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 lip
s 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.
The deck underfoot heaved to and fro with each gust of moaning wind. Snow lashed against the thick hull of The Flying Tesla, an undersized air cog of simple antiquity. Little drifts of the crystalline powder collected on the outer rim of the porthole window frames, while a fine, thick frost weaved its way over the rattling panes of murky glass. Far below, the waters of Driftwood Bay churned like a wild beast in heat, yearning for the creaking wood of the Valvian convoy.
“Why are we here?” A thin man, whose skin was pale and milky, quailed as he held onto the rails of his bunk. Many of the men cramped into the compartment shared a similar look, all worn and weary from the tumultuous voyage. Some even grunted in agreement.
Gossimer was one of them, although he did his best to not let it show.
The depths of his stomach raged as fierce as the waters below; he was not used to the rocking sensations of the great airships during clear weather, let alone through a howling blizzard. He kept his eyes shut and head rested against the firm planks of the wall behind him. Combined, this kept him grounded and secure, at least that is what he told himself when his gut threatened to unleash his lunch.
“For Valvius!” A stern, familiar voice declared. Standing in the doorway, tall and proud, was the great Valvian general, Lucian Margoux. His olive drab uniform was crisp and pristine. His grey hair was slicked with wax, and a black-rimmed cap tucked under his arm. A thinly rolled cigarette hung limp from the side of his mouth, its blue smoke matching the rough stubble growing along his rigid jawline.
“General!” Gossimer added his voice as the room erupted into motion. Some men made to get up, but his former master indicated for the group to stay as is.
“No need for such pleasantry’s here.” Lucian said, his gruff voice unusually soft. “I wanted to come down here and thank-you men personally for answering the call of duty. The Chancellor thanks you as well, as do the people of Valvius.
‘Many of you come from homes in Gossac, or its outlying towns.” Lucian continued, looking over each man in turn. “You would have known peace and plenty on Driftwood Isle. Yet here you are to defend the homeland you, or your families, left so long ago. I could not be more proud to call you true men of Valvius.”
The compartment erupted into a clamour of clapping, whooping and hollering. Despite the bubbling pride in his heart, Gossimer did not add to the cacophony this time. He was not about the The Flying Tesla by choice. Had he been given one he would have opted for the comfort of Gossac and Elenor’s companionship; his choice was a life of peace and prosperity, not running off to war.
“Now, a bit of good news.” Gossimer’s ears pricked up as Lucian ushered for troupe to quiet down. The sudden stillness of the room was tense and thick as the men eagerly awaited for the announcement. After a prolonged voyage amongst unsavoury skies, any positive message was eagerly awaited. Gossimer leaned forward, forgetting about the discomfort of the swaying deck and bitterness of his current situation.
“The captain tells me we are nearing the end of this frozen hell; he has espied the gleaming sun over the sandy shores of Grubbenbrut.”
Once more the room burst into a cacophony of excitement. This time, Gossimer joined in the elation. The thought of still, smooth air currents once more sent a jubilant anticipation coursing through his veins.
“Thank-you all, again, gentlemen.” Lucian said as the room fell back into silence. “I shall see you when we make berth in Pozo.”
Lucian nodded his head in farewell, placing the rimmed hat atop his slick hair and retreated from the room.
The air in the small compartment was rife with excitement. Men were laughing, singing bawdy tavern jingles, or lying quietly with large grins plastered across their face. As the new atmosphere took residence amongst his companions, a strange level of discomfort began to wind its way through Gossimer. His heart beat against his chest like a bog man’s drum line. Sweat formed in thick beads upon his brow and a tremble was settling into his hands. A creeping dryness prickled its way along his tongue, making it difficult to breathe.
Shutting his eyes, Gossimer returned his head to the rough wood wall in the hopes of quelling the swelling anxiety.
It wasn’t working.
As he worked on maintaining his composure, a sad realization struck him with a jolt. We’re almost there.
Grubbenbrut was a large province, yes, but with smooth skies ahead, the flotilla of airships carrying the Valvian men would find the Pozian skies in quick order. Once in Pozo, the Valvian army would assemble and wait on the Pozian, Di Delgan, and Grubben detachments. If everything went according to plan, the wait would only be a few days. From there, the combined alliance would set sail for the former air docks located in the Hallogenic Sea to put an end to the so-called Imperial Order of Wynne.
The howling of the wind outside was something terrible, like a demon from the world of madness. Its song was angry, laced with deep melancholy as the airship pierced its way through the whipping gusts of snow. Gossimer lost all sense of elation as the dawning realization of his impending fate mixed with the violent reminder of the treacherous skies he sailed within.
The rocking of the ship and the soft vibrations of the cortex below must have rocked him to sleep for a short time, for a sudden burst of excitement brought Gossimer back to his senses.
A bright ray of sun filtered into the compartment, illuminating the pale men with a heavenly light. The collected snow on the porthole glistened wet in the warming rays. Where once the air filled with the groaning sound of wood and wind, only the sweet song of sea birds remained. Far below the turbulent surf was calmed as well, for the roar of the raging swells relented and were replaced with the softer murmur of peaceful waters.
Gossimer blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Placing a hand on the wall next to him, he brought himself to his feet.
“I can see the coast!” One of the men proclaimed. He pointed with a long, lanky finger at a destination beyond the circular window. “There, just there.”
A cry of joy filled the cabin again, deafening and ensnaring. Gossimer’s heart swelled with excitement, but there was something else he knew he would much rather do now the wintry mess was behind.
“I’m going up.” He said, though none heard. His compatriots were too busy staring at the far off shore. Gossimer stepped over the legs of a few men still sleeping as he made his way to the door.
Gossimer was not a tall man by any stretch of the imagination, but even still, he needed to duck his head in order to pass through the yawning frame. The hall without was clear of men, but littered with all manner of supplies. Long rifles, pistols, blades and repeaters, helmets, satchels and medicine bags all filled the narrow corridors of the vessel. Gossimer had to be careful to not step on the gear as he followed the way to the aft of the ship. It wa
sn’t a long journey, but it was one that took time due to the over flow of supplies.
He finally reached the point where two other corridors joined with his, creating a small t-junction. Across from him was a narrow flight of stairs running directly up. Gossimer patted his breast pocket, ensuring the tin can was still there before he crossed the intersection to begin his ascent. Every step he took set the thin planks of wood to groan in protest; it was as if the very fiber of the stair did not appreciate his weight upon its surface.
Upon reaching the summit of the steep stair, Gossimer threw open the door to the observation deck. He had waited too long in the cramped confines of the compartment to hesitate the chance for fresh air.
There was a light wind out on the deck, which seemed mild and complacent compared to what the ship had just come. The breeze brought warm tendrils of air that wrapped around Gossimer like a lovers embrace. It was soothing, comforting. In many ways it reminded Gossimer of his dearest Elenor, alone in frozen Gossac.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He could not let his emotions get in the way, not now so far from home. Master Lucian had said as much on the way to the air docks in Gossac.
“We are going to war now Gossimer.” He had said when the pair arrived at the base of the tower. High above the ships struggled to maintain berth in the whipping winter winds, while below long lines of Valvian men destined for the front shivered as they waited their chance to board. “Any feelings you have for that girl must be buried. Love will make you scared and eager to flee when the fighting erupts. I need you to be strong. Valvius needs you to be strong.”
The Spark Page 31
