Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  Anjita groaned as she swallowed. “Five gods, what’s that for?”

  “Water from the spring has special properties.” Ronyl gestured. “Look.”

  The surface of the spring shimmered, and a familiar scene appeared. The sanctuary, seen from the perspective of a hawk hovering high overhead. Every detail was in perfect miniature. There was the imp singeing the leaves off a bush, surrounded by swarms of firebugs. Tiny and quick as fruit flies, tembu played a complicated game of tag above the treetops. Jewel-loving delj labored in their vast underground network of homes, workshops, and refineries. The thundercloud loomed over everything, wind tearing at its upper levels. Thunder rumbled deep inside. Everyone gathered closer, staring.

  “I have discovered darkness shrouding Pich’s canyons,” Ronyl said. “Whatever polluted her is still there, and I dare not risk further corruption.”

  “Where are the canyons?” Anjita asked.

  In response, the east side of the scene zoomed closer. Canyons wound through a red sandstone cliff, depths isolated from daylight. The rest of the scene was clear, but a shadow hung over the twisting canyons. Whatever this darkness was, the power of the spring could not penetrate it. The listening spirits gathered like children around Bast, whose shoulders neared his ears.

  Ronyl stared at the image, ripples of frustration running over her body. “I should go,” she said. “If I can help—”

  “Don’t even consider it.” Unaraq grunted. He had stayed silent, watching from the shadows, but now he stepped forward. “Lady Moon and I saw Onol within the spring.”

  Silence fell. Ice crystallized along Ronyl’s form, a thin cracking sound. Munayair shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. A toothy smile underneath glinting black eyes swam into her mind. Even if she had imagined seeing corruption in Ronyl’s eyes, she wasn’t imagining the fear running through her watery form. The lizard spirit awakened terror in the kind, powerful river spirit. “Doom,” Dashjin had said.

  Munayair shuddered, fingers tightening over the aching mark. With a sinking sense of futility, she called inside her mind. Av, I’m afraid. You’ve never failed to comfort me before.

  “Either she’s becoming stronger,” Unaraq continued, “or you’re weakening. Whichever it is, it’s more important now than ever for you to stay in the spring.”

  Ronyl inclined her head. “I bow to your wisdom, Lord of Hunger.” She hesitated, eyes sweeping from Anjita to Munayair to Bast to Khuson. “I dare ask your help, mortals.”

  “You need us to track down this thing,” Anjita said, eyes alight. “Of course.”

  Munayair’s stomach sank. “You aren’t well enough,” she broke in. “Who knows how dangerous this corruption is? How will we contain it?”

  “I’m as well as you,” Anjita snapped. “You never slept. And remind me, which of us passed out on the floor a moment ago, muttering about drowning on dry land?”

  Munayair bit her cheek. “That’s not the same, Jita, and you know it. You can’t—”

  “I’ll do as I please, Sarem-ori Munayair!” Anjita’s eyes flashed. “You’ve got nerve, lecturing me like one of your whites. If you care so much—”

  Ronyl cut in. “Anjita will stay and help direct the search. That is your duty, Journeyer.”

  With a huff, Anjita turned her back. Frustration sat like a boulder on Munayair’s chest. To distract herself, she put her hands in her pockets to inventory. Tel was there, along with five stones—two shield and three flash chelka.

  “As for containing the corruption, I have other means.” Ronyl held out a hand. Her smooth fingers split, forming a crystalline cage of water the size of a closed fist. Once it had solidified, she pinched it off her hand and gave it to Munayair.

  Bast eyed it with relief. “So, we aren’t expecting this thing to be very big.”

  Ronyl’s amusement sparkled like sunlight on a stream. “It will contain any spirit,” she said. “After all, every spirit is exactly the same size.”

  It sparkled like glass, cool and solid in Munayair’s hand. But no matter how beautiful, in the end it was still a cage. She tucked it in her sleeve, trying not to think about why Ronyl had given it to her instead of one of the others. Khuson’s a warrior, surely the cage would be safer with him. And Bast, he’s the emissary. Why hand it to me? She glanced at the mark on her wrist and panic built like nausea in her throat. If this was an oathmark, as Unaraq had said, what promise had she made? And why was she only now remembering it, if it happened when she was still in Sayakhun?

