Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  “My brother is here.” Chanda bit out the words, fists clenched. She averted her gaze from the writhing woman. “I tried to get close to him, but there are too many people around. I called out to him, but he didn’t hear me.”

  Munayair looked at the mages, stomach sinking ever lower. “Stay behind me.” She stepped in front of the girl. “I’ll help, I promise. Just ... keep behind me.”

  The mage rose to his feet, looking around with mild dark eyes. “This woman is not from Adasari.”

  A choking silence fell. None of the mercenaries spoke or even looked at each other.

  “Our guidelines are not difficult,” the mage said in a soft voice. “Citizens whose families have lived in Adasari for three or more generations, or followers of the blasphemous Order of Adepts. Who has dared think they can lie to me? Speak now, and your punishment shall be lenient.”

  Rohan stood trembling, eyes wide and lips quivering. No one looked at him or spoke to condemn him.

  The mage said, “Boy, come to me.” He gestured, and another figure stepped from the crowd to stand by his side. A young man gazed down at the woman trembling on the ground with eyes Munayair recognized. Chanda gasped.

  They were very alike, light brown skin and freckles, dark curls cropped around his ears. He stood out from the dark-garbed mercenaries in a simple white tunic. When he appeared, some of the mercenaries exchanged dark looks, but nobody stirred.

  Chanda jerked towards him, but Munayair put a restraining hand on her arm. “Not now.” Chanda’s eyes resembled chips of flint, but she nodded.

  “I am here, Excellent Humility Taichar-Mage,” Mehan said calmly. “How may I serve you?”

  “Ah, there he is.” Taichar beckoned for Mehan to crouch next to him. “Educate this rabble on the consequences of a lie, my son.”

  Mehan nodded, raising his eyes and reciting in a clear, firm voice. “Corruption of the soul, and loss of honor for the liar and those who believe him.”

  Nastaran wore a slight sneer, and many others scowled, but none objected openly.

  “Mehan!” Chanda seethed. “Why’s he talking like that? What have they done to him?”

  Munayair tightened her grip—it felt like dipping her hand in ice water. “Not now,” she repeated.

  “Ah, that will never do.” Taichar rose, and Mehan stepped back. “Shivne-Mage, we cannot let our own charges fall into error without attempting to guide them.”

  The second mage came forward then, flanked by watchful guards. He bent over the woman and touched her forehead. She shrieked, writhing, then lay still. He rose to his full height and turned. He stood a span shorter even than Mehan, dark goatee incapably disguising youthful features. Munayair shuddered when she saw his eyes—flat and black as a starless night. A low whine escaped Chanda’s throat. Her face had gone grey and she shook.

  “Chanda?” Munayair whispered in alarm.

  “Gods—gods—those eyes.” She shrank back. Munayair could see the trampled dirt behind her. “Don’t—look—”

  Shivne’s gaze passed over the gathered mercenaries. Nobody could avoid his glance, or even draw breath. Mehan’s shoulders hunched while Taichar-Mage watched with a mocking smile. Again the pressure, like being held underwater, mingled with a stench like death. Chanda’s terrified whispers swirled around in her overwhelmed mind, although she could make out only a few words. “—black, black. Down and down, forever. Why are you doing this? Why—”

  Tachoul appeared among the mercenaries. Several drifted towards Chanda, drawn by her naked terror. Munayair stepped between them, firming her mind and resolve. You won’t have her.

  Most tachoul moved towards Shivne-Mage, then away—like the tide, drawn and repulsed at the same time. Munayair’s teeth hummed, and she saw stars as a pounding headache started in the back of her head.

  Chanda let out a pained cry. “Don’t look—don’t look—” She crouched and knotted her hands behind her head, rocking back and forth.

  The captive woman spoke through her sobs. “Your men descended on our caravan with no warning. We did nothing—”

  Shivne-Mage spoke for the first time, soft and sibilant. “You must have forgotten.” He held her gaze with his flat black eyes. “Your caravan passed through my lands without paying tribute. For that, you must pay.”

  “Your lands?” the woman cried. She fell silent, choking. They stared at each other, the grey-faced woman and the youthful mage. Veins and tendons stood out on her neck, and a grimace spread over her features. Streaks of red shot across her eye, and her breast heaved. “You’re right,” she murmured, a bloody tear leaking from her eye. “I must admit guilt, and submit to punishment.”

