The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “I do not have to take this, least of all from you.” Rosemary rose from her seat, not caring for the flagon of wine she knocked to the floor in her haste to rid herself of Zehr’s company.

  “First you people take my sister. Then blackmail me into providing information to you. This service is then returned in kind by one of your lackey’s forcing himself on me in a drunken stupor, and now I am standing accused of betraying your Order’s trust?” Rosemary shook her head as her anger fueled her words. “Tell Syrah he got his war. He no longer has need of me, or my sister. I am through helping him.”

  Rosemary huffed across the small space to the chamber door. Her hands were shaking with anger as she reached for the handle. Without pause, she threw the door open wide, only to be greeted by Zehr’s two serving boys.

  Each boys’ skin was pale as milk, a feature she had not noticed until now. Either boy had an expression as deadpan and devoid of emotion. Rosemary had not given the boys much attention during dinner, but they seemed to share the expressions common with simpletons or those unfortunate to receive a lobotomy. Even their eyes seemed rheumy, overcast, milky, and as devoid of life as the rest of their body. Rosemary noticed something else off about the serving boys, something so strange she surely thought to be going mad. It seemed to her the outer edges of the boys eyes betrayed a soft, blue glow from some source within.

  “Madam Sharpe.” Zehr called from behind, his voice firm and reproachful. “I must insist you stay for dessert. We have much and more to discuss before this evening is out.” Rosemary was certain she felt her skin bruise under the inhuman strength of the serving boys as they snatched her arms upon the headmaster’s command.

  “What is the meaning of this?” She protested through the discomfort in her arms. “Call them off Zehr. If it is all the same to you, I have had quite enough of your insults this evening.”

  “Of course, madam,” the headmaster said through gritted teeth. “Boys, let the good lady go.”

  At once, their grip slackened and Rosemary wasted no time in shaking off their icy fingers from her body.

  “I apologize, Madam Sharpe.” Zehr sighed.

  She turned to face the headmaster of the college. “Not as much as I.”

  “This is true.” He agreed with that sly smile again.

  Rosemary furrowed her brow, trying to understand his meaning. She had no time, however, to get far, for the air in the chambers crackled to life as Zehr rose from his seat, stretching his hand before him. A streaking blue bolt of lighting arced across the space between his fingertips and her body. The force of the electricity hitting Rosemary’s chest sent her sprawling into the corridor without, knocking the two serving boys down as she flew past.

  The pain was incredible, terrible and frightening all at once. Rosemary had no control of her body as she lay in a convulsing heap on the cold stone floor of the hallway. Her lungs seared and burned as she gasped for breath. There was wetness between her legs, leaving no doubt the electrical shock caused a weakness in her bladder. Rosemary tried in vain to call out for help, but her muscles were not under her command. Only a weak gurgle of a weep emitted from her lips as she tried to recoup from the shock of the sudden jolt.

  Soft, padded soles shuffling over the stone surface brought her attention back to the threat at hand. Standing over her were the two, pale serving boys. Zehr himself had joined them. He did not seem to care to watch for witnesses, wholly intent on his prize strewn on the floor. Little blue sparks rained from his finger tips, reminding her of the slow drip of a broken water pipe, albeit a very dangerous drip.

  “You should never have crossed us.” He said.

  Rosemary rolled her head to face her attacker, starting from the soft-soled electrokinetic boots, up his metal plated shins; to the intricate wiring, which ran from his groin to the square resistor unit on his chest. The headmaster looked every bit a daemon of old with his fine, white hair standing on end, wavering as the air filled with static electricity and his pale eyes alight with little arcing streaks of lightning.

  She tried to protest, but all she could muster was a haggard, strained gurgle, which seemed to echo in the empty halls.

  “A pity,” Zehr reached his hand forward again, letting fly another bout of electrical energy from his fingertips. “You served us so well, yet in the end you betrayed our trust; you failed your darling sister.” His voice strained to be heard over the cackle of the raw energy filling the air. Rosemary couldn’t hear his words though, for the pain seared her muscles and joints like an angry storm.

