The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “That night.” Edwin started, flat voiced. “I simply cannot wrap my mind around the devastation my study endured. Nothing was taken, nor were we harmed or woken. Aside from a few broken pieces of furniture and tumbled tomes, there was nothing else amiss.”

  “Perhaps the vagabonds did not find that which they sought?” Dalar suggested.

  “Perhaps, yes.” Edwin admitted as he stepped over a pile of street filth. “Though why would they not wake you, or I?”

  “I cannot say Edwin,” Dalar admitted.

  “Neither can the other head scholars.” Edwin stopped walking, resting his hand against an everflame lamppost. “But that does not mean people do not speculate.”

  “What do you mean?” Dalar asked. He leaned against the opposite side of the post, reaching for his own kerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  “Kinetics, Dalar, kinetics.” Edwin said.

  “Now that is simply ridiculous.” Dalar scoffed at the idea. The kinetic people were more akin to the scholars of Wynne than anyone else; the kinetic kind would have had no reason to sneak into the Libatorium and disrupt Edwin’s study. Both scholars and kinetics shared the disdain of their fellow citizens of Wynne, so a brash move such as the one in Edwin’s office would have served the kinetic people no purpose.

  “So I thought as well.” Edwin threw his arms up, as if defending himself. “But one cannot help but wonder.”

  “About what Edwin?” Dalar stuffed his kerchief back into his pocket. “Rogue kinetics sneaking into the Grand Libatorium in the dead of night, simply to what? Knock a few books off their shelves for the fun of it? Please.”

  “That is not what is suggested.” Edwin said. “There are some within the scholarhood who, based off of the available evidence, feel someone in my study fell into an attunement dream.”

  “Me?” Dalar asked, not needing his friend to say as much, for his tone suggested more than he let on.

  “Dalar, the destruction of the study extended from a singular point.” Edwin said, voice soft and comforting. “That centric point was from where you slept. It could also explain why neither of us woke, as you well know, attunement dreams create a buffer around the individual to prevent any distractions during the attunement process.”

  “No, it couldn’t be.” Dalar shook his head. He couldn’t believe the accusations his long time friend and colleague made. “I do not suffer any of the ailments of being kinetic.”

  “True.” Edwin admitted, smiling at a passing noble woman. “At least, not any of the known schools of kinetics.”

  “What other schools are there?” Dalar asked. Since the dawn of the kinetics, over two hundred years ago, there had only been a small group of known elemental attunements. Fire, earth, water and electricity were the only known schools of kinetics.

  “Well, funny you should ask.” Edwin placed his hand on Dalar’s shoulder, indicating for them to continue along the twisting streets of Brixon. “I would much rather show you.”

  “If you must.” Dalar sighed.

  “Thank-you,” the chief scholar nodded his head with thanks. “Now, tell me, do you still suffer from blocked memories?”

  “Aye.” Dalar admitted as Edwin led the way towards the Pozian sect of the grand bazaar.

  “Most interesting.” Edwin said.

  For the rest of the journey through the spiraling streets, Edwin said not a word. Dalar wondered after his friend’s silence, worried about what the rest of the scholarhood thought. He did not care for secrecy, or idle gossip, but his name was on the line, and he was damned if he would let it fall into association with the kinetic people. So Dalar decided to play Edwin’s game, though he failed to see how anything his friend could show him would shed any form of enlightenment on the situation.

  The streets grew in rowdiness the further from the Libatorium the pair travelled. Each step they took brought them closer to the teeming, multi-street market of famed repute. The smells of spices, smoke, honey and ale filled Dalar’s nose like an unwelcome guest; there were so many scents on the air that Dalar found their encroachment more of an annoyance than of mouth watering desire he knew their vendors so desperately sought to generate.

  Most of the buildings towered high and precarious in many strange, oblong angles. Others seemed wimpy under the weight of their neighbouring structures. Many were home to the middle class citizenry of Brixon, often conveying simplicity in any outer ornamentation. There were a few, yet, that housed stores, but these were few and far between as most vendors chose to sell their wares within the bazaar.

