at the river, approaching the end of the wharf. Berthed there was the boat Nasim had described, the most disreputable craft on the river. Not much more than a raft, with a much-patched sail and a disagreeable fishy stink. There was a cabin, a sort of box under the mast, a sliding hatch with a rope handle.

  She shouted through the hatch. “Goodman Hashemi, are you in there?”

  A huff came from within, followed by a string of expletives. A moment later, Bast bolted into the sunlight, shoving her out of the way to retch over the side. Stains spattered his tunic and straw stuck from his sweat-spiked hair. Dark bags rimmed his eyes, and a foul odor rose from him. Munayair shielded her nose with her sleeve and waited.

  Bast wiped his scowling mouth as he turned. “What do you want?”

  “Journeyer Mahil was taken,” Munayair said.

  His eyes dropped. “Sorry ... to hear.”

  “I’m going to get her back.” She clenched her hands into fists. “And you’re going to help me.”

  Bast shrugged. “Sorry, kid. Nobody can help your friend now.”

  Munayair had thought her rage all burned away, but a fresh surge darkened her vision. Her hands darted to the spells on her arms, and Bast backed away, stumbling on his bad leg. His head hung, and he made no move to defend himself. She hesitated and studied him. The resigned look on his face, the dullness creeping into his eyes. His hands were shaking, but they always shook. She swallowed down her rage and an unexpected surge of pity.

  “Bast.” She reached out, wincing when he flinched back, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He glanced up, eyebrows knitting. “I know what you’ve done,” she said, tears pricking her eyes. “And I know how you hate yourself for it. I’ve done things, too—things I wish I could forget …”

  His breath had quickened, his eyes widened. Under her hand, he trembled like a frightened colt. “You can’t tell anyone,” he whispered. “If they ever found out …”

  “If you help me, we can stop this from happening. In truth are all things set free.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you want to be free?”

  His mouth twisted as if he tasted something sour. “Curse you,” he growled. He stood irresolute for a long moment, shoulders hunched. Rocking from one foot to the other, eyebrows screwed together, gnawing on his bottom lip. Finally, he growled, “Curse you to Hel. Fine—but don’t blame me when things go wrong.” He spun on his heel.

  Are you all right, child? Avlingai asked. He sounded sad and hesitant.

  Munayair watched Bast lean over the edge of the wharf and stick his head into the green water of the river. When he came up with a gasp, she stepped away from splattering water. Next, he began digging through a pile of detritus on the wharf.

  Why couldn’t I scare him? she thought, smacking her fist against the handrail. Why do I still feel pity for him?

  Compassion is part of who you are, Avlingai said. I pray you never lose it.

  Bast emerged from the trash pile brandishing a small brass flask. He unscrewed the lid and took a gulp, relief washing over his face. To distract herself, Munayair did a quick inventory of her supplies. Tel lay curled in her pocket along with two shield and one flash chelka. She ran her fingers over the painted glyphs. The jar of wine was still there. In another pocket was a fine powder, which she rubbed between her fingers.

  Bast opened his eyes and met Munayair’s gaze as he fastened the flask to his belt next to his drum and tipper. “Let’s go, if we’re going,” he growled, and stumped past without another word. Their strange party moved through the village under hot sunlight. Word had spread. Villagers whispered in tight knots. Some tossed flowers, while others warded off the evil eye. They turned off the path and onto the meadow, heading for the grove. Sorath was past his zenith. The air clung, and thunder rumbled overhead. Munayair kept close behind Bast as he shoved through the grass in silence. He halted once they reached the treeline. He surveyed the silent trees and uncapped his flask for another swallow. “You’re sure?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Right.” He held out a grubby hand and she gripped tight enough to bruise.

  Trees enveloped them, draped with vines and flowers. Humidity crawled along their skin. The light dimmed, and the silence was impossibly loud. Not a bird chirped in this place—no insect buzzed. Every sound weighed more than normal. Munayair winced at her own footfalls.