  Av, Munayair’s mind whispered, like a child reaching for its mother in the dark. I’m afraid.

  “You have made a wise choice,” Shivne-Mage hissed. He bent over her again, hands hovering as if she were a stove he wished to warm himself at. Chanda stifled an anguished whimper behind her hands. The approaching tachoul turned away, every one of them descending on Shivne with single-minded purpose. A ball of light appeared between his hands, a pinpoint flickering like faraway lightning. He pulled sharply. The woman arched off the ground, screaming. Then she slumped, head lolling.

  Munayair bit back a gasp. Avlingai, I need you. This isn’t funny anymore—talk to me, please!

  Shivne fished a clay vessel from his pocket and poured the light inside, then capped it with a cork. Munayair sucked in a breath as the magical pressure vanished, although the carrion stench lingered. Tachoul bent curiously over the woman lying at the mage’s feet. Her eyes were visible under tangled dark hair, glazed and unseeing.

  The unfortunate mercenary, Rohan fell to his knees, then to his face. “Shivne-Mage, f-forgive me!” His fingers dug into the dirt. “It was a mistake—if I had known—”

  Mehan shook his head, eyes sad. “Truth is always spoken, in the end.”

  “Truth,” Shivne sighed without looking at the boy, “remains true whether it is spoken or not.” Flushing, Mehan ducked his head.

  Shivne made a small gesture. A high-pitched whine began to build. Munayair gasped and clapped her hands over her ears, but it made no difference. The drowning pressure increased, along with the smell. Stars burst across her vision. The mercenaries fell to their knees, amulets glowing white hot. She heard their cries dimly as tachoul rushed among them like a pack of wolves over a carcass. A tachoul saw Chanda—or Munayair—and came close. Too close, she could not breathe or think—she flung out a hand and there was a flash of brightness, of heat—

  She came to herself on her knees, gasping. The mercenaries were in a similar condition, curled on the ground, shuddering. The tachoul were gone.

  Shivne-Mage’s expression of distracted sorrow had not altered. “Take him to be tested.”

  Rohan wailed, hands clasped. Ignoring him, Shivne ran his gaze over the cowering crowd. He hesitated on Chanda’s trembling, foggy shape. His eyebrows tightened.

  Munayair hissed out of the corner of her mouth, eyes downcast. “Chanda, get out of here—go.”

  Chanda’s sobs redoubled, already sounding distant. She dissolved into mist, but the sound lingered. Heads raised to look for the source of the sound, and Mehan glanced around, frowning.

  “Take the prisoners to their pen for cleansing,” Taichar-Mage said.

  Mehan nodded, turning toward Munayair.

  “Bring the girl.” Shivne-Mage’s eyes narrowed. “And the adept.” He turned in a sweep of white cloak and strode away.

  Mehan looked to Taichar, who glowered at Shivne’s back and waved a hand. “Bring them, then.”

  The mercenaries rushed to fetter Rohan and marched him away, still crying and pleading. Bast tugged, and Munayair followed without resistance. As they passed the dead woman, she stirred. Sat up, pale and slack-faced. Blood still dripped from her eyes, but she showed no sign of pain. She rose, swaying, staring vacantly. Munayair couldn’t tear her eyes away. A mercenary grabbed the docile captive’s lead and another t
hrew his cloak over her head. They led her away, weapons at the ready as if she might strike at any moment.

  “Get—your—hands—off—” A furious voice distracted Munayair, and she whirled. Mercenaries jerked a struggling form from a nearby tent. A bruise rose on Anjita’s cheek and her hair hung in tangled clumps, but she stood tall, disdaining the touch of the mercenaries.

  “Jita!” Tears blinded Munayair, and she gulped down the last syllable.

  Anjita spun, ignoring growled warnings. “Naya?”

  Gesturing imperiously, Mehan strode after the mages, and both Munayair’s and Anjita’s captors pulled them in his wake. Bast tugged Munayair after Mehan and she stumbled, craning her neck to keep Anjita in sight.

  Anjita saw her. “Five gods, idiot, what are you doing here?” Her tone was caustic, but her eyes were soft.

  “I came to find you.” Munayair dragged against Bast. He looked between them and his frown deepened.