  Edwin led Dalar through the teeming streets to a wide court space within the Pozian sect. A large stage adorned with vibrantly coloured flags filled the central portion of the square. Atop it were all manner of oddities or performers. Each took their turn introducing themselves to any and all who cared to listen. There was a contortionist of wild beauty, a fire belcher with a scarred belly, and even a robust woman sporting the finest beard Dalar had ever seen.

  “Of this troupe,” Edwin spoke loud to be heard over the din of the crowd. “You might want to pay attention to the meek fellow on the end. His name is simply Bernard. He is one of the old illusionists who can make objects move with nothing but his mind.”

  “Are you claiming this little man is a kinetic…of the mind?” Dalar asked as the little man stood up and gave a curt bow to the audience.

  “A telekinetic, yes.” Edwin smiled. “Well, at least if the initiates are to be believed. They have done their research, and claim these old illusionists were not fraudulent after all, but rather they were gifted with a rare kinetic mutation. You should read their theories, it is quite exhilarating to think there is yet one more school of kinetics which has been hiding under our noses for over two hundred years!”

  “Perhaps I will.” Dalar said. A loud cheer went up from the crowd as the robust fire belcher turned a radiant orange flame into a flickering wave of green and blue. “Impressive.”

  “Oh quite,” Edwin agreed. “He uses a special mixture with ground copper to create the effect you know?”

  “You don’t say?” Dalar was impressed. There was great danger in what the Pozian did, but the spectacle was well worth it. “Now, Edwin, tell me, what does little Bernard have to do with the speculation of me being a kinetic?”

  “Yes, I nearly forgot.” Edwin laughed as a pillar of fire stretched out over the audience. “The initiates seem to think memory blocking is the consequence of being telekinetic. Their reports suggest this mental ability requires a large portion of the kinetic’s brain power in order to function; therefore the attunement shuts down the brain’s memory retention.”

  “Fascinating.” Dalar said. “The theory sounds just, but there is one problem Edwin, which makes it quite clear that I simply cannot be gifted with this fabled kinetic power.”

  “And what would that be dear Dalar?” The chief scholar asked.

  “I have wonderful, vivid memory recollection. Of course this is barring my childhood, but otherwise I need only close my eyes and I can see past events, locations, or even people as if I were there once more. So you see, I cannot be a telekinetic.”

  “Ah, yes, well.” Edwin stammered.

  “And even your Pozian Bernard there,” Dalar pointed to the little man who now prepared to do a display of his talents. “He is no more a telekinetic then I. If you look close enough you can see the thin lines he uses to manipulate objects. In fact, if you had paid extra attention, you would have noted the others of the troupe stay in relatively confined locations, probably to not disrupt Bernard’s lines for his act.

  ‘So, no, Edwin, I am afraid your initiates are wrong on this matter. There are no hidden kinetic talents in Wynne and there is no way in Del Morte’s infinite wisdom am I one.”

  “Perhaps you are right Dalar.” Edwin said, adjusting himself from his hurt pride. “Of course you are. It is that great mind of yours that has gotten you command of your own troupe.”

  “Of course.” Dalar forced a
smile. “And on that topic, I must ask, why the Stonefinger?”

  “I am sure you can figure that one out.” Edwin said.

  “I can. I have.” Dalar admitted. “But can he be trusted? He is only a few days out of prison.”

  “On charges, which were laid only to please those pesky Ynoux.” The chief scholar said. “The Stonefinger is a lusty man, and if you had seen the Lady Paniou it would have been you jailed. No man in all of Wynne could have denied the woman what she wanted.”

  Dalar shook his head. He did his best to ignore the looming search party he was bound to lead into the wilds of Wynne. More so for the guilt of having to leave his family for such a long duration, but also because of the company he would be keeping. Many of the men were Valvian soldiers, trained and disciplined. Others, notably the infamous jack-of-all-trades Nog Stonefinger, were men of questionable repute.

