The Spark (28 page)

“
Nine
!” Gossimer shouted, confused. “What in the thrice-damned hells are you doing?”

“The one called Nine has come for ser Gossimer.” The construct’s electrical voice replied as it cocked its large plated head to the side. “You must come with the one called Nine.”

Slow, heavy fingers of steel and bronze, pistons and coils reached through the opening of Elenor’s home, grasping after Gossimer.

“Nine, what are you doing?” Gossimer demanded, trying to avoid the reaching machine. “Put me down!” he shouted as the golem grabbed his ankle, lifting him like a child’s doll off the floor.

“No.” Nine said flatly. “There is no time. Ser Gossimer must come with the one called Nine.” The construct flopped the still struggling Gossimer over its plated shoulder and retreated from Elenor’s front step with slow, heavy steps.

“Where are you taking me?” Gossimer asked, trying in vain to wiggle free of the machine’s iron grasp.

“Ser Gossimer must leave with the Master Lucian for Pozo.” The lumbering beast said.

“Pozo?” Gossimer repeated. Looking back at the house, he noticed Elenor had made her way to the doorway. She said not a word, but only looked Gossimer in the eye, as if telling him that her fears and the fears of the common folk must have come true. There was a hurt in her eyes, as if begging for some sort of forgiveness.

“Yes. Ser Gossimer will be joining Master Lucian in Pozo.” Nine replied.

“Why?” Gossimer asked, feeling as if he knew the answer. “Why Pozo?”

“War, Ser Gossimer.” The emotionless voice of the golem gave the weight of the word ‘war’ a terrible, ominous sensation.

“We’re not at war Nine. Even if we were,” Gossimer paused as Nine removed him from its shoulder, placing him squarely on the ground beside a fifteen-foot auto of ebony wood with a small scratch running down the length of the body.

“Even if we were,” Gossimer continued, recognizing Lucian Margoux’s vehicle. “Why would we go to Pozo?”

“Ser Gossimer must know there is war. The master Lucian declared so this morning.” Nine replied. “War is come to Wynne. Pozo is where Master Lucian desires to assemble.”

Gossimer turned to face Elenor one last time, hoping to give her a proper farewell. His heart broke when he did not find her standing in the open doorway. With a heavy sigh, the young Valvian patted his mechanical friend on its armature and entered the waiting cabin of the auto to be whisked away to certain despair.

T
he Great Hall stood still; shocked, afraid, and uncertain. Somewhere near the back a female pupil wept. Scattered across the assembled students, heads hung limp, some in despair and others in obvious prayer. The odd student had collapsed to the floor in dramatic flair as the weight of her words shattered their peaceful world.

She stood before the congregated students of the College of Kinetics with as much grace as one could muster with such dire news. Perhaps she had been cold in delivery, but such a message as this deserved such callousness. Yet, perhaps, she had done the student body some good, for the trials they would surely face only threatened to push their limits and teachings in ways they had never dreamt.

The telegram came during the early morning tea she and Julien Di Marco were sharing. He had been commenting on how lovely the drink was with a fresh sprig of mint. Like always, she sat and listened to the old man ramble.

If it weren’t for the mounting pressures of the Imperial Order of Wynne, she never would have allowed herself to get so close to the aging pyrokinetic. In truth, her heart felt wretched from her feigned friendship, but Del Morte only knew how dull and dry DiMarco truly was. There were the odd moments she enjoyed his company, such as the trek through the Gardens D’Lune by night, but those moments were few and far between – often ending in awkwardness. It was becoming abundantly clear the old man’s fire burned for her, despite the vast difference in their age. She could not help but find it odd how two different people of such vastly different up bringing could share so much of a similar history. She often wondered if that was truly the root of her despising toward the aging kinetic.

Both councilors spent their prime years perfecting their chosen vocations; he and his command of pyrokinetics and her with her humanitarian and political work. Where he sought ultimate command and perfection with his teachings, she laboured and jockeyed after various political ventures to try and better the state of Wynne. Both of their life paths consumed their daily lives, preventing either the pursuit of partnerships and love.

Yet she abhorred the thought of this man being a representation of her future. She refused to acknowledge she might one day grow into a lonely, wilted crone desperate for a man’s affection. Del Morte be willing, she still had time. Her body had not yet reached its utmost maturity and she knew she could still bear at least one child. She had to believe time was on her side, it gave her hope in these dark days, now the more bleak with the declaration of war.

