by David Green
“Never you mind,” Zanna replied, looking between the boy and the object of his fascination. “What are you doing with that fruit?”
The apple withered. A slow rot spread through it, the green turning brown, then black.
“Stop!” Zanna cried.
She opened her Second Sight, a Sparker’s way of seeing the energy of the world. She saw the luminous, green thread running from the apple to Arlo, a black glow flowing in the other direction. She reached out and severed it. The boy jerked backwards, falling off his stool.
“What did you do that for?” he yelled. The other Sparkers turned and watched the commotion, eyebrows raised.
With colour rising in her cheeks, Zanna helped her apprentice back into his seat.
“Arlo, that magic is dangerous. Look at the apple!” The fruit had turned to black mush, its rotten smell overpowering the scent of food and drink around them. “You took too much of its energy and tipped the balance. You can’t go around doing that because you feel like it. We have a word for that: Evisceration. And it’s forbidden, even in battle.”
Arlo’s eyes were wide. His hands trembled as he gazed at the ruined apple.
“Could a Sparker do that to me?” he asked, voice hushed.
Zanna sighed. She remembered having this same conversation with Calene, twenty years ago. She’d tried to sugar-coat it, and her daughter hadn’t appreciated the coddling. It wasn’t something she thought she’d discuss with Arlo so soon.
“Yes,” she replied, deciding honesty to be the best path this time. “And very few have the strength to shield against it. Raas and Janna forbid us from inflicting this on other humans, even elves, and the Council investigate any who do so.”
“Is that the...?”
“The Laws of Engagement, yes. These rules are the reason the people of Haltveldt trust us. We hunt Sparkers who break the Laws and we exterminate them.”
Arlo narrowed his eyes, looking between Zanna and the ruined apple.
“You did it, didn’t you?” he asked, staring at her without blinking.
This boy is too droking clever.
Zanna nodded. Memories flooded her mind, a face that had haunted her dreams for a decade, and stared at her from the flames. She’d watched it in her mind’s eye a thousand times—more—his porcelain skin withering, melting, decaying from the inside out, leaving only a desiccated husk. It thrilled her, as she fed on him, even though something inside her changed. A shadow lurking inside her grew as she Eviscerated him, as she reaved his soul.
She’d never felt so unclean.
“A Sparker attacked me and my daughter. He wanted to take Calene for his own purpose. I had no choice.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Some on the Council disagreed and felt I’d overstepped. Including Calene. They sent me to Solitude as a compromise, for services rendered and friends that remained. Lucky for you, they don’t mind sending me a Wild Sparker apprentice to tame.”
Arlo blew out his cheeks and shook his head. “Your own daughter? I’m sorry, Master. I believe you.”
Zanna stood and shrugged into her wet cloak. I’m not sure I do, Arlo, she thought. There’s always another way.
“Come on. Let’s put some fresh air in our lungs.”
###
The rain and wind had died down a little, but it never truly disappeared from Solitude. Zanna rested against the rampart on the tallest tower, overlooking the Banished lands one hundred feet below, Arlo at her side.
She pulled out her pipe, drew a touch of energy from within herself and channelled it into a small flame on her fingertip, appreciating the gentle warmth as she did. Zanna lit the pipe and inhaled. The talk of her past troubled her, but she found comfort in the still air and the familiar taste of tobacco.
“Smoke?” she asked Arlo, who waved his hands and shook his head in reply.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he said. “An exiled person protecting us from the Banished.”
“The irony doesn’t escape me.” Zanna blew a smoke ring. “Many of the souls up here are exiled, unwanted, forgotten. Take our leader Garet, for example. And this is between us, Arlo.”
He nodded, eyes wide.
“His parents—still alive, which must make them ancient—made sure he received a place of leadership up here. Big scandal but his family’s riches ensured whatever happened isn’t common knowledge. And they could pass off their son becoming leader of Solitude as a great honour, but we all know the truth. Solitude is convenient, out of the way, and easy to relocate unwanted baggage.”
