Pepper / INK /

Nightmare night

Six Years ago

Alistair was too young to more than basic casting, nine summers, and he, with some pride, called himself a lunar. And not just any lunar, Yeni Ay, A ’new moon’ Lunar, some of the rarest Lunars there were. They were strongest when the moon was weakest and their crescent moon faced the ’wrong’ way from most. He and his best friend Gabriel had had the most fun day he could remember. It had started after school, just as the moon rose, his friend had walked over to visit him. But it was a winter day when the moon came up before the sun was down. Or in their parlance they ’shared’ the sky.

It was Alistair’s ninth birthday and his friend was going to be able to spend the night. And the two had had food and cake and presents, and Alistair had been told that he was "Son of a Seven" that he would, in a few years, be given Ink and become an Inkwalker, his mother had said so, and the small crescent moon mark had showed up on the back of his neck.

There had been feats of magic, both from the boys and from the rest of the family, showing off the new spells and circles they had learned. He’d fed way too many muffin scraps to the little mouse that his mom usually wore on her calf who had decided to become real and steal some of the food.

Then the boys had sat up far into the night, Alistair, for once, on the top bunk because Gabe was afraid of heights. They had told stories, some true, some less so, most involving the Necromancers, scary stories as most kids were wot to tell when they were board. Most of them were about the Artifae, "Risen" the necromancers weapon. Of course, neither the children, nor their parents had seen Risen, or Becomers, for that matter, and so they were the realm of fairy tales suitable to scare children with.

The two boys had fallen asleep sometime after full dark. Before the sound of the song of moon had faded for the night.

Alistair couldn’t tell you what woke him. But the moon had long since set, and the world was quiet. Only the paths and the pillars set at the end of each street threw moon magic back up into the air casting a blue light.

It was cold outside, not an uncommon thing, and he got up to close the window. On second thought he latched it, and went back to the top bunk. Nothing seemed amiss, though he knew he could wake his parents if he needed to, but there was nothing, he had been too cold, he decided. And he pulled the covers back over his head.

With the covers up, he missed something important, the lights outside, run by moon magic began to dim and flicker out. The stone rarely refused to give light, not unless the magic controlling it was siphoned off to do something else. It was the sign of powerful magic.

The sound that had awoken the boy started again, but he was too far asleep to be mindful of it. "Scratch, scratch scratch" The sound of fingernails on glass.

Still he didn’t wake, so powerful was the spell that had dimmed the light outside, that it settled on the house and made the ones asleep there less likely to rise.

It was, at last the crack of the glass that woke the boy as the Risen slammed a hand on it. Black blood oozed from the hand, and ice formed on the glass as the Becomer slid in through the now-unlatched window and approached the bed.

The room was cold, colder than it should be.

"Bottom bunk" a voice said, and Alistair didn’t know then that was the voice of the necromancer, nor did he know it was one of the last voices he would ever hear.

Gabriel screamed as the creature grabbed his wrist in its bony hands and the magic began to strip not only his magic but his very flesh from his bones. They were called Becomers because they could become whoever they fed on. With a scream Alistair launched himself at the creature and threw a spell meant to scare him off. But the spell didn’t hurt him and the creature let go of his friend and walked over to kick and stomp on Alistair until the boy went unconscious.

It was hours later when he awoke to a sight he would never forget. His best friend lay in his bed, stripped to the bones. His head hurt and the house was quiet. "Abba? Umi ?" He called for his parents, not liking how silent the house was.

He ran to his parents room to find their windows had also been broken, but they were not in their room. He went out to the living room and there he found the second scene he would never forget. The Becomer, half looking like his father, half looking like Gabe lay tangled with his Father’s body, knife driven deeply into the becomer’s chest. The process of being stripped, it seemed had killed his father... and behind a bulkhead formed by the upended kitchen table, and surrounded by shattered plates that had been transmuted into blades and thrown across the room, was his mother. For the first time in his life, he saw her without tattoos.

He touched her, and found her skin warm. But the pool of blood around her was not good. Her eyes opened, green eyes with bright silver rims, and she smiled. He saw her mouth move but couldn’t hear her. With his ear to her chest he couldn’t hear a heartbeat.

She tried to talk again, but still he heard nothing. She touched him and smiled, hugging him, burying her hands in his hair and holding him close until she no longer had the strength to do so. And when she slumped, he put his head back, tears falling and screamed.

