Ink Adept Read online

  Ink Adept

  TatiAnna Tibbitts

  Copyright © 2021 TatiAnna Tibbitts

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: TatiAnna Tibbitts

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Mom,

  for teaching me kindness is most important.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: The Parable of Bayal

  Book One: Prentice

  Chapter 1: Dueling Class

  Chapter 2: Last Day

  Chapter 3: The Promise

  Chapter 4: Night of the Lone Moon

  Chapter 5: The Omen

  Chapter 6: Call of the Bell

  Chapter 7: Initiation

  Chapter 8: Spirits of the Lake

  Chapter 9: Goodbyes

  Book Two: Journeyer

  Chapter 10: Geshuu’s Heir

  Chapter 11: A Mute Murder

  Chapter 12: Local Trouble

  Chapter 13: The Sorrowing Raven

  Chapter 14: Memories

  Chapter 15: The Happy City

  Chapter : Hunger

  Chapter 17: Town Drunk

  Chapter 18: True

  Chapter 19: Pursuit

  Chapter 20: Golden

  Chapter 21: Mortal

  Chapter 22: Tel's Report

  Chapter 23: Collapsing

  Chapter 24: Tribute

  Book 3: Rescuer

  Chapter 25: Control

  Chapter 26: Relief

  Chapter 27: Perfect Trust

  Chapter 28: The Maze

  Chapter 29: Truth and Lies

  Chapter 30: Hand of the Goddess

  Chapter 31: Backs Against the Wall

  Chapter 32: Backlash

  Chapter 33: Uneg

  Chapter 34: The Speaking Trees

  Chapter 35: Spirit of the River

  Book Four: Liar

  Chapter 36: Avlingai's Absence

  Chapter 37: Trickster

  Chapter 38: Lord of Thunder

  Chapter 39: Glorious Death

  Chapter 40: Corruption

  Chapter 41: Lord of Hunger

  Chapter 42: The Path of Fire

  Chapter 43: Friends and Enemies

  Chapter 44: Thunder and Stone

  Chapter 45: Sacrifice

  Chapter 46: The Grey Death

  Chapter 47: The Devil You Know

  Book Five: Warrior

  Chapter 48: Stormfront

  Chapter 49: Spitting Into the Wind

  Chapter 50: First Love

  Chapter 51: Windsinger

  Book Six: Destroyer

  Chapter 52: Ennai's Warning

  Chapter 53: Last Unendee

  Chapter 54: Fire and Water

  Book Seven: Soulseer

  Chapter 55: The Cataract

  Chapter 56: Last Love

  Epilogue: Prime Candidate

  Prologue: The Parable of Bayal

  bayal-al shir udiru u-idaj

  -Sayakhun proverb, literal meaning “to conduct oneself as Bayal”

  A certain glyphmaster of eld, Bayal, prided herself on her mastery of chelka magic. She believed the grace of her constructs, the artistry of her glyphs, and the intricacy of her imperatives to be peerless. Kings and warlords paid bags of jewels for one of her chelka to slave in their palaces and armies. Among the nobility, owning a chelka with Bayal’s insignia was a measure of wealth and discernment. If a house was known to be guarded by one of Bayal’s, no thief would dare steal from it. From the jungles of the south to the steppes of the north, the name of Bayal was spoken with awe and wonder. But the more fame she achieved, the more discontent seeped like poison into the bottom of her heart.

  One night, Bayal tossed upon her bed, consumed by a single idea: Today they know my name, but in fifty years—a hundred—they will speak of me no more. Then a thought sprung into her mind as if whispered by the laughing voice of Aïda Windsinger herself. She would do what nobody else had: she would make a chelka with speech.

  So Bayal took the first chelka she had made, sitting clumsy and ill-proportioned next to her newer ones. Then she bent her great mind to the task of giving it speech. After long moons of struggle, she drew upon its forehead a single glyph of breathtaking simplicity.

  “Surely I astonish even the gods,” Bayal said.

