Warrior Prime, page 7
part #1 of Ink Mage Legacy Series
“Dureen.”
“I’m Zayda. Bring me where?”
“To the old woman.”
“That’s a bit cryptic,” Zayda said. “Does she have a name?”
“She has always been known as the old woman all my life,” Dureen said. “For all the years of my mother also.”
“What does the old woman want?”
“It is not for me to say, sister.”
Zayda didn’t understand all this sister talk. Perhaps it was simply a local custom among the Mashi women. And maybe this invitation from the old woman was some belated attempt at hospitality. An invitation from one of the village elders. After all, Zayda had been sitting alone by the fire for some time while Peyne consulted with the other Helvan.
You’d think he’d at least check on me.
Never mind. It didn’t matter.
Zayda stood, dusted herself off. “I’ll come with you, Dureen. Why not?”
Dureen lit a torch from the flames of the cook fire, then headed into the jungle, glancing back over her shoulder periodically to make sure Zayda was still there.
The jungle was eerie in the dark, Dureen’s torch making strange shadows of the gnarled trees. Thick liana vines rose up the trunks to crisscross in the darkness overhead. They had a tentacle-like quality in the flickering torchlight, and Zayda found herself irrationally uneasy.
If she’d wanted, she could tap into the spirit, push all trepidation aside.
No. It can become addictive.
Abruptly, Dureen stopped, held the torch out in front of her. “The old woman awaits you.”
Zayda peered ahead. In front of her, the liana vines tangled together, forming a tunnel in the jungle as if some arboreal god had reached down to knit them together.
“It’s dark.”
Dureen handed her the torch. “I’ll wait. I know the jungle. The dark doesn’t bother me.”
Zayda held the torch aloft and entered the tunnel. The vines arched above her like nature’s own temple, woven together so intricately that she could hardly believe such a configuration happened by chance. She’d heard of druids who sang to the trees, encouraging them to grow in one direction or another. Maybe this was some similar craft at work.
The tunnel zigged and zagged and opened into a large chamber, the walls a tight latticework of liana, the ceiling curving into a dome above. Another cook fire, smaller than in the camp of the Helvans, with an iron kettle warming. The old woman sat on a short, three-legged stool, poking at the fire with a crooked stick.
She was the oldest person Zayda had ever seen, at least by how she looked. Gray hair, thin, kinked, and wiry, stuck out in every direction. Skin brown and lined and splotched, papery thin and clinging to frail bones. Deep lines in her face. Zayda thought one sturdy mule kick would scatter her like a stack of dried kindling. She wore clothes similar to the other Mashi women, the one exception being a fine, silken shawl of deep red wrapped around her shoulders.
She looked up, caught Zayda’s gaze. One eye was moist and milky white. The other a bright, alert blue.
Most Fyrians didn’t have blue eyes. She hadn’t seen any other Mashi with blue eyes either.
“Sit if you like, Zayda,”
The old woman nodded toward a large flat rock on the other side of the fire. Zayda sat, knees coming up high enough for her to rest her elbows.
“The tea will be ready soon.”
Zayda didn’t want tea. “You sent for me?”
“An invitation, sister.”
“How are we sisters?” Zayda asked. “Is that how Mashi women refer to each other?”
“I am not Mashi,” she said. “When the old tribe faded to dust, the Mashi came. When they are gone, I will still be here.”
“How sisters then?”
The old woman studied her for a long moment with her one good eye. Slowly she turned and let the shawl drop. On her wrinkled, spotted skin, yet still clear and unmistakable, the lines of the Prime tattoo were inked down her back.
“Did you say start the war?” Peyne asked.
“If we wait for the Fyrians to attack, then they’ll do so at the time and place of their own choosing. Gant doesn’t want to give them that advantage.” Mardis sipped wine, then cleared his throat. “My pardon. His Royal Highness King Gant. No offense meant.”
