The Spark (30 page)

Finally, their bodies could no longer handle the mounting electrical pressures building in their master’s grasp. Sparks burst from the serving boys’ eyes and ears like a raging beast clawing for release. The arcing electricity consumed their bodies, igniting the boys’ clothing. Each lad dropped in the blink of an eye, contorting, twisting under the electrical currents racing through their bodies.

At the same moment the boys fell to the floor in their electrocuted fits, Zehr released the built up ball of electricity, hurting it towards Julien. Rosemary watched in disbelieve as the ancient pyrokinetic moved faster than she ever thought possible. Just as the headmaster’s attack would have smote Julien, the old man twirled out of its course in a sweeping flourish. With nary a sound or sign, Headmaster Zehr ignited in a great bout of flame. No embers departed Julien’s fingertips or palms - such was his mastery of his school. The rolling ball of electricity dissipated as Zehr’s concentration broke under the pain of the fires he was wrapped within.

His screams were horrid, inhuman even. No matter how hard Rosemary tried, the memory of those terrible howls of the headmaster’s final moments, and the smell of burning flesh would haunt her for the rest of her days.

“W
hat do you mean
never
alive?” Julien demanded of Klouse, the college’s resident medical practitioner.

“Well they were alive, ser, at some point.” Klouse stammered through his thick, Pozian accent. He wiped his bloodied hands on an equally bloody apron. “That day were quite awhile ago I reckon. Them two servants were good ’n dead afore they even step foot here in the college.”

“How is that even possible?” Julien asked, lowering himself into a nearby chair. His ancient body ached and protested with every movement he made.

After his confrontation with the headmaster, Julien found his strength greatly diminished. It was as if he used the last of his mortal will to aid poor Rosemary from her plight. He did not doubt his days upon Wynne would soon be over, but Julien DiMarco vowed to get as many answers as possible before he met that end.

“I’m glad you asked.” Klouse’s beady eyes glistened with excitement, eager to share his discovery. “Whomever got to ‘em boys is nothin’ short of genius.” He reached into a deep pocket on his apron and withdrew an object so utterly unmistakable and commonplace it almost seemed foreign and bizarre.

Julien leaned forward in his chair, letting his ebony cane take his weight. He had to slide his pyrokinetic lenses back up his nose to see the object clearly.

“Del Morte be good,” Julien gasped. “Is that not a cortex?”

“Aye.” Klouse smiled a big, toothless grin. The man’s chins wobbled as he strained to contain his excitement. “Each of ‘em boys had one in his noggin. Damn things were wired in to ‘em. Bloody genius.”

“Sinister is more like it.” Julien indicated to the object, he had a desire to examine it for himself. The weighty man obliged, handing the item over.

It was light, as were all cortexes, and damaged beyond repair. Despite its obvious deformities, there was no mistaking the object for what it was. It was every bit similar to the larger manufactured devices that powered the many semi-sentient mechanical constructs of Wynne, though this one was exponentially smaller; it was a cortex through and through.

Its outer copper rods, or rather, those that remained, had been severely burnt and eroded from the intense electrical build up Zehr brought into the corridor. Small holes remained from the spokes that ruptured during the attack. Much of the central condenser had been charred. The crystal core that served as an energy source for the device had been shattered leaving a small, blackened well where it once was housed.

“Tell me Klouse,” Julien said handing the object back to the man. “Why would someone wish to give life to those who have passed?”

“I couldn’t say, ser.” Klouse said, returning his prize into the deep pocket on his apron.

“Neither do I.” Julien wiped residue from the destroyed cortex on his pants. Placing both hands upon his cane, and with great effort, Julien rose from his seat. “Mysteries abound these days. Tell no one what you have discovered. These revelations require much deeper investigation.”

“Don’t you worry Mister Julien,” the confident smile Klouse gave reminded Julien of a mole. “Ol’ Klouse’ll tell no one. No ser.”

“Good.” Julien readjusted his lenses before taking his leave of the morgue.

