Spark and Sorrow

by Rachel A. Marks

  Unless I can show them.

  Fire cannot be controlled.

  Something inside of me cracks loose. “Let. Go.” I hear myself gasp.

  The human scrapes out another laugh, pressing me harder into the wall.

  I barely feel the stone cutting into my back, the filthy hand groping at my skirts. All I am is the burning in my skin. All I am is my power. Desperate, hungry power. Needing to be free.

  And in the background of it all, rises a dim hum—the spell within the torque. The shield buzzes in my head, holding me prisoner. Made by human hands. Human hands on my skin. Hurting me. Choking me. Caging me . . .

  “No,” I hiss through the pain.

  The guard ignores my protest. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.

  I focus on my shackle, on the spell, on my fire tearing through me.

  And I find the crack inside the human magic. Right there—has it been there the whole time . . . ?

  On instinct I thrust my power into the torque’s hum as hard as I can.

  And the spell cracks wide open.

  Metal snaps with a loud pop, a small pinch biting at the back of my neck as the torque slides down my chest, red with heat. The shield holding my power captive drifting up and off my skin.

  The shackle clangs into the dirt between the guard and me.

  He’s a foot away now, clutching his hand to his chest and whimpering. I hadn’t even noticed him move away.

  My lungs fill with relief.

  I’m free. I’ve shed my chains. At last. I’m in control. I revel in the thrill that bubbles through me.

  My gaze slides back to my attacker once more. I study him. Despise him. His sweaty palms, his rotted soul.

  The rage turns sharp again in my belly, a knife carving away any confusion, leaving only stark clarity.

  His life is a stain. He’s wrong. A feeble thing. Filthy. And he thought he could use me.

  He thought he could claim a queen.

  He gapes in pain and confusion at his blistered palm. “What the bloody hell—?”

  I catch him by the throat with a fire-filled hand and squeeze, cutting off his curse. “Enough,” I whisper, my anger churning. “I’ve had enough.” Of it all.

  I won’t be held prisoner again.

  Never. Again.

  I stare at my enemy. At his red, fat face. And my power rises, seeking. Hungry.

  I decide to let it have its way. To feed.

  It answers, unfurls in excited waves of gold from my skin, like a beast released from punishment, forming a mist that slinks over his face, his shoulders, settling into bone, weaving through spirit, coiling, plucking, taking hold. It twists its way into every crevice of the horrible man’s being.

  And I feel everything.

  His fear. His vile deeds. His need to make things suffer.

  Just before I yank. Before I snatch out every ounce of life inside his shell in the span of a heartbeat.

  I watch numbly as he wheezes out his final breath, his bloated face already turning violet as my golden mist settles back into my arms and hands, my chest. But still I don’t let go. As my fire finishes its work, enveloping the man’s head, his chest.

  His life tastes of bitterness and dissatisfaction in my throat as I watch him burn.

  Until his skin is peeling off in black flakes, like charred leaves. And his neck and head crumbles into ash, slipping through my fingers.

  He topples. The weak life, the thin energy of the man’s heartbeat, of his breath, his mind—it all crawls through me, turning into a strange ache that burns in my eyes, blurring the vision of death I’ve created.

  What’ve you done, Daughter? echoes from the dimming flames.

  I jerk back, wiping franticly at the charred remains on my palm. The lower half of the body crumples into a heap to the dirt beside my broken torque.

  My stomach rises at the sight of the scorched bones, the hip bone peeking through melted flesh, stiffened arms now stumps, pointing at the night sky.

  Terror envelops me like a heavy cloak.

  What’ve I done?

  I cover my mouth, the memory of the bird’s death rising in my mind. “Goddess, help me.” I’ve done it. I’ve killed. In truth. A human.

  My body begins to shiver.

  It’s too horrible. How could I do such a thing? How could I go so far?

  My gaze is caught on the flames still flickering at the dead man’s side, small and insignificant now. Silent.

  They dance slowly over black skin, where my power was only a moment before. Until they catch on the remaining fabric of his pants with a sudden whoosh. Then slink down the leg. Quickly scuttling to his ankle. To spark on a bit of hay strewn in the dirt beneath him. Before it travels towards the stables.

