by David Green
The free elves fought for their lives. No Laws of Engagement, no decree of the gods, no Council to regulate their magic. And they didn’t pull their punches in battle. Calene shuddered at the thought of the Sparkers who’d let their shields slip, their withered faces as they turned to mush lingering at the edges of her mind.
For years, the Council, compelled by the various Emperors of Haltveldt, had exploited loopholes to force Sparkers into being more proactive in battle. Why give a Sparker a sword when they could wield the elements? Calene had seen war. She understood the push to relax, or even abolish, the Laws. It would bring an end to the conflict sooner.
She feared Vettigan’s words were correct; the elven race would become nothing more than a sad memory and Haltveldt would find a new enemy to obliterate.
“Getting thirsty,” Vettigan grunted, showing Calene his empty tankard.
“Aye,” she replied, draining her wine. “An evening of drinking is just what’s needed. Let’s get this sorted.”
###
Mannon inserted the key into the brass lock and dust exploded from the door frame as he barged it open with his shoulder. The hinges creaked from lack of use.
“When did you last hear the moans?” Calene coughed, wiping dust off her skin.
“You heard them as you drank,” the innkeeper grunted, backing away from the cellar’s entrance. “They stop when the music plays.”
“A spectre?” Vettigan asked, drawing the flame from a nearby candle and holding it in his palm. “Any deaths here of late?”
“Nothing recent.” Mannon held a gaunt hand over his mouth and spoke through his fingers, like he feared the patrons upstairs would overhear. “Are you saying my inn’s haunted?”
“Just discussing options,” Calene said, throwing Vettigan a baleful stare. He shrugged. “Go see to your guests, innkeeper. Whatever it is, it won’t keep us long.”
“Just don’t cause any mayhem,” Mannon said, eyeing the fire in Vettigan’s palm. “Most of this place is wood.”
The innkeeper slinked off, muttering to himself. Calene thought she caught the words teeth and gods.
“Spectres?” she asked, grinning at the other Sparker. “Did you have to tease him?”
“You never know,” Vettigan chuckled, “though more likely it’s a dog swept in by the flooding. The jobs we do for a full belly.”
“Maybe a merperson, then. They enjoy the water.” Calene winked. “After you?”
Vettigan stepped forward, his fire illuminating the brick steps that descended into the cellar. The stink of damp rot filled Calene’s nostrils as she listened to her friend’s footsteps echo around the winding stairs. The bard’s music drifted from above, and Calene reckoned they were below the stage area.
“Wait,” Vettigan whispered.
Goosebumps swept over Calene’s skin. Vettigan had opened his Second Sight, checking to make sure nothing magical dwelled in the cellar. Calene’s senses only picked up on it because they were so attuned to him. Vettigan wielded his abilities like a needle where other Sparkers beat away at their problems with a warhammer. In the gloom, she saw him turn her way, and press a fingertip to his temple. Calene unblocked their Link.
I sense a heartbeat, far side of the cellar. It’s weak. No Spark. Definitely not a dog.
A sensation itched in a separate corner of Calene’s mind—the part reserved for communication with her mother. Zanna hadn’t attempted to Link with her for over five years. Calene had made it clear then that she shouldn’t try again.
Since, Calene had trained her mind to keep the barriers blocking communication with her mother strong. She ignored the itch.
The moaning tells me it’s injured or dying, Calene projected. I’ll try talking first.
She moved past Vettigan and stood at the edge of the firelight. Listening, she heard the slow drip of water against the stone floor and the shallow rattle of something close to its last breath.
“Hello?” she called. “We’re here to help you.”
Heartbeat increasing, Vettigan projected.
A soft moan answered, then turned into a hacking cough. Calene pinpointed its origin.
“Come on,” she said.
She trotted across the abandoned cellar, heading towards the dripping water. Mannon claimed he’d heard the cries start a few days before. The thing trapped in the basement had dragged itself next to the water—the only source of nourishment they could get.
As Vettigan’s fire illuminated the cellar’s far side, Calene stopped with a gasp. “Raas and the rotten teeth of the gods.”
