Chapter 20: Dagger, fire, and exile

When She reveals her voice, the Inker will go to her side.

When She shows her true form to the Inker, they should be granted true sight.

When She shares her knowledge with their mind, the truth shall be revealed.

She is many, She is one.

The way of the old Ink, Dag. 7.2

One day to read a book whose characters I barely understood was too mighty of a feat, even for me. I had reached chapter seven out of nine, which might be considered astonishing by some, but not for me. Throughout the pages, I kept finding the same glyph for Ink; its root clearly said Ink, but the derivation insisted on attaching a pronoun, She. Interchangeably, the author wrote either of them, but the relationship eluded me.

The last section I read talked about her voice, and it was undeniable that I had been hearing a voice in my latest drawings, one that called my name. It was ghostly, incorporeal; it didn’t have any feminine attribute, nor masculine for that matter. If it has her voice, the Ink’s voice, it didn’t tell me where to go; it just repeated my name over and over. As for the rest of the text, if it was true, I had yet to notice.

There were two chapters left to finish the book, which required a time I didn’t have. Yaraq’s ungenerous day was about to come to an end; I hadn’t slept or eaten, and I was in no condition to fight anyone to death. I hoped Makka or Yaira would come by the Compendium, but I hadn’t seen a single trace of them so far. I would have gone to their cell if I knew where they were, or maybe they had their own houses.

I forced my numb legs to work, shaking them in the process to get rid of some of the stiffness. There was something I had to do before leaving. I roamed the building with a clear image of what I was looking for, an unadorned wooden door without locks, handles, nor hinges, a formation as its only mechanism—the entrance to the private collection, my gateway to possibly unveiling the dark truth behind the Drak’ga.

When I say there were more than a hundred shelves, I’m not being dramatic. It was a true labyrinth of books, reading rooms, and corridors. Finding a door might have seemed like a straightforward job unless you knew how easily it was to miss a chamber behind some racks. I had to do two complete circles to go over everything I had overlooked, and finally, inside a desolated room with barely a few rolled parchments and old papyrus, I found what I was looking for.

Yet, finding it just made me feel despair. I rubbed my hands against my pants in a futile attempt to dry my sweat and took out a piece of paper, a fountain pen, and some cheap Ink. I didn’t understand a single thing about that formation; whatever the circles, crosses, lines, spirals, progressions, and symmetric sets did, I could not process it.

It was tempting to touch it, but something inside me screamed at the thought. Maybe it was a memory from one of my predecessors alerting me of the danger, or perhaps my own mind playing games with me. Deciding to trust the impulse, I concentrated on drawing it. I started by its defining circles and followed by adding the other details. I was working on a group of repetitive progressions when something stabbed me inside my head, a firm pinch that made my hand miss the stroke and draw a line right across the whole drawing.

It was ruined; I had messed up the message it encoded, it was as good as random gibberish. I discarded the paper, making sure of adequately storing it for posterior elimination, and made my second attempt. And then a third followed. And a fourth. It was clear by then that something was stopping me from copying the design; there was some system in place that prevented others from making a complete copy. If I attempted to draw anything else past a certain point, my hand would just go wild, the product of an intense headache. As soon as I stopped, my head became clear again.

I thought for ten minutes, squeezing the latest of my energy, and finally came up with an elegant solution. I threw away the idea of getting a complete copy, and instead settled with having partial drawings of the formation per paper, so that I could then layer them one above the other and observe the complete result with the help of some light. It was far from perfect, as the original function would be lost, but I would at least be able to examine its independent parts. Makka will be, I thought, realizing that we would have a higher success if he studied it.

As I had envisioned, drawing each distinct part independently did work. I ended up with 10 papers, each filled with entirely different parts of the original. Refusing to yield to the temptation of testing the layered result in a better-lightened room, I quickly stored the papers in my shoulder bag and rushed out of there. I didn’t want to push my luck anymore and risk running into a Drak’oora.

I was walking towards the exit, thinking where I should go next. My cell wasn’t safe; I would be alone there and too easy of a target. Aimlessly looking for Makka or Yaira wouldn’t be the best idea either. Maybe I could go see Drak’oora Layan in her office and explain my situation. Yes, that would be the be-

“Tch! You!” I heard a voice asking for my attention on my right. “Come, quick!” His whispered shout and urgent fingers piqued my curiosity.

I’d like to think that any other day—one that I had slept properly, eaten my meals, wouldn’t have been studying unknown glyphs for hours, hadn’t been subjected to psychological torture with my imminent death, and, to put the cherry on top, hadn’t had those headaches—I wouldn’t have followed a stranger behind some shelves. But that day, I did.

When I moved towards his direction, he turned and went deeper into the narrow corridor formed by those shelves. I followed his tracks, expecting to see him right when I entered, but it was empty; there was nobody there. I traced the rest of the shelve, reaching for the next junction, again finding no one.