  I watch in stunned terror. Unable to stop it now. To control it.

  As my horrifying creation, as my fire . . .

  My hungry, hungry fire.

  Begins licking up the wooden pillars, sparking in thatch and clay.

  Beginning to consume it all.

  EIGHT

  Home

  I run north. All night and into the next day. I run from the orange glow of the burning horizon behind me. Run through briar, through brambles, leaving traces of blood and fabric behind, barely breathing, as the realization of my crime chases me down like a hound out for the hunt. I don’t stop to rest. I never stop. I’m fully fed, fully me. Nothing can hinder me now. Perhaps I run for several days. Or merely hours. It passes like a moment, like an eternity. The sky behind the curtain of dark treetops above me becomes a canvas of night that blurs into day.

  Everything is shadowed in the wood, everything is prickles and stings as if the very earth wished to stop me moving forward.

  Punishing me.

  I deserve it.

  I’ve likely killed them all while they slept. And the only thing they did was help me. The princess was kind. And the prince . . . the prince . . . he was gentle, and good, and . . . he should have listened to the witch.

  A root makes me stumble, a stone cuts at my ankle. I let the pain fill me.

  The trees seem angry that I’m among them.

  I would simply walk on the old Roman road, it would save me a struggle and time. But it wouldn’t be safe—for any humans, that is, who were traveling. Or for my secret. I try and keep the sound of the river nearby, knowing it will hold my direction true.

  With each step the weight of what I did seems to grow heavier. I focus on the hope of Lailoken, on seeing my field of bluebells, knowing that each moment only brings them closer. Lailoken will know the words to still this agony in my soul. He’ll know how I can find absolution.

  Eventually thirst overtakes my emotions and I’m forced to slow. I make my way towards the sound of the river, the brush and trees growing denser. I find a small animal trail, picking my way through a large berry bush, taking handfuls of the blackberries and eating them as my stomach growls.

  I should be fully satiated until the next new moon, but already my goddess blood craves more life. I’ve been left hungry for too long.

  I have vague memories of being a young girl, of learning to feed among my own people, in the Otherworld with my mother, learning to control my powers. Very vague memories. But I don’t recall hunger like this, not in any of them.

  I won’t give the Church a reason to cage me again. I can control it. I know that I can.

  No one else will die for me. No matter how horrible they are.

  I pick another blackberry and eat it just before I stumble out into a small thicket of white flowers and clover, the riverbed only a few paces away.

  The beauty in front of me stops my breath. A tapestry of color, vibrant and alive.

  Fading sunlight spills through the opening in the trees, pushing back the shadows, heightening curling green ferns, rich brown earth, delicate ivory flowers, orange and yellow mushrooms, and blankets of silver moss. Seed moats float in the beams of light, bugs buzzing past, enjoying the sliver of warmth. The river w
eaves through the dense wood in a twisted ribbon, its grey-green surface sliding quickly past, carrying limb, leaf, and bud with the current, a hushed push of water. Deceptively soft in its appearance. A body would be quickly pulled off its feet if it went too far in.

  I step from the trees, moving closer to the bank. Everything in the clearing hums with life, and perhaps a little magic all its own. I allow myself to feel it, to soak it in, pleading with it to settle my nerves. It seems a holy place. Hidden. Enchanted.

  The scent of damp stone and rich soil fills my head as I curl my toes in the clover. My slippers must’ve come off somewhere in my rush to escape.

  I lift my skirts and drape them over my arm, dipping my foot into the water. My skin sighs with relief at the cool press of the current. Heavenly.

  I walk deeper, letting it wrap around my ankles and calves and notice the hum of the place seems to grow.

  The queen, comes a chorus of whispers. She is here.

  Where, where, you say?

  I glance around, then something catches my eye on the rocky riverbank. A frog resting in a dimming beam of light, staring up at me with liquid eyes. A cluster of water wysps float beside it. Their sheer bodies seem to glow in flickering bursts.

