The Unspoken: Book One in the Keres Trilogy (13 page)

“
Oh no, you are going to throw again. I
’
ll get you that tattoo before lunch,
”
Abbot says turning me around to face the target.
“
Again,
”
he says.

I go though the movements again, this time thinking of just the nerves that are still warm inside my arm. This time, the smoke that shoots off my palm is dense and straight. The target still remains steady, but the smoke hits the outer ring and dissipates.

Abbot cannot contain himself any longer. He runs to the den door and flings it wide, yelling into the hall,
“
Zink! Marum!
Journer! Get in here!
”
He strides back across the room to me and says under his breath,
“
Just do exactly what you just did. Exactly.
”
Zink, another man in his mid thirties, and the tall woman in her fifties I rode down the elevator with on the first day appear at the door.

“
Watch her,
”
Abbot says in a voice shaking with adrenaline. He nods at me and I think about nothing but the still burning nerves. Smoke again hits the target, this time one ring closer to the center. As the smoke is swirling across the face of the red and white rings, Abbot punches the air again. I turn and look at Zink, wanting to read some kind of explanation in his face. He just stares at the place where I hit the target, his mouth open.

Abbot slaps the woman on the back,
“
Well, Journer? Pay up!
”
Journer pulls a small envelope out of a pouch on her belt and hands it to him. He stuffs it in his own belt before crossing his arms over his chest in satisfaction.

“
She
’
ll pass my rank in a matter of months at this rate,
”
Journer says.
“
Try her with the ink, Abbot. See if she can control it.
”

Abbot pulls the same metal stamp that gave me the black smoke finger tattoo on my chest out of his belt. He takes my arm and presses the stamp to the exposed skin that shows through the sleeve of my suit. Because I know what
’
s coming, the pain only sends a tremor over me and I am able to stay on my feet this time. When he pulls the stamp away, they all crowd in to see my tattoo. It
’
s in the shape of a fully extended pair of wings in blue ink that spread over a much larger space of skin than the stamp covered. Abbot grins with pride.
“
It looks like she took inspiration from mine,
”
he says.

“
What do you mean?
”
I ask.

Marum rubs his finger over my ink wings and says,
“
Everyone
’
s tattoos are different, unique like a fingerprint. Once you begin to tap into the depths of intusmagus, you will start to clearly see other people
’
s tattoo patterns morph into their actual shapes when they throw a magus. When we
’
re stamped, the ink interprets how we envision the action of the nerve group it covers. Movement, in the case of this nerve group, makes you and Abbot both think of flight,
”
he looks disapprovingly at Abbot.
“
Skipping around in the training I see.
”

Abbot shrugs him off,
“
She
’
s my apprentice, I
’
ll teach her in the order I see fit.
”
He drops my arm and looks me in the eye,
“
Try it again, Keres.
”

I inhale sharply, envisioning the total destruction of the room if I can
’
t control the ink. As if she reads my mind, Journer says,
“
It
’
s only movement. You can
’
t do any permanent damage. Zink can fix anything that breaks, it
’
s one of his specialties.
”

Zink nods in agreement. The four of them step back and I face the target again. I can see their reflections in the mirror on the back wall and Abbot gives me an encouraging nod. The nerves have cooled off now and I can
’
t feel them anymore. I try to imagine their lines and trace the wings with my thumb. When I fling my hand out, a tornado-like spiral of air bursts from my palm, knocking me backwards to the floor. The target is sent flying into the lockers, smashing to the ground in pieces.

My own amazement is overshadowed by the others
’
disbelief. They stand silently looking at the massive dent the impact left in the locker doors. Marum walks over to the splintered remains of the target and picks a piece up,
“
Better keep her on wood for a while, Abbot.
”

Abbot decides we better back up in our training and cover more of the principles before continuing practical application. The others leave us to our studies once Zink is able to pry his eyes off the wreckage. He smoothed the crater-like dents in the locker doors and restored the target before they left. Still, some pieces were splintered too finely to repair, leaving chunks of the target missing.

Abbot pulls charts and books down from the shelves and begins an agitated lecture on controlling thoughts.
“
You cannot have a general idea of what you want to do, you cannot be distracted, you must picture exactly what you want the magus to do before you throw it. For you especially, the slightest wrinkle in concentration can be deadly. The destruction that came out of you was the result of not keeping your whole attention on the desired result.
”

“
I was nervous,
”
I say,
“
You told me not to lose your bet for you, you called in an audience, and just shot my arm full of ink! Ink which, by the way, can kill me if I talk too much. What did you expect?
”

“
I expected you to follow directions and just move the target,
”
Abbot holds his finger up to me in an accusing fashion.
“
You have got to show some measure of control over your thoughts. You
’
ve had enough practice with them over the last two years.
”

“
That
’
s not fair, Solace wasn
’
t practice. It was torture.
”

“
You don
’
t know what torture is!
”
Abbot raises his voice and slams his fist on the chart in front of us. His Banded cuff tears the paper. I don
’
t say anything. What can I say? He
’
s right, I don
’
t know what torture is. I wasn
’
t the one visited by the five. I swallow. I hate being in the wrong. It makes obedience that much more impossible.

“
Let
’
s start again,
”
Abbot says calmly. He adjusts the charts, bringing the elaborate diagram of the left arm forward so we can concentrate on the movement nerve group.
“
This group can be used to control movement. That
’
s movement of objects, people, whatever. Your use of the group will depend on what your brain can handle,
”
he says.

I must look confused because Abbot puts his hands to his temples and inhales deeply. Moving his arms to the table, he says,
“
We are just like everyone else in Chelon. We each have different abilities that others may not have. My Banded partner, Serees, has had her hands inside someone
’
s chest cavity, pumping their heart with her fingers to keep them alive long enough to have an artificial valve installed. Crisum, another member of our Play Group, passes out cold when anyone so much as stubs a toe. That is why Serees is a Healer and Crisum is not. They have different talents.

“
It
’
s the same with us on the hall. Some of us have extraordinary talent with certain nerve groups. Some people can throw a magus that no one else has even heard of before. Others are not able to pull out the slightest breeze from that same nerve group.
”

“
Like fixing things for you and Zink,
”
I say.
“
That
’
s what Journer meant when she said it was his specialty.
”

“
Exactly,
”
Abbot nods.
“
Now, here
’
s where you come in. No one who has ever walked this hall has done what you did this morning.
”

“
Smashed a target to bits?
”
I ask.

“
No. Thrown a magus on the second day. Not only did you throw, you annihilated. That kind of destruction should not have been possible without months of practice and education.
”

“
So my talent is annihilation?
”
The direction of this conversation is not helping my sense of self worth.

“
No. Your talent is overachieving.
”

“
Overachiever isn
’
t a word anyone would use to describe me.
”

“
Arrogant, disobedient, flagrant, willful, impulsive. What about any of those?
”
Abbot shoots at me.
“
Shut up and pay attention to what I
’
m telling you.
”

My face is hot with embarrassment. All of those words and more have probably been used to describe me and it bothers me that he knows that.

“
When was the last time you remember being hurt, Keres?
”
Abbot asks me.

“
I
’
ve been to the Healers
’
Building a score of times.
”

“
That
’
s not what I asked. When was the last time you were hurt, broke a bone, had a cut or bruise that lasted more than a day?
”