  “I am sure the Stonefinger will give you no trouble in your travels.” Edwin patted Dalar’s shoulder. “But come, enough of this talk, you leave on the morrow, let’s enjoy the rest of this fools show yes?”

  The warming sun from beyond the door beckoned Marcus like a lustful lover. In front of him his parents stood, cold and lifeless like the jilted mate. His future and prosperity were but mere steps away, yet the lingering guilt of leaving his past compelled Marcus to stay.

  “I’m sorry.” He said, hoping to leave his family in good standing. “I’ll send ye money to help.”

  “No ye won’t.” His mother spat. The cracked lines of her fading maquillage flaked away as her scowl of discontent turned to stubborn pride. “Yer money’ll be nuffin’ to us. Yer leavin’ yer family when times are tough.”

  “Mother, I…”

  “No.” She said. “Ye made yer choice. Now go.”

  Tears welled in Marcus’ eyes. Even though his relationship with his mother turned sour months ago, it still stung to hear her turn him away so easily. Marcus took a deep, calming breath before turning his back on his parents and their shanty of a home.

  Perhaps what hurt most was his father, a man whom Marcus deeply respected and adored, said not a word; his father just let Marcus walk out the door without so much as a goodbye.

  Marcus knew it would be hard to leave his childhood home, both from fear of the uncertainty his new future brought, but also from the fear of leaving his father in such dire straights. Marcus did not doubt his parents would soon lose their home, for the snows had not returned, leaving his father out of a job for months. The family money was running dry, and Marcus knew he would most likely never see his parents in their little home again.

  His feet led him past the run down shops of Malefosse’s east district. Many of the business owners sat upon the stoops that led to their stores, basking in the heat. Marcus spied a group of working girls fanning themselves to remain cool in the afternoon sun as they waited for prospective clients. It was an increasingly familiar sight in Malefosse, as the strange heat wave continued to beat down on the northern city. Many denizens, both poor and rich, spent much of their day lounging outdoors, soaking in the beautiful rays of the sun.

  Rounding a tight little bend, Marcus came upon a looming stonewall with an oversized arch. The district-dividing barrier cut through Malefosse in a centric shape, breaking the city into five distinct areas. In times long past, this dividing wall served as a last means of defense against an invading enemy, forcing the foe through several arching choke points. The rusted gates of those days still adorned the looming arches, which served as portals into the other districts. In these more civil times, however, the gateways remained open for all to pass.

  It was before one of these ancient overpasses Marcus now stood, peering over the yawning threshold to a bright, better future where he would shed the skin of poverty and youth for the prosperity of adulthood.

  “This be it.” He said to himself, turning to watch a group of salt kids chase one another with sticks down a side alley. “No turnin’ back.”

  It was a strange thought to Marcus, for he had traversed into the central district many times on his way to the train yards for his commute to the salt mines. He had never thought, or felt, any different when crossing into the main hub of Malefosse; he simply did what he had to do in order to make a living. Now, however, the centralized epicenter of the city seemed new and golden, and full of possibilities to him.

  Looming far in the distance, towering over the peaked roofs of the many shops and houses of the district, was a lonely, ornate tower. Even from this great distance, Marcus noted how the sun glinted off of the gold and bronze frescos of the spire; even from here Marcus could make out the famed gold filigree of the central air dock. Small, golden boxes raced up the sides of the tower, likely bringing passengers to the upper loading platforms.

  Normally, only cargo vessels would make berth at the high altitude docks. Today, however, three large galleons with oversized bladders of air made the docks their home. Black flags with a single golden cog whipped wildly in the breeze. It was a glorious sight that filled Marcus with a pride he had never felt before. He knew in his young heart he had made the right decision.

  “Out of the way salt filth!” A nobleman called as a group of men mounted upon mechanical steeds bustled past Marcus.

  “Sorry ser.” Marcus stammered as he made way for the group.

