Blood of Fire

by Marlow York

  I imagined what that woman had looked like. Probably more like Anza than like me.

  Saven hissed slowly, reprimanding me for my lack of confidence.

  “I know, I know,” I said. I straightened my back and looked over the crowd of villagers that was slowly growing larger. Families beamed proudly and chatted amongst themselves, many with drinks in their hands.

  “Where is your family?” I asked Bjorn, siding up next to him.

  He nodded towards one section of the crowd. “Over there.”

  I followed his gaze and saw a petite man and stout woman staring back at us. They, much like Bjorn, didn’t seem overly confident. I noticed Bjorn’s father had tattoos under his eyes.

  “Your father is a Scout,” I observed. “He will be proud when you become a Scout too, right?”

  “He would be prouder if I became a Warrior,” Bjorn replied, frowning at his family.

  I glanced from Bjorn to his family again. I noticed the serious clench of his father’s jaw, and the way Bjorn’s mother tried and failed to give a supportive smile. It came out more pained than anything.

  “Don’t let it get to you,” I said quietly. “We will all have to live with whatever fate throws at us. There’s no sense competing with anyone else; their lives are not yours.”

  Bjorn looked at me, perhaps a little relieved. Before he could say anything, the crowd turned towards the Elder Hall and began hushing each other. I looked and saw the Warrior guards stepping out of the Hall, their faces stoic and their heads held high.

  We all quickly formed two neat rows, the shorter trainees in front and the taller ones in back. We stood shoulder to shoulder, our expressions as serious as the Warriors leading the Elder Council out of the Hall. Human and Animal God walked side by side, the youngest first, until Ysolda and Kalon slowly brought up the rear. Kalon rode his perch carried by another Warrior.

  The excited chattering dimmed to an ominous silence. Though this was a happy situation, the importance of the ceremony weighed heavily on the recruits, myself included. We all tried hard not to show our nerves—jaws set in a firm line, eyes pointed forward as Ysolda stepped onto a wooden platform and looked over the crowd. Her eyes shifted to the trainees, meeting each of us in turn. Her expression gave away no hints, but I swore she looked at me a little longer. What could that mean?

  “Think nothing of it,” Saven advised sternly. He tried to be reassuring, but I knew he was nervous for me.

  Ysolda addressed the crowd of onlookers. “Brothers and sisters,” she said, her voice strikingly powerful. “We gather here today to bestow a great honor upon a select number of young Grakkir. These recruits have endured rigorous training so that they may join a legacy of powerful Warriors. Their strength and courage will protect our village and honor the traditions of our people for years to come.” She turned to Vondak, who stood nearby.

  He gave a nod and stepped forward. He didn’t have paper or any sort of reference in his hand; he knew exactly where each of us would go.

  Vondak’s stony eyes passed over us once, then stopped somewhere behind me. “Raerek. Warrior, first class.”

  The crowd hooted and stomped their feet. The Warriors beat their fists on their chests, as a sign of respect and praise. Raerek stepped from the group and approached Vondak, trying hard to suppress his grin. They shook hand-to-forearm and Raerek lowered his head respectfully. Vondak gave a short nod before releasing the younger man’s arm. Raerek joined the excited crowd, who patted him on the back as he found his parents. He was clearly a favorite among the village. His father, a tall man with the Warrior’s Shield on his chest, nodded respectfully when his son approached, but I noticed the cautious look in his eye. Even now he needed to remind his son not to boast too much. His mother was equally tall and stone-faced, but she smiled proudly at her son.

  The crowd settled into anxious silence. Vondak called another name, the boy who was equal in skill to Raerek. He was also named a first-class Warrior, and again no one was surprised, but the crowd was just as happy with the announcement.

  The next two boys who were called were named second and third-class Warriors, respectively. After that was a first-class Scout, a lanky boy who was quick on his feet.

  “Anza,” Vondak called.

  I saw the girl inhale sharply from the corner of my eye, but she hardly moved. The crowd looked uncertain and curious; no one could anticipate how she would rank, or if she would even rank at all.