  “Wait,” a voice rumbled. “They will need a guide. Someone who no longer has any reason to fear corruption.”

  Ronyl rippled, and she turned to the spring, where Pich looked back with empty eye sockets. “Pich, I am sorry,” Ronyl said heavily.

  “You did what you could, gokhai,” the spirit rumbled. “Even the heavens and earth will end in the jaws of Odde and Olan, so how can I expect to exist forever? Countless generations ago, the great hawk spoke my doom. I meet it without fear.”

  Ronyl turned back. “Will you help us?”

  Khuson nodded. “You saved our lives, Lady Ronyl. I will do what I can.” He glanced around. Munayair nodded agreement, and Bast looked sick but did not argue.

  Around Bast, the spirits crowded and shoved until he resembled a man clinging to a runaway horse. “Share your wisdom, emissary!” a delj with emeralds braided into his beard said, eager as Dashjin. Many voices took up the cry.

  Bast’s shoulders hunched. “Oh, uh—in truth are all things set free,” he said in a monotone.

  This time the motto didn’t draw much of a cheer, and a few of the spirit were even beginning to look bored. “Yes, but what strategies have you, emissary?” an ulger cried. “Which powers of the Windsinger will you draw on to defeat this evil? Have you her silver tongue? The power of song?”

  “Well,” Bast gnawed at his lower lip. “I can play the drum.” This started up another round of excited whispers, and he perked up a little, reaching for his belt. “I have it here if—”

  “Yes. Wonderful,” Anjita remarked. “Let’s ask the man whose last job was abducting trusting villagers. No doubt there’s a deal of strategy there.”

  Bast went red and stared upward. But the spirits glared, muttering. “Lord Emissary.” A goblin reached for his sword. “Allow me to deal with this slander on your behalf.”

  “Leave it.” Bast waved a hand, and the goblin subsided. “It’s a human matter.”

  Anjita scoffed. She caught Munayair’s eye and rolled her eyes, just as she would when Asavari Eng was being particularly aggravating. Then she scowled and turned away.

  “Let us hurry, then,” Ronyl said. “The spring’s enchantment will wear off at sunset.”

  Pich rose, water pouring in white gouts from her bones. The spirits murmured and drew away. “Ride on my back, mortals,” she said. “The three of you together are no burden to me.”

  For the second time that day, Munayair found herself clinging to Khuson on the back of a monstrous spirit. Bast’s arms tightened around her waist with every jolt. Pich charged among the trees. Her claws tore gouts into the grass, wind howled among her bones, and leaves tossed in her wake. The sun was well past his zenith now, the day hot and close.

  “Don’t fall off,” Ronyl’s voice said in Munayair’s ear.

  She glanced around in surprise and saw Khuson and Bast doing the same. Nothing to see apart from trees and sunlight and the shadow of the thunderstorm overhead.

  Ronyl spoke again. “The power of the spring gives us the ability to talk to each other over a distance. Can you all hear me?”

  “Yes,” Bast and Munayair chorused.

  “As if you were an ant inside my ear,” Khuson giggled, rubbing ticklishly.

  “And I can hear and see you,” Anjita laughed, far away at the confluence. “My, you all look silly!”

  “Attend to the matter at hand, Journeyer,” Ronyl said. “Has the shadow moved at all?”

  “No, milady,” Anjita
said, chastened.

  “I wondered,” Khuson said to the air. “What exactly are we looking for? A spirit? An object?”

  “A valid question, uneg. It could be either, but I would guess a device of the mages’. They have tried in the past to circumvent our defenses. If their magic entered this place, it would surely lead to corruption.”

  Munayair took an arm from Khuson’s waist and touched her pocket. He glanced back at her, but she shook her head, mostly to dislodge her fears. Sakihan’s amulet’s power had been broken when she took it off him, and Mehan’s was no longer connected to Shivne-mage. Neither of them were a danger to the sanctuary. Were they?

  A breathless moment later, they burst from the trees and charged down a brush-covered slope towards a towering red cliff. Sparks whirled from the sky and danced around them.

  “Dashjin, tell your people to stay back! It’s dangerous!” Munayair cried against the wind.