  Be cautious, sister, Avlingai said suddenly. I keep catching that scent. I think it’s—

  A strange sensation passed over Munayair, and she flinched. It was like cold water had splashed her face, in the middle of the hot, humid jungle. At the same moment, Avlingai went silent, mid-word.

  She patted her face and clothes, but they were dry. Av? she thought, surprised. But he didn’t answer. The familiar presence, always in the back of her mind, was gone. Av? she called again. Avlingai! Where are you? She stumbled, suffocated by greenery and thick, humid air. Seeking support, her hand clenched around nothing and she fell headlong. Her head came up. She was alone. When had she lost Bast as well?

  “Bast?” she called, scrambling to her feet.

  People emerged from the dappled shadows, surrounding her. Twenty of them, dressed in rough browns and greens, and heavily armed. Around each neck dangled an amulet carved with unfamiliar glyphs. Instinctively, Munayair threw down a shield chelka.

  A woman shoved her way forward, followed by a tall man with close-cropped silver hair. Munayair recognized his rangy gait and the spears strapped to his back. A month ago, he had guided her and Anjita through the woods to Adasari. Behind them hurried Bast, face blank and eyes downcast.

  The woman’s face darkened. “Only one?”

  “This ain’t even a journeyer,” someone grumbled.

  Bast glanced up. “I swear she is, Nastaran! She has the tattoos!”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” the woman, Nastaran, grunted.

  Munayair listened with part of her attention, eyes moving. These aren’t frightened villagers, they’re mercenaries. Trained and well-armed. They can’t get to me, but I can’t get away. Her jaw clenched. I don’t want to get away. She raised her hand and caught Nastaran’s gaze. “I’m here for my friend. Let me have her and I’ll consider sparing you.”

  Laughter echoed through the silent trees. “I like this one!” cried Nastaran. “Much more spirit than the last.” There were shouts of agreement.

  Munayair’s blood ran cold. “You admit to having done violence to an adept of the word? Crime not only against the Southern Alliance, but the gods themselves?”

  A hard light came into Nastaran’s eyes. “Crime? What of those of your precious order? The adepts executed my father without trial in our town square. Sakihan fled with his baby brother to escape the keepers. Everyone here has a story like it.” More shouts of approval. The spearman, Sakihan, said nothing. “This is payback
, little witch, long overdue.” Nastaran grinned like a skull, brandishing twin daggers.

  “You think your sad story excuses you?” Munayair shook her head, running fingers over the spell she wanted.

  Nothing happened.

  She frowned, trying again. Nastaran’s green cloak should have burst into flames. Energy drained from her, but never reached its target. She blinked—something was blocking her spell. Her eyes dropped to the glyph-marked amulet on Nastaran’s chest.

  “Something wrong with your witches’ marks?” Nastaran cried, mocking. She jabbed a dagger towards the sky.

  The other mercenaries shook their weapons and charged, yells shaking the trees. They bounced off Munayair’s shield, again and again. Every time, she clenched her teeth against the feeling, like sparks on her skin. Her chelka’s energy would not last long. Avlingai, if you’re still in there, now would be a good time to say something. But there was no answer, no soft voice reassuring her that she wasn’t alone. Avlingai had never left her before. Not during her exile from Sayakhun, not during the eight years of training at the Marble Hall. No matter if the entire world were against her, he had always been there. His presence in the back of her mind was as familiar as her own thoughts. And now he was gone. As enraged mercenaries pounded against the shield, Munayair searched frantically through her mind. Something—anything—a trace or a whisper, a snatch of scent like honeyed musk. Finally, the mercenaries drew back a few steps, eying her in silence. Bast stood frozen, half-hidden behind a tree.

  “You’re strong, for a witch,” Nastaran spat.

  “You might have found a way to counteract my spells,” Munayair called. “But you’ll never get into this shield.”