The moon hid behind the highest rise of the Peaks of Eternity. Black clouds hung heavy in the sky. Zanna’s senses felt dull. They told her there should still have been rain. A storm with thunder and lightning. Instead, it felt as though the night held its breath.
“Master?” Arlo asked, his voice subdued as he stared out over the walls. “Does the darkness scare you?”
“You get used to it,” Zanna replied, putting an arm around his shoulders.
“No, I mean tonight. There’s something… odd.”
Zanna glanced at him. She felt it too. The night held a strange quality. All too quiet, but a tense quivering underpinned the silence. Feeling eyes on her, she scanned the rampart and saw they were alone. At first, she thought it her imagination, but faint sounds drifted to her. The sound of whispers that lingered at the edge of her hearing.
“You’re right, Arlo,” she said, gazing across the ramparts.
Lit braziers dotted the walls that ran a half-mile in each direction. She drew their flames inside her, the sensation thrilling her. Arlo’s eyes widened at the depth of her power. Zanna kept pulling fire into her, her limbs filling with warmth, heat, power. It made her feel alive, to the point she wanted to keep drawing, to not let go. A struggle every Sparker contended with.
“We need light.”
Quivering with energy and almost at her limit, Zanna lifted her hands to the skies and unleashed a fountain of flame across the heavens, lighting up the plains for miles below them.
“Oh, teeth of the gods,” she whispered, taking in the sight below before darkness swallowed the flames.
She turned to Arlo. The colour had drained from his face and tears filled his wide, blue eyes. His fingers dug into the stone ramparts as he gripped the wall.
“Raas preserve us. Get Protector Garet. Run. Can you do that?”
Arlo nodded and shot away, leaving Zanna alone. She looked out over the ramparts again.
The darkness hid them as they spilled over the distant hills. An army marched across the slate plains towards Solitude. Thousands of them. The Banished were coming.
And less than two hundred Sparkers, with a single apprentice, stood in their way.
CHAPTER TWO
A LONG WAY FROM HOME
‘A nobleman from Spring Haven ain’t happy ‘till he’s searched every cupboard in an honest man’s house, and taken everything he fancies. Then, he’ll burn that man’s house down with him in it.’ - A Colton trader’s view on those from Haltveldt’s capital.
“Look,” Calene said, thrusting a finger at the rat-faced innkeeper. “I’m caked in filth, I fought droking elves all day yesterday so you could go about your life happy and oblivious to the horrors of war, and I’ve been travelling for hours through the Forest of droking Mists. Did I mention my head’s pounding? I think my brain’s about to escape my skull. I’m bone tired. Can I at least get changed before you give me more problems, for Raas’ sake?”
The innkeeper shook his head, folding his thin arms across his chest. “Rules are rules. Free board for Sparkers, so long as they serve a citizen’s need. So says the Council of Sparkers and the Conclave. And I don’t appreciate you taking one of the gods’ names in vain.”
Calene ground her teeth. She glanced over her shoulder. Vettigan, her companion and fe
llow Sparker, shrugged and sat by the fire. Despite the occasional difference in opinion, the old man remained her closest ally.
Thanks for the help, Calene thought, directing the words into Vettigan’s mind with their Link.
Sparkers with a deep connection could connect that way, no matter the distance. It needed a high degree of trust, and the courage to be vulnerable and let someone in. Other than Vettigan, Calene had established the link with one other person. Her mother.
She pushed that thought away.
You’ve got this under control, Vettigan sent back. You’re younger than me, I require immediate warmth.
He winked as he sank further into his cushioned chair, then closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.
Calene turned back to the innkeeper of The Stubborn Mule—the only tavern in the whole of Seke Village—and wondered if they’d named the place after him. Maybe he thought he had to live up to the title for appearance’s sake. She stared into his pale blue eyes and forced a smile. The innkeeper flinched. She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.
Why do folk droking react like that? Raas, give me strength!
It’s because your ‘grin’ resembles a lioness baring her teeth, Vettigan projected. And folk of the Colton Duchy remember all too well the pain of Haltveldt absorbing them. They don’t like us.
