Ink Adept

By TatiAnna Tibbitts

When ancient evil begins to rise again, a hesitant young magician must overcome cultural prejudice as well as her own fears if she is to save her friend, her country, and ultimately, herself.

Munayair is a remnant of the conquered Taellori

• Language: English
• Publisher: TatiAnna Tibbitts
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087959825

TatiAnna Tibbitts

TatiAnna Tibbitts grew up as part of a large family in Southern California. When she was five years old, she wrote and illustrated her first book, which her older brothers made fun of. Despite this early literary criticism, TatiAnna enjoys reading and writing fantasy and romance, and still likes drawing dragons. Her first published book, Ink Adept, is available for purchase.

Book preview

PART ONE

Book One: Prentice

Chapter 4

· 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 kneeling 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 5

· 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.

Yet another girl approached, older than Munayair but wearing the same purple robes. Gora Kinian’s long hair hung past her waist, and she moved with a practiced grace. Well done, Naya, she said.

You made it. Munayair nodded welcome.

Smirking, Gora looked around at the younger prentices, who drew back and watched with avid eyes. The oldest students of the Marble Hall, purples gained an almost mythological status among the younger ranks. Munayair found the attention uncomfortable, while other purples reveled in it. As Gora placed a hand on Munayair’s shoulder, she spoke so all might hear. I wrote to my father, adviser to the Khalifah of Arshvan, about your skills as a glyphmaster. He could find you an apprenticeship in city government, or the household of a minor royal in Dakhosam—even South Thinavaru. I’ve said it before, talent like yours is meant for greater things than the Hall, Naya.

Munayair studied Gora’s ashen cheeks and trembling smile. You’re looking pale, she said. If you spoke to Adept Hayaii—

I’ll fast the whole day, same as the rest. Gora grumbled. Gods know I need as much spiritual strength as I can get. Plus, the fog keeps me from panicking.

A bell rang overhead—once, twice, shimmering in the air. The watching prentices jumped, murmured, and began to disperse. Munayair stepped away and bowed low to Gora. As ever, your support means the world to me, she said. I’ll see you at the ritual tonight.

And I must finish packing. As they moved away from each other, Gora called after Munayair. It’s amazing how things accumulate, isn’t it? Even the monkish way they make us live here!

You call this monkish? Munayair shot back. Try living in the back of a wagon for a few seasons. She caught Gora’s answering grin before slipping out through a side door. The corridors were dark and quiet, and she reveled in the cool air after the oppressive heat of the courtyard. Soon she came to another door, taller and heavier than the others. As she tugged it open, the familiar scent of hay and horses washed over her. She crossed to the line of stalls, pulling a wrinkled apple out of her sleeve while looking around guiltily. Aruna, her favorite pony, was a sturdy chestnut who nickered when he saw her. He slobbered the apple out of her palm while she rubbed his neck and forelock, whispering gentle nonsense.

Well, well. Munayair jumped. Adept Futsu, the animals mistress, peered over the door of a nearby stall. Fluffy black curls made a halo around her head, and the soft gleam of her eyes belied her thunderous scowl. You again. No rest for me, not even on the Lady’s sacred day?

Bowing, Munayair concealed a smile. Happy Dhinse Unen, Adept Futsu.

Happy, she says. I’m meant to jump for joy, watching you fatten ponies I’ve no time to exercise? You’ll take him out yourself, girl, and no arguments.

Munayair bowed silently, tears pricking her eyes. She wished she could express her gratitude for Adept Futsu’s friendship but knew the acerbic adept would simply scoff it away.

Get on, the bell won’t wait for you. With a dismissive wave, Futsu turned away.

Leading Aruna to a set of heavy double doors, Munayair touched a glyph carved in the wall and they rumbled open to admit a blast of hot air and brilliant light. She tugged the pony out into the open desert, mouth already dry and gritty. Dry wind fluttered in her tunic and salt-crusted hardpan crunched under her boots.

Munayair glanced around at the morning landscape. Her heart sank. The day she dreaded had arrived. A day of farewells. The two moons danced close together, preparing for their yearly eclipse. Dignified Bader, a silver disc against the sky, and grinning Howler, wolf’s teeth prominent in the light. The landscape stretched away flat as a tabletop, shadows fleeing the sun’s blazing eye. Sorath heaved himself higher in the brilliant blue sky, escaping from the underworld for another day in his endless cycle of rebirth.