The old pyrokinetic let his ebony cane lead the way into the empty halls without. Its solemn
tap-tap-tapping
on the stone floor echoed like a death knell. Despite no longer being headmaster, Julien still felt as though these were his corridors, walls, tapestries. This was where he belonged, not on some council in the south. His cares were for the kinetic community, not the intrigue of parliament.

As grateful as he was the student body left the college to take advantage of the reprieve Zehr arranged, Julien found himself missing the shrill laughter and gaiety the pupils brought to the lonely cold halls; it was for the best the students had left, leaving only the faculty at the school, for who knew what vile lies Zehr might have begun to fill their impressionable minds with.

A bitter taste filled Julien’s mouth as his feet led him past the scorched stone where Zehr and his unliving lackeys burned. There were too many questions the past several days brought forth, too many perplexing questions. Julien was hell bent on discovering what in the thrice-damned hells was happening to his wonderful, peaceful world.

War had come, there was no surprise in that; Julien had known it was only a matter of time before Valvius took matters into their own hands. What was most surprising was the declaration of war against the province of Syntar, in addition to the Imperial Order.

Then there was this ordeal with Rosemary and Zehr. Julien did not pretend to know what transpired between the two. It was evident enough Zehr was a member of this Imperial Order, but what his business with the Rosemary, Julien could not determine.

Julien had not seen the speaker of the commons since that night, now three days past. Her injuries were dire: shock, burns, and fissures where the electrical currents burst through her lovely skin. Julien prayed to Del Morte every night for her to have a quick and save recovery, for his questions needed answering.

The former headmaster wandered the silent halls for several hours, not really knowing where his cane led. In his heart he sensed there was something hidden in the college to provide answers to his questions, yet it was wholly unknown to him. Before long he found himself amongst the stacks of the college’s vast library. It always seemed to be a place of escape for Julien when his mind was troubled.

During times like this, Julien made his way past the wonderful works of fiction or looming texts of history. There was one book he favoured when his mind was wrought in problems, for its pages offered him a glimpse of peace and prosperity and its imagery took his breath away. The tome in which he sought was
The Great Compendium of Wynne and its People
by the famous scholar Benjamin R. Riley.

Even here, in the College of Kinetics, Riley’s exhaustive work was a cherished piece of informative literature. Not only did the text provide a wonderful collection of non-bias looks at all of the provinces of Wynne. It was also the first publication to offer a positive look into the life of the kinetic people. Riley spent much of his life traveling Wynne to fill the pages of this great work, and spent almost as much time creating wonderful paintings and frescos of the beautiful world to bring his work to life.

Like every time in his past, Julien found himself sitting at a small desk in the rotunda of the library with a copy of the great work. As was his won’t, Julien thumbed through the pages, admiring the wonderful, vivid imagery of Riley’s hand before settling into a specific section.

Perhaps it was his curiosity over the war, or some other nagging suspicion that drove him, but Julien began examining the rather large section dedicated to the far north province of Syntar.

He did not know what he hoped to find as he read line after line, yet somehow, in someway, Julien knew a kernel of information
must
be hidden amongst the words.

Then, without fanfare or blaring obviousness, Julien discovered the first clue that would answer his riddles. It came from the final passages regarding the people of Syntar proper, and it seemed to reveal a trait Julien had long forgotten.

“To many, the Syntarans are a proud and crass, ignoble and corrupt people; however, it is that pride that defines them. One will never find a people with more national pride than a Syntaran, irrespective of his station in life. To wrong a man of Syntar is a fate worse than death. It is the pride of a Syntaran that will begrudge any wrong doing for the rest of time – and they will ensure the wrong doer shall not forget his slight.”

Julien leaned back in his chair, stewing over the great scholar’s passage.

Then a thought came to him.

Julien closed the large book in front of him. Placing his hands on the Maplewood table, he pushed his chair out, gathered his trusty cane as he rose from his seat. The stillness of the library filled with the thudding booms of Julien’s
tap-tap-tapping
as he made his way deeper into the archives.

