Chapter 26: Let the competition begin!

The city was bustling with activity; I had never seen so many people gathered on the streets, not even the day of the exile, when the square was overflowing. It was a human river pushing towards the same objective, to get the best spot for the announcement. The likelihood of one even fitting in the square, however, was remote at best. A quick glimpse at the multitude would convince the most stubborn individual that it was simply not possible.

Yet, there we were, the three of us, packed together with the rest, being carried towards the plaza. There was not much we could do; we were too hyped up for the event, even thinking of the announcement already got me worked up. We advanced in tiny steps, my arms rubbed against Makka's and Yaira's, each on either side. I was in the middle not only so they could protect me from anyone with bad intentions, namely Yaraq and his troupe, but also to stop the horde from stepping over me. It's not that I was small, I was growing just fine, and I reached most adults' chests. However, I was still a boy, and my constitution showed as much.

It took us thrice the usual time to get there. And, by getting there, I actually mean standing so far away from Drak'oora Layan's work office that we could barely distinguish the building's windows. We arrived early if you considered there was still an hour for the event, but it would seem that to get a front-row, you had to come with at least a day of anticipation. We spent the hour blankly staring at the building; the ambient wasn't welcoming any conversation, everyone was deadly silent, you could feel the tension.

Eventually, a blur appeared from one of the windows. I was expecting Drak'oora Layan, but that figure was masculine. I squinted my eyes, forcing them to the extreme without finding any success.

"Another year has come-" a fractured and shaky voice I immediately recognized said. I had only heard it once, yet that was more than enough to tell it apart from anyone else. It was old, full of wisdom, and reached our ears as if brought by some invisible wind. Drak'oora Kasd, the old man that questioned my motives for coming here, the same one whose smile I thought hid something, "-and it's marvelous to see all of you gathered here."

"I would like to take a moment to remember all of the creations this celebration has brought unto us," I swear I could see him malevolently smile as he said those words. He knew there was no need to say so; everyone knew what they were. "I'm sure all of you know of our perpetual light on the Chamber of Light. This hole itself was created during one competition. However…"

His body leaned on the window's frame; his hands rose to the air. He paused for longer than it would have been necessary. Turmoil crossed everyone's faces, muttered talks broke among groups.

"However," he repeated, "I bet nobody knows of the secret behind our calligraphy pens," everyone's whispers turned to cries of surprise and excitation. "It's only a myth," he said, "but there's the story that the pens we use today are the origin of this competition, the product of our founder."

I looked at Makka and Yaira, both wearing the same astonished expressions. Mine, I guess, wasn't any different, as I was totally lost. I had been having flashes of memories lately, yet I couldn't remember anything about our founder—nothing, not even his name.

"It's normal that I can't remember anything; the founder did not partake in the ritual. He died without completing the formation that he himself created, taking all his knowledge with him," there was something strange in that message, yet I was too preoccupied to notice.

Why would our founder not pass on his legacy? Why would he change his mind? And why would Kasd tell us about it right n-

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by his actions. One of his hands reached for his wrist, untying his shirt cuff and revealing what laid behind. Nobody standing at the same distance as us should have seen it, but in those regards, I wasn't just anybody. I could clearly see a bright speck the size of a seed, so ridiculously small that until now, I hadn't been able to distinguish from all the glowing threads. It was his Line.

"He is dying," I said loud enough so that only my friends would notice. Our neighbors probably heard too, but they wouldn't give any credit to my farfetched claim. I noticed Yaira's stare nailing me down. "I can see his Line, it's just a dot; he can't have more than a day left."

Lines the size of one hair left that dot, some connecting Kasd with everybody present, but the vast majority reaching for the roof. I moved my right arm, confirming one of those lines was indeed tied with my own Line. Is he telling us that because he won't do the ritual? Is that his inheritance? I had believed that the Line could be extended, that it was only a matter of adding more Ink and repairing the existing, something that an Inker should be able to do with his eyes closed. Yet, what did the Line represent? How could someone capture the meaning of life? Are we born with a Line? I had the nagging feeling that all those answers were already inside of me; I simply couldn't remember yet.

I saw him clapping his hands, and although the sound didn't reach us, muffled by all the ongoing discussions, it didn't take long for the silence to be reinstated. "It is now time to announce what you will be drawing," he rummaged through his shirt pocket and took out a small object made from rusty metal. Raising it into the air, he said, "a key! But not just any key, your key will have to open that chest," he said, pointing to a window that was opening.

