Revolution (Cartharia Book 2)

by Spencer Reaves McCoy

  The visitor approached the bed. Catherine could hear the footsteps. She could also hear their breath, coming out in short, almost frightened gasps. She waited.

  "Catherine?" the voice said.

  She still said nothing. An act had to be complete.

  The visitor lifted his hands above his head. She couldn't see this, but she could imagine it perfectly. A dark shrouded figure hovering over her, holding a long knife in both hands, clenching the pommel tightly till their knuckles grew pronounced and white.

  She breathed in, and breathed out.

  The knife flashed through the air, and this time, Catherine couldn't help herself. She opened her eyes just a tiny bit. Then the knife slammed into her chest, and she saw nothing at all.

  SEVENTEEN

  Us Drunks

  PENNY STEELED HERSELF AND THEN RAPPED HER knuckles against the tall, wooden door. She waited several minutes and then knocked again. When there still wasn't an answer, she rocked back on her heels and frowned. The home was on the outskirts of Valishna but it wasn't large. If there was someone inside, they would have heard her.

  "Great," she said, and then let out a curse, "That's just great." Penny shook her head and then turned to leave. As she did, she caught a flicker of movement behind one of the curtains.

  Penny frowned and returned to the door. She knocked again. There wasn't a response, so Penny went to the window instead, cupping her hands around her face and trying to see inside. The window was dirty and there was a curtain that went nearly all the way across. There was a small gap on the leftmost side, however, and Penny did her best to see through this.

  What she could see wasn't much. The home looked as drab as the windows, and she could just barely make out a medium-sized armchair. She tilted her head, trying to get a better view of it. Sitting in the chair, facing away from the window was a man.

  "Right," Penny said. She returned to the door and cupped her hands around her mouth this time, "George Simons?"

  "George Simons, I came to speak with you." She spoke loud enough that she was certain her voice would carry inside, "My name is Penny. Can we talk? Just for a moment?"

  There was no response. She put her ear to the door but if he'd moved from his chair, she hadn't heard it, "Please," she said, "I would just like a moment of your time."

  Still nothing. Penny idly ran her braid through her fingers and looked down the road she'd walked to get to the house. It wasn't long, but it was far enough. She didn't want to have to make this visit twice.

  She returned back to the home. She'd found George Simons' name at the bottom of the pamphlet. The one with the fire. She needed him, and he was ignoring her. Like so many others out there, he didn't even bother to give her a chance. It was unfair.

  Penny could feel herself growing angry. With a sudden movement, she kicked at the door, with all of her strength. It burst open.

  The man inside came to his feet, turning to face her. He was older than Penny expected, and shorter. He had wavy, greying hair, and wore a half-undone button shirt. It looked as though he hadn't shaved in days.

  They stared at each other for a moment and then the man smiled. It was a half-smile, but not unfriendly, "You could have tried the door first. It wasn't locked."

  Penny stepped into the house and then turned to look at the door. She gave a small smile and reached out to pull it closed. "No harm done, at least. Are you George Simons?"

  "I am," said George, "but you already knew that."

  "You didn't answer your door," Penny pointed out. Her anger was fading into embarrassment. She'd never kicked someone's door in before. "My name is Penny."

  George gave her a look as he stepped around her, towards his kitchen. Penny followed, her nerves tightening.

  "You said that already," he commented, as he prepared a drink. He looked over at her and then filled a second glass as well. The alcohol looked a bit murky, and definitely cheap. When he put the glass in Penny's hand, she had to resist the urge to grimace.

  He didn't seem at all perturbed by her stare as he went back the main room and reclaimed his seat.

  "Well, I want to talk to you," Penny said, following him. There were no other seats and the floor looked rather dirty. She stood awkwardly by the wall instead. With nowhere to set her glass, she was forced to hold it.

  "You do?" George flashed her a full smile now. It looked almost like a laugh and she could only see the top row of his teeth. They were narrow and straight. "I'd say no, but you're already here, well... and I never say no to a pretty face. What can I do for you, little lady?"

