The Spark (3 page)

“Well,” Rosemary paused. “ The airship was assailed by brigands. None…none survived.”

“Del Morte be damned
.
” Julien cursed.
His heart began to feel sick and heavy.
“Has this attack been tied to the previous ones, or is this a stand alone incident?”

“It is being claimed that it is, indeed, associated with the other events.” Rosemary’s voice was soft, laden with a somber dread.

“That would make this the thirteenth aggression against Valvian people since the turn of the moon.” Julien said. “It would seem this group is becoming bolder, and acting quicker between events.”

Over the past year the people of Valvius had been targeted by some secret organization. Kidnapping, murder and arson were not uncommon amongst the transgressions against Valvian people, regardless of where they lived. It was a terrible travesty, one that Julien sympathized with, however, the mandate of the council prevented Julien from acting on the desires of his heart; despite his desire to aid those in need, his role as a councilor denied Julien the chance to petition the aid of the afflicted peoples of Valvius.

A sullen silence fell over the two as they exited the gardens and continued onto the cobbled streets of Gossac. The everflame street lamps burned bright, despite the rising sun. Julien led the way through the slowly waking city, cane
tap-tap-tapping
like a mournful warning to those at peace in their homes.

“Rosemary, how do you know?” Julien asked at long last.

“Pardon?” she asked, caught off guard by his matter-of-fact tone.

“How do you know about this attack?” He repeated. “How do you know of the reason behind this urgent assembly?”

“Well, you see,” The lady paused for a moment. “Listen Julien, in truth I had ridden this morning. I had to find you. I had to tell you. When I espied you near the south market I dismounted and stabled my mount, to follow by foot; I did not want to alarm you so I had my steward take the steed to a nearby machinist shop.”

“Why?” Julienasked, upset for having been played the fool.

“Lucian has not informed any of the kinetic representatives, or their stewards.” Rosemary admitted. “He wishes to catch the kinetic representatives unaware and use your ignorance to his advantage.” She stopped walking, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Lucian claims to have new evidence that will change the way the council views the situation Valvius faces. He
needs
the kinetics to be ignorant of this information so he can garner the trust and aid of the other representatives of Wynne.”

Lucian Margoux represented the province of Valvius on the council. He was also a military man with a long and proud history. Julien had been one of the loudest voices against Lucian’s attempts to spur the council to actively interfere with the troubles Valvius faced. It pained the old kinetic to deny as much, for his baser instincts wanted to offer the assistance Lucian so deeply sought, but the council was not beholden to that kind of aid.

“Damn that accursed man!” Julien swore. He was at a loss. In all his long years, he had never thought he would be the victim of political scheming, especially amongst the Grand Council of Wynne.

The two council members continued to tread their way toward the Grand Tower of Time, where, at its base, a three-story manse rested against the base of the towering obelisk. This was the Parliament of Wynne. It was made of a soft limestone, with high arcing windows and cast iron balconies. A dome of glass rose out of the roof, enlivened by twisting bronze work. Large green marble pillars flanked the front landing, welcoming petitioners and councilors alike with a sense of majesty.

Sitting below the lip of the verdigris stained copper roof, a wonderfully majestic clock ticked away the morn. Julien often admired the design of the Parliament Clock, for it had been crafted with its gears and cogs showing externally, while its trim was a stunning blue and green alabaster shell inlay, bordered with antique gold. The length of the hands were intricately welded dark iron, mimicking the twisting vines of the dome’s bronze work.

Julien strained his neck to look at the Grand Tower of Time. He searched for the looming widows for guidance. It pained Julien to think of how the peace of Wynne was so greatly at risk. It was as if the councilors and populace forgot the lessons learned during the Great War, and the hope the people of that time had for the future of Wynne. The Great Peace had been intended to be everlasting, yet of late Julien sensed that peace was at a terrible risk.

When the Great Peace began, so too did the Grand Council of Wynne. The council was created with the amalgamation of dignitaries and representatives from each of the provinces and select members from each school of kinetics. The council’s mandate was to ensure the evolution of industry, science, trade routes with the Far East, and other minor socio-political issues that would benefit the populace of Wynne. Anything other than those duties fell onto the shoulder of each province’s Chancellor; policing, law creation, and military jurisdiction were not the duties of the council, despite what the people of Wynne thought.

Julien firmly believed in the council’s mandate, and felt his was the voice of reason in these trying times. In many ways, it bothered the old kinetic how hard Lucian strived to undo the work and peace of over two hundred years. Despite well-placed intents, Julien did not doubt Lucian Margoux would bring war to Wynne.