  Nastaran placed a hand on the shield. It shimmered under her touch. “Or ... won’t I?”

  Munayair breathed through her teeth—goosebumps rippled over her skin. Nastaran pressed harder, and the amulet around her neck flashed. The chelka stone cracked in half and the shield evaporated. Munayair gasped as backlash washed over her like a cold slap of water. As it was designed to do, the chelka’s broken body absorbed the brunt of it.

  Leers surrounded her. Her heartbeat thundered. She exhaled and moved her hands away from her body. Deep inside, pressure grew, like held breath—begging to be free. She breathed in—held it—let it out.

  No, she thought. Never again.

  “I surrender,” she said.

  Somewhere above the trees, thunder rumbled.

  Grinning, Nastaran strode forward with silent Sakihan behind. Munayair breathed in, to the count of five, then breathed out again. Staring at the trees, Bast planted himself close by. Hands held her as Sakihan tied her wrists. A length of rope led from her bound hands to Nastaran, who yanked on it. Munayair stumbled.

  “Nastaran,” Sakihan murmured.

  “We aren’t paid to be nice, Sakihan.” Nastaran jerked again. “Flip to search her?”

  Sakihan shook his head. “You do it.”

  “Raise your arms, witch.”

  Munayair complied, not quickly enough for Nastaran, who kicked her feet from under her. She fell to the soft ground, clinging to control by the tips of her fingers.

  “Watch it.” Bast bent to haul her up by an elbow. “He wants them undamaged, remember?”

  With a bray like a donkey, Nastaran lashed out, sending him sprawling. Sakihan sighed and lifted his eyes to the heavens. She loomed, nostrils flaring. “Next time you correct me, khuttach, I’ll use my knife.”

  Munayair’s control slipped, just a jerk. Quick as lightning, white fire jumped up the rope. Nastaran screamed and dropped it, shaking her hand. Sakihan jumped, glancing from Nastaran to Bast on the ground.

  Nastaran wheeled around, eyes wide. “How did you—”

  Still counting breaths, Munayair kept her gaze down. The storm eased, watchful. Bast gaped, and she wondered what he had seen.

  “No, what am I saying?” Nastaran’s chuckle fell flat, fingers wrapping around the amulet at her neck. “That’s impossible.”

  Folding her hands, Munayair said nothing. Despair filled her. Losing control twice in the same day—where had all her discipline gone? Her father had sent her to the Marble Hall to learn control, and now she was failing him. Again. Av, I need you, she whispered in the silence of her mind. I can’t do this alone.

  Nastaran looked down at the rope. “Bast, you lead the witch.” Muttering, she stomped into the trees with Sakihan close behind.

  Munayair offered her bound hands, and after a moment Bast allowed her to haul him upright. He kept his eyes downcast, tongue darting out to taste his bloody lip. “What did you do?” He eyed the rope as if it were a poisonous viper.

  She kept her voice level, gestured at the amulets resting on the mercenaries’ chests. “What could I have done?”

  He shook his head and grabbed the rope, and she fell into step behind him again, deeper into the grove. Nastaran had forgotten to search her, and weight bumped her thighs with every step.

  Sweat dripped down her face, into her eyes, matted her hair to her head. The mercenaries moved like shadows, and soon they came to a camp among the trees. Tents rose in haphazard clumps around piles of rubbish. The stench of offal cut through the greasy pall of cook fires. There were more mercenaries here, and her breath caught as she tried to count. More than a hundred, for certain. What is this? An army? she wondered.

  Bast dragged her to the center of camp, where a large tent stood in a circle of hard-packed earth. Above the tent, a white flag shifted in the hot breeze. Munayair gaped at it, tripping over her own feet. Only Tsai-chuul mages from Bui-tara used a white flag, but they could not be here. No mage would dare break the treaty and set foot on Alliance territory. It must be something else—a joke, a warning—

  Her captors halted next to a pavilion just as a second group of mercenaries arrived. Behind their horses staggered a small group of grey-faced prisoners. Their leader pulled his horse next to Nastaran. She nodded. “Well met, Rohan.”