I barely had time to frown; my eyes were beginning to squint, that a few hands grabbed me by the neck, torso, and arms. I couldn’t count them; I just knew they were at least four people. Neither could I scream; they had stuffed my mouth with a piece of fabric. My babbling didn’t manage to reach beyond the shelves surrounding us. They covered my head with a bag and tied my legs and arms, completely immobilizing me. I could do absolutely nothing. I had felt safe inside the Compendium, thinking that Yaraq wouldn’t dare attack me inside, yet there I was, captive.

As I was dragged through the floor like a sack, I couldn’t help but think how useful it would be if I had Makka’s formation in my palm, just with fire instead of light. I could burn down the ropes and regain some freedom, maybe make an escape for it. I had my La’er, which could maybe free my hands with its flames, but it would be quickly requisitioned, and I’d be tied again. No, I needed something without form; I needed a fire that could envelop my whole body.

They dragged me somewhere, probably a secluded room. I heard the noise of something being pulled, carried on the stone floor; they are probably blocking the entrance with a rack. I heard steps coming close, laughter, and someone spitting. My head got uncovered, and I witnessed for the first time my captors; Yaraq wasn’t between them. Either that wasn’t his scheme, which I doubted, or he avoided getting his hands dirty.

“Any last words?” One of them said with a mocking grin. “Oh! Right! You can’t talk!” The others roared with laughter, amused by the dumb joke their friend had just said.

I couldn’t laugh, of course. My eyes were desperately moving from one another, pleading for my life in place of my mouth. Yes, I begged for my life, I cried, I uncontrollably trembled. When his extended hand extended towards my neck, and a dagger started materializing in his punch, I tried to slip away, waving my body in a fruitless effort to get rid of them. All I managed was to get a firmer grasp, a dislocated shoulder, and a series of kicks to my side to dissuade me from any further attempts.

I felt the cold metal against my neck. It tore through my skin, blood started dripping, traveling through my shoulder, arm, and hand, and finally crashing on the floor. I knew my La’er wouldn’t help me, but I didn’t have anything else; it was either that or dying.

Throwing caution to the wind, I materialized it on my good hand, the one that wasn’t attached to the hanging member. I knew invoking it from that distance would damage the Ink, but there was no other way around it. As soon as I felt the grip on my skin, I pushed my arms to the side, stretching the rope in hopes it would get on fire faster.

“Hey!” My captors noticed the change, shouting a series of warnings and curses—the one behind me surely alerted by the heat and the others either by the smoke or the smell. “What are you doing!?” I didn’t know if the question was directed at me or at the executioner, who was taking his sweet time, gracing my skin and slowly widening the cut.

They tried to tighten their grasp and succeeded in doing so on my legs, but they had to let go of my arms as soon as the flames reached their skin. It was a partial victory, one that lasted less than five seconds. I had my arm free; thus, I tried to wield my dagger at my most imminent threat. I moved faster than I thought I would have been able, but he was still quicker.

In a high-speed movement, his dagger’s pommel smashed my forehead. I felt enormous pain; my eyes instinctively closed as my hand opened, and La’er flew away. Even with my eyes closed, I saw white particles floating in the air; I felt the room spinning around me, my consciousness was threatening to fade as I felt all my limbs deadening. If it wasn’t for their renewed vigor in making sure I wouldn’t materialize any new weapon, I would have collapsed on the floor.

“What do you think you are doing! Eh!” The voice came from multiple angles simultaneously, as if he was circling around me while shouting. “Now,” his voice became a whisper, and that time I could clearly feel his breath against my ear, “you better stay still, otherwise…” he paused, purposely letting me imagine all he could do to me. “let’s say yours won’t be a quick and painless death.”

I felt the edge once more hugging my neck, lacerating some more skin. “Where were w-”

“Fire!” His threat got interrupted by an alarmed shout. It was neither of my captors; it came from further away, somewhere outside the room. “Fire! Hurry!” Several more voices joined the first one, shouting in distress.

I had to focus my still spinning sight to see what they were talking about. My La’er had rolled to the entrance, falling right below the shelve they used to block the access and setting it on fire.

“Hurry up! You must finnish him bef-”

“Are you crazy! It’s bad enough if they know we have threatened and wounded him; if they catch us after killing him…” One of the captors interrupted the first. Their sides are divided! I inwardly celebrated, hoping it wasn’t too early.

“Hurry!” I felt as the metal went deeper on my skin after someone pressed on, threatening to cut apart my jugular. The pressure augmented rapidly; I was seconds away from being bled out to death.

But then, all of a sudden, I heard something thumping above me. The dagger slashed to the front and fell to the floor, followed by a loud crash a moment after. My potential murderer had been knocked out; he was lying still on the floor, passed out for good.

I heard a ruckus by the shelve, water being thrown, and the hissing of fire as it struggled to live. The shelter was moved, and a group of people made their way in. I am safe, I thought right before passing out on my captors’ hands.

