Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  Avlingai had missed the second morning in a row.

  Munayair shuddered, dropping her eyes. She touched the cut Khuson had patched and found it completely healed, not even a scar. Fragments of poultice remained, and she caught the sharp scent of fagua cuur.

  “Are you ever going to tell her the truth?” Accusing words echoed in her mind. “Don’t you understand what I am yet?”

  “Find the man who is no man.” Adept Ajhai had said. “The deathbringer and the golden son. Death and life, good and evil. He who is his own shadow. You cannot succeed without him, Moony.”

  It seemed obvious to her now—Khuson had to be the one. How could it be anyone else? Her heart burned inside her every time she looked around expecting to see a mischievous grin and a saucy wink, hear the teasing cadence of his voice. She needed him to avoid miserable failure, and she had alienated him and driven him away. Like everyone else in her life.

  If you were here, Av, you would know what to say, she thought. She reached for her pocket and found it empty. Even Tel abandoned me.

  Impatiently, Osoljin gestured, and several of his vassals flew forward to shoulder the cage and bear it away. “I want to know how this happened,” he snapped. “The barrier has always detected corruption in the past. What has inspired this disastrous change?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” The branches overhead rustled, and Ennai dropped down near Munayair’s head, clinging with her toes. Her large purple eyes narrowed. “The defenses are failing. Soon we’ll be overrun.”

  Silence fell, a choking blanket. Anjita’s face went white and she touched the tattoos on her wrist, a movement of both habit and desperation. Bile rose in Munayair’s throat and she had to look away.

  “I will not deny this is a crisis,” Ronyl murmured, her hands folded in front of her. “I will do what I can, but we must be prepared.”

  Dashjin came alert, looking from the gokhai to his father. His wide eyes turned to the dark water of the spring, and his light dimmed even further. “Father,” he said.

  Eyebrows lowering, Osoljin nodded shortly. “I know my duty,” he grunted. “I must perform rites for my warrior, but I will be ready if the time comes.”

  “Father!” Dashjin cried. “You can’t! You’re not a High Elemental—the strain would kill you.”

  “Son,” Osoljin said, stern. “Do not shame me. I will do my duty, and so must you.” He turned and led his retinue of ulgeroi out of the room, a mournful and somber procession, wings barely flickering with light. Dashjin paused in the doorway, glancing back, but he followed his father without a word.

  The conversation continued, but Munayair heard none of it. The Great Cypress loomed overhead, leaves rustling in gusts of wind from the building storm. She could feel its interest and wondered what she looked like to a tree. A spark burning too fast, hurried and impatient. Whirling like a top thrown over and over, her mind returned again to the things they had learned. Bast had brought corruption inside with him. The brand on his chest connected him to Shivne, mind to mind, thought to thought. Everything they had said and done had been under the cruel black gaze of the mage. The barrier’s magic was designed to repel such an invasion, but somehow he had entered undetected. And despite his sacrifice in taking the glyphs outside, the mage’s poison had already begun to spread. Dozens of spirits were already infected, crowding inside the spring and watching in fear as corruption oozed into the water. The spring could cleanse them, but it was a slow process, and if more were to be corrupted …

  Anjita’s hand brushed Munayair’s shoulder and rubbed her back. “Are you all right?” she whispered. “You can’t blame yourself for this, Naya. It was Bast—he fooled us all.”

  “Please don’t,” Munayair choked out, burying her face in her arms. Khuson was right, she thought. I am not one of the innocents this sanctuary is meant to protect. I am the darkness they must be protected from.

  Three sparks of light shot through the roof and came to a halt in front of Ronyl. The ulgeroi were ragged, wings tousled, clothing torn. All the beings in the cavern came alert, hurrying forward to listen. Anjita helped Munayair to her feet and they also approached the gokhai in time to hear the ulger patrol report.

  “The storm is headed towards the human city,” their leader cried in an unsteady voice. “He threw his bolts at us—I think he has succumbed to corruption, my lady.”

  Whispers ran through the gathered spirits, cried and sobs echoed. Unhurried, Ronyl lifted her hands and a light gleamed in the center of her chest. “King Osoljin,” she called, “it’s time.”