  The tiny spirit clung to her cloak, cheeks rosy. “And miss all the excitement? No fear!” he returned. “You’ll find us handy in a pinch—never underestimate the small.”

  A new voice echoed in their ears. “I will be watching,” Hadad said. “I look forward to seeing my emissary in action.”

  Munayair couldn’t see Bast, but she felt his arms tensing around her waist. She patted his hand.

  Ronyl’s voice was stern. “I remind you, Lord Thunderer, to stay well back.”

  Thunder grumbled overhead. “I am to allow others to endanger themselves. I understand.”

  Pich ground to a halt and they clambered off her back. This area was all but devoid of vegetation apart from spiky brush. Some unseen hand had carved the cliffs into fantastical shapes. Spires and waves of red and orange. Dozens of openings led back into the maze, twisting and curving out of sight. The wind moaning from within tasted dusty. Khuson strode forward while the others followed more slowly.

  “Sunset is less than two bells away.” Bast squinted at the horizon. “Any ideas how we’ll find a mystery object or spirit in that amount of time?”

  “Here’s a plan.” Khuson stretched his shoulders and jogged in place. “I’ll run around, see if I can’t find whatever it is.”

  “What if it finds you first?” Anjita, watching from the confluence, asked skeptically.

  He shrugged. “I’ll run fast.”

  “Let the man talk,” Bast grumbled. “He’s finally making sense.”

  “You’ll be killed!” Munayair didn’t mean for her voice to come out so loud and squeaky. Her cheeks warmed. Khuson grinned at her until his eyes were almost invisible, and she scowled in an effort not to smile back.

  Anjita’s sigh echoed in their ears. “I don’t need to point out, that’s a terrible plan.”

  “Agreed,” Munayair said. “No one’s going unless we can protect ourselves.”

  “How about this,” Khuson’s eyes lit up. “I’ll still run, but you can give me a shield or something.”

  “Shields don’t work like that,” Anjita sighed. “You can’t move once it’s in place. It has to stay grounded to the earth.”

  “Okay, what if Hadad holds me in his claws and we do a series of low dives—"

  “Shut up, khuttoch.” Bast was chewing on his lower lip, eyebrows lowered. Then he whirled to address Pich. “How far do the canyons go?”

  Pich settled back. “Leagues and leagues, a maze of winding hallways.”

  Far from becoming discouraged, Bast’s eyes lit up at the words. “Very twisty, would you say?”

  “It is so, emissary.”

  “Oh, is the kidnapper having an idea?” Anjita’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “This ought to be interesting.”

  Sweat beaded on Bast’s forehead. “And—how wide would you say the hill itself is?”

  “Not more than half a league across.” Pich’s words were slow and thoughtful. “When I was born, of course, it was much larger, but time has worn it away little by little.”

  “That’s not very much area for three people to search.” Bast pointed a finger at the cliff, and then continued raising it until it pointed at the flat top. “If the canyons are so very twisty, they’ll be close together from above. Right?”

  “Okay, I guess he can have one good idea,” Anjita grumbled.

  “Hear that?” Bast’s grin still reminded Munayair of a child. “We’ll go in pairs. As long as the sun is up, we can talk to each other, right?”

  Khuson’s eyes narrowed, a grin touching his mouth. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “But what if what we’re looking for is too small to be seen from that high up?”

  Bast’s grin faded. “Oh. Right.”

  “I could run—”

  “No!” Anjita and Munayair shouted in unison. Khuson wilted.

  “I have a better idea.” Munayair reached into her pocket, smiling. “The problem is searching this maze before it gets dark, right?”

  Bast’s forehead furrowed. “Yeah. So?”

  Her smile widened into a grin. “So, let’s make some friends who never get lost.”

  Chapter 43: Friends and Enemies

  Half a bell later, Munayair and Bast crouched beside the cliff. He kept an anxious watch on the sun while she worked. Ulger bobbed around, bringing dry twigs and grass. With tongue clamped between teeth, she traced the final glyph on Tel’s forehead. Seek. She rolled aching shoulders. Her eyes blurred and her hands shook around her pencil. Spirits, she was tired.

  Bast glanced from Tel to the pile of debris. “That tiny thing’s going to search the entire canyon?”

  “Never underestimate the small.” Munayair winked at Engge, grooming his wings on a rock. Pich, crouched nearby, lifted her head slowly.

