Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  But Munayair stood unmoving, hands folded, and held Nastaran’s gaze without blinking. The mercenary looked away first, sweat beading on her forehead. That’s right, Munayair thought with black satisfaction. You know enough to be afraid. She looked away from Nastaran and turned her eyes instead to Sakihan. He hadn’t moved. They watched each other.

  “How did you do it?” he asked. “I’ve been with Shivne-Mage for over four years now, and I’ve never seen anyone resist his thrall before.”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “How can you work for him?”

  Behind her, Mehan struggled to control Chanda. She seemed agitated by the noise—breathing ragged, she jerked against his grip.

  “I’ve thought about leaving many times.” Sakihan touched the amulet on his chest. “But you’ve seen what happens to anyone who steps outside the lines. He knows where we are at all times, hears whatever we say or do, and can torture or kill us whenever he pleases. He can even speak in our thoughts if it pleases him.”

  “Why not take it off?” Surreptitiously, Munayair activated her final chelka. It sat cradled in the cage of her fingers.

  Sakihan’s expression hardened. “I’ve been at the mercy of keepers before. Never again.”

  With a wild scramble, Chanda broke free of Mehan’s grip and started forward, mouth opened in a horrible snarl. Mehan yelled and ran after her. Screaming, Nastaran fell backward among the roots, dagger skittering away. Sakihan cursed, spear lowering as he turned away from Munayair. Before he could move to help, something skittered around his boots. He goggled at Tel clinging to his leg and staring with a blank ceramic face.

  “I’m no keeper.” Munayair lobbed the stone to his feet. “Just a glyph-writer.”

  The chelka flashed. Eyes squeezed shut, Munayair charged and crashed into Sakihan’s midsection. They flew backward, and the spear dropped from his hand. He grabbed her and rolled, crushing her under his weight. Munayair struggled, gasping, and snagged the chain around Sakihan’s neck. She yanked with all her might, and he cursed again. As the chain broke, a curious sensation washed over Munayair, like cold water. She shivered. He cursed again and dragged her upright, wrenching her arms behind her back. The amulet was in her clenched fist.

  “You fool, it won’t protect anyone now.” His voice trembled. Tel hammered at Sakihan’s leg with tiny wooden limbs, but he kicked the chelka away.

  Mehan held Chanda’s body by the waist as she struggled, snarling, gaze wild and fixed. Her ghost stepped into the moonslight, looking at herself, fingers curling in frustration. “Stop that,” she cried. “Help him!”

  Munayair tugged against Sakihan’s grip while Anjita watched, a line between her eyebrows. Nastaran staggered upright, knife held reverse grip in one hand. Smirking, she stepped forward.

  A hand grabbed her wrist and Anjita growled, “I told you no.”

  At the same moment, a spear butt rapped on Sakihan’s skull, and he collapsed. Munayair staggered, rubbing at the strained muscles in her shoulders, and looked around. Emerging from the shadows of the underbrush, Bast whipped the spear around. Nastaran doubled over from a solid blow in the gut. The shock sent the borrowed spear falling from his shaking hands. He fell back, shoving Munayair behind him.

  There was a long moment of silence. Sakihan was lying on his face, groaning, and Nastaran retched among the roots. Dismissing them, Munayair turned her attention to their only remaining opponent.

  Anjita spread her hands, smiling. “Why can’t you see I’m trying to help you, Naya?” she asked. “If you only knew what a relief it is to give in! Join me, please.”

  Struggling upright, Nastaran let out an animalistic growl. She charged, knife angled to slice across Bast’s stomach. He caught her mid-strike and they struggled, heads lowered. Grunts of effort echoed through the clearing as they fought for control of the knife. A few paces away, Chanda tore chunks from the ground with bloody fingers. Foam dripped from her mouth, glassy eyes focused with single-minded determination. Tears streaked Mehan’s cheeks, but he locked his arms tighter and held his sister close.

  “Idiot,” her ghost growled, glaring daggers. “Mehan is in danger! Do something!”

  “Naya,” Anjita murmured, taking a step closer.

  Before she could speak or move again, Munayair touched a spell on her left tricep. She steeled herself, breathing through her nose, as energy poured out of her. Vines rose from the ground and wrapped around Anjita, binding her arms to her sides.