A friendly breeze toyed with her hair and the sleeves of her robe, and she looked around with a smile. It was a tembu flying close to her face, an iridescent creature with narrow, pointed wings and a sinuous blue body. Good morrow, child of the sky, Munayair said, bowing her head respectfully. Which quarter of the world have you flown here from? Any news to share?

The tiny creature hovered closer, wingtips fluttering, but it did not respond to her question. She sighed and held out a hand, and it slid up her arm, a warm and inquisitive desert breeze. She had been able to see spirits ever since she was little, a rare ability even among the clans of Sayakhun. Some would speak to her, while others did not—she could never be sure. This one was silent. She giggled as it explored her hair, tangling the straight black strands.

As Aruna nibbled at spiny desert plants, Munayair stopped for a moment to tug Tel’s wooden limbs away from her tunic. He drooped and the glyphlight faded as kinetic energy ran out of the spell matrix. She knelt on the sand and watched as he slumped, life evaporating. All things must die, in time. She tried to comfort herself with the thought. Even the universe, according to legend. When the wolf in the sky and the dragon at the center of the world were finally freed, they would tear all creation into nothingness.

Closing her eyes, Munayair bent forward and rested her forehead on the rough sand. The tembu flew in circles, dust rising in its wake. She rose and folded her hands, on which ink-black spell tattoos stood out in stark relief from her tan skin, and bowed low to the northern horizon. Oh great Sorath, she murmured, Lord of fire and of victory, I pray your mighty aid this day. Every night you die and fight your way back to be born anew in the morning. Tonight, I must do the same. She shuddered, bowed lower. Grant me a little of your courage and fortitude, my lord.

Pressing her forehead to the rock, she inhaled before rising to face westward. Napai, lord of the sea, your might is unending and your tides are tireless. Give me your strength and will to endure, to face the task ahead of me until it is completed and conquered.

She turned to the left and bowed to the south and the mountains like a bruise on the wavering horizon. Wise and powerful lady Jöra, Earthmother, your fertility and creativity fill the land with life and vitality. I will need those to make it through initiation this night. I pray your blessings on myself and all other prentices.

She turned again, bowing now towards the east. Oh Aïda, breath of wind, she said. The tembu drifted closer. Munayair smiled at it and continued. In the old tales you brought news to weary travelers and hurried them on their way. I am nearing the end of my task, but I ask for the loan of some of your fleetness of foot in this last weary mile.

The wind spirit’s snakelike body twisted restlessly, eager to be gone. She held up a hand in friendly farewell as it raced off. Spirits had become rare in recent years, even in her wild homeland of Sayakhun, where wolves still howled and snow-capped peaks rose into the sky. Here among the ice-worn mountains and warm winters of the south, she treasured each sighting. She shaded her eyes to watch it disappear straight into the electric blue sky.

She straightened and spoke directly to the silver crescent of Bader, the moon. Although speaking to the fifth and final god did not come easily to her as a Sayakhun, today she needed every blessing she could get. Great Lady of Spirit, my teachers say you grant us the power and the will to guide the world. Shed your light upon me and all prentices today, to overcome our fear and doubts. Give us the wisdom to lead all men along the righteous path.

Pressing against the warm sand, she exhaled. Envisioning her prayers rising into the sky like the tembu. From there, finding their way to the faraway land where the gods had hidden from the wickedness of men.

As she straightened, she pressed the backs of her hands against her eyes. "Never show your eyes after prayer," rang through her mind in her old nurse’s cracked voice. "Evil spirits will chew your soul to splinters." When she lowered her hands, she looked around to be sure she was alone. No matter how often her teachers scolded, she had never liberated herself from the pagan beliefs of her homeland.