By now, the other members of council were trickling up the front steps into the gaping blackness of the large double iron doors, into the waiting assembly within. Julien’s heart beat with a wild fervor as he espied the Lucian depart his over-indulgent, exquisitely ornate auto-carriage.

“Rosemary,” Julien stopped short of the parliament, remaining well out of ear shot. “I thank you for confiding in me, but my bones tell me there is more for you to tell. I fear if I do not know it now, the future of Wynne will be at stake.”

The Speaker of the Commons sighed and took hold of Julien’s age spotted hand. Her grasp was soothing, warm and sincere. Julien knew if he were but a few years younger, Rosemary would have made him a perfect wife. He would have loved her well, but such thoughts were better left to the wild whims of younger hearts
.
Although, truth be told, Rosemary’s touch made the old kinetic feel more youthful. Julien tucked his cane under his arm, adjusted his lenses with his free hand and offered the lady a kind smile.

“Miss, Rosemary.” He said. “I do not know what this evidence is Lucian will bring to council. Nor do I know how this session shall end, but if you cannot bring yourself to tell me, it is most all right. Your insight already has brought enough aid and I cannot ask for more.”

“Then I have done my duty well.” She smiled. It seemed a weight lifted from her shoulders.

“I do not know where this is coming from,” Julien continued, “but I feel quite vibrant around you.” He paused, watching her confused expression at his ill-timed admission. “I…I know I am very much your senior, but I would like it very much if you were to accompany me on my foray to the College after this ill fated session. We have walked the Gossac city gardens by dawn, and I would very much like to show you the College’s famed Garden D’Lune by dusk.”

“My good ser,” her rosy cheeks burned a brighter red at his request. “I don’t know how appropriate that would be.”

Julien’s heart faltered for the beat of a second. He cursed himself for being so naïve and old. Julien tried to hide his blushing cheeks by looking away.

“However,” Rosemary continued, “perhaps with all the stress I have been under of late, a nice little get away would be lovely – as long as I do not catch anything
deadly
.”

“M’dear Rosemary,” Julien tried to repress his joy. “You have made this old kinetic a very happy old man. I swear you shall not catch a thing.”

Rosemary smiled, though hidden in her emerald eyes, Julien noted a small flicker of fear, or doubt. Though the fear he saw was something more, something far more rooted than a simple foray to the college with an old man. It seemed to Julien the lady held a deep, dark secret she feared.

“Julien, Lucian’s evidence,” Rosemary began with a nervous shudder to her tone.

“M’lady, you do not have to tell me. I shall soon discover it for myself.” He indicated to the waiting building.

The bell of the Parliment Clock began to knell the morning song as the pair of councilors stood in the chilled morning.
Bing-Bong-Bing-Bong-Bing-Bong-Bong,
it sang, declaring it was time for the world to greet the new day. Julien sent a cursory glance at the accursed clock, annoyed by its painful intrusion.

As the knelling bell faded, Rosemary looked to Julien again. With a reserved sigh she said; “Julien, Lucian’s evidence points the finger at kinetics. He hopes this shall spur the council to action.”

“He cannot hope…” Julien was at a complete loss for words.

“I am sorry Julien.” Rosemary said. “This is why the kinetic representatives were not told the reason for the urgency. Lucian does not want your kind to prepare a defense against his accusations.”

“I fear then, dear Rosemary,” Julien felt a wildness in him he had not felt since his younger days. “Lucian shall have to do more than an one-sided council session to catch this kinetic off-guard.” Julien drew his cane and took the first few steps that lead to the council building. “Come, let us set this bastard right.” Julien offered his hand to Rosemary, and led the way up the rising stair with a fire burning in his heart.

“Julien, wait.” Rosemary protested.

“What is it m’lady?” Julien turned to face her.

“Look.” She pointed to the sky.

“What new devilry is this?” Julien said.

Falling in slow, simple movements, like a feather on the wind, were small specks of white.

“Snow,” Rosemary said. “Snow has come to Driftwood Isle.”

G
ossimer Morgan sat in the Steward’s Hall of the Parliament of Wynne, rolling a fresh cigarette. Beyond the safety of the walls, the snow whipped and howled. It was such a curious thing, this snow. For here they all sat, in one of the more tropical locales of Wynne, yet they had become a victim of the wild blizzards of the north. It was majestic, and odd, frightening yet delightful. However, being of a northern descent, Gossimer had grown bored of it long ago.