  “Wow, I’m honored.” Anjita grinned. “I know how you hate using skin spells.”

  “You’re not yourself, Jita.” Munayair spoke through her teeth, body stiffening as energy ran out of her. Without a chelka buffer, the spell would drain her own body’s energy until nothing was left.

  Hovering over her growling, straining body, Chanda’s ghost tried again and again to get back inside, take control—but it was useless. The knife quivered between Bast and Nastaran in a deadlock. Their feet slipped among the roots, but their eyes never strayed from each other, hot with anger and pent-up hatred.

  “You lied to me, Naya,” Anjita said, eyes narrowed and voice cold. “You said we were going up the river to face justice. I thought I could trust you.”

  Sweat was running into Munayair’s eyes. She blinked it away. The restraint spell was draining—she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep it up. “You can trust me, Jita!” she said. “Please, try to remember all those years growing up together at the Marble Hall—”

  “That’s the thing, Naya.” Anjita watched her without expression. “I do remember. I remember. All of it. Every moment. Shivne-Mage didn’t turn me into a puppet, like you think. All he did was open my eyes to the deceit and hypocrisy of the adepts.” She reached up to her collar and tore off the keeper pin, throwing it to the ground. It glinted up at Bader, reflecting the moon whose light brought peace and wisdom to the children of men. “Now I see the truth, did you think I would ever go back? Do you know what it feels like to live a lie for so long it seems real?”

  Tears pricked in Munayair’s eyes. “Yes,” she sighed.

  “Let me go, Naya.” Anjita smiled lopsidedly. “You never were any good at anything besides glyph magic.”

  Gasping, Munayair touched another spell and the vines fell away, lifeless as before. With an aching heart, she reached towards the spells of attack on her forearm. Sinking into a fighting stance, Anjita touched a spell and silver metal rippled over her skin, glinting in the moonslight.

  Not a wise choice, Munayair imagined Avlingai would say. Heavy and exhausting. It’ll be easy to wear her down. She shook away the thought. Avlingai wasn’t there—she was truly alone.

  “… and when everyone she loved was gone, Geshuu raised her hands and the earth moved with her …”

  Dread filled her like ice water. She was not as nimble, or strong, or fast as Anjita—the only thing she could rely on was her chelka. If only Avlingai were here … she shook the thought away. There was no time for if-onlys, not with Anjita edging nearer, hands raised. Nastaran was pushing Bast to his knees, and Sakihan had almost regained his feet again, using his second-to-last spear as a lever. Even Chanda had almost freed herself from Mehan, kicking and ripping at the ground. Her eyes were fixed on the shadowy trees nearby, face twisted in an eager snarl.

  She’s not paying attention to any of us, Munayair realized. But then she had no more time to think.

  Quick as lightning, Anjita darted forward, metal-clad hand swinging. Munayair only just avoided the blow, tripping among the roots and almost sprawling. She swung around and scrabbled along her arm for a spell. A gust of wind tore through the trees. Anjita deflected with her metal arms. “Naya,” she sighed, shaking her head, “did you spend all those years teaching your chelka to fight, but never yourself?”

  Ignoring the taunt, Munayair scanned the dark jungle surrounding them. But whatever Chanda had seen—or sensed—it was invisible to her. Still, gooseflesh rippled across her arms and back, the unmistakable sensation o
f being watched. Are you there? she called silently. There was no answer, of course—but she didn’t feel quite so alone.

  Bast cried out with one final surge of effort. The knife spun from their hands and skittered, silvery-bright, across the clearing. It landed almost on Munayair’s foot, and she looked at it in confusion.

  “Kid!” Bast yelled. “Grab it!”

  He and Nastaran both dove for the knife—but Anjita’s metal-clad foot stomped down before either could reach it. Glaring, Bast and Nastaran rose warily, shaking with adrenaline and anger.

  “The time for hesitation is over,” Sakihan grunted. He was upright again, hand clenched around a spear, blood soaking the back of his head and tunic. He lunged towards Munayair but suddenly changed targets, swift as a striking snake. Bast screamed as the spearhead disappeared into his shoulder.

  “Bast!” Munayair shrieked.