Munayair knelt for a moment longer, rubbing at an ache in her wrist. Futilely, she wished for Sorath to turn backward, for time to reverse to a younger and more innocent day. But such thoughts were useless. Today was today, no spell could change the truth. She stood and smoothed her tunic over the churning of her stomach. The pangs of hunger and nerves were indistinguishable now—both gnawed at her guts like dragons. Seeking distraction, she lowered her head and walked in slow circles through the salt pan, bending to grab small, smooth stones. Within a few moments, the pockets of her tunic were heavy and clanking. As she moved automatically, her thoughts were free to wander. They followed the tembu into the sky, into the freedom so valued by his windwalking mother.

Her people, the Sayakhun nomads, venerated spirits above any god. In the northern steppes, shrines stood at every spring and grove for the clans to worship as they passed. But even in Sayakhun, spirits were becoming less and less common. In the old tales, spirits were as thick on the ground as sand. In fact, ancient Taellori travelers had written of droves of sand spirits in the northern deserts. But nowadays meeting even a wind spirit was unusual. Were spirits dying off? Or were they, as the religion of the adepts taught, simply becoming obsolete?

A bell rang not far away, and she jumped.

She urged Aruna back towards a wall of white stone turrets rearing overhead. Every block was carved with glyphs, spells of protection and defense. Hidden in the sandy ground below their feet, hundreds of leagues of tunnels wandered through the bedrock, a glimpse into the history of the fabled building. The Marble Hall had been a stronghold during the Taellori wars, before the adepts turned it into a school.

The bell rang again, insistent. Munayair ran back to the stable, Aruna blowing indignantly beside her. She rubbed him down before feeding him another apple and saying goodbye with a quick kiss on his forelock.

Smoothing back wayward strands of black hair, she slipped through the door and closed it behind her. The dark corridor beyond had only one other occupant, a man-sized cleaning chelka using a rush to light the torches. She ignored it and kept moving, brushing dust from her tunic. The third toll of the bell jolted her into a faster walk. She lowered trembling hands to her sides and allowed her billowing sleeves to cover them as she raced up a flight of stairs. The higher she went, the more evidence of life—thundering boots, snatches of voices from rooms she hurried past.

A chattering group of younger girls, wearing identical green tunics, appeared from a side passage. One bowed to Munayair as she passed, calling out, Blessed Lady’s Day, Prentice Sarem-ori! The other greens repeated the courtesy.

Munayair nodded. And you girls, study hard for initiation to red! She smiled as she watched them bustle away down a staircase.

A black-garbed woman appeared in the nearest doorway, scowling, but her expression lightened when she saw Munayair. She pleaded, Munayair Sarem-ori, would you keep the festivities to a low roar in the corridor? My students are trying to concentrate!

Apologies, Adept Kasebi. Munayair bowed and sped on, grinning.

A delicious smell wafted from a flight of stairs. Munayair’s stomach growled as she envisioned the bustling scene in the kitchens. She and the other purples, senior prentices in the Hall, had been fasting for a full day now in preparation for Dhinse Unen. Her path wound deeper into the center of the Hall until she emerged into dazzling sunshine. Sorath’s eye scorched a courtyard stinking of dust and sweat and picked out the dizzying forms of red tunics, the complicated dance of the sword, and wooden blades spinning. Munayair found a seat in the shade.

Blades up! Mind your feet! A taller girl threaded through the reds, curls scraped back ruthlessly into a bun, wearing leggings under her purple tunic. On her collar flashed a round white pin, symbol of the order of keepers, those adepts dedicated to protecting the sacred name of the Lady of Words. Anjita Mahil’s quick gaze flickered over the reds. Somehow, her hands were even quicker to correct posture and footwork. Quickest of all, her tongue deployed praise or criticism. Her eyes met Munayair’s from across the yard, and she roared at the perspiring prentices, Take a moment for water, trainee reds! A moment later, she crashed onto the bench beside Munayair, guzzling from her waterskin. Five gods, this desert sun. Eight years, and it still makes my head spin. She sniffed and made a face. You stink like horses. You went to the stables before coming to see me?

Munayair shrugged, grinning. Ducking my admirers, she said. You know how it is.

Ah! Anjita’s eyes lit and she scooted closer avidly. Come on. Tell me how it went. Did Eng cry? Obligingly, Munayair described the events of her chelka exam, enjoying the rapt audience she had in Anjita, who interrupted often to pry out more details. After the description of the grand finale, she let out a low scream and wiggled in her seat. Ah, I’m so glad you gave Eng a comeuppance. She stood, swigging water once more. She’s been getting very lordly in glyph class.