Drok off, Calene replied, blocking the Link and taking a deep breath.
“What’s your name, friend?” she asked the innkeeper.
“Mannon,” he replied, his voice a nasal whine.
Never trust a thin innkeeper, Calene thought.
“Mannon,” she said, spreading her hands. “Your little problem in the cellar ain’t going anywhere, is it? Let me and my partner over there get settled, stuff some food and drink in our bellies. I promise we’ll look at the basement tonight. Us Sparkers need to recharge our magic. We’d be useless without a little nourishment, savvy?”
That wasn’t true. Sparkers could burn out if they exceeded their limits, but so long as they were mindful and had external energies to pull from, the magic flowed. The innkeeper wouldn’t know that. The Order of Sparkers weren’t ones to divulge their secrets.
“Fine,” Mannon said. “Room, food, and one drink each. Then you go down to the basement. After that, you can drink and eat till morning for all I care.”
“Great,” Calene said, extending her hand. Mannon eyed it before taking it in a slack grip for less than a beat of his shrivelled, little heart, like he thought her fingers would spit venom. “What’s the problem down there, anyway?”
“Weird noises,” Mannon replied, narrowing his eyes. “Started a few days ago. We don’t go down there. It floods so I don’t use it.”
“Just a wild animal that’s got itself trapped, then.” Calene took the key Mannon offered. “And my friend’s room?”
“You’re sharing,” Mannon said, with a grin that exposed the gaps between his rotted teeth. “All I can spare.”
“Teeth of the gods,” Calene muttered, stalking over to Vettigan, snoring by the fire. She kicked his shins and he woke with a start.
“Come on,” she said. “Our chamber awaits.”
###
Sitting by the fire, in clean clothes and a cup of red wine in her hand, Calene’s mood had improved. Her stomach protested the lack of food, but she could deal with that a while longer.
Other patrons occupied surrounding seats and tables, but it wasn’t busy. Most drank alone or made a mess with their food, while a rowdy game of dice played out in the far corner. Smoke hung in the air as men and women enjoyed their pipes. On a stage opposite the fire, a handsome, red-haired man tuned a lute. Mannon hurried him, no doubt eager for something to mask the occasional moan drifting up from below the floor.
Every customer of The Stubborn Mule had stolen a glance at Calene and Vettigan, in their bright orange Sparker robes, at least once.
“You wouldn’t think a war rages twelve miles from here,” Calene muttered, throwing a dark glance around the inn.
Vettigan stared into the flames, the memory of a smile on his lips. They made an odd pair, opposites in almost every way. She’d inherited her darker skin from her mother, but she’d cut her hair short, even shaved it on one side, and dyed the rest blue, to keep from seeing Zanna in the mirror. Combined with sharp and wary eyes, she looked the part of a Sparker and a warrior, through and through. Vettigan’s curling, silver hair fell about his face, tangled with his overgrown beard. The robes he wore were at least a size too large. His appearance meant other Sparkers often underestimated him. A mistake. His eyes held the wisdom of an extended life—Vettigan would turn one hundred and eight on his next name day, though he appeared no older than sixty. A Sparker’s fortune.
Calene had known him all her life and he’d taken her under his wing after her mother’s exile. They weren’t master and apprentice but allies; Calene had the greater power and skill, Vettigan a vast well of knowledge.
“What does it matter to these simple folk?” Vettigan replied, sweeping his gaze across the inn, laughing when the lute player strummed the jaunty first chords of A Maid Goes to Spring Haven. “The capital may as well be on another continent for all the patrons of The Stubborn Mule care. They’re odd people in this part of the world, allied themselves with the elves for centuries. Remember that statue we happened by, towering into the sky? An elven figure, yet the humans here prayed to it like Sparkers petitioning Raas or Janna.”
“Not a lot of Sparkers petitioning Raas and Janna these days,” Calene said.
Vettigan took a pull from his tankard, a faraway look in his eye.
