Chapter 24: Communion with Ink

Meeting back with my friends was a bath of tears. Makka was weeping inconsolably, saying time and again how everything was his fault. He was so obsessed with blaming himself that he didn’t even notice my arm was somewhat recovered. His deep preoccupation touched me, which made me join him in crying. Even Yaira, a few seconds after I started, covertly sobbed.

“Guys, guys,” I barely managed to say while gasping. Doing my best to ignore the pain, I was waving my right arm in an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s ok! I won’t lose it.”

Two pairs of eyes stared at me with expressions of disbelief. It couldn’t be any other way; actually, close to an hour ago, they had seen me run with a numb member hanging on my side. And, seeing how long it took me to come back, I bet they had assumed the worst. Of course, there was absolutely no way they could have known what happened inside that room, and I wasn’t precisely looking forward to telling them.

“Wha-what? How?” Makka stuttered while trying to ask. His bewildered eyes moved from my arm to my eyes, trying to pry the answers out of either of them.

I was about to answer, but Yaira suddenly took my hand and opened it, making my palm face upwards. Honestly, I hadn’t yet looked at what Drak’oora Layan had drawn in it, so I was as surprised as them when I saw the contents.

Makka’s drawing was still visible, but it had been surrounded by an imperfect circle. Not even an ellipse, it wasn’t regular, it’s defining line waved and zig-zagged, almost like it had been drawn by someone with an unsteady hand. Only that I knew that wasn’t the case; I had seen her take the pen and hold it on my skin, and it was far from trembling. I saw her strokes; they were determined, accurate, everything she did had a purpose, those seemingly clumsy lines included.

Picture glyphs purposely written such that one extreme touched the irregular circle and the other Makka’s formation. And not only any glyphs, but they were also old, precisely from the same alphabet I had been studying lately.

“Power, root, contain, injure, health, mind, Ink, lock.” I read out loud the meaning of those roots and derivations.

Of course, knowing their meanings and understanding their usages were two completely different things. I already had a hard time grasping the meaning of that new and shapeless formation, trying to comprehend the sigils it was accompanied by impossible. A quick check confirmed that they were both in the same state as me, baffled by the tattoo.

“How did you do that?” Yaira asked in a thin voice, marveled by the prowess she thought I had achieved.

Before answering, I decided it would be a good idea to have them seated. I was not afraid they would pass out; rather, I wanted to make sure no one would attempt to hit me. Because, yes, everything that happened was worthy of being battered. I pointed towards the bed and seeing that they either didn’t move or shook their head, I insisted by waving them away.

“That formation…” I struggled to find a subtle way to put it, so after ten seconds of successful brainstorming, I decided it would be best if I was straightforward with them. “It was Drak’oora Layan.”

Needless to say, their reaction wasn’t precisely welcoming. Everything from curses to names was thrown at me, even a pillow! It took them five full minutes of shouts and threatening risen hands to calm down and let me explain the whole situation. They weren’t happy to know there were not one but two Drak’oora, and sweated with me as I described how close they were to bump into me.

We could agree on one thing, a Drak’oora knowing about my comings and goings was a good and a bad thing at the same time. She seemed to approve of my curiosity, even fueling it by giving me more sources, but it was as clear as day that she had a vested interest behind it. Whatever she expected me to find or learn, it was so I could repay her at a later date. And all three concurred with Spare’s words; she wouldn’t ask for anything mundane.

“So,” I clapped the hands as we reached the end, “does anyone want to read a book?” I touched my foot’s sole, resolving it was not worth it to risk damaging the Ink that kept those precious volumes intact and materialized them on the floor. I saw as the worry in their eyes was immediately replaced by greediness; my treasure was too juicy to ignore, even when faced with the reality that brought me to them.

“I bet,” I said while sliding The great beasts of the East to Yaira, “that you will be interested in whatever historical references this book has.” Then I took Survey of antic glyphs, formations, and sigils, and handed it over to Makka while smiling and saying, “it couldn’t be any other way!”

I was left with True communion with Ink, which seemed the best choice for me. After all, I was the only one in our group who could sense Ink to a deeper level, to the point that I could hear a voice when I drew while in the appropriate mental state. If that book had any clue how to reach a higher level of communication, it was the first one I wanted to read.

“Should we wait until we all finish to share information?” Yaira asked.