  Engge hummed with interest. “So, this is mortal magic. Fascinating.”

  A scoff echoed. Tevulai dropped another twig in the pile and brushed back shining hair. “You mean slow,” she snapped. “Sorath hastens to his death, and still we wait.”

  “My apologies, Captain,” Munayair bowed. “I am almost ready.”

  A cheery laugh rang through the rocks. Dashjin came into view, at the head of a dozen ulger carrying a length of jungle vine twice as long as Munayair was tall. They dropped it beside the pile of twigs and grass and Dashjin danced over to join the rest. “We’ve gathered all the supplies you required, Lady Moon.”

  Tevulai rolled her eyes. “What would your father think of his heir working as a human slave?” she snapped. Dashjin did a loop-de-loop and ignored her, laughing again.

  “Lady Moon? Is that symbol difficult?” Engge hovered closer. “You’ve redrawn it three times.”

  Munayair smiled. “Chelka magic is always tricky,” she said. “Once activated, he will follow any imperative with exactness—to absurdity. There are thousands of symbols, each with complicated variations of shape and meaning. Even a tiny mistake could render him inert—or worse, send him off on the wrong task.”

  Tevulai scowled. “You said you were good at this.”

  “I am, but I can still make mistakes.” Munayair chuckled. “In my clan, a warning against pride is bayandan shig urigu udirdakh. Meaning ‘to conduct oneself as Bayal.”

  As she finished the final glyph, she told the story as Dame Savra used to. The pride of the magician, her rage in the face of repeated questioning, and her eventual downfall.

  “… and as she closed her eyes for the final time she heard: ‘Why?’ ”

  As the chelka’s final query rang out over the winding rocks, she nodded. “I’m done,” she said, glancing at the top of the cliff. “Khuson, are you in position?”

  His reply was swift. “Why?”

  She heard his laugh and fought back an answering smile. “Believe me, any construct of mine would have better manners.” A figure appeared at the cliff’s edge and waved. She waved back.

  “What happened to the chelka in the story?” Engge leaned forward.

  She shrugged. “Some believe it’s still in the world. Others say it was one of the gods. My cousin Zolzaya would argue that ch
elka can’t act that way—but she was always contrary.”

  “Cheerful tale, Naya,” Anjita said in their ears.

  Chuckling, Munayair checked the sun and set Tel on the sandy ground. As she touched the spell, his glyphs flashed and he leapt up, trembling. Obeying the commands on his forehead, he began to replicate himself. Before long, there were swarms of twig and grass chelka, glyphs shimmering to rival the ulger. The ulgeroi whooped.

  Rising higher to watch, Dashjin glowed brighter and brighter. “Amazing,” he gasped. “Are you sure they aren’t spirits?”

  Munayair smiled. “Nobody knows for sure. Something is inside them—perhaps it’s a soul.” She rolled tired shoulders, wiped sweat off her forehead, and reached for the vine the ulger had brought. She had to clamp both hands over it to pick it up, and her shoulders and back ached. Glancing around to see if anyone had noticed, she caught Bast watching her with a frown on his face. He looked away and said nothing.

  “These are my mother’s children.” Pich tilted her head at the chelka scampering around her feet. “A spark of her light dwells inside them.”

  Munayair glanced up from the glyphs she was sketching into the length of the vine. “My mother always said the same thing. That’s why chelka must be made from earth materials.”

  Dashjin alighted on Munayair’s shoulder, watching the ranks grow. “We’re ready.”

  And they were. Construction had finished, and the second imperative took hold. Like a living wave the chelka swarmed the cliff. They disappeared through the openings, feet scratching on stone and limbs waving.

  “Khuson?” Anjita said. “They’re coming.”

  “I see them,” his voice said in their ears. “Hard to miss. I’m circling north. Munayair, Bast, try to stay out of trouble.”

  “No fear,” Bast said. “Focus on your own self.”

  “Remember, if you hear them relaying a message, they’ve found something.” Munayair swallowed down anxiety. “But double-check—they have strange ideas sometimes.”

  Dashjin hovered higher to watch the last chelka disappear. He sighed, a grin still splitting his face. “We’ll go keep an eye on the uneg, then.”