“Maybe the elven gods walked the earth like ours once did,” he said. “Maybe they still would if we weren’t killing them all.”
“It makes you sad, doesn’t it?” Calene muttered. “The war.”
“Many things sadden me, Calene. Changes in Haltveldt have gathered pace this last decade since Locke ascended the throne, and not many for the better. The rulers of Haltveldt have battled elves for centuries, longer some say. Murdered, enslaved or segregated them. They slaughter every elven child they find with the Spark. It’s a gift, Calene. To destroy it like that... It goes against the gods.”
“Vettigan, anything you dislike ‘goes against the gods’.” Her words carried no heat. These days, she found it hard to disagree with her friend’s complaints against Haltveldt.
Vettigan let out a heavy sigh. “They’ll drive them to extinction—or throw them into the slums to join the other slaves. And then what? Who will be left for the mighty Empire to make war with?”
She nodded. “All the duchies have fallen in line. There’s no one left on this continent to fight against. Hard to believe the Empire rose from a single city.”
“Every tree springs from a seed. But Spring Haven proved a rotten one… After the elves, they’ll find a new enemy ripe for conquest. Mark my words, Calene.”
Calene patted his hand. She understood. The war with the elves seemed pointless to her. They’d spent the last three months on duty at the front, protecting soldiers and fighting wherever the Laws of Engagement permitted, the latest tour in a long line. Every time they were cycled out, she felt relief.
Few shared the Council and the Emperor of Haltveldt’s thirst for war, but what the Council decreed, the Sparkers carried out. Since the Emperor had appointed his friend Balz as High Sparker, the orders were executed without question. Raas decreed that those with the Spark should serve and, for the most part, the magi did their duty.
“Tranquil here, so far from Spring Haven, isn’t it?” Calene murmured, glancing around at the inn’s patrons, drinking and carousing without a care in the world. “Even with a war on their doorstep.”
Only the peace couldn’t take root in her. Her thoughts drifted to her father and, when she forced them away, snarling, her mother’s image appeared in her mind instead.
/> Calene wondered if she warmed herself by a fire in Solitude, knitting in silence with the rest of the world so far away. She rejected that thought too, digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands until she felt pain, anger. Not the inklings of longing.
She deserves her banishment, Calene told herself, biting her tongue for good measure.
“You should talk to her,” Vettigan muttered, watching her over the rim of his ale. Even with their Link blocked, he knew where her mind had strayed.
“No,” she replied, looking away. “I’m not having this conversation again.”
“A decade has passed. You should forgive Zanna. She acted on impulse, a mother’s instinct. Don’t you think she’s suffered enough?”
That night flashed in Calene’s mind, when her mother had Eviscerated another living soul. Her father had taken a black path, became one of those Sparkers who’d rejected Raas’ decree and believed Sparkers should dominate. In the last ten years, Calene’s nightmares had alternated between visions of what her father planned to do with her, and his skin and bones withering and melting, forming an ooze that stained the floor of their home.
“There’s always another way.” She flicked a tear from her eye. “What she did was unforgivable. She’s lucky they only exiled her.”
“Exile, pah! A farce and you know it,” Vettigan said. “I’d have done the same in her shoes.”
“I know,” Calene replied, “and that’s why I don’t want to talk about it.”
They fell silent as Mannon delivered a tray laden with cheese, bread, stew and olives. Calene’s stomach rumbled with such fierceness the innkeeper did a double-take. Colour rose in her cheeks as she tucked in, tearing off a chunk of bread to dip into her beef stew.
“Eat with haste,” Mannon said, placing a jug of water down on the table with a thump. “I don’t want whatever is in my cellar there any longer. Bad for business.”
Calene rolled her eyes. Neither Sparker spoke as they shovelled food into their mouths. They’d spent vast amounts of energy protecting and fortifying Haltveldt’s soldiers and warding off spells from the elven mages. They were fewer in number these days, but they didn’t share the same limits as human Sparkers. The elves in the city—listless slaves severed from magic—seemed alien to their free brethren.
