The Silent: Irin Chronicles Book Five(17)

“But what did the tattoos mean? They were human? Or did he learn them from the Irin?”

“He was human. And the tattoos were very old mantras written in Pali, the language of the Buddha. He called them Sak Yant and told my brother Sura that he would teach him if Sura was willing to learn and to take care of the old man until he died. The old man also told Sura that in order to teach him, he would have to live according to five laws.”

“What kind of laws?”

“Simple things for a human.” Niran paused and pulled a ripe mango from a tree near the temple. “Don’t kill. Don’t steal. Don’t lie. Don’t lust. Don’t live a hedonistic life of pleasure.” Niran pulled out a knife and sliced the mango neatly, carving petals from the flesh of the golden fruit. He handed them to Kyra as they walked. “These laws are all things humans endeavor to do anyway. Most human laws relate to this.”

Kyra understood immediately. “But not Grigori laws.”

“We have no laws,” Niran said. “And to Sura—for a Grigori raised by a Fallen angel—these ideas were revolutionary. We and all our brothers were taught from birth to kill and lie and steal and lust. That was our identity. It was also what was rotting my brother from the inside. He took advantage of our father’s absence and fled into the forest to learn from the old man. Over the years, he went back again and again. He discovered that the meditation he practiced and the words the old man tattooed on his body—later the words he tattooed himself—cleared his mind.”

“It did what the Irin tattoos do for their warriors.”

Niran shook his head. “I’m sure their systems are more extensive. Their spells are far more complex. They have thousands of years of scholarship behind their traditions. But for us—for those who don’t have anyone to teach us—these human tattoos do help.” He motioned to the temple where saffron-clad Grigori walked in prayer or meditation.

Some were cleaning. Some tended plants. Some sat in quiet conversation. All of them bore the same intricate tattoos Niran did.

“You’ve seen the Grigori here,” he continued. “We still train to protect the city, but all of us live according to those five rules. All of us wear the tattoos that Sura taught us. All of us live more normal, more controlled lives. We’re not special, Kyra. We were as violent as any in our race. If we can do this, so can others.”

Kyra didn’t need more convincing. She’d listened to the soul voices of Niran and his brothers. It wasn’t an illusion. They were more calm. More controlled. More peaceful. “This could help my brothers,” she said. “This practice could help them too.”

She imagined Kostas with tattoos that could help him control his cravings for human energy. She imagined Sirius being stronger and more focused. They patrolled every night, plunging into temptation over and over again, battling the worst parts of their nature to defend humans against Grigori in thrall to other Fallen angels and themselves against Irin who were trained to stab first and ask questions later.

Niran stopped at the steps of the temple. “There’s another side effect of this,” he said. “We’re also better fighters. Because we’re more focused and present, we are far more deadly to our enemies. That is why I am so cautious with this knowledge. I am not being greedy or controlling, but this practice in the wrong hands could undo everything free Grigori like me and your brothers have been trying to prove to the Irin world. We are capable of living peaceful and protective lives. But we have to make sure that those who hold this knowledge are willing to live as we do.”

“I understand.”

Kyra toed off her shoes with Niran and ascended the steps to the temple. She could smell the fragrant incense and the flowers filling the front of the temple. A large golden Buddha sat peacefully at the front while a line of monks sat along the side of the room, chanting a mantra. Kyra followed Niran to the opposite side of the temple where a young monk, no more than twenty, bent over the back of a shirtless man. The man looked up, nodded at Niran and Kyra, and closed his eyes. It was the Grigori who had come to receive Sak Yant.

“Sit with me,” Niran said. “Make sure the soles of your feet are not exposed.”

Kyra sat cross-legged, her palms resting on her knees as she watched the young monk and the Grigori.

The monk’s lips moved in prayer, then he opened his eyes and began to write on the man’s back in a quick, curving script. His pen didn’t stop until he’d written multiple lines across the man’s shoulders. He set the pen aside and took a long bamboo rod with a metal tip and dipped it in ink.

As the monks on the far side of the temple chanted, the young monk set a quick rhythm, piercing the man’s skin with the metal point over and over again as he tattooed the words into the man’s back. Kyra watched in amazement as the Grigori sat motionless, not even flinching. He kept his eyes closed, his lips moving in his own prayer as he sat in the lotus position on the ground of the temple, a string of marigolds in one hand, a small gold coin in the other.

The tattoo must have taken an hour or more to complete, but the wind passed through the open windows of the temple, carrying the smell of frangipani to her nose. The incense and the chanting lulled her into a meditative state, and in what seemed like only moments, the bamboo rod ceased moving. The monk sat up straight. He prayed over the Grigori in words Kyra didn’t understand. Then the Grigori turned and bowed to the ground, offering the flowers and the gold coin the monk took and put on the altar beside him.