Inksmiths: Book One

Chapter 9: Stories

    The first time I ever stepped foot in Noel's room, he set it on fire. I swore I could still smell the smoke as I entered now, stepping around piles of papers and empty inkwells. I could remember wondering where Noel slept the first time I entered his room--now, I saw him step over to a bookshelf near the back, which he moved to the side with a flick of his wrist and a flourish of his brush, revealing an oaken door. Cracking the door open, Noel offered me a nervous smile, stepping back and gesturing for me to go through the door first.

Admittedly, I wasn't entirely comfortable sitting in his bedroom alone with him, but if nothing else Noel had been perfectly respectful thus far. Besides, if I wanted to know the answers to my many questions, I had to play by his rules. Stealing myself, I entered the room, finding my way to a chair in the corner by the flickering lights of a few mounted torches.

Noel followed, closing the door behind him. I heard the sounds of wood scratching against stone as he moved the bookcase back into place, then he went to take a seat on his bed, facing me. For a moment, we were silent.

Sighing, Noel removed his hat from his head, placing it gently to the side. "...Well," he murmured. "I suppose I should start at the very beginning. You want to know why I have been here so long. Why I had such a head start on training apprentices. Why I seem to have experience."

I nodded, not for the first time wondering how Noel always seemed to know what was on my mind. In light of his performance at the coliseum and my conversation with our brown-eyed senior, literal mind reading now seemed to be the most appropriate answer.

Noel fiddled with the brim of his hat, seemingly mulling over how to begin his story. Three times he opened his mouth to begin, and three times he closed it again with a light huff. Finally, after shifting nervously on the bed, he began with, "Have you ever heard of the Inkwells?"

The name sounded familiar. After a moment of thought, I realized why.

"Yes. My parents told me about them when they introduced me to Inksmiths."

"What did they tell you?"

"Um..." Again, I paused to think. "...They said they were ink-wielders who used their magic for evil. They said they were all dead, that they were wiped out in the war."

"All correct," Noel said. "They also recruited child soldiers. Little orphans stuck on the streets without a place to go or food to eat. Desperate street urchins who didn't know what to do with themselves. Being a member of the Inkwells gave those kids a place to belong. Something to do with their lives. Sure, the treatment of their little workers was horrendous--a young Inkwell who messed up their practice one too many times could be sentenced to days without food or worse--but at least it was better than feeling lost. Abandoned. Alone. Hopelessly, depressingly alone."

I stayed silent, unsure of how to respond. Even before he continued, I saw it in his eyes--Noel spoke from experience.

"...They were harsh," Noel continued, gazing off to the side at the torchlight shimmering on the walls. "Cruel, even. But their methods worked. Inkwells were strong, talented magicians and well-equipped for brutal fights in the coliseum. We stole, we tricked, we did whatever we wanted because we knew only the Inksmiths could stop us. And they were far too busy with the war. ...My parents were Inksmiths. They were slain in the war and left me with no choice but to join the very force they were trying to stop. I trained as an ink-wielder with the Inkwells starting at five years old."

"Noel..." I paused, biting my lip. Somehow, I had a feeling Noel wasn't looking for a response. Resolving to merely listen, I sat up straighter, trying to show him I was paying attention.