The Spark (33 page)

“Stop it Frederick. It’s not like that.” Katherine protested.

“She’s not one of your Syntaran whores you can fuck whenever you want.” Her brother snapped his fingers, signaling his two lackeys to action. Both boys set their boots into Garius’ side as he lay on the ground.

“Stop it!” She shrieked. Katherine stood up, gathered her skirts and charged her brother. With as much strength as she could muster, Katherine beat on Frederick’s back with tightly closed fists. “Leave him alone Frederick!”

Her brother turned on her with a bestial fury. He said nought as he swatted her assaults to the side. With one, fluid motion, he shoved Katherine with all his might.

Her screams filled her ears as a thick mist engulfed her as she continued to fall. There was no rush of wind, no rays of light, only mist and darkness. Voices of Katherine’s past filtered in and out of the clawing fog, just as their owner’s did in life. Sometimes the gaiety of the memories was sudden and delightful, or frightening and terrible. Even the repressed, heart-wrenching memories associated with certain voices did not seem half so bad as they did in life. Between the audible scenes of her life speeding by, the ever-incessant echoes of Katherine’s screams pursued her rapid descent.

Finally, her screams gave up the chase and her memories all sped by. Even the sense of falling ceased to exist. Katherine looked around as she hung suspended in the mist-enshrouded air. Far above, a bright, singular white speck of light began to descend, growing in size as it grew nearer. It reminded Katherine of a gaping hole, eager to consume the bleakness of this abyss. Second-by-second, darkness gave way to light and the coiling mists receded in fear of the blinding touch of the descending object.

Panic built in Katherine’s gut as she hung frozen in the air, trapped in place as this all consuming light neared. She began to scream for help, but her voice was muffled and obscured. It was as though this realm of nothingness did not wish to let her go. She kicked her legs, trying in vain to get away from the bright light. Yet she remained frozen in space. The darkness gave way to blinding light, consuming her whole.

Amidst the purity of her new surroundings Katherine noticed something odd. A lone solitary shadow of a child descending through the sea of radiance approached.

“Do not be frightened mother.” It’s voice echoed. The child could not have been more than eight years old. As the child drew near, its form became more apparent. It was petite, much like a waif from the streets of Malefosse. Its hair cascaded in a wonderful flourish of tight, brown ringlets more common amongst Valvians. Its pale complexion reminded Katherine of herself when she was a child. But where Katherine had large, hazel doe eyes, this child had deep, sad eyes of blue.

“Why do you call me mother?” Katherine asked as the waif came within reach. “I have no children.”

“But you do, mother.” The specter smiled. “You have me.”

“How…how can that be?” Katherine asked. A familiar throbbing began to build in her skull as she tried to piece everything together.

“Many moons ago you carried me in your womb.” The child’s voice was soft and dreamy, speaking as if recalling a fond memory. “Have you forgotten me so easily mother?”

“My…child?” Katherine winced as the pain stabbed once more. This situation was troubling her mind as she worked to comprehend everything; from the swirling mists of the void to the blinding light of this new realm, and the apparent shade of her lost child. It was all too much for her mind to handle and yet Katherine pushed the discomfort aside to try and understand.

“But…I lost you.” Her voice cracked with emotion.

“Yes.” The girl’s voice was flat, as if acknowledging a troublesome truth. “You lost my mortal shell. But I am always with you – watching, guiding, protecting.”

“Why would I need protection?” Katherine knew the question was redundant, yet she found herself asking it anyways.

Her lost daughter took Katherine’s hand in her own. The child’s touch was cold as ice, but it soothed the budding pain in Katherine’s skull.

“From father.” She whispered.

“Father?” Katherine asked. “Garius?”

“Yes.” Again, the child’s voice was flat. “He is a much wronged man and he desires nothing more than to ruin those who have wronged him.”

“No.” Katherine protested. “He means well, truly. He is trying to save the pride of his people; he is trying to evoke change in the societal class system of Wynne. Garius is a good man.”

“Mother, do not be fooled by him.” The child drifted closer, nestling herself against Katherine’s breast.

Katherine wrapped her arms around her daughter, squeezing her tight. She had never felt such a fulfilling, wonderful feeling in all of her life. The shade returned the gesture, as a tear slipped from Katherine’s eye. Katherine buried her face in her daughter’s tight ringlets, letting the scent of youth fill her nostrils. Even if it meant Katherine would never see the mortal realm again, she would give it all up to remain here with her daughter.