A white-haired, pale man with yellow eyes lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as the bard’s music continued to drift down. The figure wore fur clothing, with daggers of varying sizes tucked into a belt around his waist. A broadsword lay discarded on the floor. The smell of vomit, excrement and urine assaulted Calene’s nose and made her gag. She glanced at Vettigan, who covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve. One of the man’s legs bent at an odd angle, and lacerations caked with dried blood covered his visible skin.
“How is he still alive?” she muttered.
Calene took another step forward and crouched, drawing on her own energy to send out a sliver of air magic, pushing away the stench. The man on the floor flopped his head to the side, staring at her with squinted eyes, as though the firelight hurt them. He didn’t seem to have the strength to lift his hand and shield them.
“He’s listening to the music,” Vettigan said, drawing alongside Calene, eyes wide. “That’s why the moans stop. The sound comforts him.”
“What is he?” Calene asked.
She studied the stranger. She’d thought him pale before, but now she saw his skin to be white as chalk, as though it lacked pigment. He worked his mouth, trying to speak. Calene drew on the water from the cellar and cupped her hands. Liquid pooled between them. She held them out and nodded. The stranger opened his mouth and she trickled the water between his grey lips.
“Calene,” Vettigan murmured, pointing at the broadsword. “Look at the design on the crossguard. Does it look familiar to you?”
She tore her eyes away from the stranger and glanced at the weapon. A bronze emblem stood out at the centre of the crossguard: the image of a gigantic fortress, battlements behind it, and a sun high in the sky above the ramparts.
“Solitude,” she whispered. “From the far side. I remember visiting as a girl. Mother took me beyond the gates.”
“Yes,” Vettigan said. “If I’m not mistaken, our pale friend is one of the Banished. Council tells us to exterminate any this side of Solitude on sight—not that we’ve ever had to—but that won’t tell us how it appeared here. Look at his sword. He doesn’t look a simple shepherd, does he?”
“Is… as… dorachas Solitude’s… em,” the Banished croaked, the sound like old parchment tearing.
The itch in Calene’s mind grew into an incessant pounding. Her mother wasn’t giving up. She bit her lip.
“I’m not letting him die,” she said. “Shove the rules. I’ve killed too many in my life but at least they were trying to kill me. He’s helpless. I want to at least talk to this one first, if I can.”
Vettigan nodded and got to his feet, holding his flame closer to the wall and running his hand over it. He pulled it away, showing Calene the soot on his fingers.
“Look,” he said. “Burn marks on the wall. Days old, but no sign of fire anywhere else.”
Calene looked into the Banished’s eyes. Despite his weaponry, he appeared gentle. He smiled back at her. He lifted a trembling hand and pointed at the ceiling.
“Go bheaut,” he whispered, then his hand flopped back to the floor. His eyes fell closed.
“Drok the rules,” Calene said.
She opened her senses and drew on the energies she could reach—fire, water, earth, the raw emotions of joy, frustrat
ion and contentment from upstairs. She pulled them all into herself, letting the exhilaration of life run through her. The stench from the wounded man thicker in her nose, her eyesight sharper, her heart beating with more strength and speed as her Spark made her more. Calene placed her hands on the Banished’s forehead.
“Sorry, friend. This will hurt.”
With a jolt, she flooded the dying man with the energy coursing through her body, a small bubble of reluctance rising in Calene’s stomach as she did. When she fed her Spark, she often wanted to keep it all for herself. A Sparker’s curse.
The injured man’s eyes flew open and his back arched as he let out a high-pitched scream. Calene pulled her hands away and sat back panting. The Banished slumped to the ground, eyes again closed.
“He’s breathing,” Vettigan murmured, picking up the sword and giving it a swing. “Good blade, well-balanced. If he’s a farmer or a shepherd, I’m the Emperor’s nanny.”