“I call him Ferris and none taken,” Peyne said. “Starting a war just . . . well, look, I know the man, okay? We’re friends. I’m friends with the king, and I know how that sounds, and I promise I’m not trying to impress you, but let’s start a war just doesn’t sound like Ferris.” Peyne drained his goblet, looking at the wineskin pointedly.
“I’ve never met the king, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” Mardis said. “If it makes a difference, most of the officers feel the war has begun already. I mean, nobody’s stabbing anyone with spears yet, but for all intents and purposes, Helva is at odds with Fyria. We are philosophically opposed.”
“What exactly is the Helvan philosophy?” Peyne held his goblet in a way that must certainly indicate he needed a refill.
“Damned if I know,” Mardis said. “I think it amounts to the basic fact they’d like to invade and take all our stuff, and we’d prefer preventing that. The sultan has his heart set on the entire world. He feels he shouldn’t settle for less.”
Peyne reached over, grabbed the wineskin, and filled his own goblet. Manners be damned. He took a big gulp, felt it wash warm down his throat into his belly. He took his comfort where he could get it. “A war. Seriously. A war?”
“As I said, many around court feel the war’s already begun,” Mardis said. “The swords simply haven’t left their scabbards yet. If Gant can find a way to snatch the initiative, then why not?”
“And he thinks the Fyrians have forgotten the road, is that it? Gant wants to use it for a sneak attack.” Peyne drained the goblet, filled it again.
“Or if the Fyrians haven’t forgotten it, we hold the road to prevent them coming up through the grasslands. In either case, controlling the road is better than not controlling it. Obviously.” Mardis took back the wineskin and refilled his goblet. “These are all theories and educated guesses naturally. I was sent to secure the road. That’s the only thing I know with certainty. Marshal Pascale might be sharing the details of his battle plan with his generals, but he hasn’t taken the time to enlighten me.”
“Pascale? What happened to Jon Gorten? He’s been marshal of the armies for a decade.”
Mardis shook his head sadly. “Times are changing, my friend.”
“I haven’t been gone that long,” Peyne protested.
“Maybe not, but the changes were a long time coming,” Mardis said. “Gorten was a complacent, peace-time general, slow to see what was happening right under his nose and slow to act.”
Peyne had always thought Gorten thoughtful and level-headed. “Pascale is brash and ill-tempered and has possibly the worst moustache I’ve ever seen.”
“Some translate brash and ill-tempered as ambitious and confident,” Mardis said. “I would not presume to judge the man’s moustache.”
Peyne had more to say but bit his tongue. Like it or not, Pascale was now a powerful man in Helva. He was just the sort of thin-skinned twat who’d hold a grudge if he caught wind somebody was bad-mouthing him, and really Peyne had only just met Mardis Kain. Who knew where the man placed his loyalties?
Peyne let the news sink in. What other political upheavals had taken place in his absence? Weeks had passed since he had left home. He knew little of Helva’s military. How big were the armies? How many ships were in the navy? He didn’t even know where in Helva there were forts or strongholds, or what they guarded. He damned himself for his poor attention span. As a man high in the king’s favor, he’d had multiple opportunities to listen in on military discussions. Instead he’d guzzled wine and chased chambermaids.
And what of the Fyrians? How many troops could they muster on short notice? Or have they been planning for years? Yes, obviously. It was why Peyne had been dispatched to Fyria in the first place. The war was coming and any information that might help—
Ink mages.
Idiot. Of course. The ambassador even told me how important it was to report on the ink mages. A single ink mage is worth ten regular soldiers. He remembered the image of Zayda’s flashing blade dealing death to the tribesmen. More like fifty.
Ink mages could make all the difference in the war. And Peyne had one. She’d even explained, albeit basically, how the tattoo worked. He had to get her back to Helva. The scholars would know what to ask her. It might make all the difference.
“Mardis, I’m sorry for this, but I’m going to have to presume upon your hospitality.”
“Don’t fret, my friend,” Mardis said. “I have more wine in our supply tent. I’ll send the porter.”