  In his days lingering at the trinket shops of late, Marcus had studied the workings of the mechanical beasts. There really was no denying the marvel the kinetic people had created, for many of the mechanical instruments and techniques used to create the plated steeds were something far more than Marcus’ youthful mind could comprehend. But, one thing was for certain, the mechanical mounts of the nobility of Wynne were by and far the most beautiful thing Marcus had ever seen.

  He loved the way the steel plates, edged in the finest gold or bronze, revealed the azure light of the cortex energy within as the beasts took each and every step.

  “Best watch yourself boy.” A woman rider said as she brought up the rear of the troupe. “The district is busy and crowded today. Not really a good time for loitering about gawking at the sky.”

  “Yes mum.” Marcus said as politely as possible.

  “Doris,” the lead man called. “Don’t waste your breath on such urchin.”

  “My apologies.” The woman said, joining the rest of the group.

  Marcus simply smiled at the woman’s courtesy. Not wanting to have any further issues, he decided to take her advice and continued on his way.

  He followed a stone walkway for about fifty feet before coming upon a flight of steel stairs. The central district, being as busy as it was, had a series of grated catwalks suspended over the streets for the safety of the walking citizenry; with the amount of shipping and receiving that took place in this part of Malefosse, the city council had decided it best to create raised pathways for those whom chose to walk through the district. At least, that was the official statement.

  It was a well-known fact in Malefosse that the steel catwalks of the central district were really intended as a means of decongesting the streets below. By doing this, the city was able to bring in more industry as it allowed for the use of cargo laden auto carriages, mechanical horse-drawn buggies and, of course, more railways to bring goods into the city.

  The catwalk Marcus tred led him past one of the only cortex factories in all of Syntar. Large stone chimneys sprouted from the sharp-angled roof below, spewing thick black and grey smoke into the air. The lowermost windows of the building glowed bright blue, indicating the electrokinetic overseers inside were busy harnessing their collected gifts for the creation of a new batch of whimsical cortexes.

  Beyond the factory, the walkways took Marcus past some of the most prominent pleasure houses in Malefosse. The proprietors had found a way of creating red-tinted everflame lanterns, and hung them outside their upper storey entrances. The few windows these buildings had offered a view into the most luxurious accommodations Marcus had ever seen. Satin pillows, Far East
ern linens and rugs, and, in one building, a dazzling curtain made of peacock feathers. The girls themselves even seemed to be of another class compared to those found in the east district. Where the girls known to Marcus and the other salt kin were grime covered and worse for wear, the women who served here seemed to be of a noble background with smooth, clean skin and well adorned in jewelry and fine satin gowns.

  Passing the throngs of factory men trying to gain access to these houses of repute, Marcus crossed over a wide expanse. Below, an array east-west running rail tracks led to a convergence point where the steam engines could switch over to a north-south series of track. Just to his immediate east a great locomotive sat steaming at the junction point. Its thick, white steam wafted from the iron smoke stack of the engine. Marcus paused for a moment and watched as a group of men hauled a series of small crates off of an auto and depositing them onto one of the many cars attached to the great steam engine.

  Marcus waited for the men to finish their task before making the final leg of his own journey.

  The central air dock was now close enough Marcus could make out a dozen or so people riding the express cages up to the waiting docks. His heart raced in earnest, knowing soon enough, he too, would be racing hundreds of feet into the air. It was an exhilarating, and terrifying prospect. Being born into the salter’s world, Marcus had never anticipated the chance of taking passage on an airship.

  He did not know if he should be afraid, or excited. Simply being aboard such a technical wonder was such a wonderful thought in of itself. However, the idea of sailing amongst the clouds on a noble galleon, so near to Del Morte’s kingdom, was a far more impressive thought. But then there was the terrifying height in which the ships sailed. If one were to fall, there would be no saving one self.

  Coming around the final corner of the catwalk, Marcus came across a group of salters, all brandishing the informal and rugged luggage for the pilgrimage.