A group of reds had gathered around them, checking the angle of the sun. Milady Anjita, one girl said. The bell will ring soon.

Someone else ventured, You had promised us, as it is your last day . . .

Ah. Anjita feigned sternness, but a grin broke over her face. So I did. Excellent memory, Prentice Butuiin. Very well, get your gear.

The reds gave a cheer, scattering to drop their wooden blades back onto the rack and fetch bows and quivers. They gathered at one end of the courtyard across from bales of hay affixed with targets. Laughing and chattering, they strung bows and tested arrows for imagined strengths or weaknesses. Soon a good-natured competition began. Many arrows skittered across the stone floor, buried themselves in the hay, or clattered off the back wall, but a fair few thunked into the targets. Some even came near the center, always cause for a round of screaming and hugging. Anjita walked from group to group, encouraging, correcting, and laughing right along with them. Her own bow hung on her back, though she never moved to shoot it.

Munayair watched from the cool of the terrace, smiling at the excitement and commotion. I remember being a red, she thought. This day had seemed so far away. Life was always going to be sweet and carefree.

How fast the time goes, the soft voice in her mind mused. Always on and on, like a river. But where does it go? Where is the ocean?

Enough philosophy, she returned. You’re going to give me a headache again.

The ringing of the bell interrupted the fun, and everyone turned to Anjita. Your turn, milady, one girl prompted.

Anjita stepped forward, smirking. I’ve been practicing, too, she said.

In one smooth movement, she pointed her bow towards the sky and loosed the arrow. The gathered prentices shrieked and chattered behind their hands, tracking as it became a dot, vanishing in the sun. Then, faster than the eye could follow, stooped back to ground. It buried itself into the central pile of hay, deep enough a distinct click echoed from the dusty stones as the point hit. There were groans and cheers, and girls dug in their pockets, combs and ribbons changing hands. The crowd filed past the purples on their way out of the courtyard, bidding Anjita farewell with cheery smiles and waves, some clasping her hands. Most spared a bow for Munayair and a word or two. Munayair replied in kind, and then they were gone.

Anjita moved around the courtyard, straightening weapons and summoning chelka to remove the targets and hay. She retrieved her own arrow from the pile and touched the chipped point ruefully. It’s a silly trick, but it makes them gasp so! I couldn’t resist. She tucked the arrow away in her quiver and squinted at Munayair’s face. Well, will you congratulate me for never once resorting to beating the ninnies over the head?

Munayair grinned. Impressive, especially for you.

Come along so. Anjita grimaced expressively. I need to freshen up before glyphs final.

Their boots scuffled as they ran down the hallway and flitted up a flight of wrought-iron stairs. Side by side they raced along a corridor lined with small doors, but before they made it to the end, the oil lamp on the wall flickered and died.

Anjita groaned. Someone needs to repair the spells on those mudmen, she muttered, rubbing the first finger on her left hand in a practiced gesture. They never refill the lamps. As she touched the ancient words tattooed onto the finger, a soft yellow ball of light sprang into being next to her hand. She gestured and it rose to take its place by her left shoulder. Munayair followed suit, summoning her own witchlight of cool green. A few flights of stairs later, they entered the room—cell, really—they had shared since they had first come to the Marble Hall. Small and bare, one narrow window and two cots on a stone floor, a screen in one corner.

I see you still haven’t packed. Anjita laid her bow and quiver on her cot and looked over at Munayair’s half of the room, strewn with the accumulated detritus of eight years.

Munayair grimaced. I’ll finish later. She made a few desultory swipes at the mess with her feet, then settled onto her cot and frowned at her folded hands. Broad and strong with square fingernails, skin a cool light brown. Marked with words, the tongue of the conquered Taellori, her vanished ancestors. The language of magic, though not when spoken. Only through touch could an adept command the wind to blow, fire to blossom, ground to shake underfoot.

Later? Anjita glanced over her side of the room, bare apart from her stripped cot and two bulging saddlebags.

Munayair looked away from her hands and reached into her pocket, retrieving Tel. The complicated replication glyph was still smeared across his forehead. Well, what shall we do today? she said, rubbing his smooth face clean with her sleeve.