  “Warrior, second-class.”

  Many people gasped with amazement, but everyone in the crowd cheered loudly and stomped their feet. Anza couldn’t hide her joy as she hurried towards Vondak and clasped his arm. I watched her join the crowd, tears streaming down her mother’s face as she hugged her daughter. I saw tattoos on her father’s arms; he was likely a farmer. No doubt he was immensely proud and relieved that his daughter had become the first female Warrior in years.

  The next name was called. He was an unremarkable boy, but he was tall and seemed strong, though he had never done well in sparring. Vondak paused a long while before saying bluntly, “No rank.”

  Several people gasped, including a few of the trainees who couldn’t restrain themselves. I glanced at the boy from the corner of my eye; his face was ashy-white, eyes wide with disbelief. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Head hung shamefully, he made his way through the group and strode past the crowd. No one watched him leave. Instead, they turned their eyes to the ground. The only sound that could be heard was the muffled sniffles from the woman who was likely his mother.

  “Bjorn,” Vondak called. His voice distracted everyone from our shared embarrassment for the failed trainee.

  I saw Bjorn stiffen beside me; he hardly seemed to breathe.

  “Scout, third-class.”

  Again, the crowd stamped their feet respectfully, but as with the other lesser-ranked Scouts, they were not nearly as excited as they were when Warriors were announced. I touched his elbow briefly and gave him a smile as he stepped away.

  “Valieri.”

  My pounding heart nearly stopped at the sound of my own name. A curious hush fell over the crowd. I suspected few people had faith in me, but none of us could predict Vondak’s decision. A soft breeze swept through the village, rustling the leaves surrounding us. The wind died, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

  The stillness seemed to last an eternity. Finally, I glanced expectantly at Vondak, wondering if he’d forgotten his words. His dark eyes stared at mine, and for a split second, I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward in an almost-grin.

  “Warrior, third-class.”

  My mouth dropped open, as did many others in the crowd. No one dared move or make a noise. Had we heard him correctly? The Fiero girl, a third-class Grakkir Warrior? No one could believe it, least of all me.

  A single stamping sound rose up amidst the silence. When I searched for the source, I was astonished to see Ysolda beating her cane against the ground. She continued and looked out over the crowd.

  Sarrenke joined in enthusiastically, beaming from her secluded spot away from the others. Bjorn smiled respectfully at me, beating his fist against his chest. Disbelief and distrust seemed to slip away, and the tension was alleviated by the sound of stomping feet and beating chests. They weren’t nearly as enthusiastic as they had been for everyone else, but I felt like a weight had lifted, and I could finally move.

  I stepped over to Vondak, feeling the blush of embarrassment on my cheeks. My arms and legs jittered with adrenaline, but I kept my head up and my expression as calm as possible.

  Vondak lifted his arm to clasp mine. His cold expression faltered as his eyes warmed with respect. I bowed my head and bit my lip to keep my smile subdued.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Everyone except the one boy had earned the rank of Warrior or Scout, and as soon as the ceremony was over, the crowd erupted with cheers and applause. Our stony expressions disappeared and were replaced with beaming smiles and shouts. Those among the group who
had doubted me now clapped me on the back. I was finally one of them. As much as it should have felt like betrayal to my people, I couldn’t have been more elated.

  “Now we get to celebrate?” Saven asked eagerly.

  “Well…” my thoughts trailed away as Sarrenke pushed through the crowd and wrapped me in a tight embrace. A blush of embarrassment rushed to my cheeks, but I hugged her back, glad she and Saven were there to witness my accomplishment.

  “Does this mean we have to go back?” I asked.

  “I have spoken to Ysolda. She said you are not allowed to celebrate with the Grakkir, but you will get your Warrior’s Shield instead. Before everyone else!”

  As much as I wanted to participate in the party, her excitement was infectious. “Shall we go now?”