“I think so,” I said. “We can concentrate on our books and then maybe sum them up to the others?” I looked to my right, checking if Makka agreed, only to find him already immersed in reading.

Yaira laughed, and not much later, I joined her. We shook our heads, and with unspoken mutual agreement, we also went to our books. Mine and Makka’s were both written in archaic form, which meant it would take us quite some time to understand the ins and outs. Our Drak’gath legacy, even if we had access to it, wouldn’t help one bit. None of our predecessors had ever read or heard of those glyphs. Over the next few days, our life would constantly be that of a bookworm, devouring word after word.

I’ll have to say that I had certain expectations of my book, and most of them weren’t met. For instance, the first three days of reading, which amounted to three chapters, talked about the mental state required to enter in communion, an expression it repeatedly used but was nowhere to be defined. That wouldn’t be a letdown if it weren’t because the state it talked about was none other than the same one I found out while fighting. I myself didn’t know how to put into words the process; I just let my body act out of pure instinct instead of consciously ordering it. However, one would expect that a book would find a better way to express it and maybe even provide mechanisms to reach it.

It did emphasize how important it is to have a healthy body and not only a sane mind. As the old saying says, health in body, mind, and Ink. At that point, I began to see the subtle message embedded in those popular phrases; they spoke of a knowledge lost in time. It was almost as if everyone had known what Ink communion meant, yet somewhere along the time, that information had wholly disappeared. A drop of Ink is worth the advice of a sage. As eloquent and faceted as Ink. They began to pile up, taking another meaning far from the one I had given them until then. I had thought they meant Ink was expensive, rare, that it could capture objects and enhance them. Never had I thought they talked about something bigger.

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You might think that my following observation was an obvious one, that I should have come up with it much sooner. However, just as I have always accepted that there’s a sky, just as the sun comes every morning and is then chased out by the moon, I had accepted Ink. Ink was Ink, what need was there to consider anything else?

Spare, where does Ink come from? Yes, as simple as that. How is Ink obtained, or produced, or created? The question had always been there, yet I had never thought of it. If Spare knew, or if it was part of his legacy, I had yet to unlock those memories.

“That… I don’t have an answer for that.” I could feel his confused state, clearly taken aback by that perfectly natural question. Yet, as it was with me, he had never questioned it.

But, it must be finite, right? Why else would it be worth anything? If it could be indefinitely obtained, there would be no such demand for it, nor would we have so many poor people living in misery.

“Yes, it must. The supply is controlled by the Royal House; only they can flood the market with more. It’s been five years since the last time they distributed Ink, and every time it’s taking longer than the other for them to do so.” He quickly confirmed, this time without hesitation.

I meditated on what all of that could mean, but the only conclusion that didn’t imply wild assumptions was that the Royal House hoarded all the Ink. According to Spare, it was also confirmed that it had been a long time since the last public distribution. Either they were running out of Ink, which they would try to hide at all costs, or they were using it to keep the other noble houses under a short leash. Or, perhaps, it was simply out of greed, inherent in human nature.

Lately, I had neglected my physical training, not finding the time to maintain my body in proper conditions. However, having confirmed how close my connection with Ink seemed to be with a healthy body, I decided to reinstate my morning routine. It would mean getting up earlier, but the bath afterward would be heavenly.

Finally, by the fourth chapter, it started talking about the voice. It described how any contact with Ink, be it through touching glyphs or formations, or by drawing, could take the Inker to communion. I supposed, drawing my own conclusions, that the white room with the ethereal voice was part of the communion. Of course, when it said drawing, it could only mean with old glyphs, as the book dated from a time where no other alternative was present.

Talking with the voice, with Her, was written to be an entirely different experience depending on the Ink. The purer it was, the easiest it would be. For instance, the Ink I had been using back at Lamar, a mixture of low-quality Inks, was probably the furthest one could get. Instead, my red-blood Ink was perhaps the perfect candidate. Maybe, no one can know for sure, if I had drawn Spare’s formation some years later, I would have been able to maintain a conversation with Her. I was not going to spend some of it just for a hunch, so I would have to make do with the fossil-grey Ink provided by the Drak’ga.

There was a passage I failed to understand, warning about the different personalities Ink could take. Childish, angered, welcoming, rash, antipathetic, conceited, cheerful, it was an endless list of adjectives. I had always heard my name being called, without any kind of nuances at all. I was in no rush to discover what that meant, though. Temporarily assuming one could get Her in different moods was fine.

