“This is your personal vial of necro-ink,” the Spirit Keep says, handing each of us one of the containers. She sets the glass into my palm, the leather cord that’s attached to the cap dangling past my fingers. “Do not misplace it. Do not break it. Do not misuse it.”
I hold the vial up between my thumb and index and examine the dark contents inside. These are the same vials I saw the other Crusaders wearing when we journeyed from Gravenburg to Nigh, the same vials that they wear even while we’re in the secured confines of the castle.
Once each of the recruits has their own vial, the Spirit Keep hobbles to the center of the circle so that she’s visible to us all. She opens the cap on the vial around her neck to reveal a small brush is attached beneath it. I check mine impulsively and am surprised to find I have one too. I didn’t see it while she was securing the caps, but then again, my thoughts had been more focused on the contents and not the vial itself.
“What did I say?” she shrieks.
I jolt upright and slam the lid back into place. Thankfully, she’s not talking to me, though she might as well be. She’s turned to another recruit, to Maxwell who has also opened his vial. He clumsily twists the lid back on, and only once the vial is dangling safely from his neck again does the Spirit Keep whack him upside the head.
“What part of caution was unclear to you? Do not misuse your necro-ink. Do not misplace it. Do not break it. Do not open it unless you need to or are otherwise instructed.”
Maxwell nods vigorously, blinking with each bob of his head.
The Spirit Keep glares at the rest of us, her face pale and layered in the brittle wrinkles of age. Only once we’ve all conveyed our understanding does she begin her demonstration again. She takes the wand, already lathered in necro-ink, and brings it to her forehead.
“With the necro-ink,” she says, black ink pressed to the base of her forehead. “We guard our minds from the demons that would try to inhabit us.”
Aware that we are being trained on something few Arcathainians ever learn, I try paying attention to the skill with which she uses the brush. She draws one small vertical line that almost reaches the brim of her nose. Once it’s placed, she marks an even smaller line horizontal across it to form a cross. I’ve seen the marking before, on too many Crusaders to count, but I’d never known the exact purpose for it. I had no idea it served to protect our minds.
Across the way, some of the other recruits mimic the action with their fingers. I decide to do the same, even if I’m not sure how helpful it is.
“With the necro-ink,” she begins again. This time, she moves the brush to a spot beneath her eye, just under her lashes. “We open our eyes so that we may not be deceived by any of the fiends that may cross our paths.”
This marking is just as simple as the first, a single line that falls from either eye. On anyone else, it might accent her cheekbone, but age has already hollowed her face too much.
Now she brings the brush to her bottom lip. She drags it down in one heavy stroke, all the way down her chin.
“With the necro-ink, we protect our voices so that no creature of the Shadowthorn may take ours from us and use it against anyone else.”
I marvel at all of the perfectly straight lines, at the finesse with which she drew them, even as she spoke, even as her brush ran over one wrinkle or another.
“Today, you practice the necro-ink symbols on each other. The placement can be challenging on oneself, the shapes even more difficult to master, so select a partner. Practice on each other and examine your handiwork.”
I twist beside me to eye Dimitri and ask him, without words, to be my partner, but as I do, Güthric heaves his arm across his shoulders. I shift my gaze to the ground, trying to hide my disappointment. I suppose Dimitri is probably one of the only people here tall enough to reach Güthric’s face, so I shouldn’t take it too personally. To soften the blow, I catch Dimitri’s sympathetic gaze as Güthric spins him around.
I turn to the other side of me and find Silver, clutching her vial to her chest like a long-lost heirloom.
“Partners?” I say.
She inclines her head. “Of course.”
The Spirit Keep walks around the room as everyone pairs up. “Remember, these symbols will not protect you from death in the Shadowthorn, but they are of great use, and you will come to rely on them, so take great care with your application. Keep your lines clean. Place them with accuracy. And when you’ve finished, examine each line with great care.”
I hear Sai mutter beside us, “May bravery fill my heart and protect my soul,” as his partner begins to paint the necro-ink onto his face.
Grimacing, I look down to the vial dangling around my neck. “Do you want me—”
“I can go first,” Silver says. When I look up at her, she’s already opened her vial, the brush sodden with curdled, black blood.
“O-okay. Are you sure, you don’t—”
She presses the brush to my forehead. I don’t know why I expect it to be warm, but I recoil at the frigid touch, a chill running down my spine.
“Hold still,” she says simply, face completely impassive.
I can’t help but frown as I wonder how she can be so calm about all of this. We just watched the Spirit Keep pump the blood out of a dead woman—someone who apparently came from Ashenvale—until there was nothing left inside her but shriveled veins. We saw the bodies that have been retrieved from Gravenburg, Ashenvale, and the other surrounding towns that the Blight has impacted.
But as I marvel, my brow bunched, Silver glares over her work at me as if to ask if she really needs to repeat herself. I force my face to relax.
She continues painting the markings on my face with finesse equal to that of the Spirit Keep. The other recruits, they struggle to hold the vial in one hand while the other paints, they struggle to keep their lines straight as the skin pulls with the stickiness of the brush. Not Silver. She has the steady, slender hands of someone who knows their way around this level of detailed painting.
“You’re good at this,” I say when she dips the brush back into the vial for more ink.
Her hands still, her posture becoming rigid. With great care, she pulls the brush back out and says stiffly, “I’ve…had practice.”
“You’ve done this before?” I whisper.
As she leans in to grab my jaw, her eyes flit to mine. It’s all the answer she gives and it’s one that speaks volumes.
“But…how is that possible?” The question tramples out of me like a wild horse stampeding through a field. I have no control of it, and now that it’s free, there’s no reining it back inside, no containing what’s already been spoken. What’s worse, the longer I wait for an answer, the more my own mind tries making sense of the impossible, but none of the possibilities make sense. I finally have no option but to voice one of them, any of them, before my mind spirals out of control. “Were you…have you been a Crusader before?”
“No…” she says softly. “My…husband was.”
Grief swells inside me, a cold blanket of darkness that wraps around my barely beating heart. Ever since our arrival, hurt has shone in Silver’s eyes. I always knew tragedy was the story she had to tell, but I always reasoned that was the truth for us all. Loss and heartache didn’t make us special; it united us.