Dire Sparks (Song of the Aura, Book Five)

by Gregory J. Downs

  “I’ve been snooping,” Gramling said with a sneer. “He’s suffered a setback of some kind… probably courtesy of my damnable brother. It’s got me thinking.”

  “He came to me,” the Lordyte said, “And I arranged most of the… advantages you have experienced. The Golden One is not a god, Elia… as I’m sure you know. He believes the other Lordytes and I to have you well in hand.”

  “This one’s a rebel,” Gramling said, a flicker passing in his eyes. Elia opened her mouth in surprise… the Golden Nation had rebels?

  “I have given Master Gramling the free run of this Sepulcher, while his own Master is occupied elsewhere,” the Lordyte responded, shrugging. “In return…”

  “I will wait a while before turning him in,” the younger man said, smiling coldly.

  “One day… I hope you will see the truth,” the Lordyte sighed, and Elia was shocked to find him glancing pointedly in her direction. Who was this Kinn? Did he actually expect her to turn Gramling against the Golden One? He’d nearly tortured her to death!

  “You are dismissed,” Gramling told her, his face expressionless again. “I’ll come for you tomorrow. Be ready.”

  Elia nodded, turning to go, her mind a mess of difficulties and confusion.

  What had just happened? What was she to do?

  Chapter Seven: Rebelling

  Back in her quarters, Elia’s sleep was fitful. The closet-like chambers given to Acolytes were far from comfortable, and the day’s events lent nothing to her peace. The third time she woke from a nightmare, she simply could not go back to sleep. Why can’t it just happen now? Then, whatever it is, it’d be over, and I’d know… whatever it is. The sheer confusion she felt was part of the problem.

  Something tapped on her door. Her eyes widened in the darkness, and she resisted the urge to crawl deeper under the thin blanket that covered her. Was it dawn already? Was Gramling coming for her? She opened her mouth, then shut it. Wait one moment. If it was Gramling, he wouldn’t’ve knocked. Someone’s out there, trying to see if I’m awake.

  That couldn’t be good. She almost said something aloud, but then thought better of it. She couldn’t run from this problem, whatever it was… and she had her suspicions. Better to wait and feign sleeping than to confront whoever was out there. Or whatever. She shivered, and closed her eyes to slits.

  She could barely see in the dark of the room, but it seemed that something was wrong with the machine-lock on her door. All the Acolytes had them, those Golden Nation inventions, and never left them unlocked. Hers was moving… was someone fiddling with it on the other side? Her key hung on a nail beside her bed. How did they plan on…

  …then the metal plate and mechanism of the lock sagged, like dripping wax, slithering down the door and melting away.

  Pit Striding. Blasted good Pit Striding. Just like Gramling’s. Curse him, if that’s who this is, she thought. Someone meant her hurt, or death… that much was obvious. Elia closed her eyes as sounds of shuffling and a muted thud came from beyond the heavy, blackwood door. She had to prepare the mental part of her summoned flame, before they broke in, so that she’d be able to…

  …The door creaked open, inch by inch. She uttered a quick prayer to the Aura, silently gritting her teeth…

  Suddenly, two dark shapes crashed into her room.

  Elia leaped out of the bed, summoning flames, tossing her blanket in front of her. The fire-ball thrown by the first assassin burned the sheet to a smoking crisp, but it protected her for a vital moment. Her own white flame whooshed into existence, and she slammed all her energy into the closest figure, who was thrown back out into the hallway as a burning corpse.

  The second assassin was on her instantly, tackling her to the ground and causing her white flame, her Fellspark, to sputter out. She struggled against him, kicking and spitting, as he tried to bring a flaming dagger to her throat. In the light of the unholy flame, she saw that it was one of the stronger Rain Nymphs, his navy-skinned face contorted in a soundless grimace.

  The sight shocked her into action. She spit in his face, willing the saliva to boiling heat. Sea Striding came to her only with difficulty, but her rage fueled the move, and her attacker dropped his weapon, clutching his sizzling face. Elia managed to get a leg free, and kicked him in the gut. He spasmed, trying to reach his dagger again, but she snatched it away and buried it in his shoulder with a scream.

  “Lekor veele!” the nymph gasped, falling to the side with tears of pain running down his face. Elia ignored his words, slamming him to the ground and straddling him as he’d done to her. With one hand she beat off a weak attack from his one good arm, and with the other she seized him by the throat.

  Her left hand caught his wrist, and her right hand squeezed. The bigger nymph hissed in pain as her touch grew red-hot, but though his eyes bulged and tears kept falling; he refused to scream.

  Her hands burst into flame. The nymph thrashed, but she held him down with the strength of rage. Or was it? She felt as if the blood in her veins was on fire; literally on fire, as if the water in her body had boiled to a point where it had begun to burn. In some corner of her mind, she wondered if she had somehow tapped Sea Striding, using her body’s water to strengthen her… but the thought soon drowned in her sea of rage.

  “You think you can kill me?” she hissed to the flailing nymph, using her native tongue. “I am the Halanyad, fool! The Aura is with me, and you have only a Demon to guide you!”