  “Hello.” I’m not able to keep the pain from my voice.

  The frog’s throat expands, Sad queen.

  So sad, the wysps say in unison.

  Why does she cry? the frog asks.

  I simply shake my head, unable to speak the words: I’ve killed.

  The goblins have won, I’ve destroyed a legacy in a single night.

  I settle on a rock, leaving my feet to dangle in the current.

  No tears, the wysps say. Poor queen.

  We will help, the frog says.

  “That’s kind.” If only they could help me. I feel what I’ve done is beyond help. “I must find my way home.”

  Ah, you seek a window, the frog croaks. A doorway.

  I sit up, hope sparking in my belly. “You know of a passageway nearby?” The only one I’m aware of is on the moors where I was found all those years ago.

  A place of bones and blood, the wysps say. A doorway.

  Take you where you wish, the frog adds.

  Could it be true? This would make things so much simpler. I could be home in moments. “Where? Is it close?”

  Within the singing stones, My Queen, the frog says. Deeper in the wood. On the rowen path. Hidden from human eyes.

  Hidden, the wysps sing. Must remain hidden.

  The path is close, just past the great willow, until you reach the mother oak tree. Forward and never back when the road becomes twisty.

  Secret, the wysps say.

  Dangerous.

  Up becomes down.

  North becomes south.

  “Yes, I understand. Please, just tell me how to get there, to this path.”

  But the human will hear, the frog croaks.

  I frown at the creature, confused. “What human?”

  Him, says the frog, then it turns its shiny head to look across the river.

  I follow its movement.

  The prince stands on the opposite bank, a mess of sooty clothes and mud, his dark glare pinned on me.

  I scramble off the rock.

  He comes at me, stalking across the river, over several stones, moving through the quick current with dark determination.

  “You’re not dead,” I say, my voice breathless with shock. I back away as he draws closer, fear and relief twisting inside of me. He’s alive!

  And very angry. He reeks of revenge.

  But he’s alive!

  “I hope it’s not a horrible disappointment,” he says stepping onto the bank.

  I shake my head slowly. “I’m very glad.” Tears of relief crowd my voice. “How have you found me?”

  He moves closer. “I tracked you. I haven’t slept in two nights.” He stops only a pace away. “It’s what I do. I hunt.” He pulls a dagger from his belt.

  “Julius—”

  “I should have your head for what you did. After I tried to help you. I brought you into my home. Under my protection. And this is how you repay me?”

  I swallow.

  “Your try at a distraction killed my guard,” he says, clearly not understanding what truly happened, “not to mention three of my best horses—and Podric may have lost a hand attempting to put it out.”

  “Horses?”

  “My father’s in a fury, claiming you’re a spy for the Danes. And Breanne has locked herself in the sanctuary.”

  “They’re all right?”

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I was so scared when I ran. Everything was . . . burning.”

  He glares at me. “Yes.” He takes another step closer, fist clenching tighter on the dagger.

  I hold out a hand, afraid he’ll come too close, that my fire will rise again to match his fury. “Julius, please, you can’t—”

  He lifts the blade, pointing it at my face. “Once this is done, my promise is fulfilled. Whatever you are, you’ll release me. I want your vow.” He pauses, giving me a look. “Yes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He growls, bringing the tip of the blade closer. “I want your vow. Yes or no?”

  “Yes,” I breathe, not sure what I’m affirming. How can I release him from a bargain I never made?

  “Very well.” He puts the tip of the blade to his hand and cuts shallow across his palm, slicing a thin red line from finger to thumb.

  “What . . . what are you doing?”

  “Sealing your promise.” He turns the dagger and holds the hilt out to me.

  I stare at the blade, unwilling to take it. “I won’t make a blood covenant with you, Julius.”

  His features harden even more.

  “But I do give you my word,” I add quickly. “You’re released from whatever vow you’ve made to keep me safe. Even now. There’s truly no need for you to do anything for me. I will go from here this very moment and make my way home. You need never see me again.” The idea of being so near to him, when I’m in full possession of my powers, no longer chained—I could hurt him. Or worse.