It had been the new headmaster, an electrokinetic by the name of Zehr, who delivered the telegram during the tea. His hands trembled as he handed the paper to her. At first, she hadn’t believed the contents of the message. Nor even after the third read through or the tenth. The news was remarkable and terrifying all at once. She almost felt the message was a practical joke played by the Valvians. It took her reading the telegram to Julien and seeing his raging curses to make her realize the worst had finally come to pass.

Now she stood before the pupils of the college, poised with as much dignity a woman of her stature should, watching the weight of the news fall upon the shoulders of innocent youth. Headmaster Zehr demanded the duty to be his, for the students were his. Both she and Julien refuted, knowing the declaration belonged to her and her alone.

“Perhaps, madam, I should say a word or two?” Julien asked.

“If you would ser.” She brokered no protestation. The weight of a sea of frightened eyes unsettled her.

“My dear students,” his normally frail voice boomed in the hall, as if he gained strength addressing the assembled. “This news is, by all stretches of the imagination, dire indeed. There is no doubt about that. Many of you will be frightened for your families, your province, or even those in Wynne you have yet to know. Your young hearts will yearn to return to the comforting arms of family. Or pride may compel you to enlist in your nation’s military.” He paused a moment to adjust his pyrokinetic lenses that were often too large for his wilted face. “But you must throw those thoughts to the wind.”

The tone in his voice was caring, prideful, and yet still measured a practiced sense of control. She was simply flabbergasted to see such a change in the man she had despised.

“Del Morte,” he continued, leaning heavily on his cane, “will take care of your kith and homes. Now is the time to continue our own lives as if nothing is amiss. These woes do not, and will not, fall under our concerns. Now is the time all of Wynne will watch us, to see if we take a side or not; now is the time to remember our teachings and remain uninvolved with this war.

“I must also stress,” he said after taking a short breath, “especially to you first years, you are all one family now. Your provinces are one with the college. Do not draw lines amongst yourselves because of your past heritage.”

“Thank-you, ser.” Headmaster Zehr interrupted, stepping beside Julien.

Julien turned his head reproachfully towards the new head of the school. She could tell the old kinetic did not care for this man.

“In light of these events,” Zehr began. “There shall be no classes until next week. I have arranged for autos bound for Gossac if there are those wishing a small reprieve from class to make peace with this dire turn of events. For those interested, please speak to professor Gillard in the library. Thank-you all for your patience in these most trying of times.” Zehr gave a sly, sideways smile to her, almost mocking her as Julien tried to protest the declaration.

The headmaster clapped his hands twice, signaling the end of the assembly. The sound of his hands against one another seemed to awaken the student body from some deep trance. For the most part, the students departed the hall in no great clamour or fan fare. There were some who whispered amongst themselves as the press moved into the outer corridors, their voices joining the soft shuffling of many hard-soled shoes against stone.

As the pupils of the College departed, headmaster Zehr converged with Julien and her. If she had not known better, she would have thought this man to be of an age akin to Julien, for his face was long and gaunt, his hair light and wispy.

Julien chuckled when she had commented as much when she first met the new headmaster of the college. Julien explained the rapid appearance of aging was a rare side effect of being reborn electrokinetic, for the body was under incredible amounts of electrical currents despite the protective gear the kinetics wore.

“A most wonderful speech Master Julien.” Hints of venom dripped from Zehr’s tone as he turned to the ancient pyrokinetic. “It is clear to me, now, how you were able to keep this war at bay for as long as you have.”

“Thank-you headmaster.” Julien adjusted his lenses; apparently oblivious to the snide way the headmaster spoke to him. “I only hope Del Morte will give the students strength in these trying times, especially between the Valvian and Syntaran pupils.”

She wasn’t sure, but it seemed to her there was a bitter edge in Julien’s own words, mingling with his more than often soft, aged voice.

“They do not need god’s strength.” Zehr stuck his pointed chin in the air, showing some odd sense of pride. “They are kinetic born. That is all the strength they require.”

She nodded her head, understanding now the apparent hostility between the men. Religion and kinetic people was a tricky subject. Many followed the practices of Del Morte yet just as many turned their backs on the divine, believing he was the cause for their afflictions.

It was a funny thought, kinetics not embracing their gifts. As she had come to learn, those who were not accepting of their own talents came from homes that had long looked down upon the kinetic people. These students were often ashamed, cast out from their families, and angry that their deity cursed his people in such a way.

“Regardless,” she interrupted, not letting either a rebuke, “Let us all agree when we say we hope they keep the peace – both here and in the wide world.”

“Well said, Madam.” Julien proclaimed while Zehr nodded in cold agreement. “If there is nothing else, headmaster, I shall retire to my chambers.”