  Then it all stopped. The pain ceased as quick as it began, even though her body twitched and convulsed as though she were still being fed the electrical stream. Except for her ragged, hoarse sobs, the corridor fell silent. Rosemary, in all of her pain, was surprised her heart had not given out and that she still drew breath.

  “You’re lucky, Madam Sharpe.” Zehr’s voice sounded distant, even though he was so near. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you here and now for your betrayal. It is good fortune for you Syrah desires you to be breathing when he arrives.”

  Through her fits, Rosemary noticed the headmaster had stepped near her face, kneeling low to look over her wretched body.

  “But that does not mean you cannot be taught a lesson.” His feet disappeared as quick as they had appeared, just as a new wave of pain descended on her.

  Rosemary hadn’t seen or heard their approach, but she certainly felt the familiar inhuman strength of Zehr’s serving boys bear down on her. Their blows hit hard and fast, gaining in intensity and frequency as each strike found a mark. For her sake, Rosemary was glad no blow hit the same mark twice. It was difficult for her to gauge the damage being caused, her body was weak, worn and battered by the electrical strikes. The sick sound of boot against flesh filled the stone corridors like some twisted, devils beat, calling forth a daemon of the nether.

  Rosemary tried to be strong, despite the pain. Del Morte only knew how hard she tried. As time wore on, she became accustomed to the searing in her muscles and bones.

  At least, until, the silent bastards found a soft spot, which would cause a violent release of collected static electricity. This sent a new a surge of wild pain through the courses of her body.

  As she lay curled on the hard floor, weeping, bleeding, she prayed for a saviour; Rosemary prayed to Del Morte for some relinquish from the pain.

  Then she heard it.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  It was the only sound in all of Wynne Rosemary had grown to loath, and now it came to her aid. It came in methodical procession, quicker than normal, sounding every bit like an ancient war drum. Somehow, hearing that familiar sound made the pain seem moot. Rosemary knew Del Morte heard her. She found a new resolve budding in her chest, knowing her ordeal would soon be over.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Through her swollen eyes Rosemary watched the far corridor as an ancient pyrokinetic, the victim of so much of her disdain, appear from the darkened shadows. Julien DiMarco, the man known to shuffle bent and crooked under the weight of age, approached tall and proud.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  He said not a word as he came to a stop just shy of Rosemary. With a quick, graceful movement he adjusted his lenses at the same moment the serving boys broke off their assault. The corridor grew silent and heavy, as if the world held its breath. The two kinetics stood across from each other, with only Rosemary and the serving boys between.

  “DiMarco, how glad am I you are here.” Zehr’s voice cracked in earnest. “This woman is a member of…”

  “Of the Grand Council of Wynne, headmaster.” It was strange for Rosemary to hear the pyrokinetic’s voice as cold as ice. “I know, now, your loyalties ser.”

  “Julien…” Rosemary pleaded, crawling her way across the stone floor towards her saviour.

  “Lay still madam.” Julien said, never taking his gaze from Zehr. “This shall take but a moment.”

  “Yes, madam, this will take no time at all.” Zehr echoed,
moving into sudden action. His hands swirled into motion, generating a tight, wild ball of electricity between the dancing movements, all the while Julien remained still. It was clear to Rosemary her pyrokinetic saviour held some trickery of his own as he stood in the face of this adversary.

  The hairs on her neck stood on end as the electrical currents in the air swirled and condensed between Zehr’s hands. She noted the soft glow she thought to have seen from behind the serving boys’ eyes was, in fact, not a hallucination, for the softness grew more vibrant as the static pressures built. Curiously, the boy’s twitched and fretted, at first subtle and slow, but growing far more pronounced the longer Zehr pulled electrical energy to him. Both of the serving boys’ faces remained as still as death, as if there were no discomfort at all.

  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.

  “What 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.