“No, that’s not it. I mean, well, yes, actually, do send the porter, but it’s more than that,” Peyne said. “I’m going to need two of your horses and enough supplies to get me and my translator back to the capital.”
“You’re an ink mage.” Not a question. The Prime was obvious down the old woman’s back. Zayda would never have guessed she’d meet another ink mage here in this remote place. The only others she’d seen were created by the sultan’s pet wizard.
“A very select sisterhood, don’t you think?” the old woman said.
“What about the woman who came for me,” Zayda asked. “Dureen.”
The old woman shook her head. “Not an ink mage. She just used the term in case you recognized it.”
“I’m not in a sisterhood.” Zayda tugged at the metal collar. “I’m a slave.”
The old woman frowned. Something hardened in her good eye. “I thought such things were over centuries ago. So long, I thought they might just have been stories. Tell me.”
As Zayda told her story, they sipped tea from earthen mugs.
When she’d finished, the woman looked fatigued, as if Zayda’s tale was a heavy weight she’d placed on her new companion’s back.
“I’m sorry. I would help you if I could, but this is an ancient evil and beyond my skills.”
“It’s okay,” Zayda said. “I’m told they don’t come off. I doubt there’s anyone anywhere who can help me.”
“You’re too young to be without hope.”
“I don’t want to hope and then be disappointed.”
“Perhaps . . . I can give you some hope,” the old woman said. “Not much. A glimmer.”
Hope seemed a dangerous thing. The collar made hope a lie.
“For twelve generations, the women in my family have been ink mages,” the old woman began. “The knowledge passed from mother to daughter. I know things, legends maybe or truths. Who can say which is which?”
“Stories.” Zayda sighed. “Stories can’t help me.”
“Don’t underestimate stories. You’re writing your own even now,” the old woman said. “You decide what the end will be. What story do you want your children to know?”
“Then tell your story. I’ll listen.” Zayda sipped tea.
“Once there were two great wizards, each wanting to be greater than the other. Their war almost broke the world,” the woman told her. “But these men didn’t invent the magic they wielded so powerfully. The magic was born ages before these two wizards. The wise call Fyria the cradle of all magic. Certainly the ink magic was first made there.”
She took a stick from the fire, began to draw something in the dirt. Zayda leaned forward, recognized the Fyrian coast and realized the old woman was drawing a map.
“In the deepest part of the desert where there is no living thing,” said the old woman. “Begin at the Last Village.” She poked a point on the map with her stick, then dragged a line south. “Find the Valley of the Seven Guardians. From there . . .” A noncommittal shrug.
Zayda took a long look at the map. Not that she needed to memorize it. She could tap into the spirit any time she wanted and recall every word of this conversation exactly, every detail of the simple map the old woman had scraped into the dirt.
“Is this why you brought me here?” Zayda asked. “To show me this?”
“I didn’t know why. Only that you were a sister. It has been many years, more than your lifetime three times over. I have no daughters. I cast aside three husbands until I realized finally it was me. I cannot bear children, and yet I have a legacy to pass along.”
The old woman sighed, all her long years seeming to catch up with her at once. “I have a gift for you . . . if you will accept it.”
“That probably seems like a reasonable request,” Mardis said. “But if I give you two horses, that means two of my men will go without. It might seem a small difference, but if I go into battle, I’ll want every man. And if I have to retreat, I don’t want to leave anyone behind.”
“Please,” Peyne said. “It’s . . . important.”
Mardis sat back, chewing his lower lip. Peyne guessed what the man must be thinking. Technically, Peyne wasn’t Mardis’s superior. He held no place in the chain of command, either military or political. On the other hand, Peyne was close with the king and had been dispatched to Fyria, presumably for an important reason. Casually dismissing a request from one of the king’s closest friends was probably not smart.
“Perhaps if I knew the nature of your dilemma I might figure some way to lend assistance,” Mardis suggested.
