Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  “My lady Ennai.” Khuson’s bow was cut short by a grunt of pain. His gaze cut over to Munayair. “This is the spirit of the tree at the center of the grove.”

  “This uneg again?” The tree spirit narrowed her eyes. “Which of you ulgeroi let him in?”

  Dashjin hovered in front of the humans. His bow was a marvel of courtly grace, a shade too deep. “Well met, Lady Ennai, High Elemental of Earth,” he muttered. “May your life be long for the preservation of us all.”

  She eyed Dashjin and let out a tiny huff. “I might have guessed. Clear off, princeling, and your drunken lackeys—I’ll handle it from here.”

  Dashjin fluttered indignantly. “Shan’t! You’re interfering with my duty!” He folded his arms and glared.

  Sniffing, Ennai jumped from branch to branch with unstudied ease. Dashjin followed her progress, tiny features knotting into a sullen grimace. “Lord Thunderer might allow the ulger to drive a few men out of their minds,” Ennai said, “but the gokhai would never trust you with a task of actual importance. You’re sure to forget all about these mortals—or lure them into a bog for a joke.”

  Dashjin flashed once, bright enough to make Khuson blink. “Make fun all you like, but I’m responsible for all who pass the border.”

  “Why don’t you run home to daddy? He’ll have something to say about the state of your patrol.”

  She had a point. The wine had all vanished, and the ulgeroi lay dozing on the ground, or blundering through the air. They weren’t threatening anymore, or likely to drive a person mad. For the first time in memory, Munayair felt able to draw breath. She glanced around and bit back a scream. While her back was turned, Shivne had moved. Now he stood right outside the barrier, black eyes boring into hers. The spirits noticed him as well. Whispers gathered, growing louder as the ulger rose into the air, weaving about drunkenly. Ennai’s fingers dug into the branch she was holding, and her eyes widened.

  Never look in his eyes, Bast had said. But Munayair couldn’t tear her gaze away. As they stared at each other, Shivne raised his hand slowly to the barrier. The light shimmered. A bell-like sound began to build, growing louder the closer his hand came. When his palm pressed against the glowing barrier, it rang like a gong, shaking the trees. Crying out, Bast pressed his hands to his ears. The ulger swirled about in panicked confusion.

  “He was waiting for someone to pass the test,” Munayair whispered. “This is what he wants.”

  “He can’t get through,” Dashjin said from his hiding place behind Khuson’s ear. “The barrier was built to keep things like him out.”

  Munayair turned, words burning her throat as they passed. “Something’s wrong. Shivne wanted us to come here—somehow this is part of his plan.”

  Khuson was still kneeling, but his hand had strayed to the hilt of his sword. He addressed Dashjin, still hiding among the thick locks of black hair on his shoulder. “Please, I beg you to grant them sanctuary. I have already submitted to punishment.”

  Munayair sucked in a breath and turned pleading eyes on Dashjin. He winced. “Oh, very well. I suppose we could put the uneg’s mind to sleep until the gokhai can decide.” He glowered at Ennai, who scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I myself, Dashjin, Prince of the ulger, will stand surety for him.”

  Ennai sneered. “That is, until the next puff of wind blows you in a different direction.”

  “Dash!” another voice protested. “The king said—”

  “Do as I say!” Dashjin cried.

  With reluctant groans, the ulgeroi rose into the air to swirl around Khuson once more. His face slackened, eyes went vacant, and shoulders slumped. The ulgeroi swirled once more, then winked out until only Dashjin remained. He spiraled in lazy circles around Khuson’s head, illuminating his face from every angle.

  Munayair examined Khuson. He looked straight ahead, face calm and expressionless. She reached out and touched his shoulder, but he showed no sign of noticing. He stood straight, no longer hunched, and his bloodstained hands hung by his sides. The dark patch on his tunic glistened black in the moonslight. He looked like a …

  Chouloi, her treacherous mind supplied. She turned away from the thought, blinking hard.

  Dashjin, perched on the bridge of Khuson’s nose, tilted his head at her. “His mind is asleep, that’s all,” he said. “Give him an order—he’ll obey it.”

  She whispered. “Khuson, can you hear me? Look at me.”