  Grunting, Sakihan jerked the spear away, knocking Bast back and spattering blood across trees and roots. Mindless, Munayair ran forward, slipping and slithering across the vine-covered mud. A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her back. She turned to see Anjita glaring at her from among the silver glitter of her metal skin. “That’s enough, Naya,” she growled. “I’m done playing games. We’re going back to Shivne and—”

  Automatically, Munayair’s fingers fell to her hands-off spell, and sparks sizzled along her skin. Anjita let out a cry of pain as the electric shock flashed across her metal-coated body. Wrenching her arm out of Anjita’s seizing hand, Munayair shoved Sakihan aside and crouched by Bast’s side. His face was grey and his eyes rolled in his head as blood pulsed out of him. She wadded a corner of his cloak and pressed it against the wound with shaking hands. Running her fingers over her left arm, she shuddered as magic crackled down her spine. Bast cried out hoarsely, spasmed, then fell still. The cut scabbed over, halting the flow of blood down his arm.

  “Bast, can you hear me?” she whispered. His eyes rolled towards her. “Just hold on—”

  Metal hands grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her down until her spine grated on knobby vines. She gasped with pain. “Anjita,” she begged, looking into her friend’s enraged eyes, “please, let me help Bast. He’s made mistakes, he doesn’t deserve to die—”

  “Will you STOP standing up for that kidnapping rat of a boatman?” She had rarely seen Anjita so angry, face white and eyes black, teeth bared. The knife glittered, a finger’s width from plunging into Munayair’s heart. “I never thought you could disappoint me like this. Not you.”

  “You used to believe me.” Tears dripped down her temples into her hair. Desperately, she pleaded. “Don’t you trust me, Jita? It’s me, Naya.”

  Anjita frowned. “I do trust you.” The point of the knife quivered. “I trust you—because you tell me the truth.”

  Munayair blinked. There was that sensation again, like cold water splashing. It was so familiar, for a moment Munayair could almost remember—

  Then Anjita blinked rapidly and her eyebrows drew down in a familiar expression. She scrambled back, knife dropping to the ground. “Naya?” she whispered as metal evaporated from her skin. She panted, sweat dripping down her face and soaking the back of her tunic. “What’s going on?” she muttered, looking around. “Where are we?”

  Chapter 30: Hand of the Goddess

  Silence fell apart from Chanda’s groans and snarls. Mehan panted as she wriggled bit by bit from his grip. Here in the grove, no owls hooted or monkeys called, no cicadas sang or mosquitoes whined. The silence was as oppressive and choking as the humidity.

  “Anjita?” Munayair scarcely dared believe it. “Are you—are you with me?”

  “Of course I am,” Anjita grumbled, still frowning as she looked around. Bast’s expression was apprehensive, which Munayair couldn’t blame him for. “What’s going on? Where are we? The last thing I remember, we were watching some poor mercenary get driven out of his mind …”

  “You’ve been under the mage’s spell,” Munayair explained. “But I think—I think it’s passed now.”

  “Impressive,” Sakihan said, looking between them. “Seems perfect trust does exist. But it makes no difference—now we’ll have to kill you both before we take the kid back.” He raised his spear.

  Grunting with pain, Bast pulled himself upright to stand wavering between the spear and Munayair. His face was grey and his teeth chattered. Scoffing, Nastaran rolled her eyes. Anjita stood staring at Bast with a frown on her face.

  “Bast,” Sakihan sighed. “You don’t think that’s going to stop me, do you?”

  “Kill him and get it over with, Sabri,” Nastaran grumbled.

  But still Sakihan didn’t strike. “Why are you standing up for these adepts?” he demanded, a cloud of anger passing over his face for the first time since Munayair had met him. “Aren’t they the reason your family is the laughingstock of the town? When have they ever protected you?”

  “The magic tax was part of my family’s ruin,” Bast said, “but only part. And it’s got nothing to do with these two girls here.”

  Suddenly, Anjita’s eyes widened and she darted a hand towards the spells on her arm. “Five gods! That’s him—he kidnapped me from the bathroom!” Bast let out a squeak of fear and took a step back, his attention wavering.

  A dagger flashed, and Nastaran stepped forward, muttering, “Talking—”

  Without thinking, Munayair shoved Bast aside and stood ready to take the blow. But halfway through her first strike, Nastaran shrieked and stumbled back, dagger falling to the ground. A figure as silent and dark as the shadows stepped between Munayair and the mercenaries.

  “You?” Chanda’s ghost gasped.