Anjita shed her clothes behind the screen and donned a white shift with flaring sleeves. Meanwhile, Munayair fished a grease pencil from her pocket and began sketching glyphs on the chelka’s ceramic head. Stay close, one said, and another commanded, Look, report.

What have you got left before tonight? Anjita tugged a purple tunic over her head and began braiding her hair.

Munayair replied absently, focusing on the glyphs. Just class with the whites, but not until sixth. Adept Rathore called off class today, so I’ve a free bell.

Not me, Anjita groaned. Kasebi’s testing us again, five gods put a curse on her head! I’m up to my ears in runes, and they all look the same to me. She keeps hinting we’ll use them during initiation, but I refuse to believe it. She shuddered, buttoning the front of her bodice and moving the keeper pin to her fresh collar. You’re meant to face your worst fears down there, so I suppose I’ll be meeting the Boney Man.

"He comes limping out of shadows cast by the lone moon. Munayair looked up and smiled. Remember when you made me sleep in your bed because you thought you heard it rattling the door?" She fished a scrap of parchment from her pocket and unfolded it to reveal a pattern of glyphs, circles spiraling towards the center. She touched a spell on her wrist and the glyphs began to glow, lifting off the paper and spinning around in the air in ever-shifting designs. They moved faster and faster and coalesced into a tiny ball no larger than the tip of Munayair’s pinky finger. The glow intensified until it was too brilliant to look at. At the height of its fervor, it shot towards Tel and disappeared into the exact center of his mass. Tel’s glyphs flashed and glowed with a steady white light. He trembled in her hand, then jumped to explore at once, burrowing under the blanket and peering underneath the bed.

We were whites then, weren’t we? Anjita shook her head, eyes dim with memory as she bent to lace her boots. Foolish, skinny things! Scared of our own tears. Not much has changed. You still don’t have a figure to speak of.

Munayair threw her pillow, but without much force. At least I’m not afraid of some fairy tale.

Sticking out her tongue, Anjita rose with a good-natured smile. Come on, lazy-bones. Two pairs of hands will make the work quicker. Munayair sighed but didn’t argue. As they bent to tidy her things, Tel trotted over to the window and swung himself onto the sill, looking out at the desert beyond.

I wonder who will be in this room next, Anjita said. A couple of whites scared out of their wits, crying themselves to sleep at night! They’ll hate each other at first.

I never hated you, Munayair said, laying her saddlebags on the bed.

I hated you. Anjita said cheerfully while kicking Munayair’s belongings into rough piles. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know I love you now. Most of the time.

Together they gathered Munayair’s clothes, books, pencils, battered abacus, identification papers, teeth sticks, and other belongings, and tucked them away in her saddlebags. Tel pattered around, touching everything.

Anyway, hatred is a natural part of the bunking experience, Anjita continued. You should hear the screaming during practice. It’s always the bunkmates. Stolen clothes and leaking bodily fluids don’t even touch it.

I guess we both were lucky, Munayair said.

They smiled at each other. Tel tugged on Munayair’s sleeve and tapped one wooden hand on the floor, spelling out letters in the code all chelka used to communicate. She listened, nodding as she understood what had concerned him.

Enemy. Half finger long. Six legs.

You found a bug? Thank you. I’m sure it’s not an enemy or a spy. Keep looking. Satisfied, Tel scampered away.

Meanwhile, Anjita’s eyes had gone distant once again. I’ve changed my mind about where we should go first. Her voice dropped to a whisper. Bui-tara.

Bui-tara? A wave of uneasiness rocked Munayair’s stomach and she straightened. Spirits, why?

Anjita shrugged. I’ve always wanted to go. I could preach the true doctrine of the Lady. Start a revolution and free them from heresy!

Munayair’s heart pounded. Bui-tara’s split from the Southern Alliance had happened 200 years ago, but the wounds were still fresh. Jita, please stop talking such dangerous nonsense and promise me you’ll stay far away from Bui-tara. Female magicians are blasphemers there. The mages would cut off your hands and burn you alive!

Only if they caught me. Anjita’s eyes flashed. Would you come with me?