Both books I have read so far insisted on treating Ink as an entity, using the glyph for Her and Ink, which was reinforced by the idea that it could somehow communicate. If I ever met it, I should have to judge whether the pronoun was justified or not.

As I had predicted, Yaira would finish her book sooner than us. I had yet to start the sixth chapter, and perform some experiments in hopes to enter that communion, that she was already done with her’s. We had to be quite persuasive to stop her from spoiling everything.

“Hum!” She moaned with faked anger, acting as the offended party. “Then I’ll go prepare for the competition.”

Just as she said that a series of images flashed through my mind. They were memories from the Drak’ga. “Is it time yet?” I said, surprising myself by asking that question.

If those memories weren’t mistaken, the Drak’ga celebrated an annual event where their members competed to create the best craft. The light inside the Chamber of Light has one such creation, dating from thousands of years ago, a product of one Inker’s mastery. There was no set prize; the winner wouldn’t be rewarded with Ink nor tools. It was a testament to your knowledge and ability; it would earn you recognition inside the tribe. It was an occasion I couldn’t skip, even if it meant delaying my lecture for some days, because reputation was precisely what I lacked.

“It’s in a week; they have yet to announce what we will be drawing.” She said, with all traces of feigned anger gone; she was all smiles.

How exactly she was planning to prepare, I didn’t know. After all, what one could do at most was to study some more books. Having years of legacy inside didn’t mean, not even by a tiny chance, that every single book in the Compendium was in your memory. Still, having the luck to draw the exact text that would help you in the upcoming competition. She didn’t seem to mind, though, without losing any more time, she decidedly walked out of the room.

For me, it was time to put into practice what I had read. First of all, before attempting to draw anything, one had to adopt a correct stance, both mentally and physically. Being seated in a relaxed position was crucial. You could be cross-legged, side sitting, or on your knees; as long as you were comfortable and could draw in that position, that was fine. As for my mental state, I already had that under control.

I went on my knees, placing a short sword between my tights. If I had to draw anything, it should at least be useful. I wanted to draw them on my back, but I assumed directly willing the Ink to go there wouldn’t be as helpful to enter the communion. Thus, slightly annoyed, I extended my left arm, taking the Drak’gath pen on my right hand.

I inhaled, locking on my mind the image of the sword. I didn’t need to guide the Ink as much as before, but that didn’t mean I could forget about my objective. As the coldness of the metal caressed my skin, my eyes closed. I felt my body lighten as the first lines were drawn. The edge of the blade was taking shape, and the familiar sensation of being shifted out of my body invaded me. That wasn’t enough, though; that was just an everyday experience.

I needed to push myself further, and the only way to do so was by employing those old characters. I began writing the glyph for sharp, which I intended to follow with shine, durable, and robust, and I felt it. A force pulled me further from my body, sending me to that white space filled with runes and words.

“Tarar!” The ethereal voice immediately called me.

Like all the other times, I heard it coming from everywhere, neither far nor near. It was a voice that echoed through the chamber and created the illusion of coming from all directions.

“Tarar!” It repeated.

I took the word advice to heart, momentarily forgetting about everything else, not trying to chase for its source. Only those that don’t seek Her will find Her. It was an overly poetic way of telling the reader not to think. The name repeated several more times, each of them I let my legs move, stepping into either direction. One would think that they would lead me towards a set point, following a straight line, but far from that, they would suddenly take turns or even undo the previous step. They were navigating an invisible maze, one that only Ink would know.

“Tarar…” The whisper entered right through my right ear. I felt the breath that accompanied those words raising the hair on my body. Someone was right beside me.

I jumped and turned, startled by the sudden proximity. My eyes frantically searched for the source of that breezed, yet they were met by nothingness. Once again, I was trying to see with my mind; I had reverted back to thinking about my actions, not letting them guide me.

I closed my metaphorical eyes, as my physical ones had always remained shut, and focused on feeling my immediate environment. My name still floated in the air, and I let that gust surround me. It spiraled around me, circling my body a few times until I sensed it taking form in front of me. It was a blurb of energy, nothing more than a tiny speck at my eyes’ height.

And then, that light dashed straight into my head, invading my mind with energy beyond what I had ever sensed. I’d like to say it was an illuminating experience, that it opened my eyes and made me what Ink was, but the truth is that as soon as it intruded on my mind, I was kicked out of the zone, pushed back to my body, and lost consciousness.