“Of course, ser.” Zehr said through an obviously forced smile. “I suppose you as well madam?”

“Aye, me as well.” She gave a weak smile. “This news has taken a toll on me and I wish to rest some before dinner.”

“War is an exhausting activity.” The headmaster agreed, that sly smile returning to his face. “But, we all must do
what is necessary
in these trying, dark times.”

Her heart froze.

She knew his choice of words was not a mere passing comment. The emphasis in the words indicated Zehr was reciting the same phrase that was often spoken by her former confidante from the Imperial Order.

She swallowed her fear. She had known the Order had a man within the College, picking and guiding wayward pupils for enlistment. It had been clear to her by the rumours of increased decline in student numbers. Never had she thought the headmaster would be the one tied to Garius Syrah and his Imperial Order of Wynne.

“Perhaps I could convince the lady to sup with me this eve?” The subtle way Zehr spoke indicated she had no choice.

“I do not think that wise, Madam.” Julien protested. “You must return to Gossac and the council as quick as you can. The people must be prepared.”

“The people can wait one more evening, ser.” She said as politely as her annoyance could muster. “War is coming whether we desire it or not, dear Julien.” Turning her attention to Zehr, she consented to his request, more out of duty than want. “Now, please excuse me gentlemen, my heart grieves for the lives soon to be lost.”

Without waiting for either man’s replies, she descended the dais and exited into the wide stone corridor without. The hallway was surprisingly empty, considering the mass of students whom had left the hall mere minutes before she. But the scarcity was a welcome friend. Ever since that damned telegram came, she had to sit and listen to Julien DiMarco prattle on about the severity of the issue and his insistence on finding a diplomatic means to maintaining the peace.

Though, the annoyances of the aged man did not consume her thoughts half so much as the unanswered questions surrounding Lucian Margoux’s declaration of war; namely, how did he know of Syntar’s involvement in order to declare against them? The likelihood of those Valvian teams scattered throughout the provinces seemed an unlikely candidate, for they surely had not been in operation long enough to garner that kind of information. Nor could it be through espionage, for Valvius was too proud of a province to resort to such unsavory tactics. Valvius discovered the truth another way, a way in which was disturbing and puzzling at the same time.

She spent the rest of the day walking the halls of the college. Every so often, silent students from all schools of kinetics would usher past, heading to or from the library. She admired the fine stonework, and high vaulted windows of the college. From time-to-time she would pause in front one of the towering panes of glass to watch the snow fall over the Gardens D’Lune. For being so uncommon and out of place on Driftwood Isle, the snows brought a sense of peace to the tumultuous workings of her daily life.

It was often, in these sort of unlooked for, peaceful moments, the speaker of the commons could lose herself in forever; Rosemary Sharpe consistently came to find the dance of the falling flakes to be the most majestic and calming force nature could provide.

Several hours came and went in quick passing. Rosemary soon found herself sitting across from headmaster Zehr in his private chambers. The meal had been simple, no more than a beef stew and a bowl of steamed vegetables. Another serving platter had been served with a heap of carrot, turnip and potato mashed together in a curious, creamy concoction. The meal had been paired with a bottle of a deep red wine, no doubt from the college’s extensive stores of reserved and select vintages.

Zehr proved to be quite the gentleman, speaking plainly about topics of little to no consequence. Deep down the speaker of the commons knew he only bid his time, not wanting to dive direct into the heart of the evening’s main topic over dinner. Somehow, deep in his faded blue eyes, Rosemary seemed to catch a hint of respect from the man hidden beneath a layer of reserved fear.

There was no doubt in her mind Zehr knew what happened to her after her last correspondence with the Order. She concluded he had been given orders to be as genuine as possible for she should, or rather, must, be considered volatile – especially since the last man to cross her had been gelded for his rape of her body.

As they finished the last morsels of the meal, Zehr beckoned his two, silent, servers to remove the dinnerware and return them to the kitchens. She found them an odd pair. The lads never seemed to blink, and their gaze felt lifeless and disinterested. They never spoke, or made any sort of sound for that matter. The servants simply did their duties with a rigid, silent, precision.

“They are good lads,” Zehr said as the two departed, laden with dirty dishes and utensils. “They shall serve the Order wonderfully, and dare I say, efficiently.” He pushed a stray lock of his wispy white hair away from his eyes. “Come, sit by the fire madam. It is surely of more comfort than these rickety things.”

He motioned to a sofa across the room, adjacent to a low burning fire.

“Thank-you, but no. I am quite fine here.” She feigned an apologetic smile.