Shrewd. He’s not saying no. But he’s not offering me his horses either.
Now it was Peyne’s turn to tread carefully. He sized up the man in front of him, decided Mardis could be trusted. Anyway, what choice did he have?
“Have you heard of ink mages?” Peyne asked.
“A gift for me?” Zayda raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because there’s no one else to give it to,” the old woman said. “Eventually, my time will come. Not soon, but it is inevitable. I must pass on the gift lest it be lost to history.”
“I don’t want your gift.” Zayda sat back suddenly, crossing her arms, not looking the old woman in the eye. “I don’t want any of this.”
The old woman sighed, a long, sad sound. “You are a slave, then.”
Zayda lifted her head abruptly, now meeting the old woman’s crooked gaze with fire in her eyes.
“Good,” the old woman said. “You might think yourself a slave, but at least you don’t like the idea. At least there is some fight in you.”
“I told you. The collar doesn’t come off.”
“The collar doesn’t make you a slave,” the old woman said. “Only accepting it does.”
The held each other’s gaze for a moment.
“Tell me about this gift,” Zayda said.
“First you must take off your top,” the old woman said. “You must be bathed. Your skin must be clean and blemish-free to receive the tattoo.”
“I’d always thought ink mages were something of legend,” Mardis said. “I remember the light in the sky twenty years ago. I was just a child. But they said that had something to do with ink mages. Stories and legends.”
“They’re true,” Peyne said. “I mean, I can’t verify every story you might have heard about ink mages, but enough are true. I’ve seen what she can do with my own eyes.”
“She?” Understanding slowly bloomed in Mardis’s expression. “The girl isn’t your translator, is she?”
Peyne shook his head. “And she’s just one little girl. Now I want you to imagine an entire army of them coming through the jungle on your newly cleared road.”
When the wizard Meddigar had inked the Prime down her back, Zayda’s world had expanded by leaps and bounds. The new tattoo given her by the old woman had much the same effect. Even in the gloom of night, the world was perfectly clear around her, one of the side benefits of the moon tattoo.
Zayda untied the strap of her halter top, looked down at the new ink. The crescent moon glowed a faint silver between her breasts. The feeling of the old woman’s rough, dry hands on her as she applied the tattoo had faded, and now only the hum of power beneath her skin remained.
Two tattoos. Only two, and yet she felt as if she could take on the world.
Zayda had heard the stories, tales of ink mages with dozens or even hundreds of tattoos covering every square inch of skin. How could such beings be anything but gods?
She paused beneath an opening in the jungle canopy, squinted at the crescent moon in the night sky. It perfectly matched the tattoo on her chest. The old woman had explained the tattoo moon would always match the moon in the sky. As it grew to a quarter moon and then a full moon, so too would her power grow.
She found her way easily back to the Helvan camp and circled behind the large tent where Peyne met with his countryman. How much longer would they be in there? Zayda had been hoping they’d show her a place to sleep. Or did they expect her to curl up next to the campfire like some stray cur?
Zayda cocked her head and listened. She tapped into the spirit, separating out all extraneous sounds and focusing only on the voices of the two men.
“In light of this new development, I think I can let you have two of my horses,” Mardis said. “An army of ink mages sounds horrifying. The king will want to know. They’ll want to see the girl firsthand. A demonstration will mean more than stories.”
“I appreciate your understanding,” Peyne said. “The sooner we can leave, the better. I’ll deliver the girl to court. The king’s wise men will know what to do with her from there.”
Zayda backed away from the tent, not wanting to hear more. They’d discussed packing her off as if she were cargo, as if she had nothing to say about her destiny. Her hand went automatically to the collar around her neck. Then it drifted to the scepter in her sash. As long as she held on to it, she was still master of her own fate.
At least to a certain extent.
She felt a sudden stab of disappointment and anger toward Peyne. She’d come to trust him, but what did she really know about the man? Had that been his plan all along, to deliver her like some prize, an enemy weapon to be examined and duplicated?
