Chapter 8: Admission exam

Three weeks pass by fast when you are busy preparing for an exam. Every odd day I followed Spare to observe him working. I never felt like the first time, but that doesn’t mean that I found it any less mystic. He worked with metal, wood, paper, and even fabrics with the same ease. There was a time he drew a flag, and I swear I could see the tattoo waving to some imaginary wind.

I had to invest a few days going back to the basics with The way of the Ink. I knew its contents, but Spare said they were keen on asking specific passages. There were a few patriotic entrances among all its content, and the association wasn’t short of patriots.

And Myrias drew the Lion that became the Royal Symbol,

Guarding the gate to the reign of the divine,

The arclight’s protector,

The last guardian.

The way of the Ink, Qir. 1.3

If you asked for my opinion, though, it was a massive pile of nonsense. I knew for a fact that drawing a lion, a real one and using Ink on top of it, was out of the question. During my history lessons, I learned that Myrias is considered the first King of Karal, and that a lion’s face was his emblem. Everything else, it’s just an overly poetic way of saying they have a few statues and etchings of lions scattered around the palace.

I didn’t need a second look over Glyphs, Formations, and Sigils, a formal introduction, but Spare considered it worth spending a few days going over The Formationist’s Exordium. not without reviewing Ink and Mind first. I was fast, but it still was an overwhelming amount of information. The only new book in the list went over the prerequisites one needed before attempting to study formations, but trust me, it didn’t make it any clear what formations were.

It did mention living beings and the dangers it entailed, but overall it described them as a mechanism to capture abstract concepts. It used as an example the ability to capture the heat of a fire without actually drawing the fire. It was left for the reader to discover why anyone would do that or what use it would have. And this reader doesn’t have that time, I repeatedly thought.

I practiced with several new materials but mainly focused on glass. It was hard to capture the light going through the different densities and transparencies. There was a time Spare had me draw a jug full of beer with a spoon sunken inside. It was baffling, embarrassing even. My mind was lost trying to draw that spoon made of two disjoint parts. I knew it wasn’t cut in half, but I saw it like that. Reconciling eyes and mind was a new experience, and it took more days than it should have.

“Today’s the big day! Are you ready?” Spare was full of energy, the very same one I lacked. I horizontally waved my hand while closing my eyes and raising my eyebrows.

“As ready as one can be.” My stomach was acting up, letting me know what my mind thought. I was a sack of nerves. Understandably so, I had never done anything like an exam, and there was a lot at stake.

“Come, I’ll walk you to the association.” We had already eaten, albeit not too much, just in case my stomach decided to up its play. I still had two hours until the exam, but according to Spare, there were usually crowds waiting by the entrance, so it was worth being there before.

Today I didn’t feel like talking on our way, so instead, I decided to appreciate the hurried life people here seemed to live. I always wondered what they were rushing for. Is she late for work? Is he taking his kid to school? Imagining those citizens’ occupations and wealth was a good mental exercise to get my mind running.

At that point, I knew some of our surroundings well enough to find my way to the inn all by myself, but the association seemed to be further away than we had ever explored. I did notice that the further we walked, the wider the streets became. Not only that, soon all houses became aloof, surrounded by gardens with well-trimmed grass, trees, and vegetation of all kinds. None of the doorknobs were as sumptuous as the first noble house I saw, but there wasn’t any need for that; no one would have confused either of those buildings for a commoner’s house.

We took a right, and I immediately saw our destination. It was the size of three, no, six or nine, of the other houses put together. “Why is it so big?” I innocently asked Spare.

He squinted one eye but then, judging by his expression, he remembered where I came from. “They also teach classes there,” he shrugged, “but I wouldn’t lose my time with them.” He sounded sure of his words; he wasn’t telling me not to assist, but he genuinely saw no reason for it.

“Well, I’ve got you!” And it was true. I couldn’t think of any better education than my mental spars against his relentless questions, his infinite pool of books, and his insightful guidance in my drawing efforts, and of course, the eye-opening observations of his work.