  Penny stared at him and then shook her head. She shifted her drink to her other hand and reached inside her handbag, retrieving the pamphlet. She stepped forward to show it to him, "You made this."

  George reached forward, taking the pamphlet from her. He was silent for a moment, eyes glued to the work. Then he looked at Penny and shrugged, "It could be that I did, back in the day. Where did you find this? I would have thought they were all destroyed by now."

  There was a slight nostalgia to his voice, but there was something else too. It took Penny a second to realize he sounded amused. She frowned at him again.

  "I was hoping to talk to you about some things going on in Valishna," Penny said. She was trying to keep to the words she'd practiced on the way over but it was becoming more difficult. She felt out of place and uncomfortable.

  George looked at her for a moment and then his expression faded into a troubled frown. "If you came for my help, you're barking at the wrong dog, girl." When Penny looked surprised, he shook his head, "Don't you think I get news, even out here? I've been visited already by members of your little club. What were you thinking? A teenage girl and a housewife?"

  Penny realized he must be speaking of Sara and Chrissa. "They came out here?"

  "They did," George said, "and I listened to them, the same way I'll listen to you, because I'm a polite guy. But then I'll send you packing too. I'm an old man compared to you, and I plan on getting older."

  "We need you though," Penny said, "We need your help. I don't know anyone else in the area that knows how to manipulate. I don't know anyone else that could teach us."

  George looked down at his glass and then threw it back all at once, like a shot. He grimaced at her. "Nasty stuff. Probably killing my insides. It certainly makes a fire there. Listen, I'm not the man you want to be looking for. Beside, you're a Priest, aren't you?"

  "How'd you know that?" Penny demanded.

  "Now now," George said, "We just reached the conclusion that I'm not a full recluse out here. I hear things, and sometimes I even leave my house. Anyone with two ears and half a brain would know you are. The widow Arris; wife of a traitor. I'd be worried about the soldiers watching me, if I were in your shoes. Then, if I were in your shoes, I'd be worried about breaking an ankle. They don't look very comfortable. But you didn't answer me."

  Penny looked down at her shoes and sighed, "Yes. I'm a Priest."

  "See?" George set the glass on the floor and laced his hands together and put them behind his head, "You said you don't know anyone that can manipulate. You manipulate."

  "I'm a healer," Penny said, "It's different."

  "Not really," George said, "Maybe on a spiritual level, I wouldn't know, but on a basic level, it's the exact same thing. The energy within you--"

  "Your Chakran," Penny said. She touched her chest and frowned at George, "It's called Chakran."

  George shrugged, "I don't particularly care what you want to call it, little lady. It's there. Some call it Chakran and use it heal each other, and some don't call it anything at all, but they're still able to determine storms, burn down villages, and all sorts of nasty things. See, you? You're a flesh manipulator. Same concept."

  "No, it's not," Penny said. "I'm a Priest. We don't use our Chakran for hurting others."

  George laughed, "Then what are you doing here? Not that I mind a pretty lady chatting me up in the afternoons, but I've got a full schedule. I'
m a busy man. I have a date with a drink, and then maybe after I'll get lucky. Well, with myself. The girls won't touch me unless I grow a beard, and as you can see, that's just not working of me."

  Penny glared at him. She could feel the heat filling her cheeks. He wasn't taking her seriously and it was embarrassing. "I'm here to ask for you help in learning different sorts of manipulation. Not flesh, though."

  "What do you think is going to happen with the rest of the manipulation?" George sat up in his chair and leaned forward, "If you learn to manipulate fire, or you learn how to manipulate the environment around you -- you think you're going to just scare away attackers? No. You hurt them."

  "I know that," Penny said.

  "I don't think you do," George said, "You don't use your Chakran for hurting others, remember?"

  "Just not flesh manipulation," Penny said. She realized how ridiculous it must sound, even as she said it, but she couldn't help herself, "I don't want to teach anyone that. I know we may have to hurt people, but it's important. I know what we're doing."