  She barely knew the meaning of her own words, but they affected her would-be attacker hugely. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes began to steam, and his struggles grew weaker and weaker. Stop! The voice in her head was her own, pleading with her to have mercy, pleading with her to think… but she ignored it.

  Stop! She jumped: this time the voice had been Gribly’s. No.

  “Die,” she whispered, letting go of the nymph’s wrist and gripping his head in both hands. White flame flared… and finally he screamed.

  Then it was over.

  Elia let go, and staggered to her feet. Tears of hate and anger trickled down her cheeks. She clenched her fists, and the flames winked out. What have I done? She knew, of course. She’d killed… just as she hadn’t been able to do to Tressa, back in the Ring.

  But that was just practice. This was life or death. The argument seemed feeble, even to her angry mind. Tressa would’ve killed her, if she’d had the chance. But… but…

  Muffled groans came from outside her door. More attackers? Rational thought fled as Elia spun towards the opening, ready to fight. There was no one immediately there, but sounds of a scuffle were still coming from outside. She raced out, a ball of flame coalescing in her hands…

  …to find Tressa losing a deadly fight with a third, black-suited Acolyte. She had burned the assassin’s face and stuck a knife in his leg, but now he had her in a vicious headlock that threatened to snap her neck.

  Elia raised a hand, flames licking her palm and wrist, but there was no clear shot.

  Her action caught the Acolyte’s eye, and he jerked his head up, startled. Tressa managed to duck out of his hold, but he caught her hair and tossed her to the side, pulling the knife from his leg and lurching forward at Elia…

  …who hurled the ball of fire at his face, channeling all her rage into the blow. There was a wet thunk, and the Acolyte’s flaming head ripped free of his torso, spinning to the ground in a sizzling spray.

  Tressa lay against the wall where she’d been hurled, moaning softly. Elia dropped to her hands and knees, gasping, feeling all her former energy burn away like kindling. Her fire snuffed out; in her hands and in her heart. Cold despair washed over her as she watched the last attacker’s corpse topple to the ground, unnaturally slow.

  I’m a killer. A murderer. Just like Gramling. Just like them all.

  Through the haze, one thought reached her clearly. Tressa. She had to help the girl, if the girl had helped her. That third assassin might’ve succeeded, if he hadn’t been surpris
ed. At least… that was what it looked like to her.

  Feeling faint, Elia crawled towards Tressa, pointedly ignoring the burned-out husk of the first Acolyte she’d hit with a Fellspark. Before she could reach the Kinn girl, though, the deep shadows of the hallway outside the Acolyte chambers seemed to twist, flicker, and materialize in the shape of the last person she wanted to see.

  “Well now,” came Gramling’s smooth voice, “This is unpleasant, isn’t it? Three of the strongest Acolytes in the Institution, dead at your hand? I wonder who put them up to it?”

  Elia just glared at him, hating what he’d done, and hating the part of her that still felt attracted to him, despite his wicked soul. She made to reach out for Tressa, whose groans were growing quieter, but he stepped in her way, crouching and placing his hands on the girl’s limp body. Tressa spasmed, back arching, and coughed so violently Elia winced. Sparks flashed and smoked…

  …and the Kinn girl shakily got to her feet, Gramling himself helping her up. He’d healed her.

  “You…” Elia said angrily, scrambling to her feet.

  “Did this? Told them to kill you, because you were trouble for the whole Sepulcher?” Gramling’s eyes blazed. “I told this little friend of yours to kill you, too, you know. But she didn’t! She saved you instead.”

  Elia stole a glance at Tressa, who looked sullen and angry… as always. Noises sounded in the corridor: curious and frightened Acolytes began to spill out from every room, wondering what had happened. Then her gaze was pulled away as Gramling’s hand slapped her shoulder and pulled her close.

  “You change people,” he whispered, and she couldn’t tell if his voice was angry, sad, or both. “And now,” he continued, “I’ve changed you. This was the second test. My test.” She pulled away, staring hard at him.

  “I hate you.”

  “I know. But you need me.” Acolytes were beginning to gather around, but staying a safe distance away from what they rightly realized was a dangerous battleground. Tressa had already faded into the background. Gramling spoke again, quieter and more urgently, so that only she could hear. “The Golden One has left to meet… someone. Someone powerful. While he’s gone, we’ll have our only chance to learn from each other. Once he’s back… the Last War starts. Meet me outside the Sepulcher’s north gate an hour before the Auroras begin.”

  “I can’t get out,” she protested.

  “You’ll find a way.” Then he was leaving, brushing past the frightened Acolytes, who opened up before him as if he were the Golden One himself. Elia’s head reeled, but she knew she had no choice but to obey him. She would be hated even more by the other Acolytes, now, especially as powerful as she was. She had to speak with him again, even if it meant trying to sneak out of the impenetrable Sepulcher.

  But first, she had to speak with Tressa.

  ~

  Gramling knew his thoughts were rebellious, but he did not stop thinking them. He couldn’t. He reveled in them.