  As her other chelka watched, she activated it with trembling fingers. Immediately, it leapt to its feet and said one word. “Why?”

  Bayal chuckled at the newly enlightened thing. “To expand the knowledge of humankind,” she boasted. “For the betterment of the world, and to magnify our role within it.”

  The chelka looked and said:

  “Why?”

  “To prove that I, Bayal, am preeminent among magicians! I alone have accomplished this thing, and now my name will live forever!”

  The chelka said, “Why?”

  “Enough,” Bayal commanded. “We will travel to the courts of the world for king and lord and peasant alike to revere my accomplishment.”

  “Why?”

  Bayal quaked with rage. “Impertinence,” she cried. “You exist only to serve me. My hands formed you, gave you life—you have no purpose beyond my will!”

  “Why?” the chelka wondered.

  Bayal quaked again, this time with fear. “I see I have erred,” she said. “The gods gave me this gift, and I have not yet thanked them.”

  She prostrated herself. But as the days passed, she heard only one response:

  “Why?”

  Bayal screamed at the chelka to leave her be. It replied thus:

  “Why?”

  Thereafter, no chelka Bayal constructed would follow her commands. Since the speaking chelka was their eldest brother, they followed him in whatever he did. Now, all her chelka would do nothing but sit and watch in silence as the question echoed over and over and over.

  “Why? Why? Why? Why?”

  Bayal’s trade dried up. Since none of her chelka obeyed their imperatives, most were burned or deactivated. The name once spoken with reverence now became a joke or a curse, a tale to warn children with. She died not long after, begging from place to place with silent hordes of chelka dogging her steps. And as she closed her eyes for the final time she heard:

  “Why?”

  -Retelling by Unsalkhiin Savra, in the tent of Sarem-Oryn Darun, 260 EE

  Book One: Prentice

  Chapter 1: Dueling Class

  Breathe. Like we practiced.

  Obediently, Munayair closed her eyes and focused, reaching for cool and stillness inside. She ignored the creaking of boot leather, the rustling of cloth, the whispering voices, the heat of the sun on her neck—even the niggling fear she had butchered the command glyph. Everything except the calm certainty dwelling deep within. No matter how many duels she fought, the nerves would never go away.

  The soft voice in her mind continued: Don’t fret. Chelka almost never turn on their creator.

  Thank you for the comfort, Munayair responded silently, rolling her eyes. She scratched an itch on her wrist, then hovered her fingers over a spell tattooed on the meat of her thumb. “I’m ready, Adept Hematti,” she said aloud.

  A black-garbed woman k
neeling nearby nodded. She turned to the other side of the courtyard. “Prentice Eng?” she called to another girl dressed in a purple tunic like Munayair’s.

  Asavari Eng’s face was ashen, but her eyes glittered with determination. “Ready,” she said, tossing a thick black braid over her shoulder.

  The clear light of morning fell on a courtyard garden of fruit trees and herb beds. Spiky vines scaling the walls almost obscured the glyphs carved into every handspan of white stone. In the center of the courtyard, the two young women knelt on opposite sides of a painted circle of glyphs. The glyphs flashed in warning when the jostling crowd of women and girls stepped too close. Colorful tunics marked the prentices, younger women still learning the magical arts. Those in black stood apart, having attained the rank of ink adept and spiritual guardianship of the world.

  Apart from Munayair and Asavari, only two other objects lay inside the flashing circle of glyphs. On the ground in front of Asavari was a handful of stones strapped together with leather, forming the rough facsimile of a person. In contrast, Munayair had carved her construct from wood. Joints of spidersilk and rubber, a glistening forehead fashioned from white ceramic. Glyphs sketched in ink adorned each construct’s wrists, ankles, and forehead. These were chelka, assembled from earth materials. Animated by glyphs of command and powered with energy stored inside their bodies. Tools of the ink adept.

  “Begin.” Adept Hematti settled back with narrowed eyes.