  After a few moments of tense waiting, more sparks darted into the cavern. Osoljin stepped out of his light, forehead wrinkled and lips pressed together.

  Ronyl bowed low. “I never wished to ask this of you, King of the ulger.”

  Osoljin bowed shortly in return. “I am aware.” He looked at Dashjin. “My son, are you ready?”

  “I will not fail you, father,” Dashjin murmured. His eyes were downcast and his voice emotionless. “I will lead our people in your absence.”

  “So it is.” Osoljin’s brow furrowed as he turned away, a hint of a worried father under the stern facade. But he said nothing more as Ronyl approached him.

  “Drink.” She held out her palms. “Stay in the spring.”

  He bent and took a sip. As he stepped onto the surface of the water, a breeze blew through the room, stirring his hair and clothing. His shoulders bowed and he gasped.

  “It is done,” Ronyl said.

  Osoljin’s face beaded with sweat. “Hurry,” he gasped. “I can hold only until sunset.”

  “I should bring Hadad back,” Ronyl said, staring at the wall as ripples coruscated over her form. “How can I remain hidden here in this desperate time?”

  A tall form came forward—Unaraq, a scowl on his face. “Don’t even think of it, Lady Ronyl,” he growled. “Onol is within the spring.”

  Terrified whispers spread like waves over the spirits. Munayair saw tembu creeping into the branches of the cypress to hide. Delj sinking to the rocky floor to pray. Ulgeroi clustered together, a flickering ball of light too bright to look at. Worst of all, Ronyl stood at the heart of it, frozen, ice cracking over her form. Munayair’s heart thudded, and she groped for Anjita’s hand.

  “That’s right, Onol. The final end of the confluence. The doom of the gokhai.” Unaraq’s eyes glowed hellishly, fixed on Ronyl’s rigid face. “She is getting closer. Soon even crossing our path nine times will not be enough to keep her away. And then it won’t matter if Hadad is corrupted or not, because we will lose our river spirit, the foundation of our entire sanctuary.”

  Wordless, Ronyl regained herself, ice melting away into rippling water once again. At the same time, Anjita’s hand tightened around Munayair’s. Instantly she felt better, more able to breathe. Even the dark thoughts in her mind fled.

  “I agree.” Osoljin’s voice was strained. “You must stay safe within the confluence, milady gokhai.” He nodded to Munayair and Anjita. “We must trust the strength of mortals, as we did long ago.”

  “Of course we’ll help,” Anjita said stoutly. Then she touched her useless spells and hesitated.

  Munayair shook her head. “I will do what I can, but we are only two. And even if we had an army, the lightning ...” She suddenly remembered chelka classes with Adept Kasebi. An idea struck her, but it was so insane she held it back, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

  “Can you send any warriors with us?” Anjita was asking.

  “We can’t leave the barrier,” Unaraq snapped. “Rather than one corrupted elemental, you’d rather face thousands and doom us all to the grey death?”

  “I don’t care about the pit of snakes living above, but there are innocents in the village.” Anjita glared at the imp. “You would let them face the thunderer’s wrath alone?”

  “Keep your voice down, mortal,” Osoljin snapped, slumping even further. “This is a sacred place.”

  “Sacred, my—” Anjita began hot
ly.

  “Peace, peace,” Ronyl said. “I will not ask you to face our greatest air elemental empty-handed.”

  She held out her hands, and an object emerged from each palm. In one hand was a bow with arrows in a crumbling leather quiver. The wood was black with age, carved with spell glyphs, with shiny black stone arrowheads.

  “For you, Journeyer, the bow of Bartan Brightburning, greatest warrior of the Taellori. He who fought in the great war out of love for his queen. It is said the arrows always find their mark, and they can injure spirit matter as well as mortal flesh.”

  Anjita let out a sharp exclamation of excitement as she grabbed it. She examined the fine grain of the wood and the fletching with a reverent air. She then strung the bow with a practiced gesture and drew it back, testing the draw.

  More hesitantly, Munayair took the other object—another cage of water. It sat on her palm and glittered like crystal. She looked at it, a bitter taste in her mouth. “You want us to cage him?”