I would not, Munayair returned, fear like a hand at her throat. You never mentioned going north before.

Anjita favored her with a scathing look. "The main thing is to go. Why, we haven’t had a moment to call our own for eight years, Naya. We haven’t seen our families, heard anything of the outside world, or caught glimpse of a single man worth looking at. She grinned at nothing. There are lots of reasons to leave."

What about home?

Home? Who said anything about home? Anjita shuddered. Gods, why would you wish that on me? Back to a mud pit of a village to sell herbal remedies to rheumy-eyed shepherds and their gossiping wives? I’d sooner work as Attar’s secretary and write stern notes to adepts who dye their robes the wrong shade of black!

A bell sounded from somewhere in the distant recesses of the building. Tel scampered in circles, searching for the source of the sound.

Anjita jumped to her feet. Five gods—I’ve not done any studying! Kasebi will have my head— She flew from the room, scattering armloads of paper.

Munayair stood also, wandering around the room and trying not to think. She gathered trash while Tel explored, tapping when something caught his interest. Chelka would haul the saddlebags to the gate once initiation began at first bell. She wrestled the armful of rubbish to the bin at the end of the hallway and activated the incineration glyph on the side. A brief flash of heat washed over her as those mementos from her long years in the Marble Hall burned to cinders. She meandered back to her room, rubbing at an ache behind her left eye. Aimlessly, she took the stones out of her pocket to inscribe glyphs on them. Heat, she wrote on several of the stones. Shield on others. warn. flash. One by one, she imbued them with energy to be stored in spell glyphs until activated.

So engrossed was she in her task, when the bell rang again it took her by surprise. Yelping, she stuffed Tel and a handful of the stones in her pocket and ran out the door. The sun was nearing his zenith, and stark white light burned outside the windows. Once out of the dormitory wing, she turned her steps towards the small classrooms on the lower levels. Normally, she tried to arrive to her fourth bell class early, since one of the whites she taught was likely to wander off if left unsupervised. When she bounded down the last flight of stairs to a dark, narrow hallway, a soft voice greeted her. Milady Naya! A ghostly figure clambered from the floor. Aiena Jani was only ten summers old, with enormous brown eyes. Her dark skin stood in stark contrast to her snowy tunic. The bell rang ages ago, where were you?

My apologies, Munayair said, brushing the girl’s cheek with her fingertips. I lost track of time. Is Vidya still here?

Aiena nodded her head. Yes, but . . . you’d better come quick. She tugged at Munayair’s hand and led her inside the classroom with its rows of desks.

Munayair followed, smiling at the other white squirming inside the door. Vidya did not smile back, her already-pale face a shade whiter than usual. She held out a hand for Aiena, and the two young girls put their arms around each other. Munayair’s smile faded when she saw the woman hunched in a seat at the back of the room.

Ajhai Jiguur, high adept. The most powerful person in the world.

Chapter 6

· 3 ·

The Promise

H-High Adept, Munayair stammered, bowing low. I did not expect . . .

She stopped, glancing at her young students. Their eyes were wide, small faces tight and drawn. This was probably the first time either of them had seen the high adept so close. Turning again, Munayair looked carefully, taking in what they were seeing. Adept Ajhai had once been a beauty of renown. Features carved of onyx, eyes gleaming liquid silver under heavy brows, magnificent high cheekbones and full lips. These days, however, blankness shadowed her eyes and pain lined her mouth. Luckily she was calm today, sitting in the back of the room next to the only window, Sorath’s light behind her, making a dark mask of her face. The two moons were visible through the window, drawing ever closer together as the day passed.

Welcome to our humble class, Reverence. Munayair hid shaking hands in her sleeves. Ajhai watched but said nothing.

She came today, of all days, the voice at the back of Munayair’s mind mused.

Munayair took a scroll from her sleeve, determined to act the same as usual. Clearing her throat, she said, Vidya, Aiena, you read the chapters I set you?

They exchanged glances, and Vidya’s hand shot up. Milady Naya. We tried; we did! But . . . there are so many words!

Munayair smiled. Reading is not an easy skill to master, she said. But young prentices find it essential later on.

A small noise echoed from the back and they looked around. Adept Ajhai sat inert, eyes fixed on nothing.