  Mehan cheered raggedly. “You came!” He stepped towards the shadow.

  Bast yanked him back. “Are you crazy?” he hissed. “Don’t you know who that is?” Chanda’s body threw herself against Mehan’s grasp so they both crashed to the ground, almost taking Bast down with them.

  Sakihan whispered, soft as a prayer, “Gods, he’s here—he’s finally here—”

  The Night Watcher paid no attention to any of this. He spoke hoarsely. “Nastaran Satti, the goddess sees you. You have murdered and tortured innocents. Have you anything to say?”

  Anjita reached for Munayair’s hand and they watched in silence.

  The dagger dropped, and Nastaran fell to her knees, sobbing and babbling. “P-please, I didn’t want to, the pay was too good! I didn’t enjoy it—”

  “The goddess extends her hands to bring you home.”

  The sword flashed once. Nastaran fell backward, blood gushing from her neck and chest, eyes fixed on the sky. Mehan gasped, and Anjita stepped to the side, shielding him from the sight. Chanda’s body crawled towards the Night Watcher with a wide and bloodshot gaze, ragged fingernails biting into the dirt. Mehan dove on top of her, and she crumpled with a snarl, harsh breaths echoing. Pulling out a lump of rope, Bast scrambled forward on creaking knees and bound her hand and foot. With trembling hands, Mehan untied his sash and stuffed it into her mouth, stifling her cries.

  A cold touch on Munayair’s elbow, and Chanda whispered: “Miss, something’s wrong. He ain’t the Night Watcher.”

  Munayair tucked Tel into her pocket. “Who is he then?” she whispered back.

  Chanda shook her head. “He used to eat the offerings from the shrine. When I’d get mad, he’d laugh and say, ‘If you can find the Night Watcher, tell him I’m looking for him too.’”

  Sakihan stood, wobbling, and waited as the Night Watcher looked at him. The voice was almost inaudible. “Sakihan Sayyadi, the goddess has seen you watch horrors be perpetrated and make no move or word to stop them.”

  “Where was your goddess, then?” Sakihan asked. “If she wanted these things stopped, why not do it herself?”

  “When you act in the name of good, you are the hand of the goddess.” The Night Watcher smiled sadly. “As I am. Will you face me with your weapon drawn?”

  Sakihan’s eyes were wet, but he dr
ew his last spear with steady hands. He saluted, and in a moment it was over. The Night Watcher shifted—a sharp ringing sound, and the spear fell. The point of the sword rested against Sakihan’s throat. A soft sound escaped Chanda’s ghost.

  Munayair longed to look away but found her gaze riveted. Her hand tightened around Sakihan’s amulet. Deathbringer, she thought, and missed Avlingai so much it ached. How could she be sure of anything without the wise voice to support, goad, and challenge her?

  The Night Watcher whispered, “Have you any words to say?”

  A tear leaked from Sakihan’s eye. He said, “My brother—Rade Sayyadi, of the palace guard in Al-Thina—tell him I finally got out. Will you swear?”

  “I swear.” The Night Watcher nodded. “The goddess extends her hands to bring you home.”

  Sakihan’s voice was calm. “Tell your bloody goddess to keep her hands to herself.”

  The sword flashed and blood spattered. Anjita cried out in wordless horror. Hot tears spilled from Munayair’s eyes and she turned her face away. The Night Watcher took a step forward, and Munayair stepped into his path, arms spread wide. “Please, don’t hurt Anjita. She’s confused—the mage enthralled her.”

  He paused, looking at them without expression. Then he said in a low voice, “This girl is an innocent. I punish only the guilty.”

  Then the Night Watcher turned to Bast, eyes glinting. Taking in a breath, Munayair shifted again, but Bast held out a hand. His face was white, eyes unwavering. He grunted, “Don’t interfere, kid. This is what I’ve earned.”

  The Night Watcher spoke softly. “Bast Hashemi, the goddess sees you. You kidnapped forty-seven men, women, and children into captivity with the mages. Before that, you smuggled weapons and goods over the river, knowing they would be used to further the cause of evil. Have you any words to say?”

  “What took you so long?” Bast’s hands were almost steady.

  “Mehan.” Munayair couldn’t tear her eyes away. “Tell him to stop.” But Mehan cast his gaze to the ground in silence.