As Calene opened her mouth to answer, the walls of her mind separating her from her mother crumbled. Like a burst dam unleashed, memories of times they’d shared, held behind the unblemished obsidian barriers blocking the Link, flooded her mind. Calene falling, grazing her knee, her mother’s smiling face as she used the Spark to heal it; Zanna beaming with pride as Calene produced flames for the first time; staying up to watch the sunset as they spoke about the gods’ ways and their magic. The soul-deep relief Calene felt when she awoke on her father’s slab, alive, to see Zanna had rescued her. The crushing despair she felt when she saw the remains of the man, and her mother, tears staining her face, standing over him.
Love, warmth, regret, pity, anger, self-loathing, pride—so many emotions, too many to process and name—washed through her brain. Calene fell backwards, head smacking against the stone floor.
Calene, I’m sorry but I had to reach you. The Banished… they’re at Solitude’s gates. Thousands and more yet arriving. You must get word to the Council. Please.
Calene raised a shaking hand to her forehead as she pushed herself up. She stared at the sleeping Banished she’d healed, stomach churning, vision spinning. Grunting, she exerted any will she could muster on the emotions swirling inside her. Steady, she focused on the Link.
Mother, she replied, feeling a wave of relief and gratitude flooding back along their connection. There’s one lying right in front of me, and I just saved his life.
CHAPTER THREE
THE POLITICS OF WAR
‘If someone from Haltveldt tells me the dish is meatballs and pasta, I’ll check under the sauce to make sure.’ - A successful Octarian sailor holds a healthy amount of distrust for those from Haltveldt.
“Raas preserve us. Janna too, for that matter.”
Kade examined his reflection in the mirror. To his eyes, he’d aged in the two hours since the carrier pigeon had arrived from Solitude. He splashed water over his tan skin, rubbing with vigour at the frown lines on his forehead. Kade knew he could descend into the depths of vanity all too often, but he needed to look his best when he presented Solitude’s case to the Conclave of Spring Haven and the Council of Sparkers.
Kade tired of Haltveldt’s politics. Just when he thought he’d appeased the Conclave, the Sparkers would rear their magical heads. Often, it had felt like they did it just to be contrary.
Things had changed since Balz’s rise. Now, the Conclave and Council acted as one. That unsettled him even more.
All too often, Kade felt overlooked—a junior Master, his sole duty liaising with a Sparker stronghold. Many viewed his role as a joke.
Liaison to Solitude, Kade thought with a grimace. Fancy way of saying babysitter to a group of forgotten old men and women, standing watch over a near-extinct race of shepherds.
Emperor Locke sat in on all meetings of state and took a keen interest in those involving war. His thirst for blood surpassed even his father’s, and he cared not a fig for Kade or his thoughts. He wondered if the Emperor knew where Solitude lay on a map.
Maybe the prospect of a battle would sway the Emperor into committing an army to bolster against the Banished’s sudden mustering, but he’d need a majority in the Conclave to lend support first. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the whims of Haltveldt’s sovereign.
He eyed the thin strip of paper again, one of several sent with an identical message in case one bird didn’t complete the journey to Spring Haven.
Kade. Banished have flooded Solitude’s plains. Thousands more pour over the hills. We number less than two hundred; old, burned out or worse. We NEED an army. Do what you must, but with haste.
Garet
Solitude lay eight hundred miles north-east of Spring Haven; it’d taken the birds a full day to reach their destination. Kade sent a reply, assuring he’d ask for aid. He cursed the lack of immediate communication. The Sparkers stationed at Solitude were old, forgotten loners; any they’d shared a Link with were dead, or had severed ties. The giant fortress wasn’t a place for Haltveldt’s popular and brightest.
True, Zanna Alpenwood, the exile, had a contact in Haltveldt she could Link with, but half the Council didn’t trust her.
No dice, anyway, Kade thought. Zanna’s daughter wouldn’t return to Spring Haven for weeks. Kade ground his teeth.
Every Sparker in Solitude could be dead already. Including Arlo.
Think positive, Kade thought, running a hand through his raven-coloured hair. Zanna will keep him safe. The further he is from the vultures in Spring Haven, the better.
Old doubts bubbled to the surface of Kade’s mind, but he rejected them. Sending his son to Solitude had made sense for them both. What chance did he have of protecting his son from the Emperor’s dogs?
