The Spark (23 page)

In his heart, Marcus knew what was to come. He knew the order before his commanding officer called the regiment to arms.

It was clear Belle knew her fate as she sought for some sign from Marcus. All he could muster was a weak, apologetic smile for the girl who called him kind as he lowered his rifle on command. The boy in him screamed to stop the injustice, for the woman across from him was with child and had done no wrong. But the boy in him was a small, fading voice, compared to the man he had become; a man who followed orders before reason.

The order came, and was drowned immediately by the rising thunder of rifle fire. Marcus did his best to honour Belle by never taking his eyes from hers. He aimed for her head, to make it a quick, painless affair for the beauty. His stomach churned as she fell in a dizzying spray of blood and gore.

As the wall of Valvian women, young and old, thin and fat, pregnant and not, fell to the onslaught of innumerable bullets, so too did the innocent boy Marcus used to be.

B
right rays of a new morning greeted Lillian with sudden alarm. Her heart raced, hair drenched in sweat. Linen sheets were tightly wrapped about her legs, while her head rested firmly on the floorboards. Lillian kicked herself free from the twisted mess, shaking the last remnants of the dream from her mind.

Every night since she lost her sweet Jakob, Lillian had the same dream of chasing his ghost through a twisting wood. Each morning she woke in a sweat, often entwined her bedding. Though, this was the first time she had fallen in her sleep. Rising from the floor, she smoothed the creases from her nightgown. Taking a few, quick steps, Lillian opened the shutters of the bedroom window, letting the early morning light bathe her lonely room.

Rising over the forlorn brambles of the withering trees of Le Clos Noire, the town hall’s bell tower seemed like an ominous obelisk always watching the Rhume manse. The tower’s bells chimed a sweet, light song, greeting the first rays of the day. What few birds remained woke and added the gaiety of their song to the morning melody. At one time, Lillian would have found the beauty in the chorus.

Warmth from the sun filled the room, forewarning the day would be terribly hot - deadly even. Lillian searched her armoire for something that would be fit for a lady of her stature, but would also be light enough to allow her body to breathe.

She settled on a soft white blouse paired with a ruby skirt that flirted with the top of her feet. Lillian pulled her thick brown hair back and pinned it into position with a golden brooch laden with garnets and emeralds. Looking at the many brooches Dalar had bought her, Lillian decided against such lavish adornment for the day.

Confident in her attire, Lillian descended the steps that led to her front landing, prepared to greet the day. She let her feet guide her from the safety of her family’s home, down the cobbled path that ran from her front door to the main village pathway.

Lillian took her time as she followed the roadway into the centre of town, absorbing the scent of wood and earth. She enjoyed the way the evening dew brought the smells of the world to life in the soft rays of the morning heat. The signs of battle were still evident in little Le Clos Noire. Many of the stones along the pathway were still stained with men’s blood, despite the efforts of the militia to clean it away. Trees and houses bore holes left from stray gunshots.

As she rounded the bend, a pair of militiamen approached from the opposite direction. Lillian stepped to the side to let the men pass. They wore rich green coats, lined with cloth-of-gold trim with the three-gear sigil of Valvius upon their lapels. Both men gave Lillian a nod in greeting, but she only had a cold, blank stare for them in reply.

In the days that followed the attack, she cursed the militia. It was the militia’s job to protect the people of Le Clos Noire. In Lillian’s eyes, they failed in their duty when the blonde hair boy stole into her home, slaying Madam Fernley and her darling son. Dalar had not understood. He told her the militia had been busy routing the remainder of the foe when that boy entered their home. To Lillian, it was just another excuse Dalar offered for the inadequacy of the Valvian military complex.

After the men passed, muttering about the thrice-damned heat, Lillian continued down the cobbled road into the main square of town. Truly, the square was not really square, but more elliptical in design. It was a small market, nothing like the multi-street bazaar in Brixon. It was a quaint hub that served its purpose well.

Standing central amongst the clamour was a large wooden stage, currently bereft of any acts until the sun slipped into the western sky. Her son had enjoyed one of the many Grykan tumbling troupes that would find their way to the village. Lillian, on the other hand, much preferred the talent of the Valvian Theatre Player Co. Oh, how she adored their rendition of
Grenzel the Faire, Leopold and the Maiden’s Kiss,
and the raucous comedy
Beauty of a Hibagon.