  George sighed. "You haven't finished your drink."

  Penny looked back at the alcohol. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. Just the scent of it made her want to vomit. George was watching her intently though, so she readied herself, and gulped it down. The flavor was nasty and it burned her throat.

  "Now," George said, "You want me to come teach people how to play with fire."

  "That's right," Penny said, "or whatever you can. We need to be able to defend ourselves. Or attack."

  George gave a slow nod, "Of course, if I did, and this thing doesn't work out, I'm on the stove top, flopping around like a sizzling steak. The soldiers aren't going to let me get away with it, and I'm not one for pain. My tolerance is pretty low, really. I like my life."

  "This isn't a life," Penny said, "Not in Valishna. We have to do something. Someone has to rise up and make a difference, or it'll continue. The soldiers beat people up in the streets and the children are starving and--"

  George cut her off with a dismissive wave, "Save it, Penny. I'm not a man that particularly cares for others' hides, as long as my mine is safe and sound."

  "I don't believe that," Penny said, "You made the pamphlet. You were the one who'd disturb these. You care about other people. Look at it." She strode forward and snatched the pamphlet from his hands. "You can fight too."

  "That was a recruitment statement," George said, "The Arinford Guard paid me for that. Pretty well, too. If there's one thing I like more than relaxation, it's money. You don't paper to have some of that you're offering, do you?"

  Penny glared at him. It was one thing to recruit a man, but it was another to pay him to help for their cause, "I don't believe it," she said, "Look at this, Mister Simons. You--"

  "Oh come on now, a pretty girl like you? For you, my name is George. Simons is my father. Well, he was my father. Come to think of it, the passed away twelve years ago." George flashed her another of his half-laughing grins.

  "You didn't do this just for money," Penny said, "I don't believe you. I think you wanted to help and now you don't. What changed?"

  George sighed at her, "What changed? I realized a futile cause. We keep sending men over there and they keep dying. Some of those men were trained by me. You think that's a good feeling? I lost a few friends, and a lot of good boys and girls died over there, no matter what I taught them."

  "So what?" Penny asked, "You just gave up?"

  "I did," George said. He didn't seem at all bothered by her assessment of things.

  "Well, you can't," Penny said. She didn't know how to convince him. She felt warm, which she imagined was from the drink he'd poured, "We need you."

  George sighed, but Penny watched the way he shifted in his chair, "No, you don't. You could probably learn on your own, if you had long enough, and you could teach the rest of them."

  "No," Penny said, "I can't! I tried. I can't even put out a flame on a candle, George. I'm hopeless."

  George looked at her and laughed. Penny felt color flood her face once more. "You started with trying to put out a fire? No, that's later. Look, the first thing you want to do is create a spark. That's the simple thing. Look at my fireplace."

  Penny turned to look at it. George got to his feet, and went to put his hands on her shoulders. She tried to step away but he had a firm grip. When he was sure she wasn't going to move, he pointed at the fireplace with a hand.

  "That right there, that's the enemy," he told her. "Who do you hate, Penny?"

  "Lamonte," Penny said.

  George shook his head, "Try again. Who do you hate? I want you to focus on a name, on a face. Tell me who it is."

  Penny frowned. She thought of Lamonte, and of King Sullivan, but they were so far away. They'd taken so much from her, but it wasn't personal. It wasn't against her. She tried to think of someone else, of anyone else she might hate. Her father came to mind briefly but she didn't truly hate him. He was a hard man sometimes, but he was her father and she loved him.

  "Come on," George urged at her side, "Who is it, Penny? Who do you hate?"

  "I don't know," Penny said in a small voice.

  "Then you're going to have a lot more problems than convincing me to help you," George said, "You need that rage. That's where your power comes from. Close your eyes."