“Take this,” he handed me an envelope sealed with a drop of wax with the Baril’s emblem. I wanted to ask what it was, but I was busy taking the other objects he was offering me. Two flasks, one the size of my punch and the other about half the first. “A letter of recommendation, the entrance fee,” he pointed to the biggest flask, “and some Ink for your exam.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. Some day I’ll have to repay everything he’s done for me, I thought while intently staring at those three items. I carefully stored all of them in my shoulder bag while thanking Spare.

“Well then, that’s it for me! I’ve got some jobs to attend.” He announced, almost turning back at the same time. “I know you can do it, so trust in yourself!” He departed, and I was left there, standing, lost in my own thoughts. His words echoed through my mind, you can do it.

Somehow lightened, I began my navigation around the sea of people. I had to zig-zag a few legs and dodge some unintended kicks until I reached the entrance to the garden. I followed an archway that expanded for more than 100 meters and finally entered the building. There were no doors, both interior and exterior joined naturally. There were some people inside, but nothing close to the excessive amount I had left behind. A few signs guided the newcomers to a queue not far from there.

I stood in a line of close to thirty people, all of them way above my age. Actually, now that I thought about it, everyone I had crossed my way with had long come of age. Is the youngest adult around here twenty years old? I hoped Spare’s letter was magnificent, granted nobody would take a boy my age seriously othe-

“Well, well,” a high voice came from my right, too close and familiar to be directed at someone else, “if it isn’t that Inker’s apprentice.” I had followed Spare for some weeks, and everyone who saw us knew I was his apprentice, so those words didn’t help identify the voice.

I turned with a smile on my face, prepared to greet whoever had recognized me. My long hair swayed in the air but froze on the spot when I got sight of who it was. That kid! That noble’s son, the one who destroyed that breathtaking dagger. He was wearing an orange vest, purposely showing the matching tattoo on his right arm. I knew his intention was to exhibit his noble birth, but just about everyone around us was carved in seemingly flamboyant colors.

I nodded with respect, even slightly bowed a little, but I didn’t wait for him to tell me to stand up. I wasn’t inside his house, nor was I working for him. “It’s a pleasure to see you here, sir,” I said with a steady voice, not showing a hint of my disgust.

But you know what they say, right? Rich pigs don’t have manners. He scanned me from my head to my toes, and his wrinkled nose and elevated commissure made no effort to hide his aversion. “Now they let commoners taint the honor of this noble association? Tsk!” he clicked his tongue, shaking his head from side to side.

I wanted to tell him I wasn’t a commoner but a rat that escaped from the sewers, but I knew that wouldn’t help me get accepted. I bit my tongue and remained still, looking at him without moving my eyes nor saying anything. Never fight with an addict, and to my eyes, he was hooked on power.

“Good, keep that filthy mouth shut! Now know your place and go back to the hole you crawled up off!” His voice had risen, and everyone around us had turned to see what was going on. I could feel their eyes stabbing me. I had noticed a few nosy people covertly spying on me when I arrived, but nothing like the long stares I was getting now.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The line advanced, and so did I. I wasn’t looking at him; I was back in the queue and facing the stranger in front of me. I was minding my own business, but that didn’t sit well with him. I felt a hand landing on my shoulder; it had strength behind, more than what a friendly tap would have had. The unexpected push had thrown me out of balance, and I stumbled on my own feet, crashing against the floor with my elbow.

“Haven’t you heard me!?” The angry, high-pitched shout came from above me. I saw the fury on his eyes and braced for the kick that was coming on my way, accurately aimed for my ribs. I closed my eyes, fearing the worst. He might injure me badly enough to miss the exam, he might le-

“ENOUGH!” An adult’s voice, deep and authoritative, filled the air. I gasped, as did most of the people around me. “We will not tolerate this behavior inside the association!”

“But he-” I opened my eyes and saw the kid shamelessly pointing at me, “-he shouldn’t b-”

“I said enough!” The angry voice cut him. “Go back to the queue if you don’t want to fail the exam even before taking it!” There was a brief pause, and he finally left me alone, turning and not protesting anymore. But I knew from the look on his eyes that the matter wasn’t closed at all; there was resentment, he considered I had humiliated him. “And you,” the voice continued, although I couldn’t locate its source from the ground, “don’t cause any more trouble!”