  Both duelists ran their fingers over a line of text tattooed onto their left hand. The waiting crowd held its breath as, for a long moment, nothing happened. Squirming, Asavari peered at her chelka, hands crumpling the silk on her thighs. Heartbeat thudding in her ears, Munayair sat with eyes downcast, hands folded in her lap.

  Waiting is the hardest part, the soft voice said inside her mind. Patience is the mark of the true master.

  Suddenly, the air over the circle darkened, shadowed by a phantom cloud. At the same moment, the spell glyphs painted on the two chelka began to glow with a clear white light. Some of the gathered crowd stepped back a few paces.

  Another moment of silence. Munayair ignored the sweat trickling down her face.

  A scraping sound echoed through the courtyard, and Asavari’s construct of stones swelled. Subtly at first, then faster and faster until the smallest had reached the height of a horse’s shoulder. The leather straps grew taut while they lengthened and broadened. Gasps of awe echoed around the courtyard as the haphazard pile of rocks shifted. It raised a rocky forearm and levered itself into a sitting position. Then it leaped to its feet, shaking the ground and towering above the crowd. The command glyph glowed on its face. Munayair beamed across the circle at Asavari, who grinned back, red-faced but triumphant. Murmurs washed over the crowd like ripples, eyes flitting between the two contestants.

  The crowd turned in anticipation, but Munayair’s wooden construct wasn’t growing as the stones had. Instead, blurred motion flickered in the area where it had lain. The rock giant lumbered across the arena with a stiff, purposeful stride. The crowd held its breath.

  Munayair lowered her head, keeping her eyes on her chelka. Although she could no longer affect his actions, she needed a distraction from the expectant eyes. “Like we practiced, Tel,” she whispered.

  A small wooden figure appeared on top of the rock giant’s head. Chuckles rose from the audience as he did several back flips and a handstand before leaping to the ground. Unaware, the rock creature stood in the center with a not-so-bright look on its stony visage. Asavari’s eyes narrowed.

  Meanwhile, Tel scampered to the edge of the dusty circle, stick arms moving busily. Murmuring among themselves, the crowd shoved closer. All along the line of glyphs, tiny figures jumped to their feet, clinging to the edge to avoid the huge rock monster. Unnoticed by the crowd and the rock-monster, Tel had been building them from twigs fallen from the vines growing on the walls. Within moments, he had dozens of small followers, all swarming around the rock-monster’s feet. Whenever a stick-chelka got too close, the rock-monster raised a massive foot to crush it, but the tiny chelka were too fast.

  “She’s cheating! Only one chelka per person!” Asavari jumped to her feet. Nobody paid any attention.

  At first there were only a few dozen little shadows darting around the painted ring. But with all joining in the work, their numbers swelled as the rock monster had. Within moments, they carpeted the inside of the circle like a mist on the ground.

  Then the real attack began.

  Twig chelka swarmed their enormous rocky foe. Massing underfoot to trip it. Squirming inside its rocky joints. Sawing at its leather trappings with their sharp thorns. The rock monster’s enormous fists crushed dozens at a time into powder, but hordes more overran every gap they found. Several times, it hit itself in the face and lost its balance. Asavari glared across the ring at Munayair, who kept her gaze on the ground.

  The snap of breaking leather echoed all over the courtyard. Gasps rose from the crowd—one enormous rock arm swung uselessly. The rock chelka spun, helpless and unbalanced. Hundreds of the twig constructs swarmed its body. Thorns rasped at the glowing ink on the rock-monster’s forehead. The eerie silence was broken only by the crunching of rocks as the enormous chelka struggled to smash its tormentors.

  A cry rose from the crowd. The twig chelka had broken the command glyph on the rock chelka’s forehead. Flickering, its light went out. The monster stumbled, swayed. With a dry creaking sound, it collapsed once again into a simple pile of stones. Rumbling like cartwheels, they shrank back to pebble size. Asavari folded her arms and scowled. The duplicate chelka came to a standstill, shivered, and fell to pieces, once again nothing more than spiny twigs.