But Zanna? Even in exile, her talent remained unmatched. He knew why she lived in disgrace and he saw it for what it was—a mother’s love. He could trust her to protect Arlo, even knowing his heritage. She would keep their secret safe. Arlo’s bloodline had become too obvious now for her not to notice, yet she offered only reassurances in her letters.
Without thinking, Kade’s fingers grazed the chain he wore around his neck. Arlo’s mother had given it to him, a lifetime ago—or so it felt. It hadn’t been a typical Haltveldtian wedding—midnight vows and a sympathetic Sparker, an old friend of the family, to conduct the ceremony. The man had fallen in battle soon after, taking the secret to his grave. Men like the Emperor had forced that secrecy on them and, to that day, he hated them in ways he never spoke aloud.
Twelve years, she’d been gone. He had never stopped missing her. She’d lived just long enough to bring their son into the world. Kade had found himself a widower at twenty-two with a new-born.
He’d always thanked the gods that Arlo had inherited his mother’s looks; a gift so Kade would never forget her face, though he recognised the curse in the favour. One day, the boy’s elven features would become too pronounced to conceal. He’d prayed to Raas often, begging for fortune so his son would remain safe at his side. Then, the boy Sparked, and forced Kade’s hand.
If he’d apprenticed at the University, like most Sparkers, his heritage would soon have been discovered and they’d all have paid the price for Kade’s past.
Though his apartment granted him privacy, Kade still glanced around before drawing the small box of Octarian spice from his dresser. He held it to his nose and sniffed. The dust punched away his tiredness and cleared his mind in a heartbeat.
“As soon as we deal with the Banished,” Kade said, to the snuffbox, “I’m giving you up.”
He grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth. How many times had he said that before? How many times that day?
Returning the spice to the drawer and slamming it shut, he strapped his sword-belt and scabbard to his hip and strode from his chambers.
###
Like most members of the Emperor’s Conclave, Kade lived near Haltveldt Keep, though the positio
n he held granted him little favour or power. Kade thanked the gods the news from Solitude had arrived before a scheduled meeting; he’d have little chance of calling one himself.
Haltveldt Keep dominated Spring Haven; situated in its dead centre, only the Sparker’s University rivalled it in grandeur. Built to withstand siege for decades, the city had grown around it, mirroring the nation of Haltveldt’s slow march across the continent over the last two thousand years. The elven nation was the last to withstand the Empire, and Kade believed they’d surrender before long. Or they’d face genocide.
He hoped they’d avoid either fate. For the elves, surrender meant slavery and, for those with the Spark, execution.
Kade strode through the marble halls, head down and lost in thought. People in the capital paid Solitude little heed—the Banished were terrors to scare children, little more than simple shepherds to the masses—but their return in such great numbers had to change the Emperor’s mind.
Though, with the snakes surrounding him, it’s tough to call, Kade thought, as he arrived at the Conclave’s meeting hall.
A gigantic square table took up most of the chamber, dominated by a gaudy, oversized, gilded chair in the middle of one side. An additional forty-eight smaller seats surrounded it. Around the room, statues of heroes from Haltveldt’s past looked down with solemn faces. Kade gazed up at the warrior, Byar; enshrined in legend as the one who’d led the charge against the Banished, then protected Spring Haven when the alliance between duchies broke down and the elves plotted against humankind.
Or so we’re told, Kade mused, his mouth twisting as he studied Byar’s stone face. He always looked too cruel for my liking.
First to arrive, Kade took his place on the opposite side of the table to the Emperor’s seat. Many of the Masters would jostle for seats near the Emperor’s own, but those with a little more cunning would place themselves where they could catch his eye and study his mood. He knew Bertrand, the Master of Ceremonies—an excellent friend—would sit opposite the Emperor, too. Bertrand received requests to speak from the Masters, and the urgency of Kade’s news couldn’t wait. Conclave meetings were battlegrounds of their own, and Kade had to make a powerful account of himself for Solitude. For Arlo.