  He wanted to be free of the Golden One. That was his first thought. It had been building in him ever since that first failure in Ymeer… but now he had given it real thought, real voice… now it consumed his every plan. He did not want to serve the Aura, either… but he wanted freedom. He wanted what he wanted, be it good or bad.

  And he wanted Elia. He wanted her so bad it hurt. He knew better than to ignore the feeling; he let it fill him, and he controlled it. It wasn’t love. It was attraction… but more than just to what she was… it was who she was. What she made him feel.

  He felt… changed. Just like he’d told her. Couldn’t he even keep secrets anymore? Speaking to her, he’d almost let on about the Red Aura. Even the Golden One didn’t suspect his knowledge of that. Kerbus burn him if he slipped again.

  Either way, he needed to speak to her again. She could clear his thoughts. She could… do something. Say something. He wasn’t sure what. But she would, if he had to make her.

  And there were his plans. She was part of them; a vital part. Before he could involve her, though…

  “The Golden One was correct, Gramling Gramsson. You are always late in coming.” That was Zonder, leaning in the shadow of a pillar, watching as Gramling entered the Thronehall.

  “Rebellion is a touchy business,” he objected, striding confidently down the hall, “especially when you’re the Golden One’s personal Agrivor.”

  Zonder chuckled deeply, yet totally without mirth. He stepped into the flickering torchlight ahead, and Gramling saw that his white Lordyte’s coat was stained with blood, all the way up the sleeves. “So it is,” he replied.

  “Been busy?” Gramling said, halting a few yards away. Zonder was no match for him, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful.

  The Lordyte smirked, running a conspicuously clean hand across his shaven head. “You could say that… you could also say that I and my brother are now in complete control of the Institution’s highest tier.”

  “Most impressive,” Gramling said, raising an eyebrow. “Four Lordytes dead, all in one night? You’ve been hard at work, my friend.”

  Zonder shrugged. “I shall soon appoint two of my hand-picked successors to fill half the positions. Zonlin will appoint the last two. Barring any major resistance from the Spines and Morgens still loyal to the Golden One… the Sand Sages now control the Golden Nation’s religious center.”

  Gramling whistled. “Of course,” he said, “you would be nothing without my support.”

  The rebel Lordyte worked his jaw, as if the statement irked him… which it should. It was true, after all. “You have been most helpful,” Zonder said at last.

  “Indeed.” Gramling smiled coldly. “But we will soon be out of time. The Golden One returns the night after this.”

  Zonder’s eyes bulged. “Wh… what? You promised us more time!”

  Gramling shrugged. “I was wrong. I assumed my brother would die in a heroic last stand… or better yet, kill the Red Aura himself. But instead he fled, and now the Golden One’s business is simply recuperating. He’s lost a battle, but won the war. He comes for his Striders tomorrow.”

  The Lordyte fumed, but his face was even paler than normal. “Blast you… we’ll never make it!”

  “No,” Gramling agreed, “you won’t… not without Elia and I.”

  Zonder halted mid-stride, as if he had been going to attack Gramling in his loss. Lucky for you, thinking better of it. “You… and…”

  “Yes,” Gramling lied. “Yes. I’m joining you. And so will she. Together, we’ll have more than the chance those fools on the Giant’s Isle did.”

  The Lordyte still looked suspicious. “I could barely believe it, when my spies told me. And how, pray tell, do you plan on defeating an Archdemon like the Golden One? Striding alone will not be enough.”

  “No?” Gramling said, with mock surprise. “Oh. Well, lucky for you, then, that I’m as good a thief as my brother. Better, even.”

  Then he drew out something from his black coat, careful not to let it touch his bare skin. Zonder gasped, stepping back as if he had taken a blow to the lungs. “Will… will it be enough? Even that?”

  Gramling shrugged, turning the object over so that it caught the light. “It had better be. Not so useful as the Sword, perhaps… but powerful enough.”

  “Darkness help us,” Zonder breathed. “The Midnight Dagger.”

  Gramling smiled. The bone-white dagger glittered in his hands, and its orange veins of crystal shone with an inner fire.

  With this, the Red Aura had sold his allegiance and his soul to the Golden One. With this, the rebels in the Golden Nation’s heart would sell their souls to him.

  He would betray them, of course. And in doing so… he would finally gain the freedom he deserved.

  Chapter Eight: Believing

  The Golden Sepulcher’s north gate turned out to be its smallest, barely twenty feet high, and shaped like nothing more than large, metal double-doors. The guards, Elia found, were curiously absent… probably Gramling’s doing.
With some trouble she had been able to find the gate, and now with some trouble she was going to have to open it.

  Time was short, and she was dead tired. Maybe I’ll just melt a hole in it.

  Tressa had avoided her questions. “I served the Nation. They tried to kill me, tried to kill the white woman. Now I serve you. You are strong… stronger than they.”

  She burned a hole it. The metal melted under her Fellspark, and she stepped through into the outside world for the first time in more than a month.

  A cool breeze caressed her face, blowing the black-dyed hair that still seemed foreign to her. Her blood-stained acolyte’s garment was too thin to block out the chill, but she bore it with something akin to joy. It had been so long since she had been free… or almost free.