Unlike many of the other libraries of Wynne, the college accepted, and encouraged, the submission of headmaster’s personal journals from their tenure. Some outsiders thought this a strange and invasive practice, but there were many times in Julien’s reign as headmaster he sought answers from his past peers. There always seemed to lay hidden comfort in the travails of those who came before. It was the private shelves Julien now headed, searching for his very own journals.

Julien shook his head, disappointed in not thinking of it sooner. His first meeting with headmaster Zehr should have stirred the ideas to life. It was not the man he should have suspected, but rather the emphasis he put on a phrase. Julien cursed himself for being such a naïve fool.

“Do
what is necessary
indeed.” He muttered under his breath as he traversed the private archive of headmaster journals.

He found the section labeled DiMarco near the end of the row. Taking his time, the old kinetic rummaged through the large assortment of leather bound journals. After all this time, he had forgotten exactly which book he needed, and it seemed the library staff did a poor job of keeping the entries in chronological order. Julien DiMarco did the only thing he could and sat down to begin pouring over the events of his recorded life, one journal at a time.

Before long, the bright, wintry day soon turned to dusk, and onto a deep night. And still he searched. Entry by entry, antiquated date by antiquated date. Julien took his time, pouring over every detail, knowing a hasty search would net in missed information. Soon, the black of night began to fade to the soft reaching greys of the pre-dawn gloom. Finally, he found the entry he sought.

October 23, 190 GP

After much investigation I have concluded dear Garius is the culprit behind the disappearances of the Valvian students. I called on him, alone, wishing to speak with the lad before any formal hearing.

He sat at the desk in his dormitory, quite, calm, expressionless as I inquired about the missing students. I informed him I knew it was he behind it all.

He said naught.

I asked him why. He looked at me coldly from behind his lenses and said:

“They deserve it. All Valvians deserve to suffer.”

Again, I asked why.

“For what they did to me. I will do what is necessary to make this a better world by ridding Wynne of the accursed Valvians.”

That was the last I, or anyone, saw of Garius Syrah, for he fled into the night. I pray to Del Morte he fades into obscurity, for the kinetic people do not need men of his sort smearing our already tarnished name.

It’s a shame. Garius was a truly gifted pyrokinetic, perhaps the most gifted since the Great War.

Julien DiMarco

“My dear Garius,” Julien sighed. “You were wronged by vile men, and now all of Wynne will bleed.”

Taking the corner of the page between his thumb and forefinger, Julien bent it inwards to mark his place. He knew Rosemary would want to see this find for herself.

Stifling a yawn, the former headmaster rose from his seat, journal tucked under his arm. Using his cane for support, Julien took his time in winding his way back through the library. As he reached the doors, he ran into professor Gillard, the resident librarian. He was a short man, robust with cherry red cheeks. He was one of the few terrakinetics on campus, and for that he was a revered individual. Perhaps the only thing Gillard enjoyed more than his command of the earth was his command of language. Even during Julien’s time as headmaster, Gillard was a profoundly well-read man.

This morning they passed simple pleasantries, commenting on the snow, the fate of Wynne and the future of the college. Nothing of any real interest, for the topics had been discussed numerous times. Perhaps the most interesting thing to have come out of that meeting was Gillard’s latest read.

It was a blue, leather bound book, the last to have been written by the great scholar Benjamin Riley before his death -
A Tale of Madness, Amongst Other Things.
Gillard explained it was more like a journal Riley had kept in the final months of his life, the time when his madness had begun to settle in. It had been published and edited post-humously by the current chief scholar in Brixon, as, perhaps, a way of showing Wynne that even the most revered, sharp minds are never safe from the ever threat of Madness. Gillard even explained how Riley thought he actually caught his Madness from the long fabled haunted Cliffs of Madness near the eastern shores of Valvius – the very cliffs he launched himself off of to end his life.

Julien knew it was a silly thought, but he entertained the notion for Gillard, who seemed excited reading into the life of a man he long admired.

Julien put his hand on Gillard’s robust shoulder, gave the man an exhausted smile and took his leave.

The trek was not long, for the faculty dormitories were only a few quick turns away. He was glad for that, for his body weighed heavy on his ebony cane in its tired state. It had been a long while since the old kinetic had need of staying up through the night, and his body simply did not agree with such activity anymore.