It was a wail of grief and anguish, and it brought the thunder, lightening and rain. He might not have all his ink, but he was an Inkwalker, and even without understanding he could call the rain to cleanse the land of Becomers.

In his room, on his desk, the picture his mom had drawn for him. Made with her own ink, the one that she wore, was a bird. And of the things that he took when he left the house that was the most useful thing he had. Unfortunately, it was a mortal cop who found him, a man with not only no aptitude for magic, but also no belief in it. And it was for this reason that he found himself in a mortal foster home.

The attack by the Becomer had taken his hearing, damaging the connection to the brain. And for many years he could not hear very well, or talk. But a year after his mother’s death Alistair gave himself a new name. "Shum Najl Aibna." Son of an unlucky seven." He called himself. And in a fit of anger one day, he made, what he thought was an idle wish. "I wish this ink could help me talk."

His hand had come down on the paper, as, for the thousandth time his step-father screamed at him for not being able to be understood. For a moment afterword he wished he hadn’t made the wish. When the bird came to life, he could suddenly hear, and the bird could speak for him.

The first sounds he could hear through the bird were the sounds of his step-father yelling and calling him stupid, telling him that he knew how bad magic was, that it had murdered his family and he never wanted to hear the child sing the moonlight song again.

He couldn’t help it though, the moonlight was still when he felt best. When he was singing the song he could somehow sing without being able to hear. The word the bird said to his step father was unrepeatable in any language, even for a twelve year old. And he found himself in more trouble, but somehow he knew this man could not keep him from his birthright.

His step-father was abusive, but somehow he persevered. And somewhere, across the city, the Inkwalker, the one one figure who would have helped him, his uncle, was looking for the nephew he had never met, and remembering the sister he had buried. But even able to hear now, Shum didn’t feel safe.

It wasn’t until he was fifteen that he would ever feel safe again.

#

"Daniel?" The lithe young man slipped in, shedding his shoes at the door as was the custom and allowing his eyes to adjust to the moon stone lights. He looked around a little bit looking for the Inkwalker. "Daniel?"

Max was what was known as his Keeper, a bodyguard of sorts whose job was to keep him out of trouble specifically related to forgetting how weak his body was without the ink, and that sometimes he did need to rest. Max was the only one he allowed to see him without his ink. Without his Ink he was human, mortal, not in the sense the people of the city used the word, but truly mortal.

"In here Max."

Max came into the room to find Daniel kneeling on the rug, a sign of prayer. "I’m sorry, did I interrupt your obligations?" He bowed his head and started to retreat.

Daniel nodded, a slight up down to let him know he had heard. "No, I was simply lost in thought. It happens at my age. Tomorrow is my anniversary with Hera." He smiled sadly.

He placed a hand over his friend’s heart. "I’m sorry." And he was, he knew how much her death at the hands of a Necromancer had gutted him. He patted his friend on the shoulder and looked him over to make sure he was doing ok.

The death of his second wife was still a raw wound for him, especially since he had only recently woken up. For three years he had slept and Max had taken care of him. Max had made sure that Inkaru, the ink, was cared for so that it did not die while its host slept.

The ink said that the Inkwalker had become too sad, that his friend was so hurt that even he didn’t know how to help, and without the grotto and its healing water, there was nothing to do but let him sleep.

And so for three years he had cared for him, going to work as often as he dared, but also living off the Inkwalker’s immense fortune gathered over the hundred and thirty years he’d been alive.

One day, Max had come to look after him, and his friend had been awake. That had been six months ago, and during the three years, Max had made plans, in case, like the first time he slept, his charge slept a decade or two, he was going away, to Cold Iron, to school. There was, it was said, one of the best magic schools in the whole city-state there.

"What troubles you Max?" This was the much deeper voice of Inkaru.

"I didn’t know how long you both would sleep.--" He bowed a little, even as keeper it scared him to talk to the Ink. It scared any magic user worth his circle.

"So you made plans and wonder how we will respond." It was a flat statement. Still Daniel didn’t move.

Max nodded. "I want to go to school."

"Of course there are many schools."

"I want to go to cold Iron."

The room was silent. Cold Iron was dangerous, once a haven, it had become the hiding place of workers of blood, and while he was a Righteous man, and Daniel’s Keeper, he was not required to stay, but the Human, Daniel, he was worried.