“Please, listen mother.” The child said. “Father’s ‘saving’ will destroy Wynne. His device to bring the sun to Syntar brought havoc on the rest of the world. Valvius is in drought and the southern provinces are buried in snow or floods. Father’s Order steals and rapes women. He desires to breed kinetics.”

“You can’t just breed a kinetic.” Katherine said in a comforting tone. She did not want to talk. All Katherine wanted was to drift in the abyss with her daughter.

“You can.” Her daughter stated. “Father knows the mixing of Syntaran and Valvian blood produces a higher chance of kinetic born children. He wants to breed an army.”

“Del Morte be damned.” Katherine cursed, squeezing her daughter tight.

Everything became clear. All the Valvian women in the cells, the nightly rapes; everything Katherine had begun to think good and noble about Garius’ master plan dissipated in an instant.

“Despite all this,” Her daughter continued. “Father is breeding for one type of kinetic; always searching for it.”

“What school is it he wishes to breed?” Katherine asked.

“Father searches for the rarest, and most unstoppable form of kinetics.” The waif turned her head upwards, searching Katherine’s eyes with its own. “He searches for something so rare the College of Kinetics declares this attunement nothing more than myth.” The child giggled. “But they know nothing. One such man is coming to save you now.”

“Daughter, what does your father desire to create?” Katherine asked as a sudden jolt stung the base of her skull.

“He wishes to create those who can control anything and everything with nothing more than a thought; father strives to create telekinetic soldiers.”

Suddenly Katherine’s arms were empty and the brightness turned back to the bleakness of the mist enshrouded void. The pain fired free in her skull, worse than any she had ever experienced. She shut her eyes to try and overcome the searing sensations, but the effort proved to only fuel the discomfort. Katherine gritted her teeth together, clenched her fists and screamed with all of her might as she once again began to fall into oblivion…

Katherine jolted upright, screaming, covered in sweat. Her chest rose heavy as she struggled to find her breath. Sheets and linens were tangled about her legs. Several crones stood by her bedside, waiting, watching. Pale light streamed through an open window and heavy incense filled the air.

“Katherine,” a familiar voice said from beside her. “My dearest, you’ve come back to us.”

Katherine turned to face the familiar, charming face of Garius Syrah, smiling a dashing smile from under his pyrokinetic lenses. She said nought as her former love hugged her with an intensity that screamed he would never let her go.

S
ilence, heavy and uncomforting, engulfed Dalar Rhume and his companions as they followed the narrow dirt path. The silence was suffocating, nearly as much as the stagnant air of the Narn Wood. Every now and then a twig would snap beneath the footfall of the three men disrupting the brooding atmosphere of the sprawling forest.

The wood, at one time, had been a welcoming, majestic haunt for travelers. Its shade offered road weary vagabonds and merchants a place to rest their head, while the lush shrubbery offered berries and nuts of all types. Even at such a distance from the shore of Fascile Bay, the cool saltwater breeze would bring a sigh of relief to those whom lounged along the varying game trails and merchant ways. Birds of all type sang their song in the upper brambles of the great trees and skittering rodents darted in and around the hulking wood in search of cherished nuts.

Now, however, the only song to be heard was the forlorn clatter of brittle branches clanking in the soft, yet terribly humid, oceanic breeze. The multitude of berry bearing brush lost all vigor, leaving skeletal husks in their stead. No daring squirrel or chipmunk could be seen nor heard. The once noble forest of famed repute was all but abandoned by man and nature.

“How much longer?” Issac Pennygild asked, keeping his voice low and hush.

“We have a ways yet.” Dalar replied.

“How long?” Issac insisted. Dalar suspected the heavy, somber atmosphere of the Narn weighed on Issac, frightening the man with no remorse.

“We will probably have to make camp tonight.” Dalar admitted. It was a truth he was not overtly fond of himself, especially after the encounter with the hibagon at the forest’s edge the night before.

“Can’t we push through the night?” Issac quailed.

“No lad.” Nog Stonefinger piped in, saving Dalar the hassle of dealing with Issac’s protestations. “The wood’ll be too dark and Del Morte only knows what beasts mill about at night.”

“We don’t have to worry about the beasts Stonefinger.” Issac huffed, shifting the weight of his bedroll and pack as he stepped over a fallen log. “We have Dalar.”

“Let’s not talk about that shall we?” Dalar insisted.

The realization of his power, or gift as Issac was won’t to call it, was still a troubling matter Dalar struggled with. In all the histories of Wynne there had never been a kinetic with Dalar’s ability. There were many reported sightings of telekinetics – often as members of tumbling troupes or mystical sideshows like Edwin and he visited in Brixon. These reports were often falsities built on the expectation of the audience with clever plays on the viewership’s situational awareness; most, if not all, of these sightings were often great acts of illusion.