  Ronyl shook her head. “If he were in his right mind, Hadad would be the first to agree.” She laid a hand on Munayair’s shoulder. It was cold, burning ice. “I am sorry I have no great weapon to give you, Lady Moon.” Her hand shifted to rest over Munayair’s collarbone, where they could both feel the steady thudding of her heart. “I will say this—if you rely on what is in here, you will triumph. This is the promise of the Lady of the River.”

  Tears pricked Munayair’s eyes, and she dropped her gaze.

  “Firebringer. Earthshaker. Accursed.”

  “True Heir of Geshuu.”

  “You will never be an Adept of the Order of Words.”

  “Moony,” Ronyl whispered. Munayair lifted her head, a familiar objection already on her lips. The eyes of the gokhai were watching her with compassion, as if she could hear the chorus of doubting voices. “If nothing else, know I trust you. I have no doubt the heavens led you to us.”

  Lowering her eyes to disguise the tears filling her eyes, Munayair nodded wordlessly. A lump rose into her throat.

  “So, what’s our strategy?” Anjita said.

  Munayair looked up and was surprised to find everyone watching her. “Me?” she asked.

  Anjita rolled her eyes. “Of course! I’m the one who runs around and does things, you’re the one who plans what things I’m supposed to do.” She cupped her chin in her hand. “So plan something!”

  With every eye on her, Munayair was finding it difficult to think. Av! she cried inwardly, where are you when I need you? But there was only silence inside her head, so she opened her mouth and let words fall out. “Well … Hadad’s advantage is from the air, so the first step is to get him on the ground.”

  Osoljin grunted. “That will be difficult. Why would he even show himself if he can fry you with lightning from above?” Anjita glared, and he shrugged. “It’s what I would do.”

  “He’s right,” Munayair said, “But I think I know a way to neutralize his lightning.”

  A murmur went through the spirits, and Unaraq’s eyebrows rose. “How?”

  Taking in a deep breath, Munayair said, “If I can make a large enough chelka, it’ll catch all the lightning and convert it into power. Lightning always strikes the tallest object, right?”

  Ronyl chuckled, sweet as a summer brook. “Excellent,” she said. “What else?”

  “Well,” Munayair said, “A convincing enough illusion might lure him down. But I’m not sure what the illusion should be.”

  Like the snap of a log in a fire, Unaraq laughed. “Clever! I like this plan. If I can make a suggestion, the illusion of another thunder spirit would be a good bet. Thunderstorms are notoriously territorial—that’s why you usually only see one at a time.”

  “And then—once we get him low enough, that’s when Anjita will shoot him.” Munayair nodded to her friend. “And when he’s on the ground, I can cage him and bring him back.”

  Lifting a concerned hand, Ronyl said, “Injured and grounded, Lord Thunderer will be dangerous to approach. I don’t like the idea of you walking up to him unprotected.”

  “Well …” Munayair chewed on her lip, throwing a look at Anjita, whose eyebrows lowered in suspicion. “If there were some way to soothe him—convince him I was no threat—”

  “Just spill it, Naya.” Anjita tugged at the pin in her collar. “Your plan is full of holes, so you must have an idea of how to fill them. How do you plan to create a chelka so large it’ll draw all the lightning? Last time I checked, we didn’t have any huge chelka lying around. As for illusions, that’s not what I would call your strong suit either. Then this soothing thing … you’re not telling us everything. So spill it.”

  Munayair hesitated. “Well—I know where we can find all those things.”

  Anjita looked heavenward and groaned. “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to hate this?”

  Chapter 47: The Devil You Know

  “This has got to be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, Naya,” Anjita said through her teeth. “I’m supposed to be the one who makes rash decisions and gets into trouble. You’re the one who thinks things through.”

  They stood just inside the shimmering barrier, sweating with humidity and anticipation. All around them spirits waited tensely, Unaraq at their head. He had reluctantly agreed to go with them and represent the spirits. Neither Ronyl or Osoljin could leave the spring and Ennai had hidden in her tree at the suggestion, leaving only a resigned fire spirit.

  “Do you have a better idea?” Munayair asked.

  Anjita shook her head. “Get the spirits out and run.”

