Inksmiths: Book One

Chapter 2: Inksmiths

    "My name is Lauriel Manken," I announced clearly to the woman at the desk. "I'm here to apply as an Inksmith."

"Apprentice Inksmith," the woman corrected--she flashed a smile to put me at ease, beginning to paint onto the parchment before her. "And how old are you, Lauriel?"

"Sixteen," I replied. "Do you need my birthday?"

The woman waved her hand. "No, no need, dear. One moment, please."

"Do you need me to sign anything? Is there an application?" I asked.

"Nothing of the sort. Any orientation materials are at the discretion of your mentor. We don't require any signed contracts or anything of the sort. The Headmistress will explain the rules once everyone is in the lobby."

I nodded, threading my fingers together nervously as I awaited my next instructions.

It had been little over a month since I had learned of the war facing Alavan. My calligraphy work had increased--lately, my parents had begun timing how long it took for me to complete each stroke. Having a concrete goal to pursue allowed for smoother preparations, at least--my parents had urged me to pack up everything that was vital, but assured me that they would look after anything I left behind at home.

Inksmith Academy began accepting new students near the beginning of each season. I had joined in the influx of spring students. As I looked around the waiting area to observe the academy more fully, I was struck by the sheer size of it--even so, the wide, cobblestone hallways and grey, stone walls were packed with incoming students my age and older, each of them carrying suitcases and talking loudly about their expectations for the academy. Tapestries decorated with strange creatures and beautiful women hung along the walls, swaying slightly in the breeze let in by the open windows.

"Lauriel?"

I shook my head, returning my attention to the woman at the desk. "Yes?"

She smiled soothingly, passing over an ink brush with an engraved, metallic handle, a roll of parchment, and an inkwell hung from a leather belt. "You'll need these for orientation," she said. "If you spill the ink, don't worry. Let me know and I can refill it for you. You have fifteen minutes before everyone is to go to the lobby."

I accepted the gifts she offered, strapping the belt around my waist immediately and tucking the parchment under my arm. With the hand that didn't clutch the brush for dear life, I reached across to shake the woman's hand. "Thank you! I appreciate your help."

"Any time!" The woman shook my hand firmly, dipping her head. "I'm always here to help. My name is Isma, if you ever need me."

"Isma," I repeated. Isma nodded. "Alright. I'll try to remember that!"

Bidding a final farewell to Isma, I gathered my suitcases and headed for a corner of the room less crowded than the others. Placing my bags aside, I leaned into the stone walls, unrolling the parchment paper Isma had given me to examine it. Curious, I peered at the engraving on the brush's handle--the characters for "ink" and "magic" were scrawled on it in extravagant script.

"Isn't it pretty?"

I jumped, looking up from my examination of the brush to track the voice. A girl seeming slightly older than me stood arms-length from me, a nervous smile on her lips and crystal-blue eyes curious. Shimmering silver hair fell over her shoulder in light curls--I straightened my posture, feeling somehow like I had to impress her.

"Sorry," she said quickly, chuckling. "I didn't mean to freak you out or anything. I just don't know anyone here and was looking to start a conversation. I've been staring at my brush for the past ten minutes wondering if anyone else was as interested in it as I am."