The Scribe

It was close to dawn when Malachi heard his watcher stir. Damien paced outside the locked ritual room the scribes used to write talesm as Malachi worked. Candles flickered against walls inscribed with their own unique magic, old protective charms the Irin who built the house had carved into the limestone walls. No electric light was allowed in the room. No windows pierced the web of incantations. A meditation fire burned constantly, tended by the watcher of the house. It was probably why Damien was pacing.

Let him wait.

Malachi didn’t look up from his skin. He was working on a new spell for his right arm, a particularly intricate talesm to guard against temptation and provide focus. The ivory needle pierced his skin at lightning speed, the sacred ink luminescing with a faint silver glow as the spell worked itself into his body. He could feel it pulse and grow, the new magic twining with the ancient symbols that surrounded it. Malachi, like all Irin scribes, had become inured to the physical pain the tattoo produced. He only stopped to dip the needle into the ink made from the ash of the ritual fire. Within minutes, the characters of the Old Language took shape, twisting and joining the existing pattern of spells.

When he finished, Malachi took a deep breath and focused on the flames. He gave silent thanks to the Creator. To his mother who bore him, and his father who trained him. To his teachers. The council of the Elders. He closed his eyes and let the magic take hold. Then slowly, he opened them and looked down.

On a human, the skin around the tattoo would still be red and weeping, but Malachi wasn’t entirely human. The talesm was already sealed, a thin layer of ink dried over the old letters; by morning, the scab would be gone. The silver glow surrounding the tattoo would fade until activated by his talesm prim, the circular spell inscribed on his left wrist.

As if sensing the waning magic, a soft knock came at the door.

“Malachi?”

“You can come in, Damien. I’m finished.”

The door cracked open and Damien entered, clad only in the ceremonial wrap all watchers wore when attending to the sacred fire of their scribe house. The wrap covered his hips and upper legs, allowing the rest of Damien’s talesm to warn anyone watching of his years and skill with magic.

Malachi, still flush with new power, sat back in the wide chair and let out a long breath. He could feel the magic working within, connecting and bonding with the older characters that marked his body.

“Good morning,” Damien said, “You’re up early.”

“I slept little.”

Damien grunted and rubbed his eyes. “You have finished your new talesm?”

“I have.”

The watcher glanced over at Malachi’s bicep, and his eyebrow lifted. “Self-control?”

“And focus.”

There was a thoughtful pause before he asked, “Have you given thanks?”

“I have, Watcher.”

Damien nodded.

Malachi took another deep breath as the other man kneeled before the fire, lifting his left wrist and tracing the letters of his own talesm prim. As the magic rose, Malachi could see the faint silver glow travel over Damien’s body, from the newest spells on the man’s legs to the family tattoos marking his shoulders and back. Malachi had similar tattoos, the only ones he had not written himself. He’d received the first from his father at the age of thirteen. The first taste of the ancient strength he would spend centuries perfecting.

As a boy, his mother’s power had protected him, but at thirteen, Malachi was no longer considered a boy. His eyes were drawn to the first halting letters on his left wrist. The old spells hadn’t faded, but the clumsy, boyish work still made him smile. The characters slowly grew more sophisticated as they traveled up his arm, trailing over his shoulder and collarbone before they started their centuries-long journey down his right arm. Wrapped and stacked around each other, each was unique, an expression of the scribe who wrote it.

Spells of protection on his forearm.

Long life over his wrist.

Strength.

Speed.

Keener vision. Steadier reflexes. Immunity to poisons and drugs. An Irin scribe as old as Malachi was practically immortal in battle unless he willingly gave his magic to another. But as Malachi had no mate…

His eyes flickered to the marks below Damien’s left shoulder, directly over his heart. The scribe was rising from his knees, finished with his morning prayers, and collecting the ash from the brazier to make more ink.

Malachi asked, “Have you heard from Sari lately?”

Damien shot him a dark look. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“None of your business.”

Silence. Malachi should have known better, but the urge to rankle his superior and the flush of magic made him brave.

Finally, Damien muttered, “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

The watcher shrugged. “I know she’s safe. That’s the most important thing. I can see her in our dream-walks; she just chooses to ignore me.”

The light-headed feeling of new magic finally passed, so Malachi rose to his feet and dropped the tattoo needle in a basin to clean it. Then he gathered the linen cloths marked with ink and blood and tossed them in the fire. He stood, watching the pieces burn as Damien swept up the remains of the ash.

“I am drawn to her,” Malachi confessed in a low voice.

“Since I’m going to assume you haven’t lost your mind and aren’t referring to my mate, I must assume you mean the human woman.”

“Ava.”