"We have no trouble with you going, you are not bound here, you have not taken your ink," Inkaru said. "But that place is-- bent, and I fear it might taint your magic. Not of your choosing, but that is an easy compromise to make."

"I have given you my word to be a righteous man."

The Ink nodded. "we know this, and you know we must judge you when next you meet. Just bear that in mind."

"I will Inkaru."

The ink reached out for the first time in a while and touched him. "Your mother would be proud of you. Daniel doesn’t say it, because it still hurts. But he loves you like a son. This will be hard for him, so go easy on him."

Max nodded.

The shift was sudden, "Don’t go." The voice belonged to Daniel. "Please, anywhere but there, don’t go, it’s full of Necromancers and evil men."

"You don’t trust me?"

"No, it’s not that. I can’t put you in danger Daniel, when they see your flower, and they hear your name, they will know that you are my Keeper and the workers of blood will kill you."

"You don’t know that."

"I do, Max. I see it every night. They will kill you-- or worse."

"What’s worse?"

"You know what’s worse. The thing that took my sister, that is worse. The thing that kidnapped an Inkwalker that is worse. I don’t want to lose anyone else, no more leverage."

Daniel didn’t think about how it sounded. He was worried though and Max fled, slamming the door behind him.

Daniel tried two more times to talk to Max, but to no avail. But he was worried, the necromancer had made it clear he was after the survivors of the Emmett line. And so, that night he made a choice that would haunt him for the next six years.

It was long after dark, and after his friend had fallen asleep. If his friend wanted to go, he couldn’t stop him, but he didn’t want him to know who the Inkwalker was. Daniel placed a hand to his friend’s head. "Max, hear me, I want you to forget who I am, forget the history you have with me, forget that I bear the ink, if I could, I would make you forget I was Inkwalker, but my magic won’t go that far, so be happy where you go, and when you come back and know who I am, take back your birthright.

Years later he would regret that night, but right then, it seemed the best choice born of a stubborn selfishness that couldn’t lose another family member, and with the intent of making his life easier, he erased himself from his friend’s memory. But like all spells and wishes, it had unforeseen consequences.

And so, he sat and watched his friend dream about the life that he could no longer remember, and with tears in his eyes he snuck out before the rising sun. He didn’t see Max again for six years.

#

One week later.

Daniel stood at the head of the procession, his own Azrail standing in for hers as his sister no longer had her ink, and there was no sign of where it had been taken. The streets were lined with Lunars who sang the hushed but sad melody of the Inkwalker remembered and watched as her bier was slowly carried to the moon garden.

At the edge of the garden, the Inkwalker stood, hand outstretched, and the bier rose as if being carried and a moment later Azrail stood on one side of it and Charon on the other. And in time they entered the glassed-off building which none but the most trusted of the Inkwalkers could ever hope to enter. And there, the Inkwalker himself laid her in her grave and moved the dirt over her to bury her. From his robes came a small bulb, black and scaled, it looked like a dragon-egg and he gently buried it at the head of her grave, and poured the crystal water from the spring nearby on it.

For a moment, as he stood and sang the Inkwalker’s lament, there didn’t seem to be any change, and then a small plant with dark leaves seemed to grow up almost instantly, continuing growing from a single shoot to full blossom as he sang. By the time he was done the roots had grown over the grave to protect it, and he placed a hand on the flower before turning to leave the garden.

The rest of the lunars met him out there. "I promise you my people, I have not forsaken you. I will find this Necromancer, and I will get her ink back, what is more I will find her son, this I promise. But for now, I banish all talk of revenge and justice, instead, speak to those who have gone on, tell stories of those you miss that their memories will never die."

"Children, I leave Bran to watch over, but I am afraid I must take my leave, for this sorrow weighs on me, and I do not wish to dampen your celebration."

The Crow cawed from the headstone where it sat and bobbed its head, and the Inkwalker simply faded away in a swirl of smoke and dream dust, leaving the mourners to their party.

It was an hour later that Daniel found himself at his sister’s house trying to find any clue to the identity of the necromancer that had tried to kill him, twice, and had only succeeded in killing his family. At least that was what he thought at the time. It was only later that he would learn that the Necromancer who had killed his wife, and the one who had killed his sister were one-in-the-same and that taking his family was not an accident, but design. A plan to drive him into the despair that the Necromancer believed the Inkwalker had once heaped upon him.

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Next Chapter: A Prayer in the Dark