  Munayair looked at the tachoul massing beyond the barrier. Agitated, darker than usual, soundless mouths gaping. “There is no running from this,” she said.

  Slowly, Anjita unpinned the keeper moon from her collar and tucked it into her pocket. When she saw Munayair watching she offered a lopsided grin. “It’s strange to wear it while I’m surrounded by spirits,” she said.

  A tembu darted down from the treetops. “They’re coming!” it cried.

  After another few breaths, a dozen Adasari city guards marched into view in their dazzling blue and bronze uniforms. They halted a stone’s throw from the glimmering barrier, weapons gleaming in their hands. The gathered spirits murmured. Even Unaraq’s flames burned small and pale.

  “Now we’ve gone and hit the snake on the tail,” Anjita whispered, pale to the lips. She put a hand on Munayair’s shoulder and added, “I’m with you. Always.”

  The imp spoke in a loud, clear voice. “I am Unaraq, spirit of the undying flame. Who has answered the ancient summons?”

  The ranks of guards parted and servants staggered to the front, heavy-laden under the weight of a gilded palanquin. Inside, Lady Tarokh sat rod-straight in purple satin, thin lips pinched. Sachin strode at her side. At the sight of him, Anjita’s hands clenched into fists.

  Munayair grabbed her arm and whispered, “We need them, Jita.”

  “For now,” Anjita said, stroking the grip of her bow.

  Sachin saw Munayair and his eyes widened. He touched his mother’s shoulder and bent to hiss in her ear. She nodded without changing expression. The servants laid their burden on the grass and backed away. Lady Tarokh held out a beringed hand, and Sachin bent to help her to her feet. She minced a few steps through the muddy grass, then stood with hands folded over the top of her cane.

  “Oh my,” she said in her soft, astonished voice, scanning the gathered spirits. “It was true, all this time—the legends of the grove. And you’re finally calling for me.”

  “We heard your secret prayers, Chetana Tarokh.” Unaraq’s words snapped like sparks in the stillness. “All these long years, as you kept the old ways in silence.”

  Lady Tarokh’s knuckles whitened around the head of her walking stick, and her thin nostrils flared. “I don’t understand. If you heard, why were my prayers never answered? You were content to watch as our ancient bloodlines faded and blew away on the wind? If the Night Watcher truly sees all, why
did the mages offer to save us before our own protector?” Her hands trembled around the head of her walking stick. Sachin bent with a concerned expression, murmuring in her ear. She nodded and clasped her hands, lips pinching together. Her eyes fell on Munayair and Anjita. “Oh, it’s the missing adept and her friend!” she cried, waving a flowing sleeve at them. “Come away from there, girls, what place have mortals among spirits?”

  Sachin whispered in her ear, arms folded, glaring holes in Munayair.

  “Oh yes,” Lady Tarokh sighed, eyebrows taking on a plaintive shape. “It was bad of you to use that chelka spell on my son, Miss Sarem-Ori, very bad. In fact, it’s illegal, isn’t it? At any rate, he fainted in front of the entire village, after all the work I’ve put into our family image.”

  “Mother!” Sachin wailed.

  “You didn’t tell me that!” Anjita’s giggle rang through the trees.

  Lady Tarokh beckoned with one hand, rings flashing. “I would be willing to overlook the slight, Miss Sarem-Ori, if you come back over here where you belong.” She looked at the spirits and smiled. “Once the girl is in my custody, I will be happy to hear your appeal.”

  Sighing, Unaraq turned to Munayair. “What have you to say?”

  She folded her hands demurely. “I’m not going anywhere. Tying a chelka to a mortal’s energy is not illegal, though it is only to be used in case of emergency. I deemed the occasion sufficiently dire.” She met Sachin’s glare and schooled herself not to smirk. “Passing out in the inn yard doesn’t seem to have damaged anything but his pride.”

  Unaraq nodded. “There you have it. Your request is denied, mortal.”

  Several guards hid grins behind their hands. Audible popping noises rose from Sachin’s clenched knuckles and sparks flew from his eyes. Lady Tarokh held up a quelling hand and he subsided, seething. She studied Unaraq mildly. “How unfortunate you refuse me so bluntly. I’m not sure I wish to deal with such ill-mannered beings.”