  Calmly, he turned. His eyes were flat and dull. She gulped. I’m the best hope we have, she thought, shoulders bowing under the weight of the realization. She looked down at her trembling hands, containing two objects. Tel, and the amulet Mehan had entrusted to her. She shoved both into her pockets.

  Bast stumbled to his feet, groaning, face purpling as pain doubled him over. Munayair grabbed his wrist and gasped. His skin was clammy, pulse thready. Still holding onto him, she shoved back the blood-soaked cloak and pressed her hand against the wound on his shoulder. Blood pulsed through her fingers, hot and thick. She touched the spell on her left arm and energy fled up her arm and into Bast, knitting muscle and skin. He spasmed and fell, eyes rolling.

  Munayair straightened, refusing to look around. She knew Shivne was watching, knew he had led them here for this very purpose. But she could not watch everyone die around her. Not again. She turned to Khuson. “Carry Anjita, please?” she said. He bent to obey. She reached for Bast and hauled him again to his feet. She looked up at Ennai. “We’re ready, milady kudai.”

  They began walking. Khuson cradling Anjita’s limp body, Bast propped against Munayair’s shoulder, Dashjin’s light bobbing. Ennai scurried from tree to tree, moving at a pace the humans were hard-pressed to keep up with. Every time she was forced to wait for them, she muttered with annoyance and threw twigs and pinecones. The grove was endless—a sea of grass and sturdy trunks surmounted by waving leaves, picked out in silver by Howler’s faint glow. When Bader lowered herself below the horizon, the only light was Howler’s dim gleam and Dashjin’s wings. Clouds scudded overhead. Thunderstorms massed like mountains against the horizon, hurrying in from the distant ocean. The trees loomed like sentinels, fluttering leaves like voices whispering outside the range of hearing.

  Bast’s head shot up. “Where is that thing?” he exclaimed. Color had returned to his face, although his lips were still pale and his hands shook. “It wasn’t a squirrel at all! It had a human face!”

  A loud groan interrupted him. Munayair looked over to see Anjita’s face had contorted, limbs thrashing against Khuson’s grip. She leaned Bast against a tree and hurried over. Anjita was still unconscious, but her teeth were bared and she grunted. Tears leaked from her eyes.

  “Put her down,” Munayair ordered Khuson, throwing herself to her knees next to her friend. “Ennai! Highness!” she snapped up at the trees. “We need to stop.”

  Anjita was shaking now, foam leaking between her lips, white crescents peeking out from under her eyelids. Every muscle in her body was rigid, teeth creaking and hands curling into claws.

  I don’t know what to do! Munayair cried inwardly, reaching through the silence like a frightened child for her mother. Avlingai, tell me what’s wrong—tell me how I can help her!

  “Can’t you do anything?” Bast cried toward the hovering spirits. Dashjin’s wings had dimmed, while Ennai’s indifferent air was belied by her frightened eyes.

  “There’s only one spirit in the grove with such power,” Dashjin whispered. “If we can get her to the gokhai—”

  Munayair ignored them all. “Jita, Jita,” she cried, heedless of Bast pressing down on Anjita’s thrashing legs. Gently, she leaned down to touch their foreheads together. “Jita, it’s me—it’s Naya.” She could have sworn the violent tremors eased and the labored breathing deepened. Encouraged, she pressed deeper, as if to merge inside Anjita’s head. “Don’t be afraid,” she murmured. “I won’t let anything else happen to you.”

  Anjita’s wild movement slowed, then she was lying still, grey robe
spread like a dark stain on the ground. Bright spots flashed across Munayair’s vision and she teetered, dizzy. An arm grasped her around the waist and pulled her back, and she leaned against a tree trunk beside Bast. Dashjin watched curiously while Ennai muttered overhead.

  “You shouldn’t have stopped them,” Bast whispered. His face was white and his shoulders hunched. The blood soaking his clothes was beginning to dry black in the moonslight. His teeth chattered. “Should have let them lights drive him mad.”

  They both looked at Khuson standing over Anjita, showing no sign of impatience or exhaustion. Through force of habit, Munayair checked the dark stain on his tunic, but it was difficult to tell if it had grown.