Even though the sun had not fully risen, the vendors were already promoting their daily wares. Several stalls sported vibrant coloured tapestries and signage to garner the attention of the people, while others offered free samples of the day’s top item.

Lillian’s favourite vendor was a squat, bald headed wine merchant from little Pozo by the name of Druxan. His vintages were the finest Wynne had to offer at unbeatable prices. She searched for him at his stall, but the Pozian was nowhere to be seen. So, she relented to call on him a little later in the day.

Continuing past the market, Lillian found herself amidst the suffocating press of towering homes. It was a narrow, rising street, whose homes were as modest as the families whom resided within. Many of these folk worked in the lumber mills, mines and manufactorums of central Valvius. Most of the homes were of the same design; red brick, with high vaulting, angled walls in the style of the Valvian middle-class, and all with dusty grey shingling for their roofs.

Beyond the rooftops, the tri-peaked towers of the temple of Del Morte watched the town as a silent warden.

Lillian paused for moment, considering the distant spires. She had never been one of much faith, but in these dark days she found herself praying more and more to the benevolent Del Morte for answers; answers to know why he allowed her darling son to be taken from her. Lillian sought to know why he cursed her with such heartache. On the rare occasion, Lillian prayed for the demise of the men who caused her such pain.

As she considered the peaking tops of the temple, Lillian wondered if the priestesses could provide her with the answers she sought. Determined to find out, Lillian decided to follow the cobbled road that led to the sanctuary.

The road continued for a few hundred more feet before rounding the furthest edge of town. On the far side of the path was a barren plateau, where once lush green grasses grew amongst a sea of violet, red and white field flowers. Lillian paused for a moment, looking out over the field where once she chased Jakob. Now it was a land of cracked earth, where only brittle golden weeds remained. Blackbirds and sparrows once sung their song in the field, but now the incessant drone of crickets and cicadas filled the air.

The emptiness of the plains reminded her of death as she withdrew a small, silk kerchief. She dabbed the build up of sweat from her brow, wondering how much longer the damnable heat would last. Lillian returned the small piece of fabric up her sleeve before continuing on her way, putting the desolation behind her.

Soon, the rising path leveled out as Lillian reached the summit of the hill. Large steps of limestone greeted Lillian as she rounded a final, short bend at the top of the rise. The stair led to a field of solid concrete, littered with raised gardens, recessed pools and statues of famous religious heroes. Beyond the paved gardens stood the wooden, tri-towered temple of Del Morte.

Carved over its walls were wonderful frescos of the high lord administering to his people, smiting beasts of ill repute and weeping for his lost children. Large windows of stained glass effigies broke the monotony of the high reaching roof, whose shingles were of the same colouring as the rest of the building. Directly across from Lillian was a wide yawning entryway, flanked by two silent sisters.

Lillian took her first, almost hesitant, step towards to the looming building.

Despite being early in the morning, the paved gardens radiated with a stifling heat. It took all the strength in her to push onward, feeling as though the very eyes of Del Morte searched her soul, judging and condemning her sins with every step. By the time Lillian made the trek across the gardens, a new sweat had formed and dripped from her nose. Before entering the temple, Lillian removed her kerchief and, again, wiped the unwanted moisture from her face.
Returning the small article to its secret confines, Lillian strode past the two wardens of the door, whose veiled eyes followed her every step.

Upon entering the building, she was greeted by a wall of heavy burning incense thick with spice, vanilla and a lingering aroma Lillian knew but could not quiet place. With small, almost frightened steps, Lillian entered the main worship hall.

The room was large, bereft of furniture. A cacophony of splendid colour filtered over the sanctuary from the stained windows above. Veiled priestesses of Del Morte lined the perimeter of the hall, always watching those who entered their hallowed space. From beyond a hidden cistern, a humble woman approached with an eager step. She wore a similar veil as the surrounding sisters, but where theirs hung pure and white, her’s was rich and red.

“Del Morte blesses you madam,” her voice was soft, distant almost. “What brings you to his Lord’s High Hall?”

“I…” Lillian paused, unsure how to answer. “I don’t know.”

The woman’s head bobbed, as if in understanding.

“The Lord knows, even when we do not.” She reached for Lillian’s hand. “Come, walk with me madam.”

