Inksmiths: Book One

Chapter 1: Calligraph

Peaceful days in Alavan were frequent. I spent mine writing.

While other kids outside played "Lady and Knight", studied blacksmithing, or told each other made-up stories, I sat in my room practicing perfect calligraphy. Perhaps the hobby was passed down to me by my parents--both of them had beautiful handwriting and winning scripts.

I never understood why my parents--peaceful and docile by nature--instilled in me a hobby that was primarily used for gladiator fights. Never, that is, until my sixteenth birthday.

My parents brought me to the coliseum. It was a location that had never drawn my interest too heavily--the fights between ink-wielders were horrific at best and barbaric at worst--but the stern looks on my parents' faces as they explained the outing convinced me they had a reason for it.

Our seats were near the upper level of the coliseum, peering down rows and rows of our neighbors and friends at the dueling ink-wielders scuffing their feet in the sand. Explosions of elemental power and flashes of bright light stunned and delighted the cheering audience, drawing cries of alarm and excitement. My mother placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. I touched her hand, angling a smile at her expectant eyes. Her posture relaxed as she glanced back out at the tussling gladiators.

"Do you know who those people are?" my mother's soft voice asked. "No specifics, Lauriel. But do you know what they are?"

I pondered her question for a moment. Truth be told, there was still much I didn't know about Alavan and the mysterious, ink-wielding magicians who were said to wander its streets.

Ink-related magic was common--that was something I knew. Its primary use was by fighters like the two below, a form of bloody entertainment for morbid citizens who liked to see their fellows clash brushes. Every once in a while, you would see a shopkeep or baker use the magic for more common practices, such as helping to clean their stores, but this happened so infrequently it almost wasn't worth mentioning. I had never seen my parents take much interest in ink magic until today--their practiced scripts were used for decorating the house and creating wall scrolls for my father's work.

"They're ink-wielders," I answered finally. "They're gladiators who fight with ink magic to entertain an audience."

My mother smiled, moving her delicate hand to rest on my head. "Yes, that's certainly part of it. These fighters are not the only wielders of ink magic, however."

"The bakers and shopkeeps," I guessed, admittedly unsure of where she was going.

"Yes, to a degree," my mother said. "But there are more uses for that magic than daily chores or fights for entertainment."

I tilted my head inquisitively, peering up at my parents. What other uses could there possibly be for magic in our peaceful kingdom? War was unthinkable. We were one of the most economically stable kingdoms on the continent, we had healthy trade between other kingdoms, and our allies were many. I didn't know much about our king, but he was elderly and harmless with a dominating spirit.

"There are also Inksmiths," my mother continued when I offered no response. "Wielders of ink trained and handpicked by a royal academy to serve the king directly. The massive building we walk by on our way to the market is the academy in question."

"The compound?" I asked curiously. My mother nodded. "I thought that was just an ordinary school. Maybe a trade school for blacksmiths."

"It is a trade school," my mother agreed, "but not for blacksmiths. The king is always in need of more Inksmiths. However, due to the nature of their work, the academy is rarely discussed publicly. It's up to those who are already aware of its existence to send more students to the school."