  Anjita’s eyes narrowed on his face as her captors yanked her past them. “You,” she snarled. “Keep one eye open, Goodman Hashemi. One day I’ll be the one sneaking up from behind.”

  Bast’s cheeks paled but he only shook his head fractionally at Munayair. She took his warning and walked in silence, keeping her eyes on Anjita’s curly head. The trees stood further apart here, letting more sunlight through. Yet all the mercenaries on the periphery held flaming torches. They walked without speaking, pushing their captives ahead. Flowers bloomed in every available patch of sunlight, a carpet softer and more colorful than any woven by hands. Then they emerged into a clearing and Munayair gasped.

  The trees up to this point were already impressive, but rearing overhead stood the largest tree Munayair had ever seen. She had to crane her neck to see the top. Silence fell, and stillness—even the rustling leaves were subdued. Things flickered in the corners of her eyes, and she glanced around, terror nibbling at her guts like a wolf. She had never seen so many tachoul in one place, not even after a battle. They spread like a cloud as far as she could see, hundreds upon thousands of them, still as statues. The mercenaries moved among them unblinkingly. Their tense shoulders and rigid postures signaled that, even if they could not see it, they sensed the danger. The mercenaries holding torches waved them at random, and the tachoul fell back. Anjita frowned, too, eyes darting around. Bast’s hands shook like aspen leaves. Taichar-Mage also walked without concern, but Munayair caught Shivne-Mage waving away a particularly large spirit. Immediately, she dropped her eyes to the ground, and fear tied her guts into knots. Her mind was racing. If Shivne could also see spirits, perhaps he was the same as her, somehow. But the awful stench clinging to his magic-working worried her. Where did it come from, and why was she the only one who could sense it?

  The mercenaries came to a halt when Taichar held up a hand. Sweat beaded on Bast’s pale forehead. The air crackled as if a thunderstorm were building beyond the horizon. Munayair exchanged a glance with Anjita. The ranks of tachoul ended abruptly a few yards away, and a barrier of light rose between one tree and the next, shimmering like a shield spell. Whatever it was, it cut through the trees as far as Munayair could see in both directions. She looked up, squinting against the sun, and saw the glimmer of a great dome stretching over the enormous tree, taking up much of the sky.

  “I would never have guessed this grove was so large from outside,” she murmured.

  Bast glanced at her. “All forests are like that, my grandmother said.”

  A commotion drowned any further conversation. She looked around to see Rohan being forced towards the barrier at spearpoint. He was crying and begging wretchedly, tears streaming down his cheeks. When he saw Shivne, he flung himself before the white robes, heaving with sobs. The guards closed ranks, but Shivne held up a hand.

  “Boy,” he said without looking at Mehan, “you’ve educated us on the consequences of a lie. Now, perhaps you could expound on one’s duty to face consequence, as laid out by Manbiryn Suri.”

  “Shivne-Mage, I—” Mehan hesitated. “I have not yet read that text.”

  “I see.” Shivne’s lip curled, and Mehan’s shoulders hunched. “Well then, initiate, listen closely. A mistake once made cannot be expunged, except by serious and dedicated application to consequence. Captain Rohan has committed a grave error. Now he must apply himself to the consequences.”

  Mehan’s head dropped, and he muttered, “Yes, Shivne-Mage.”

  “Now, boy, untether him from our brotherhood. I can entrust you with that, I hope.”

  Eyebrows lowered, Mehan reached down and tore the amulet from Rohan’s neck. Munayair shivered—something passed over her, like a splash of cold water. Just like when she had first entered the grove, she realized with a frown. Before Avlingai had disappeared.

  The mercenaries wrestled Rohan to his feet and shoved him at the barrier. He stumbled through, still weeping, and crept forward a few steps, slightly distorted as if through a faint heat haze. Munayair glanced around at the mages. They leaned forward, intent on Rohan’s figure. Mehan’s arms were folded, but his jaw was tense. She watched, too. Everyone held their breath.

  What’s going on? she wondered silently. When no one replied, she remembered she was alone in her mind, and it was as if the air had been punched from her lungs anew. Av, please, I need you!