  “You will go alone. I can show you to the tattoo master’s hut, but I am not permitted to stay.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I couldn’t hide my disappointment. When would I finally get to experience some of the perks that came with being a Warrior? Still, I suppose it was nice to be first to see the tattoo master, rather than wait until later.

  We left the energetic crowd behind us and wandered down a small side street. I’d never seen the village so deserted. There was only one person on the street—a young man with heavily tattooed hands standing just outside a dark hut. He looked up at us as we approached, eyeing each of us curiously in turn.

  “The tattoo master?” Saven asked.

  Without a word, the frowning boy turned and disappeared into the hut.

  “He seems a little young to be the master,” I said.

  “Not him,” Sarrenke said. “He is likely an apprentice. Jindi is the village tattoo master.” She grinned at me. “She is waiting inside.”

  I suddenly felt nervous, but Saven’s presence always calmed me. “I’ll see you back home?” I asked. The word felt strange coming from my mouth.

  Sarrenke nodded. As I watched her walk away, I wondered if she too felt disappointed that she couldn’t celebrate with me or the rest of village.

  “She isn’t the jealous type,” Saven said. “I’m certain she feels nothing but happiness that you are a Warrior. She would never envy your successes as proof of what she cannot do.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed.

  I turned towards the hut. “Hello?” I called inside.

  “Get in here.” A husky voice came from somewhere within the darkness.

  I pushed aside the heavy flap hanging over the door and nearly jumped out of my skin when I came face to face with the young apprentice. His impassive eyes peered at me, but he said nothing. Saven poked his head in curiously, but he decided to wait outside after we both noticed how small the interior was.

  “Don’t get too excited, Fiero.” The voice belonged to a tall woman with more ink than skin. Nearly everything from her face to her fingers was laced with intricate black designs, softly faded over time. “Normally I only work on first-class initiates. The only reason I’m spending my time on your tattoo is because you are not allowed to join the celebration.”

  I held back my retort. I hated the way she spat my clan name even after I was accepted as a Warrior, but the fact that I was there and not with the other new Warriors was yet another indication that I was not respected by everyone.

  “Understood,” I said bluntly.

  The apprentice was setting up equipment and tools, moving his long fingers delicately and with purpose, as though each movement was part of a memorized ritual.

  Jindi stepped from wall to wall, lighting candles and torches until the room was brightly lit. I watched as the apprentice knelt by the fire and stirred something in a small kettle. His face had no tattoos, but his arms and hands were covered with intricate designs. What I could see of his chest and feet were also covered with black ink.

  I looked around the room curiously. A huge collection of charcoal sketches covered the walls. The drawings depicted people, animals, and the forest, all drawn in impressive detail on heavy yellowed paper. A tall shelf held a variety of objects, such as old lichens, animal skulls, snail shells, rocks, and branches. Were they merely decorative, or were they reference materials?

  Before I had the chance to ask, Jindi grabbed my arm and tugged me toward a fur mat in the center of the room. “Remove your shirt and cover yourself with this.” She passed me a thin sheet. “Then lie down on the mat.”

  I looked from the sheet to her, eyebrows raised. Even after all this time, the Grakkir bluntness still took me by surprise sometimes. I glanced at the apprentice, who was still preoccupied with the kettle above the fire. Jindi had already turned away, though I reminded myself the Grakkir weren’t easily embarrassed by nakedness.

  I did as I was told, dropping my shirt nearby and lying down on the mat. Jindi knelt beside me, holding what looked like a miniature gardening hoe with sharp edges. The boy knelt on my other side, quickly stirring whatever had been heating over the fire.

  “Is that ink?” I asked, looking at the bowl.

  “A special type of ink,” he clarified. “It is different from the type of ink we have in our skin.”

  “The Obsidite ink?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Jindi said. She dipped the pronged tool into the ink. The boy used one hand to help hold my skin taut while Jindi tapped the tool against my skin. I tried not to flinch as the sharp spines pressed the hot ink into my skin. I noticed the boy’s other hand continued to stir the ink.

  “You have to keep stirring it?” I asked.