I wanted to object, but I knew I wasn’t in the position to do so. I patiently waited in line, aware of all the looks I was getting, spontaneously catching some of the muffled whispers about me. Even if Spare thought the association’s courses were worth it, I don’t think I would have taken the offer. The queue kept advancing until I could hear the woman’s voice behind the counter. “Next!” she kept saying every 5 minutes.

“Next!” My turn came, and I walked until I was standing right next to the counter. “Next!” Her voice insisted. I looked up but only saw the table’s slightly protruding border. “Next!” Her voice showed a bit of irritation.

“Down here, miss!” I said, slightly raising my voice to catch her attention. Her head popped out from above immediately after, her eyes round and her mouth wide open, full of surprise.

“Oh, my! What is a little kid doing here?” She said with such sweetness that didn’t bother me as much as it would have had to. She was assuming I was lost or that maybe I had come thinking they were gifting candy.

“I want to take the exam,” I showed her the flask, hoping to be taken seriously.

“Oh?” She drew a radiant smile, giving her a ferocious look when combined with her naturally ginger hair. “Are you sure, honey? It’s a tough exam!” Haa… I knew it, I’m taken as a joke.

“Yes.” I sharply said, trying to infuse all my certainty in those words. “Please take a look at this recommendation letter if you don’t trust me.” I stood on my toes and stretched my arm to give her the envelope Spare had given me.

Her eyebrows wrinkled, confused by my attitude. Nonetheless, she took the letter and opened it. Her expression, instead of softening, gradually became paler. One eyebrow raised, and her lips were narrowing. She spent a few minutes, probably re-reading it over a few times, before handing me a sheet of paper and asking me to fill it.

I used the wall to support the paper and wrote my name but left empty the middle name and surname fields. If I had one, I didn’t know them. When asked for my house, I just wrote House of Nul, the educated way to say the son of no one, bastard, or even abandoned child, as Spare had told me. I filled Spare’s name as my teacher.

Returning the sheet to the woman procured me a metal piece with a fountain pen engraved in its center. It was the token of admission, exchangeable for the right to take the exam. I was told to wait outside the garden with everyone else, but I decided that it wouldn’t be safe and instead hid myself in the corner of the room. If anyone chose to pick a fight with me, I’d have a few witnesses, and most importantly, the protection of the association’s workers.

I used the remaining half an hour to mentally review all those books’ content. I had been nervous, but my recent interchange with the noble and the sweet lady behind the counter had made my blood boil. I was eager to prove myself, to show them that I was neither a commoner nor a child; I was Spare’s apprentice, an Inker to be.

A bell’s ringing announced the start of the process. We were arranged into several queues facing opposing ends of the garden. They curved until all of them met a single door a few hundred meters away from each other. I had been near when the queues began forming, so I had snatched one of the first places.

We quickly advanced into a room arranged in semi-circles around a central, elevated platform, forming an amphitheater of sorts, a classroom, I guessed. We were given the freedom to sit where we wanted, as long as we left a man’s distance at each side. “If anyone is found copying, he will be banned from the association forever; make wise decisions today.” A woman was repeatedly announcing. We had all paid the same amount of Ink, and as much as it was a ridiculously high amount for someone like me, I’m sure it didn’t suppose an effort to any of the others. Who would risk being banished from this profession?

As soon as the class filled, the same woman explained the exam. “You have one hour to complete the test. Each correct answer adds one point. A wrong answer subtracts 0.25. You need 40 out of 50 points to pass.” I did some quick mental maths and horrifyingly ascertained that I needed to correctly answer 40 questions, 42 if I wanted to have the leeway to fail 8 of them. “If you end before, please wait by the garden in absolute silence. We will have a recess of 15 minutes and then proceed with the practical exam.”

She proceeded to hand out the exam sheets, starting from the top of the room and slowly making her way down. “Don’t turn them over until I say so.” She was constantly remarking. I was seated at the foremost of the classroom, so I was rather grateful that the rule was in place. “You may start now!”

I flipped the sheet over and dipped my pen in Ink. Fill in the appropriate square, don’t mark more than one answer. I won’t bore you with all the details, I’ll just say that all of the questions were directly taken from my reference books. Way of the Ink, Advanced Inkery, Ink and Mind, and even some references to The Formationist’s Exordium. Compared to Spare’s questions, which made me reason beyond the book’s content, these questions were a joke. If you knew the passage, had read the chapter or weren’t as dull as a stone, you’d have absolutely no problem getting those 40 points.