The priestess guided Lillian back the way she had come, leaving the sanctuary behind.

“You may not come to his Lordship’s hall for prayer,” the woman continued, “but we know of you madam Rhume.”

“You do?” Lillian’s voice squeaked, surprised.

“Of course dear.” The priestess smiled. “Del Morte knows all.”

As they approached the yawning entryway that led back to the stifling heat of the gardens, the priestess turned to the two sisters who stood as silent wardens. She took a moment to bless each of the sisters before relieving them of their duty.

“We have been expecting you for quite some time madam.” The woman admitted. “You have suffered great loss.”

“Jakob…” Lillian’s voice cracked as she recalled the still form of her son in her arms.

“Yes, your son.” The priestess gave Lillian’s hand a comforting squeeze.

“How could Del Morte let this happen?” Lillian asked, perhaps with too much bitterness. “How could he take my beautiful, darling baby boy?”

“I cannot answer you that,” the priestess admitted. “All I can say is to be strong and take heart in knowing Del Morte, our Lord and Saviour, always has a greater plan in mind.”

“A plan involving the murder of an innocent child?” Lillian snapped.

“It seems cruel madam,” the priestess’ voice remained surprisingly calm, as if she had known this conversation were to happen. “You can rest easy knowing your son rests with the High Lord.”

“But he needs to be with me!” Lillian jerked her hand from the priestess’ grasp. “I am his mother,
not
Del Morte.”

“I understand your heart hurts madam.” The priestess said, ignoring the insult. “Yet you must learn to let your heart trust in Del Morte.”

“How?” The question was fruitless and meaningless, yet it was all Lillian could manage to say as a surge of emotions filled her. “Sister…I can’t.”

“You can madam.” The faintest sign of a smile revealed itself through the priestess’ veil. “Else wise you would not have come to our Lord’s house.”

“Perhaps.” Lillian smiled, meek as if she were a child herself.

“Come,” the woman offered. “Walk with me for awhile.”

For the rest of the morning, and into the later half of the noontide, Lillian walked the concrete gardens with the priestess. The woman revealed her name was Anna, and as a cardinal within the church, was permitted to speak with the common folk.

The pair spoke of idle things such as the weather and the fretful state of the season’s harvest; their conversations would in turn become more thought provoking as Lillian sought condolence and guidance to deal with her loss. The whole while, Lillian felt a calming peace fall over her heart, burying her pain.

An hour or two after the break of noon, the pair enjoyed a cooled herbal tea infused with citrus fruits to chase the day’s heat away. They nibbled on light wafers topped with wild honey, crushed walnuts and sprigs of fresh mint. Feeling full, and content with herself, Lillian thanked Anna for her company and insight before departing.

Not realizing how long she had spent among the paved gardens of the temple, it came as a surprise to Lillian when she noted the sun moving into its final descent. Ultimately, she did not mind for her soul felt light, almost weightless after spending a day confessing all her worries. It seemed to Lillian nothing could spoil the joviality building in her chest. Not even the desolate field Lillian found herself staring out over again could dampen her spirits.

Lillian paused for a while watching the gnats flitter over the brittle stalks of grass. The sun seemed to hang heavy over the distant brambles of the lower Narn Wood. The trees were dark and twisted, naked and solemn clawing for the sky.

On the distant horizon, a dark splotch of a cloud seemed to move in pursuit of the village. To Lillian, it looked like the telltale signs of a heavy storm cloud, coming to release Le Clos Noire from the clutches of the drought. She strained her eyes, trying to determine how large the cloud might be, curious to know if it would be but a sprinkle or a violent torrent. Somehow, the harder she looked, the more obscure the shape became; almost losing its cloud like shape and taking on the visage of dozens of smaller specks.

Lillian shook her head clear, figuring it was an illusion caused by the strain on her eyes mixing with the heat of day. She put the approaching storm out of her mind and continued back down the path.

Before long, Lillian departed the press of the condensed street and entered the market again. At this time of day the market was busy and bustling with all the vendors trying to out do the others while citizens browsed the wares. Lillian let her eyes return to the colourful booth of the eccentric wine merchant, hoping him to be available to call on. Lillian smiled as she saw the top of Druxan’s pate sitting behind his stall, waiting for a customer to deal with.