  “Obsidite ink is very temperamental,” he said. “The rock must be shaved into a fine powder using diamonds. The powder is then heated and mixed with special oils, so it stays liquid long enough to be pressed into the skin. If it is not frequently heated and continuously stirred, it will solidify into its solid form and will need to be shaved down again and heated.”

  I tried to remember what Tarek’s Warrior Shield looked like up close. Though he was older than the young man beside me, Tarek’s tattoo was a much more vivid shade of black. That explained why the older tattoo had kept its dark color; it was a completely different type of ink.

  “The Warrior’s Shield is harder than diamonds?” I asked. I pressed my lips together and tried not to show pain as Jindi tapped a trail of ink from one shoulder to the other.

  “Nearly,” Jindi said, her eyes fixed on her work. “The oils dilute it slightly, but it will still be strong enough to deflect a knife or arrow.”

  “Wow,” I breathed.

  Jindi scoffed a short laugh. “It is unlikely you will test its might.”

  I looked up at her, but her eyes never left my skin. “Why do you say that?”

  “I do not know what Vondak sees in you, but I think it was a mistake to let you become a Warrior.”

  I bit back my anger. “Then what does that say of you? You are no Warrior, and it is not your decision to make.”

  Jindi paused, her eyes flicking to mine. I held her gaze until she finally looked back at her work. She tapped the prongs sharply against my collarbone—much harder than necessary. I refused to let myself wince, despite how my skin burned and stung.

  “Then tell me,” Jindi began. “Do you think you will be able to fight your beloved City?”

  “Beloved?” I asked.

  “The Grakkir all know how the Fiero worshiped the City, lying at their feet like loyal dogs. Look at them now.”

  “You know nothing about the Fiero,” I spat. “And do not be so cocky to think your people wouldn’t be fooled under the same situation.”

  “We would not, I assure you.”

  I took a slow breath. “No, I suppose not. The Grakkir would have jumped at any opportunity to fight, and you would have all be wiped out long ago.”

  Jindi’s lip twitched. I was starting to get to her, and she hated that. If joining the Grakkir taught me anything, it was how to stand up for myself and my people. She was testing me.

  “If you want to know the truth, I agree that the Fiero were foo
lish to trust the City. I can say that now, but until you have experienced their deceitful ways firsthand, you could never understand.”

  “You don’t see a lie when it is right in front of you?”

  “Not when the entire world is presented as a brightly colored lie. Anyone would have been blinded. However, there is one thing they never accounted for.”

  “What is that?” Jindi asked, pretending to be bored as she tapped darkness into my skin.

  “Me.”

  I raised my hand and when they saw the flames, both their expressionless faces came alive. The apprentice gasped and jumped back, nearly spilling the ink. I took the small pot in my hand and we all watched as the ink began to boil. I set it back on the ground. “Stir,” I told the man.

  He quickly grabbed the metal spoon and stirred, his eyes still on my hand. Jindi realized her mouth was agape and shut it. I smirked when our eyes met. “The City burned my village to the ground. They killed and captured everyone I ever loved. Don’t think for a second I wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to return the favor.”

  I relaxed, and the flame disappeared. For a long moment, Jindi stared at my hand, not moving. The only sounds came from the crackling fireplace and a gentle, rhythmic scraping as the apprentice stirred the ink.

  Jindi’s upper lip twitched into an almost-smirk. “Hold her skin,” she told the apprentice.

  She resumed her tapping, slowly working from one side of my chest to the other, rising closer to my neck with each pass.

  “Perhaps I was wrong,” she finally said. “You have the heart of a Warrior.” She looked at my eyes. “That anger you feel, hold onto it. There are times when it may be the only thing keeping you on your path.”

  I gave a small nod and turned to face forward. For the rest of our session, Jindi worked in quiet focus while I watched shadows dance across the dark ceiling and breathed slowly against the pain.

  By the time she was finished, my chest and throat were burning and swollen. I welcomed the pain as a reminder of all I had faced to reach this point and would likely face in the future.