He looked across the small room to the other stewards, all of whom shared the painful look of boredom.

“How much longer d’ye think they’ll be Gossy?” A stringy haired youth asked.

“Dunno Gerrold.” Gossimer licked the thin paper and sealed his tightly rolled smoke. With gentle care, he tucked his cigarette into his waistcoat pocket. “They’ll be done when they’re done I suppose.”

A loud groan shattered the anxious silence amongst the stewards as the large iron doors of the entry hall were parted open. Fat flakes of snow blew into the entryway and the wind howled without. A lone figure entered the spacious entryway of the building. From his seat, Gossimer could see the snow building on the front landing of the parliament, hugging against the marble pillars without.

“Yer turn Gossy.” Gerrold said, leaning across the cherry stained table between them.

Gossimer looked at the bundled stranger by the door, to Gerrold and back to the stranger. With a sigh Gossimer rose from his seat of over four hours to greet the newcomer. Gossimer walked with a hurried step through the main hall as the ever-watchful eyes of the priestess’ of Del Morte followed him
.
He looked over his shoulder at the silent sentinels, who stood as wardens to the upper sanctum of the parliament building.

They wore pale sifts and thin veils, masking the features of their faces. Gossimer was not an overly religious lad, nor was he completely devoid of faith; however, when he came within sight of the silent sisters, he always felt unnerved, for it seemed as though Del Morte himself was judging Gossimer’s very soul.

His foot falls echoed like a solemn beat off of the marble floors of the grand hall as his quick strides brought him upon the stranger who stood before him in a pool of melted snow.

“Welcome to the Parliament of the Grand Council of Wynne,” he put his best smile on, extending his hand in greeting. “I regret to inform you that today’s council is not only still in session, but also a private matter. If you would be so kind as to follow me, we can get some warmth into your bones and take your name for the morrow’s petitions.”

The stranger looked at him through a small space between scarf and chapeau. Gossimer continued to smile despite being put off by the silent stranger before him. He looked over his shoulder to the side room where the other retainers sat in wait. They all shared a similar, confused expression.

“Is there something I can offer you for the hassle this has caused?” Gossimer asked, returning his attention to the newcomer. He was surprised to see the face of a beautiful young woman greet him.

It seemed, to Gossimer, she had taken the moment to pull down her dark-knit scarf. Underneath the woolen layers was revealed to be a smooth, dove coloured skin, which accented deep-set eyes that shone like sapphires in the radiating light of the everflame lanterns
.

“I don’t s’pose ye would have any mulled wine back there would ye?” She asked with a voice as angelic as her face.

Gossimer nodded slowly, transfixed by the beautiful creature before him.

“D’ye mind takin’ me to it?” The woman asked with a small smile.

“Yes, uhm,” Gossimer cleared his throat. “Please just follow me mum.”

“Thankee, but please, call me Elenor.” She said, smile never fading.

“Elenor? Well then, you may call me Gossimer, if it pleases you.” He smiled and motioned to the side room. “You’re Di Delgan aren’t you?”

“Might be that I am.” Elenor replied. “An’ how would ye gather that?”

“Well,” Gossimer smiled, leading the lady towards the Steward’s Hall. “We don’t see many Di Delgan’s here, so it’s always easy to spot one.”

“Ye don’t say?” Elenor said.

“Aye.” Gossimer twitched his nose. “You have the characteristically defined cheekbones of the Di Delgan people, yet a subtle softness to your jawline.”

“Aye,” she chuckled softly. “Though, truthfully I am only half Di Delgan. Me mum was Pozian an’ me father Di Delgan. Though if it weren’t fer me features, ye’d most like mix me up as Valvian or Syntaran ‘cause the way I talk.”

“Why’s that?” He asked. Elenor looked at Gossimer with those big, blue eyes and winked. An awkward moment followed as he waited for his answer, which seemed to never come.

Doing his best to not let the oddity of this guest bother him, Gossimer continued to lead her to the small side hall. Upon entering the space, he directed her to a wing back chair that sat by the hearth, where a fire burned low. Elenor smiled in thanks, clearly glad to be near some form of heat.

“Thankee fer the choice spot, ser.” Elenor said. She removed her woolen mittens, revealing long, eloquent fingers that burned red with chill. “Back to yer question though. Me parent’s were Del Morte missionaries that worked fer his people in need, namely in the poor districts of Syntar an’ Valvius – fer that is where his message is needed most.”