  “I told you, I can’t allow you to go alone.”

  My teeth clench. Isn’t he listening? “You have no power over what I’m allowed to do, or not do.”

  “I have no choice,” he insists.

  “Of course you do,” I say, my patience wearing thin. “Simply channel your hatred of me, toss your foolish male sense of nobility aside and return to your family. They need you far more than I.”

  He shakes his head slowly, keeping his gaze locked with mine, stepping closer. “You misunderstand me, strange girl. I am unable to let you go.”

  I frown at him.

  He searches my face, his brow creasing. “I’ve been bound to you.”

  My heart stutters. “What—how can that be?” And how would such a thing happen?

  “I knew instantly the moment that you slipped from my father’s keep. I felt it, even before the fire woke the stable hand. My awareness was the only thing that saved the household from burning in our sleep.” His torment at the notion fills his features. “How is this even possible?”

  I have no way to answer.

  “Plainly, you’ve enchanted me,” he says.

  “But Julius,” my mind searches for reason in his claim, “I have no such ability.” To do such a thing, to link him to me, that would take a spell. I’ve done nothing to weave a bond to anything or anyone.

  “You’re an enchantress and you speak to demons,” he says, as if the answer were obvious.

  I straighten. “I do not! Stop saying that.”

  “Then enlighten me, woman. What was that thing in the woods? Why do I have no other thought in my head, but you?” He locks his gaze with mine not allowing me to shy away from his words. “What are you?”

  “I told you,” I step back, “I can’t speak of it.”

  “So, I’m to live in ignorance, trapped
by your enchantment?” He growls in frustration, turning away. “This is heading for torment. If I were smart, I’d end it here and now.”

  I stare at his profile, silent, unsure what he means.

  He rubs his forehead, groaning.

  If I run from him, it’s obvious he will follow. Whatever’s happened to link us, it won’t end well if I ignore it. It will need to be dealt with eventually. Just not now. Perhaps I could enlist the trees to hold him while I go to find the doorway the water wysps spoke about. I simply wish to go home—why must Fate always fight me? First I’m trapped in the abbey for far too long, then drug into another human den, only to escape into this tangle. Could the goblins have done something in the moment of our bargain to tie this prince and I together? Their sense of justice tends to be wicked and long-lasting.

  “It’s getting dark,” I say quietly, trying not to voice my anxious thoughts. “We should rest.” I need a moment’s peace to find clarity. The prince has traveled long with no sleep, perhaps a little rest will calm him down. And if I can get him to close his eyes for a while I’ll have a chance to slip away. “I’m very tired,” I add, trying to convince him the suggestion is for my own benefit. He wouldn’t know that I could go for weeks without rest if I wished. “It’s been a trying few days. I can’t go a step further.”

  He releases a tense breath and runs a hand through his hair. “As you wish. I’ll fetch wood to start a fire and settle in to watch over you.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “No fire. Just sleep. You need sleep. What good will you be to me like this?” I motion to his disheveled and fatigue-heavy body.

  “Very well, my lady,” he mutters, settling in the clover under the willow, obviously disgruntled. He pulls off his tunic, balling it up in his fist to stop the last of the bleeding from the shallow cut on his palm, before he tucks it under his head as he leans against the trunk.

  “Lily,” I remind him, sitting across the small hallow. “I am called Lily.”

  He closes his eyes, not commenting.

  I curl myself into the clover and underbrush, ignoring the dampness of the ground. I won’t get cold. I never do when my fire is clear in me.

  “I am sorry,” I say quietly. “Truly, I am.” He doesn’t stir, but I continue anyway. “I’m very glad you’re all right. I swear to you, I don’t know what’s happened between us. But I’ll figure it out, I’ll find a way to free you. I give you my word.” And then I add, carefully, weaving a small amount of glamour into my words, hoping he’ll take it as his own idea when it surfaces in his mind, “When you awaken, Julius, you need to return home. Focus on aiding your sister, caring for your family. It isn’t safe for you to remain with me. I’m not safe.”