Munayair turned back. Ehhm. She tried to recall what she had been saying. Right, get out your books.

Aiena bent to obey, while Vidya pouted. Can’t we just do spells? It’s our last class together. Pleeeaase, Naya . . .

But the looming presence of Adept Ajhai made Munayair stern. She held Vidya’s eyes until she looked away, flushing. What’s today, Prentices?

Dhinse Unen, they mumbled in chorus.

After sunset, the moons will give the sign of the Lady. The Lady of Spirit, who lends adepts. her power and authority.

Sighing, Vidya folded her arms. Milady Naya, even babies know this story.

Hush, Aiena said, leaning closer eagerly.

Once they were silent, Munayair continued. Generations ago, war and chaos reigned among the people of the Cold Lands. Children slaughtered in the streets, every field bare of food, fire filling the air with smoke. Above it all, Howler grinned down with glee, for the Wolf gains power from fear and death. Munayair lowered her voice. To restore peace, our order of adepts strove to defeat the blasphemy of the wicked mages of the north.

At the mention of mages, Aiena drew in a frightened breath and grabbed Vidya’s hand. Vidya’s eyes were huge and she blinked rapidly.

On Dhinse Unen a final battle was set to be fought. The adepts had been driven behind the walls of the Marble Hall, surrounded by endless ranks of enemies lusting for their blood. Everything seemed hopeless, and as the sun set, the order of ink adepts prepared for the end.

But then … Aiena sounded breathless. Tears sparkled in her eyes.

Munayair nodded. But then, as the sun set on the longest day of the year, a miracle happened. Always before, Howler had won the battle and eclipsed the Lady, signaling another year of darkness, ignorance, and fear. But on that Dhinse Unen 200 years ago, Lady Bader struggled with the Wolf, and prevailed over him. She covered his face, threw him down, and rose ascendant. This omen so disheartened the enemies of the adepts that they fled without giving battle, allowing our order to survive until today.

Silence filled the room. Vidya stared at her desk, drawing absently with one finger, while tears spilled out of Aiena’s eyes.

Gently, Munayair continued. After tomorrow, you’ll no longer be whites. Along with your new yellow robes, you’ll receive your first spell tattoo. Every woman who bears them is a representative of the Lady. You may travel the world or work in a king’s court, but even if you serve in the lowliest village or stay on as a teacher, all who see you will know who you are and where you came from. Most of all, they will know whom you serve. She let them blush in silence for a moment. So, once you ascend to yellow, I hope I never hear of you shirking your lessons again.

M-moon.

A guttural moan emanated from the back. Munayair jumped, and the girls whirled.

Reverence? Munayair murmured, maintaining the appearance of calm despite the thunder of her heartbeat. Did you say something?

Ajhai’s shoulders hunched higher. Her eyes touched Munayair’s face and darted away.

Struggling to get back into the flow of her lesson, Munayair’s voice shook. Let’s turn to the chapter on unifying Dakhosam. We’ll take turns reading. Raise your hand if you have a question. Aiena, would you begin?

In a halting voice, Aiena struggled across the page, finger dragging ahead of her tongue. Munayair paced a little. To calm herself, she dug Tel out of her pocket and polished his forehead. Tel, she whispered, Someone will come get her any moment now.

. . . by t-the n-need to p-pr-pres-present, no, present a st-strong front to the e-en-cro-ach-ing h-hordes of sa-savage tr-tribes. Aiena looked up, flushed with triumph.

Better, today, Munayair encouraged. Vidya?

But Vidya’s mind had wandered again. Was Prithen Rashee an ink adept?

Munayair’s eyes darted to the back of the room. No, dear. She fought to keep her tone even. Rashee was a man and could not have commanded the Lady’s power. He was bonded to an elemental spirit.

My mother says he was one of the Five Gods, Aiena whispered.

Though some stories make such claims, he was a human, Munayair said. Many records still survive from his time. Legends always become more elaborate as time passes.

But there’s no such thing as elemental spirits! Vidya’s snub-nosed face was stubborn as a bulldog. All heretics who pray to them are going to Hel.

Munayair’s cheeks warmed. Best not speak so in my father’s camp. She kept her tone light. Spirits may be out of favor in the south, but on the plains, we still pray at shrines instead of temples.