  Part of her wanted to ignore the command but she did it anyway. She felt extremely uncomfortable with him at her back, with her eyes closed. He spoke again, this time in a near whisper, "You're at home, sitting alone, in your bath. I bet you use lavender soap. I can smell it in your hair. The bubbles are all around you, the water cool enough to be comfortable but still steaming. You should be happy but you're not. You're not, because you're alone, and you're dwelling. When that happens, who is it that's causing you to waste such a restful time?"

  Penny nearly jerked away again when he started speaking but as he went on, she tried to relax and envision the picture that he attempted to paint. It didn't work too well, but she was able to understand the scenario. "King Parnell."

  The name burst out before she was aware of what she was going to say.

  "King Parnell," George repeated. He seemed surprised but she felt him nod. They were too close. She opened her eyes again and saw he was pointing at the fireplace again. "There he is. I want you to think about all the reasons you hate him. Envision him out there."

  Penny tried to remember what she could of the King's face, but she didn't know him. She'd only seen him a few times. She knew what his son looked like though, from her dreams, and she tried to envision an older version of him, one with greying hair and cold eyes.

  "He abandoned us," she hissed out, "He gave up on Valishna. He left his people here to be brutalized and killed. He just gave up on us."

  "That's right," George said, "He left you to rot here. What do you think of him?"

  "I think he's a bastard," Penny said. The word felt funny on her tongue, but somehow it felt right too, "A bastard."

  George pointed again, "And there he is. The man who left you to die! Bottle that rage, Penny, bottle it, and push it forth! Let it expel from you, every fiber of you. Do it, now!"

  Penny let out a gasp of air, as she felt a whoosh of energy leave her. With it, went some of her rage. There was more within her, so much more, but she'd released some of it. A spark leapt up in the fireplace. It wasn't the roaring flame that she'd imagined but she'd seen it.

  "See?" George said, letting go of her shoulders and stepping away, "You're a natural."

  Penny turned to glare at George, feeling her blood boiling just beneath the surface. She glanced at the glass that was still in her hand, and then threw it hard, against the door of his house; the door she'd stood at, politely, before kicking in. The glass hit, and shattered. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as Penny expected. George just stood there, watching.

  "That's normal," he told her, "When you first start, it's hard to shut that anger off. But I believe you could learn fast. I bet I'd h
ave you setting fires and putting them out in no time. One of my star pupils, you'd have been."

  "Then teach me!" Penny shouted, "George, you have to help us! We need you. You're the best."

  "Well, there's no denying that," George said. He looked at the fireplace. The spark from the fire had already died out. Penny watched his gaze and realized he'd enjoyed it, that moment of teaching her. "We can't do this without you."

  George was quiet for a moment and then stepped around her, back towards the kitchen. He came back out in a moment with a broom. He went to the door of his house and began to clean the glass. Penny sucked in a breath, "I can't believe--"

  "Didn't you wonder why I'm here?" George asked as he cleaned, "Why I'm here in Valishna? I was one of the recruiters and trainers for the Arinford Guard. I should have a spot in Westwood, even if I no longer wanted to participate. So why am I here?"

  Penny hadn't considered that. She stared at him and then cleared her throat, "No," she admitted, "Why are you here?"

  "Because I'm a coward," George said, "Always have been. My father used to say that." He finished sweeping up the glass and then opened his door, tossing it all outside, past the edge of his porch. Once he closed the door again, he looked at Penny, "They wouldn't let me retire. They wouldn't let me leave the Guard. Said it would be grounds for a tribunal, and military punishment. They didn't want me to leave."

  "But I left," George said, "because I couldn't stomach it, and I couldn't stomach the idea of someone telling me what to do. I didn't wait for them to decide whether they should arrest me. I packed up in the middle of the night and snuck back here. You want my help? You ought to know I'm a wanted man. A criminal."

  Penny stared at him, again, lost for words. She didn't know what she was supposed to say. She hadn't known George was on the run from the Arinford Guard. It changed things. She cleared her throat awkwardly, and then saw the expression on his face.

  "I'm sorry," she said, "but you ran away."