  At first nothing happened. Rohan looked around, and she saw his lips moving. Was he speaking to someone invisible to everyone else? His shoulders slumped and he fell, hands clamped around his ears. Munayair stepped forward, but Bast pulled her to an abrupt stop. For an instant, lights danced around his head—but when she blinked, they were gone. “Something’s wrong—” she gasped.

  Bast shook his head, eyebrows drawn down. “Want us both in there with him?” he hissed.

  To illustrate this point, Rohan threw back his head and let out a silent shriek, terror painted in broad strokes across his face and body. His shoulders hunched forward, hands curled into claws, eyes bulged in their sockets. No sound escaped the barrier, but Munayair still clapped her hands to her ears, unable to tear her gaze away from Rohan’s face. He never stopped screaming even as he lurched to his feet and stumbled back through the barrier. As soon as he came out, his cry became audible: hoarse and ragged, pouring through torn vocal cords, hanging in the air and reverberating from the trees. The guards were ready with a gag, which they stuffed into his mouth to muffle his cries.

  “God has passed judgment,” Taichar-Mage said, face as disinterested as his voice. He turned away from the pitiful sight. Mehan’s face was green. But Munayair caught a glimpse of Shivne-Mage’s expression. Pensive, almost sad, as if he had been hoping for a different outcome.

  “What just happened?” Munayair whispered as mercenaries dragged Rohan, still screaming, past her.

  Bast was white to the lips. “My grandmother called it the test. The Great Cypress won’t let in anyone unworthy.”

  “How does it decide?” she asked as he tugged her around, towards camp.

  He shrugged. “Who knows? It’s a tree.” He swigged again from his flask, one good eye simmering with frustration. “It’s been a long time since I’ve watched the test sober.”

  Munayair eyed him. “But you’ve been drinking since we left the boat.”

  “This?” He raised the flask, trembling even worse than usual. “This isn’t for getting drunk, girl. This is necessary fortification.”

  She turned, searching for a familiar face. A dozen paces away, Anjita stood pale-faced amidst her captors. Sensing Munayair’s gaze, she turned, and her lips twitched into a tiny grin. Despite the dire situation, Munayair could not help feeling comforted by the simple, honest gesture.

  Then she glanced behind Anjita and her heart sank. One of the mages was looking her way. Shivne-Mage’s eyes were narrowed, gaze passing right through her. She shrank away from that gaze, trying to make herself small and invisible. If he could see spirits, what else could he see?

  Spirits. The breath went out of her in a rush. Can he see Avl
ingai?

  “A familiar scent,” Avlingai had described the magic choking Chanda’s memories. Familiar how? If the scent of Shivne’s magic was familiar to Avlingai, was Avlingai somehow known to Shivne? She wished she had pushed harder back then, forced the great bear to tell her more.

  “Everyone has things we would rather forget,” he had said.

  She scoffed under her breath. How like Avlingai, to hide something as important as this. He could be as mysterious and reticent as he wanted, as long as he wasn’t getting himself into danger. What if Shivne had also recognized Avlingai? Seen him, taken him away without her knowledge? How would she ever get her beloved companion back?

  Shivne was still watching her, and she realized with a start that she was staring back. Hastily she turned away and let her hair swing between them, enough to cover her face but so she could still peek over to see what he was doing. As she watched, Taichar-Mage leaned over and whispered something in Shivne’s ear, brow furrowed with concern.

  “Ah, yes.” Shivne-Mage shuddered, eyes refocusing. “Yes, you’re right.”

  Taichar-Mage gestured, and Bast let out a tiny sigh as he tugged on the rope, leading her towards the mages. Anjita’s captors, including Nastaran and Sakihan, met them on the way. For a precious moment they took comfort in walking side by side once again, as they had for so many years.

  “I see the cockroach got the drop on you, too.” Anjita glowered at Bast’s hunched shoulders while his ears reddened. “Did he hurt you?”

  Munayair shook her head “I asked him to bring me.”

  “And look where that got you.” Anjita scowled. “When will you learn you can’t trust everyone?”

  Nastaran glared at Bast, avoiding Munayair’s eyes. “Keep her quiet, can’t you?”

  Watching Bast’s shoulders hunch higher, Munayair fell silent out of courtesy. The next moment, they were both thrown to their knees before the mages, pale as lichens in the dappled shade. Munayair shrank away.