I was overconfident when the practical exam started. If it were anything close to the first part, I would be like a walk in the park. A series of claps got everyone’s attention. “Okay! You’ll find below your seats the object you must draw. Everyone has an identical copy. You have two hours.” She had two fingers up in the air. “As before, wait in the garden until we tell you to go.”

I placed my hands below the seat and was met with a cold and polished surface. I refrained from taking it out and looking at what it was, confident that getting an initial idea without seeing it would be advantageous. I closed my eyes. It was a coldness uncharacteristic of metal, a feeling reaffirmed by the chillness I felt when sliding my hand through it. I was thin, pointed, sharp on its edges. I was already building the mental image of a dagger when my hand found its grip. Strangely enough, it was made of the same material as the blade.

I took it out, placing it right in front of my eyes. A crystal dagger!? I could see my blurred hand through it, spotted and unclear. There was no guard; the blade naturally became the grip. I swung it a few times in the air, evaluating its swiftness. It was much lighter than its metal brothers, deadlier perhaps. Albeit it looked frail, I knew it didn’t feel like so. Its soul spoke volumes, made clear its desire to be used for war, not as a mere decoration.

It wasn’t a job suited for my Drak’gath, it had to be precise, accurate, deadly as the instrument itself. I took my fountain pen and submerged myself in the familiar experience of abandoning myself to the Ink. The dagger rested on my lap, as Spare had done, and I let my hand move at its will. I made sure I stuck to the original; they didn’t want to see our ability to modify an object, just to capture it.

Time was an unknown subject when I was one with the Ink. I did the final touch, a strain on the crystal close to the central ridge, and slowly lifted my eyes from the paper. The class was half empty, and those who still remained were giving the last strokes. There couldn’t be much time left. I handed in my submission, a piece I was proud of, and went back to the garden.

We were there for an hour in tacit silence. We were allowed to talk, or at least nobody had said otherwise, but no one was in the mood for it. From time to time, some names were called out loud. “Darik!” and the man would go to the central room. “Karintia!” and so would the woman.

“Tarar!” My name was shouted. Tarar, is there some other Tarar? I looked around, but nobody moved. I sighed and made my way towards the classroom. Spare had told me that, occasionally, some people would be called over for an interview. It wasn’t a good sign; it usually meant they did something wrong.

“Tarar?” A group of seven people was seated on chairs lined on the platform. I nodded, and the closest one gestured for me to sit on the first row. I did so, shaking a bit from the nervousness.

They penetrated me with their sigh. The one in the center inspired, deeply enough for me to hear it. “Why does your dagger want to kill?” His tired voice asked me.

I sighed with relief. So it is that? “It is only natural, sir.” I began. “Doesn’t a young lion cub want to kill? It’s in their nature, the same that his mother has imprinted on him.” I saw their faces change from seriousness to awareness. “Its maker didn’t want to make an ornament, he made a proud tool for murder, and she told me so. She didn’t like those blunt edges, and much to my sorrow, I had to betray her expectations.”

“She?” A man to the right muttered. “How old are you, son?” Another one asked, disbelief clearly showing on his face.

“I’m ten,” I said, partly ashamed and partly afraid they would take me for a child.

“Would you have made its edge sharper if it wasn’t an exam?” A woman with a sharp gaze suddenly asked. I was still a bit nervous, so I don’t remember much of their appearance at that time. I barely looked at their faces.

“I don’t think so,” I decided to be honest. “My fountain pen is not suitable for that job. It would have required much more fluid traces. Maybe if I had used my Drak’gath, but I still lack the mastery to combine two tools in one drawing.” She nodded and didn’t ask anything else.

Ignoring me, they turned and spoke in whispers among themselves. I couldn’t hear anything, and their episodic gazes and fingers pointing at me didn’t help a bit to calm my nerves. The conversation lengthened for a few minutes until they slowly turned back to their original position.

“We have decided,” the same man that talked first said before pausing, making my heart skip a beat, “to accept you in the association.”