I abruptly woke up on my bed, sitting up at a speed that defied common sense. My eyes opened wide and examined my surroundings, looking for my captors. Luckily, they found nothing; I was alone in my cell. I deeply breathed, calming myself and recapitulating the events of the previous day. When I finally remembered the crowd entering the room, I relaxed and understood I was safe.

My stomach roared as I put my pants on and reached the door. I opened it, finding someone standing right in front of it. I had to look up to notice he was armed with a sword, or at least his tattooed back suggested so.

“He-hello?” I timidly said to who I assumed was a guard they had assigned to my cell.

He turned, and upon seeing me, stepped to the side and nodded. His finger touched his shoulder, a sign of acknowledgment that I imitated. He didn’t say a word, but seeing he let me go, I assumed I was free to roam the town. It hadn’t been my fault, but I couldn’t help thinking I would have to go through the judgment of light once more. My mind was busy thinking about how I would have to justify myself when I heard someone shouting from afar.

“Tarar! Finally!” I raised my eyes, shook my head to focus on the present, and saw Makka and Yaira running towards me. Before reaching my side, he shouted once more. “We’ve been coming every day; we were wondering how long you would take!”

I surprisedly looked at him, waiting for them to arrive before asking. “Every day? How long have I been out?”

“Today’s the third day…” Yaira said in a tiny voice. Her pale face and eye bags spoke volumes; she had been genuinely worried about me.

“Then… them?” I asked, still thinking about my judgment and those four individuals.

“One of them confessed under the judgment of light!” Makka said with his usual energy. “He accused the one who tried to kill you of convincing him and the two others to kidnap and kill you.” He said that last bit with noticeable reluctance.

“The leader was executed yesterday,” Yaira added.

“Exe-executed?” I perplexedly answered, having a hard time believing they had outright killed him. “And the others?” It wasn’t that I felt pity for them, they had tried to kill me, and they had to face the consequences, but back in Lamar, they would have never sentenced someone to death.

“You woke in time to see their exile.” So it was an option, I thought as I remembered one of the doubts I had right before meeting the Drak’ga. Yaira had just confirmed it was possible.

They walked me to the town’s center, a square next to the governmental building I was first brought to. My heart was divided between eating or witnessing the event, ultimately deciding to soldier through the first. Kneeling down on a platform purposely elevated from the crowd, my eyes met with the captors. They weren’t tied, and nobody was guarding them; the sheer amount of people present for the exile would prevent them from running.

I used the hour until it started to explain my side of the kidnapping, making sure I started from the day before with Yaraq’s threat. They had caught four of them, but that didn’t mean I was free from danger. Actually, all three of us agreed that, if anything, the following attacks would be subtler and better thought. I shamelessly asked for their help, scheduling meeting points and times to escort me back to either of their cells. They didn’t have any house in their name, but they would make sure not to leave me alone. We were discussing the details around the book’s last chapters and their discoveries, which amounted to just some gossip, when a bell silenced our conversation. Everyone’s, for a matter of fact.

The seven Drak’oora exited the building and paraded through the multitude, splitting them apart on their way to the platform. They stood a stride away from the sentenced, facing them. Drak’oora Layan spoke while the rest took out several Inking instruments.

“Today is a day that everyone shall remember, for we are exiling three of our own.” She spoke while the others dipped their pens and started drawing on their bare chests.

“They will be marked, no longer a part of the Drak’ga.” She said after they completed a few lines.

“They are no longer part of our inheritance.” She added after they had a complete formation on their chest.

The other six put away their pens. Their hands shone with a bright light, radiant and blinding, a long blade materializing in them. Its cutting edge, sharper than anything I had ever witnessed, curved outwards, thinning until it became nothing more than a point on its end. It was a sword made for cutting.

“They shall no longer remember our legacy.” As soon as she said the words, all six swordsmen slashed the convicts’ chests, cutting through the Drak’ga formation, breaking the lines that confined their ancestor’s mind.

They had asked for it, I was their victim, yet I couldn’t help but think what a waste it was. Three whole lines, each a chain made of memories worth thousands of years, had been completely erased from existence in the five minutes that lasted the ceremony. Actually, four, the main aggressor’s heritage was also lost.

As soon as it ended, a few armed Drak’gath guided the three men outside of town, the whole, and the cave system. They would never be allowed to step on those grounds. The multitude dispersed right after them, plunging the square in forced silence. It was not every day that they killed or exiled people.

The silence didn’t last for long, though, as my stomach decided it was a good time to make itself announced. I scratched the back of my head, noticeably ashamed, and we all laughed.

“Come with me to the dining room; I have some things to show you.” Our conversation was interrupted before, so I didn’t have the opportunity to talk about the door’s formation. I need Makka to inspect it and, hopefully, break it.