It’s not true, you know, Aiena broke in. Men use the sacred words. I’ve seen them.

An embarrassed silence fell. Munayair inhaled, still smoothing Tel’s forehead with her thumb.

Moony, Adept Ajhai rasped.

Munayair’s head whipped around so fast she cracked her neck. Her throat tightened and prickles ran up her spine and along her arms. She tried to speak but only a wheeze came out.

Moony? Vidya giggled behind her hand. Does she mean you, milady?

As if she were treading among sleeping snakes, Munayair crept through the empty desks. Tiptoeing and whispers followed, but she didn’t dare take her gaze off the high adept. Adept Ajhai seethed under her breath, hard and desperate, depositing a froth of saliva on her chin. Clutching each other, the two whites stared.

R-Reverence? Munayair stammered. High Adept?

Ajhai’s eyes pinned Munayair to the floor. The pupils shrank until they shone like mirrors, entirely silver. Her upper lip trembled, beaded with sweat. Still as a statue, hands constricted over knees.

What’s wrong with her? Vidya’s whisper echoed around the room.

Small fingers clamped around Munayair’s. Aiena’s voice trembled. She’s trying to say something.

Hesitating, Munayair leaned forward to wipe the spittle with a corner of her sleeve. If only the high adept would blink or glance away, instead of watching with those eyes. You’re in the Marble Hall, Reverence. With Munayair Sarem-ori. Do you remember me? I attended your class as a white.

Moony. Adept Ajhai’s head doddered on her thin neck. Air rattled in her throat and she ran a trembling hand over her forehead.

Vidya’s whisper rang with curiosity. Why does she keep calling you that?

Ajhai held out a long-fingered hand, and Munayair took it as she might a wild bird from its nest. The high adept pushed back the sleeve on Munayair’s left arm, revealing a mark on the inside of her wrist. It looked like one of her spell tattoos, but lighter in color and a simple shape.

What’s that, Lady Naya? Vidya asked.

Munayair didn’t answer, didn’t dare tear her eyes away from the high adept’s face. Ajhai traced the mark with one finger, gaze never faltering. It prickled under her touch, and goosebumps rose on Munayair’s arm.

Milady Naya, Aiena choked out.

Turning, Munayair found tears streaming freely down the young girl’s face, her teeth bared in a pained grimace. She looked back, mouth opening to end this unfortunate encounter, only to be struck dumb by the sight of silver eyes looking down at her. She had forgotten how tall the high adept was. Normally, she hunched and limped on a cane. Now she stood tall, watching Munayair. In the darkness of the classroom, her face was impossible to read, and a thread of fear wound its way into Munayair’s heart.

Don’t be fooled, she reminded herself. She’s no longer who she used to be.

Adept Ajhai, she murmured, someone will be looking for you. I’ll help you get—

Ajhai cut her off, voice cool and brisk. Don’t waste time, child.

Munayair gaped. M-milady?

This is the only time in the entire year when I am strong, when I can find my voice. Ajhai glanced at the window and her expression hardened. They’ve waited as long as they can.

Waited? Munayair repeated. Who are you talking about?

The high adept looked back at Munayair, holding her hands in a vise-like grip. The time is approaching, it’s knocking at the door, Moony. You’ll have to wear that mark proudly, in the open, and you’ll have to do as you promised.

Please don’t call me that. Munayair flinched back. I hate that nickname.

Ajhai’s gaze never faltered. It felt like being pinned to a wall under the full light of the sun. Her silver eyes collected the light. For a moment a flicker of brilliant red-orange gathered in the center of her irises, like dye staining the edge of a garment. There’s only one chance left, she whispered, voice thick. This time, the grey death will take us all. A sacrifice is required, to open the door and let the lost ones free at long last. They will walk the path of water and the path of fire, over the earth and under the sky, into the light. They will speak with their own voices and weep their own tears.

Far overhead, the two moons drew closer and closer together, locked in their eternal dance of hunted and hunter.

Ajhai’s hands seized around Munayair’s as air wheezed from her flaring nostrils. F-find the man who is no man. The color faded from her eyes, leaving them blank and silver once again. "The deathbringer and the golden son. Death