“Come on scholar,” Nog paused beside a withering oak, letting his sack and bedroll hit the forest floor with an invasive thud. “Give us a show!”

“I don’t think that wise.” Dalar refuted, continuing his hike past the squat, broad shouldered man. “Not until I can speak with the Chief Scholar as well as the College of Kinetics. We must learn the implications of this…
gift
.”

“Scholar…”The Stonefinger insisted.

Dalar paused.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind picture the immediate area. Nog and Issac stood side-by-side by the wilting tree, both hungry for a display of Dalar’s apparent telekinetic ability. He was loath to give in to their request, yet he felt he owed them something. Dalar’s mind raced towards Issac, wrapping the unsuspecting man with a whirlwind of thought. Pressure built in the base of Dalar’s skull as he urged the invisible tendrils of his mind to lift the poor man into the air.

“Dalar!” Issac squealed as his feet left the forest floor. Nog’s hearty, guttural laugh pierced the air, filling Dalar’s ears with a sense of obscenity. “Put me down!”

With a soft smile on his lips, Dalar obliged the lanky man’s request. Dalar was actually relieved, for the strain on his mind holding a loft a squirming adult was taxing. Issac came crashing to the hard packed earth with a meaty thud as Dalar retained his composure.

“That was not funny scholar.” Issac huffed as he slapped dust off of his trousers.

“Ye might not have thought so,” Nog said between chuckles. “But it truly were good for a larf.”

“Del Morte curse the both of you.” Issac swore. The man scooped up his belongings and shoved past Dalar and Nog.

“Where ye goin’ lad?” Nog asked.

“To Stovice.” Issac huffed, tripping over a moss covered rock. “Del Morte be damned!”

Dalar was sorry for Issac, for the man, as Dalar had discovered, shamed easy in an effort to be recognized. It was a curious trait, especially for a soldier chosen for this type of high caliber mission. The Chancellor surely had reasons for selecting Issac Pennygild for the search and rescue teams, but those reasons were not clearly evident.

“No yer not.” Nog stated, voice cold and flat.

Issac turned on his heel, pale eyes glaring back at the Stonefinger with cool contempt.

“Why not?” Issac hissed.

“Because,” Dalar stepped between the two men to put a body between any unneeded altercation. “We’re making camp.”

The weight of two sets of eyes falling over him made Dalar’s skin crawl.

“Here?” Both men questioned in the same moment’s breath.

“Aye.” Dalar insisted. “The day is growing old, we won’t make it much further before we lose all light of day. This little clearing offers us a good defensive position as well, in case of any trouble.”

“Ye sure scholar?” Nog asked looking at the surrounding area.

“Yes.” Dalar lied. It really wasn’t a suitable location at all. The dirt path ran narrow here and what remained of the forest shrubbery hugged the winding trail with clawing arms. To the east and west of the their position, the road sloped upwards, putting the trio in a precariously easy to attack location. With the heavy, dense air of the wood and boiling heat of the sun, it was as good enough area as any to make camp. Or so Dalar told himself.

The trio set down to prepping the ground for the night, no one really eager to expend energy arguing over a campsite. Dalar worked at removing the arching limbs of the bush, collecting the smallest brambles for the fire. The work was terribly simple, for many of the roots pulled right out of the ground with no great effort. In the first time in many moons, Dalar almost felt grateful for this drought as it allowed him the ease of uprooting the long dead plants. Stonefinger’s heavy footfall snapped twigs and branches as the small man ventured off the path in search of a few good logs. Issac, on the other hand, set about collecting rocks to create a small ring to contain the evening’s fire.

By the time the evening sky stretched over the scratching reach of the trees, the firepit was just about ready. During his hunt for logs, the Stonefinger found a stash of various walnuts, chestnuts and a small collection of pine nuts.

“Perfect fer roasting!” He declared when he trounced back to the party. “It’ll go swell with the salted meat an’ stale bread.”

“Where did you find them?” Dalar asked. It was curious that such a collection of fine, usable food was just left sitting around when there were undoubtedly a host of woodland creatures that could have made use of the sweet treasure.

“Some hollow.” The stonefinger stated, digging through his pack for a small pot to roast the nuts in.

“A hollow?” Dalar asked. “Were there any signs of creatures?”

“No.” Nog sniffed. “But you lot are bein’ too loud.”

“How so?” Dalar raised a brow. He thought he and Issac were setting the area up in rather careful movements to
prevent
commotion that would bring unwanted attention to the party.