  Munayair held out her hand and her original chelka leaped into her palm. The courtyard exploded with cheers. “Well done, Tel,” she whispered.

  Well done, the voice in her mind echoed.

  I could never have done it without your help, she replied silently. The voice, perhaps in assent, made no reply.

  Chapter 2: Last Day

  “Impressive!” Adept Hematti leaped to her feet, an enormous grin spreading over her face.

  Asavari stalked forward, finger jabbing aggressively. Her cheeks were flushed and her black eyes glittered. Tel, clinging to the front of Munayair’s robes, turned his blank ceramic face to confront her. “You cheated, Sarem-ori! The rules clearly state—”

  “One construct per duelist, yes.” Munayair bowed while laying a quelling hand on Tel. The attack glyph was specific to other chelka, but Tel sometimes enlarged on his imperatives. If he assaulted Asavari, there would be a scene she didn’t want to deal with. “I think you’ll find I only constructed one.”

  “Milady!” Asavari turned on Adept Hematti. “The rules!”

  But Adept Hematti waved an impatient hand, glittering eyes still fixed on Tel. “Are upheld in this case. There is no rule against the chelka itself creating duplicates.” She clapped Munayair on the shoulder and Asavari’s expression soured further. “The winner is clear. Pay your respects before leaving the dueling circle.”

  “Yes, Adept Hematti.” They bowed with hands folded in respect, then rose and eyed each other.

  “Prentice Sarem-ori, well-played,” Asavari grumbled.

  “And you, Prentice Eng.” Munayair winced as Tel tugged at her hair. “Your construct was impressive.”

  “It took me more than a moon to get right,” Asavari muttered. She yanked on the sliced leather no longer holding her chelka’s arm to its body.

  Stroking Tel’s smooth, cool forehead, Munayair winced, knowing how Asavari must be feeling. She had built Tel almost four years ago. Checking him for cracks, tearing in the joints, or other damage was a daily task. Whenever they participated in a duel, she had to hide her fear that he would be irreparably damaged. Folding her hands, she bowed low to the fallen stone chelka. Asavari’s eyes softened, although she covered it with a scoff and turned away.

  Straightening, Munayair rejoiced that
Asavari no longer seemed to consider them enemies, though in truth it hardly mattered. Their paths might never cross again after initiation. After tonight, they would shed the colorful robes of the prentice and don the grey robe, leaving behind everything they knew to live the wandering life of a journeyer.

  Adept Hematti squeezed Munayair’s shoulder. “In my years teaching, I’ve never seen a more successful replication spell. The spirits blessed you with knowledge, as before?”

  Munayair sighed and bowed to her dueling instructor. “Something like that.”

  “How much our people could learn from yours!” Adept Hematti bowed. “It’s a pleasure to see you at work.”

  As she straightened, Munayair reflected that at least Adept Hematti meant well. Better than turning up her nose at Munayair’s heritage or pretending it didn’t exist. But in some ways, open disdain was preferable to well-meaning but ignorant stereotyping. In the eight years she had studied at the Marble Hall, she must have said “Sayakhunii don’t pray to spirits” a million times. And now on graduation day she needed to say it again.

  Tomorrow you’ll be gone, the quiet voice said inside her mind.

  Don’t remind me, she groaned inwardly. I have half a mind to go prostrate myself before Adept Attar’s study and not move until she lets me stay on as a teacher.

  It’s your duty to go out into the world as a journeyer, the voice reminded her. Find a new prentice to take your place. If all journeyers refused to leave the shelter of these walls, where would you be now?

  Don’t remind me. Swallowing back her fear, she turned to face the crowd. Prentices in colorful tunics crowded around, shouting and shoving. The black-garbed adepts approached in a statelier fashion to offer congratulations. “Excuse me, please,” Munayair tried to say, but nobody paid any attention. Each one wanted to touch her hand and offer a word of congratulations, which Munayair struggled to accept with grace. In mimicry of her discomfort, Tel hid his face in her shoulder. Desperate to escape, she lied, “I need to get to my next class.”