  “If he’s not the Night Watcher, who is he?” Bast continued.

  “Bast—” She rubbed a hand over her face, too tired to argue.

  Bast pressed on. “It’s more than that. Look at him. You know what I mean.”

  Munayair chewed on the inside of her cheek, her own fears rushing up to the surface. The deep brown of his skin, the wavy black hair. Only those golden eyes set him apart from the mages and the raiders that descended from over the river to attack her clan.

  Bui-taran.

  Finally, she looked back at Bast. “Should he not have spared your life, either?”

  His gaze shifted away. “Maybe,” he muttered.

  “Will you hurry?” Ennai cried.

  Munayair rose shakily and reached down for Bast. He didn’t take her hand for a moment. “Just to be clear, kid, he never spared my life.” He lifted his eyes. “You did that.”

  Despite Ennai’s complaining, Howler had only dropped one more degree towards the horizon before she stopped on the edge of a clearing. Overhead spread the branches of the Great Cypress, knobbled roots twisting above the ground before diving deep once more. It was growing on the ruins of some ancient structure, massive stone slabs losing their form to encroaching lichen and rain. Directly in front of them, three stones still formed a doorway leading down into darkness. From this a deep spring poured, rushed down the side of the hill, and disappeared through the trees towards the river.

  Bast stopped, abrupt as a mule. “Well, I’m not going near that.”

  Sniffing, Ennai looked down her nose. “Go in or not, exactly as you please. But you should know it looks like rain.” She jumped into higher branches and was gone.

  “Unhelpful little—”

  Munayair ignored his muttering. A chilly breeze tangled in her cloak, and one cold drop struck her skin, then another. Bast glared at the lowering sky—the thunderstorm rumbled a little in reply. Khuson did not flinch, and Anjita lay cold and pale against his chest. Dashjin was silent, clinging to Khuson’s shoulder, wings dim as he looked at the dark water of the stream.

  “Is something wrong?” Munayair asked, looking at him more closely.

  He shuddered. “Air doesn’t mix well with water.”

  Compassion stirred. “You don’t have to go any further,” she said softly. “We can find our own way from here.”

  He lifted off Khuson’s shoulder, tiny light flashing. “I will fulfill my oath,” he said. “Come, uneg.” He beckoned. Khuson waded into the black water of the spring without hesitation.

  Munayair followed despite Bast’s sputtering, flinching as icy water flooded her boots. Two more steps brought her to the doorway, and she laid a hand on one of its cool, rough-hewn pillars. Dashjin’s light illuminated twining glyphs carved into its surface, words of power she could only guess the meaning of. She remembered the fire in Mehan’s eyes. What power was hidden inside this peaceful grove that Shivne wanted so desperately?

  The stream was only ankle-deep at first, but it deepened until it tugged around Munayair’s armpits. Her breath quickened, fear thudding in her temples. Had the kudai brought them here to drown?

  Again, a gentle touch brushed her hair—age and strength hidden in gentleness. You must let go to be free, child, a voice whispered.

  The water was so deep now she could only touch with the tips of her boots. She hesitated, squeezed her eyes shut, then plunged in. The water closed over her head.

  All senses deadened, she sank down and down. Strangely, she reveled in the feeling—freed from the weight of her mistakes, from pain and fear. Her limbs drifted and she made no attempt to steer herself. Bubbles flashed as they rose from her mouth. Disappearing into blackness below her was Khuson, a spark of light clinging to his collar. She glimpsed Anjita’s face resting on his shoulder.

  If she never wakes, Munayair thought, she’ll never have to learn the truth.

  The thought comforted her as she sank into darkness.

  Chapter 35: Spirit of the River

  Then the world turned upside down and Munayair’s boots landed on solid ground. A shock of cold air set goosebumps rising on her arms. She opened her eyes, and it took her a few moments to make sense of what she saw.

  Dashjin’s light illuminated a vast, dark tunnel. Spires of rock dangled from the ceiling and rose from the floor, and the end of the tunnel vanished into blackness. Everything was covered with something transparent as glass, at least a handspan thick. She bounced experimentally. The surface was soft yet solid, like a horse’s belly. Bending closer, she found it was water. Too warm to be ice, rippling underfoot, somehow made solid enough to walk on. Her boots made shallow indents in the surface, but when she lifted them the soles were dry.