  “Another dazzling success, I see.” Rohan grinned. He had a lazy smile and hooded eyes, and dislike glittered in his gaze. “One skinny girl, not even a journeyer? Amazing work, Miss Satti.”

  Nastaran’s hands tightened around her daggers, face reddening.

  “Just curious, Nastaran,” Rohan continued loudly, smirking around at his followers, “when was the last time you actually met your quota?”

  Something brushed Munayair’s leg and she looked down. The white cat blinked mismatched eyes up at her. She glanced around, but everyone was distracted by the unfolding drama. “Did Khuson send you?” she hissed to the cat, bending as far as she could without tugging against Bast. She frowned. “He didn’t get out of bed, did he? He’ll tear his wound back open.”

  The cat glanced at her slantwise and yawned widely. Then she sank down to her haunches and began licking her white fur. Munayair gave up and straightened, looking around in fear someone had seen her. But no one was watching, not even Bast. All attention was on Rohan’s sneering comments and Nastaran’s fists tightening around her daggers. To everyone’s disappointment, instead of attacking, Nastaran turned and nodded curtly. Bast tugged Munayair into the shade of the tent. A rotund man sat behind a desk, shuffling piles of paper with a harassed expression. He peered over his spectacles at them. “A journeyer?” He looked her up and down. “Why the disguise?”

  Nastaran shook her head. “Your problem, Gil. Where do I put her?”

  “I don’t have a record of any more today.” Gil frowned and ran a hand through thinning hair. “Just put her in the processing line.” He gestured the other mercenaries forward.

  Rohan leaped from his horse, still grinning. “We brought prime stock today, Gil.” He dragged a middle-aged woman up by her lead like a horse.

  The prisoner jerked against him, protesting hoarsely. “How dare you treat a citizen of Thinavaru this way—”

  “Shut it, you old harpy.” Rohan yanked at the rope until his captive nearly fell on her face. They walked by
Munayair, and the woman’s frightened eyes met hers as she stumbled past. Her wrists were rubbed raw.

  Gil raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Looks likely enough, but that’s for himself to decide.”

  Quick as a cat, the woman sank her teeth into the hand restraining her. Rohan yowled, loosening his grip enough for her to wrestle free. She took off running, face set into grim lines. A shout went up, but none of the mercenaries moved. Munayair’s blood froze. The woman made it only a few yards before she collapsed face-first, writhing. Her scream echoed through the trees. Munayair choked as a terrible scent crept over her, oily as rotting flesh. Nobody else noticed. The camp had gone still, all eyes turned towards the central tent. The cat hissed, then darted away and disappeared.

  “What is this commotion?” The dry voice came from one of two men standing at the tent door, both clad in white and carrying long staffs. Munayair could imagine the dark spells carved into those staves and woven into the cloaks.

  Mages of Tsai-chuul.

  Chapter 26: Relief

  As the mages stepped forward, the mercenaries melted back, bowing low and touching their foreheads. Munayair shuddered away from their cloaks, but they spared her not a glance. Four burly mercenaries with white patches on their shoulders guarded them. The taller mage bent to inspect the woman. She looked back out of glazed eyes, ragged gasps escaping from chalky lips. A sensation washed over Munayair, like waves of cold water engulfing her. The feeling was somehow familiar, but Munayair had to focus all her attention on not vomiting. The foul stench clung to the inside of her nose. Or was it the inside of her mind?

  A hand touched Munayair’s arm and she gasped and looked around. Familiar dark eyes met hers. “Chanda?” Luckily, all attention was fixed on the white-swathed figures and the woman lying twisted with pain. No one else had noticed the small ghost girl crouched beside Munayair. She hissed, “I was worried! Where have you been?”