“I could hear ye roughin’ in the bush.” Nog stated, dropping to the dusty forest floor in a great
hurmph
. “Wouldn’t know it to look at ye scholar, but ye make quite the noise. Could’ve mistaken ye fer a bear or the like.”

“Nog,” Dalar said as a chill ran up his spine. “I didn’t go into the bush. I’ve been here prepping the space.”

“Must’a been Pennygild then.” Nog said. He picked a well-rounded nut from his collection, holding it close to his nose for a deep inspection.

“Wasn’t me either.” Issac’s voice waivered slightly as he looked to Dalar for an answer; the Stonefinger lowered his prize, letting his gaze fall upon Dalar.

The frightened realization in Nog’s eyes sent another chill running down Dalar’s spine. Gooseflesh pocked Dalar’s arms. A deep clawing fear wrapped around Dalar's innards as he strained his ears for the sound of movement in the bush. Dalar turned his head to the left, ever so slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of some wayward stalker or hulking beast.

Nothing. Nothing but towering oak, hunched maple and twisting saplings could be seen.

Dalar let his gaze venture to the opposite side of the game trail, southward.

Again, nothing but the aching, dehydrated brambles of the forest and its remnants made itself visible.

“I don’t see, or sense, any movement.” Dalar whispered.

“Neither do I.” Issac agreed. Dalar noted the man held a pistol in his hand, ready for some surprise attack.

“Put it away lad.” The Stonefinger said with a cool, calm voice. “Whatever’s out there will show itself when it’s good an’ ready. We’ll roast these nuts, then we’ll take watch.”

“Agreed.” Dalar lowered himself beside the small pit Issac had constructed for the logs.

Nog got a fire going in quick order. Of course it helped the wood was as dry as a dusty crypt of antiquity. Issac offered up a small flask of Pozian rum from his travel gear to roast the collection of nuts in. While the fire licked the underside of the cooking instrument, the soft popping of tree nuts brought an invigorating aroma to the small camp. It was a comforting scent, one that took Dalar back to the comforts of his home in Le Clos Noire.

It was a hollow comfort, however, for he doubted much home now remained. Even if his cabin had not been raised during the assault a week ago, it still would not offer him the solace his soul sought. Jakob was gone. All he had lived for had been stripped away in a moment of aggression. Dalar spent many nights during his watch trying to understand why anyone, friend or foe, found the need to slay an innocent child. It was a concept Dalar did not doubt he would soon come to appreciate.

Despite Nog’s proclamation of the nuts going well with the salted meat and tough bread, the dinner proved to be a loss. Most of his collection proved to have been rotted to the core. To mar the dinner more, the meat had an off taste to it. Dalar figured the excessive heat worked as a slow burning oven and sped up the spoiling process.

Night fell over the Narn Wood in surprising time. Issac complained at first, as was his won’t, but Dalar knew the nightfall was no queer magic of the wood or a curse from Del Morte.

“It’s late autumn.” He said as Issac cursed his way to sleep. “It’s natural.”

“Right scholar.” The Stonefinger agreed, though Dalar picked up a hint of sarcasm amongst Nog’s gruff voice. “Ye got first watch tonight.”

Dalar didn’t complain. He knew these woods, its sounds and smells.

“Well,” Dalar said to himself as Nog settled into his bedroll. “I used too.”

The thought was tragic, in many ways. At one time the wood was lush and vibrant, bursting with life. Dalar had spent much of his early years with the scholarhood traversing the different trails and paths the great Narn had to offer. His first formative publication was an in depth study of the many flora and geographical nuances of the forest. The work was so well received Dalar had earned an early pass into the ranks of scholar, leaving his apprentice state before many of his fellows.

Incensed by his success, Dalar returned to the Narn the following spring to study the wildlife in greater detail. His original intent had been to chronicle the basic life style of the woodland creatures, but as he foraged deeper into the wood his research took to following the hibagon tribes. They were noble beasts, sharing many desires as humans. It bothered him how greatly the animals had changed in order to survive this drought. The hibagon were a historically peaceful creature, now they were only mad with hunger.

Long hours passed as Dalar watched the crackling fire. Every now and then he would poke and prod the logs into a new position to bring a new vigour to the low burning flames. Watching the swirling movement of the embers brought peace upon Dalar. It was easy for the high scholar to let his thoughts drift and dance to and fro as he stared into the glowing pit before him. There was something peaceful, and powerful, about the chaotic movement of fire; it seemed to Dalar that no matter how wild and uncontrolled the flames might appear, there was always a type of restraint or control within the flame.