  Anjita’s head lolled on Khuson’s shoulder, both dripping but unharmed. Dashjin circled, throwing dizzying shadows. Bast appeared from the wall of water behind her, gasping, the whites of his eyes flashing. He grabbed Munayair’s sleeve and goggled around much as she had, flinching away from each new thing he saw. “You all right, kid?” he whispered. “What is this place?”

  “My home.” A tall, transparent figure stepped into the light. Her robe of crystal-blue flowed from the water covering the ground, as did long hair like water rippling over rocks. Her face was beautiful and serene, yet hard and relentless as a stream cutting through stone, eon after eon. Munayair knew this was the one who had comforted her in the forest, the hand on her hair. The breath stopped in her throat and she stood frozen.

  She had met this spirit before.

  “Welcome, travelers,” the spirit said, bowing. “I am the gokhai, spirit of the River Uttseema.”

  Dashjin hovered in front of the rest. “My lady.” He performed another charming bow, this one perfectly respectful, even worshipful. He gestured frantically behind his back for the others to follow suit, but no one moved. Khuson stood with Anjita lying against his chest, while Bast gaped. Munayair felt like a mouse pinned by the gaze of a snake, frozen in fear lest movement goad the predator into striking.

  “Prince of the ulger.” The gokhai’s voice was musical as a fountain. “What a pleasure to meet you at last. And you have brought my guests, as well.”

  “The pleasure is mine, milady,” Dashjin said. He was shining more brightly. “These mortals sought refuge at the border. The emissary is with them.”

  “Their coming was foretold,” the river spirit said, glancing from face to face. She continued gently, “Ennai was kind to you, I hope?”

  After a moment, Bast muttered, “Kind as could be expected. Milady.”

  Her laughter pattered like droplets on a still pond. “She can be quite trying! Only her tree is patient enough to deal with her. Accept my apologies—circumstances prevented me from escorting you myself.”

  “What should we call you?” Bast asked.

  “To humans, my name is Uttseema, but among my own kind I keep the name my father gave me—Ronyl.” She gestured, the motion running like a wave from shoulder to fingers. “Come.”

  She turned and led them deeper into the cavern. As they walked, the light from the entrance dimmed, and Munayair saw the enchanted water closing behind them, sealing the exit. She shuddered and looked ahead to see the gokhai smiling encouragement. Bast’s head was lowered and his shoulders hunched, half in a daze. Munayair had to lead him
around by the elbow. Dashjin felt the oppressiveness of the cavern most obviously. His spark dwindled, and he huddled on Khuson’s shoulder.

  There was no obvious path through the water, but doorways opened from nowhere at the behest of the Uttseema. Munayair soon got the impression the way they were taking through the caverns was meandering. It reminded her of a fox pursued by hounds—crossing his trail to lead them astray.

  The water softened their footsteps, and the doorways made no sound when they appeared, so they progressed in silence. There was a sense of vast space all around, but the water obscured anything in the distance.

  Suddenly, a loud sound disturbed the silence, like the sound of a gong. The water rippled, the walls flashed, and the air shivered. Munayair jumped, Bast screeched, and even Khuson’s head came up like a dog catching a scent.

  “What was that?” Bast clutched his chest.

  “Some refugees cannot be admitted,” Ronyl said quietly. “The borders have long been sealed to prevent the spread of corruption.”

  “Corruption?” Bast repeated, frowning.

  Ronyl nodded, features flattening as if she could not maintain her form. “It is death to my kind—the only true and lasting death. The slow poison leeches away all personality, empathy, memory, and originality of purpose. The plague, once it takes hold, has no lasting cure. This grove is one of the few refuges left in the world, and we are hard-pressed. As you might have noticed when you entered.” The walls flashed and the alarm sounded again. The gokhai bowed her head. “There is nothing to be done for those who are already lost. We must continue to protect those who can still speak.”

  They passed through a final doorway into a circular room, diffuse light emanating from the walls. A dozen stumpy creatures waited at strict attention, with sharp eyes and thick, dark fur. Each one carried a spear with an iron blade and a sword strapped to their waist.