Drak'oora Weirar was holding a chest up in the air, making sure it was visible outside the window frame. Physically it looked like any other chest, perhaps a bit more adorned than the average. Wooden with metallic stripes, hinges, and lock. It didn't look exceptionally sturdy nor secure; someone with lockpicking knowledge should have been able to crack it open in no time. Yet, of course, things were never as easy as they looked.

Call it an unfair advantage if you want, but there was something potentially only I could see. From the keyway, I could see a thread, although it was more likely a bunch of them packed together, making its way to the sky. If that wasn't enough evidence of its special nature, there was a blob of white radiant light deeper inside the mechanism. Lockpicking wouldn't be enough to open it, and who knows what would happen if anyone attempted to open it by brute force.

"Of course," Drak'oora Kasd continued, "the key you will take as a model, any key for what matters, won't open the chest. What fun would that be?" The buzzing and whispering returned with those words; everyone was saying the same, why would this edition be so complicated? Maybe it wasn't the most challenging competition to date, but it was unheard of to require working with unknown conditions. You had to open a lock of which you had absolutely no information.

Some of the Drak'oora's following words were lost in the chaos, but the rules were clear. We had one day to produce a suitable result; by tomorrow, all candidates had to submit their object.

"Let the competition begin!" With those words, everyone broke into a frenzy. It didn't matter where you worked as long as you got it done, and a day wasn't precisely a lot of time to work with.

Some people, which included all three of us, chose to stay there, where we could have a clear image of the chest. It wouldn't help with the mechanism, but at least getting the right proportions wouldn't be as hard. Each participant could only submit one work; thus, it couldn't be achieved through pure trial and error; it was hit or miss.

We waited for the square to empty, even if only a few hundred went away. Securing a position nearer the chest and some vital space to work with, we sent Makka to gather three keys.

"Any idea?" Yaira asked, her voice heavy and slow, aware of the difficult task we had been given.

"Actually," I said while motioning with my fingers to make her get closer. "The lock has some kind of Ink formation," I said, so low that she had to shake her head and wave for me to repeat it. "The lock," I said in the same tone but slowlier, "has some kind of Ink formation."

"Argh!" She groaned, "then any basic formation won't cut it; the key itself needs to interact with it. There are not many people who can draw something other than skin while preserving the Ink's energy."

"Now that you say that," I suddenly realized something I had failed to ask, "how do they keep the formation at the private library working?"

"When they touch it to enter, they are actually acting as an energy source," she said. "It's quite common on those types of formation."

"Then…" I struggled to find the words, "the chest? How is it that it still has a formation inside?"

She shrugged, clearly not knowing what to say. I plunged into deep thought, discarding one theory after another. I even considered the possibility that they might have used some technique to charge it a distance, but had to discard it as nothing more than a wild dream.

"Maybe they do have the key, and it's just a test," a voice inside me said. That could indeed be possible.

Yes, I answered my own voice, yet at that moment, I realized it was not myself who I was responding to. I remembered that the voice had a name. I just recalled that voice had said I when it should have said you not even five minutes ago.

Spare? I timidly said, more afraid than shy. Is it you?

"It is me, but it is you," he said, profusely sighing as the words reached me. "We didn't have the opportunity to discuss it, but it seems the time has come."

Discuss? Discuss what!? If I had been speaking out loud, those words would have sounded like a high-pitched screech, the bark of a dog who's afraid of something.

"It usually takes years; it took Spare years, in fact. As time passes and the Inker remembers, he and their master become one. The formation no longer acts as a separate entity; it is completely assimilated into the student's mind." His words were cold and calculated, speaking of something he had already experienced on his own.

Then, that means… I didn't finish the question; there was no need for it.

"Yes, no more conversations."

Why can't I be sad! I finally exploded. Spare had been my teacher; even when I thought I had lost him, I could still cling to the bit of hope that he'd be with me for much more time. And how long had it been? A few months? As much as I tried, I felt nothing about it. I accepted it. I was programmed to do so. All of my memories, all of my former Drak'gath had done so. It was a natural process.

And I knew that whatever was left of Spare also knew. We didn't have to discuss; we were in mutual agreement. It was because of that communion, wasn't it?

"It probably has accelerated it, yes. But it's good news. It was the next step towards remembering your legacy. I don't think we have more than a few more months of talking; soon after, you won't be able to differentiate it from your thinking voice." It was as he said, yet it left a bitter aftertaste.

With much to think about, I patiently waited for Makka to arrive.