The first thing the former headmaster did upon entering his chambers was lay upon his bed. It wasn’t as comfortable or luxurious as his bed in Gossac, but it sufficed nonetheless. Julien did not care if he still wore his attire from the previous day, nor did he care about removing his pyrokinetic lenses. All he cared about was the sweet comfort of his down filled pillow.

Julien lay atop the bed, staring at the ceiling through his lenses, waiting for sleep to take him.

Julien had not realized how tired he was when he woke to the failing light of sunset. Julien rose from the bed, eager to speak with the lady Rosemary about his recent revelations. Beyond that he did not know where his course lay.

He knew the council needed to be warned, but the idea somehow seemed a lost cause. As of two nights ago there had been no received word, yet, of any other provinces seceding from the council to take part in this war. Julien did not doubt lines were being drawn and alliances created.

Then there was the issue of revealing Garius Syrah as the grand orchestrator of Valvius’ troubles. What could the council do? Despite knowing the man behind it all, there was still no way of knowing where he lay hid. On top of that, Julien feared the safety of kinetic people as a whole, for his voice had been loudest in protestation against Lucian Margoux’s accusations of kinetic involvement against the people of Valvius. Now with those claims proven true, Julien worried the warmongering diplomat would turn against the kinetic people as well.

It was an interesting dilemma. The dedicated man he had trained himself to be knew the right course of action, despite the risks.

Yet something held him back.

For the first time in his esteemed career, Julien doubted himself. There were no doubts about his suspicions, for all the evidence implicated none other than his former prodigy. No, Julien’s hesitations and doubts hinged on the uncertainty of the times. His trust in the Grand Council was fading. Even his devoted faith in Del Morte and the good of Wynne teetered precariously on the edge. Julien needed counsel, and there was only one person he deemed trustworthy enough to confide in, the Lady Rosemary Sharpe.

It was to the college’s infirmary the
tap-tap-tapping
of his cane now led him. He knew the strange confrontation with Zehr had left the lady battered and worn; the assault she received by the former, defunct headmaster and his apparent stewards had left Rosemary on the verge of death, yet she clung on to life with an iron grasp. Or so the medical practitioners told him.

“By all rights she should be dead.” They said on more than one occasion. “She’s a strong woman. To survive not one, but two, condensed streams of an electrokinetic’s assault is a feat in of itself.”

Those same practitioners denied him entry to seeing her, citing that the lady needed to rest in solitude and peace from her ordeal. Today, however, Julien would not let them stop him. He had come to that conclusion when he set out from his chambers. He had need to speak with her and he was not about to let anyone get in his way. Julien re-arranged his journal, which he had tucked under his arm, as he came into sight of the infirmary doors. Taking a deep breath to calm his bubbling adrenaline, Julien pushed through the double-set swing doors into the waiting lobby.

“I must speak with the lady.” He stated, tapping his way past the nurse’s station. Julien heard them protest as he picked up his speed. Ignoring them he said; “It is most important.”

A smile crested his withered, thin lips as he passed into the patient’s corridor.

“Master Julien!” An orderly from the far end of the hall called, rushing to meet him. “Ser, you must stop. You can not go any further.”

“I must speak with the lady.” Julien said, echoing the words of his arrival, pushing past the woman.

“The lady is dead.” The woman’s tone was flat, cold almost, to drive her message home.

Julien stopped. His lenses slid down his nose, but he did not move to readjust their position. He heard the orderly, yet her words seemed distant and false.

“The lady Rosemary passed in the night.” This time her voice was soft in a consoling manner.

Julien did not turn to face the woman, for that would admit the truth of her words. Yet the pang of guilt and deep sadness stabbed his heart like a butcher’s knife. His cane tried to support his weight, which grew heavier as his strength fled his body. Finally, without warning or fanfare, The ebony cane snapped under the building pressure, causing the old kinetic to fall to the floor. He didn’t care. Everything that was dear to him was lost; the sanctity of the council, the continued peace of Wynne and, the person he cherished most, Rosemary Sharpe.