Gossimer forced an understanding smile as he prepared a heavy Valvian red in a pot over the embers; Gossimer busied himself with preparing a simple mulled wine, trying to let the distraction hide his discomfort surrounding Elenor’s faithful up bringing.

“Is that what you do Elenor?” he asked as he placed a couple of fresh sticks of cinnamon into the pot.

“Me?” She asked. “Del Morte be good, no.”

“Why not?” Gossimer gave the wine a good stir with an iron ladle, hoping his surprise was not so obvious.

“The poor will always be poor an’ bitter.” Hints of sadness flowed in Elenor’s voice as she admitted the truth of the matter. “No matter how hard ye try to invoke pride an’ faith in their hearts, the poor jus’ keep on being poor. I spent many nights listenin’ to me mum cryin’ an’ father cursin’ ‘cause they jus’ couldn’t understand why the poor had so little faith in Del Morte.”

Gossimer watched as Elenor’s delicate fingers slowly worked at her jacket’s buttons as she talked. The woman pulled the coat off in a graceful movement, revealing a white blouse that followed the contours of her womanly shape. Elenor brought her hands to her throat and adjusted a lovely gold brooch with a pearl inlay.

Gossimer tried to maintain his composure by stirring the warming wine, though he found it quite difficult with the wonderful curves of Elenor’s bosom threatening to burst from her shirt. He looked over his shoulder at the other stewards in the hall. Most paid no mind, but little Gerrold’s eyes had widened, as if he was witnessing his first pair of breasts. Gossimer shook his head, embarrassed by the younger boy’s lack of dignity, despite his own desire to fawn over Elenor’s body.

“No. Such ill-received work isn’t fer me.” Elenor said as she removed a light grey shawl.

“Then what
do
you do?” Gossimer asked.

“I serve the Lady Schernoff.” Elenor admitted. With a final movement, Elenor removed her fur chapeau, revealing a golden mane that was held back by a copper and gold clip which resembled the mechanical workings of a clock. Elenor leaned forward, reaching her hands out to catch the heat of the fire.

“You’re a steward as well?” Gossimer’s mouth hung wide in bewilderment
.
He had not known the Di Delgan councilor held any stewards more than young Gerrold; with Di Delgi’s economic situation, Gossimer had been under the impression the Lady Schernoff could only afford a single steward.
Gossimer looked over at Gerrold, hoping for some form of acknowledgement, but the lad seemed at just a loss as he was.

Gossimer tested the temperature of the wine, as well as its flavouring. He needed a minute to digest what he had learned and figured such actions would give him time enough to consider all he had been told. Not wanting to keep the lady waiting any longer than needed, Gossimer reckoned the drink was ready and removed the pot from the fire and filled a glass for the very curious creature named Elenor.

“No, not a steward.” She smiled, accepting the warm drink. “Hmm, delicious.”

“Madam, I…” A loud slam from the upper floor interrupted their conversation. Everyone in the Steward’s Hall sat erect as heavy, angry footfalls reverberated from the upper floor and down into the grand entry hall.

“Gossimer!” A deep voice blasted from above.

Gossimer gave Elenor an apologetic smile as he rose from his seat. He gave Gerrold a cursory glance as he sped past the wide-eyed youth. Gossimer knew it wasn’t his place to question the doings of Lady Schernoff, but something did not add up right with regards to the lovely Elenor. Now, by the tone in which his master called with, Gossimer worried he might not have a chance to discuss the occurrence at any great length.

“Gossimer!” the voice beckoned again, this time closer as the footfalls reached the grand stair.

Gossimer came to the base of the marble staircase. He was greeted by the silent judgment of the priestesses of Del Morte, each of whom stood at the ends of the banister, warding off those not meant for the upper chambers. His master descended the steps two at a time in frantic flight.

“All go well, Master?” Gossimer asked knowing full well the answer, but his duty compelled him to ask regardless.

“No.” His master said. “The blind fools.” Lucian Margoux reached the landing where Gossimer stood in-wait. His aged skin burned with rage and a fierce wildness hid behind his hazel eyes. “Fetch my things. The sooner we are away from this thrice damned place the better.”

“Aye ser.” Gossimer took his leave to do his master’s bidding with a hurried step.

“Lucian, wait.” A winded voice from above called out.

“Del Morte be damned.” Lucian cursed, recognizing the weak voice.

The grand hall seemed to take on a tribal beat as the rapid
tap-tap-tapping
of Julien DiMarco’s accursed cane hit the marble floor above. It was clear the old man tried to keep pace with the Gossimer’s master. If ever there were an issue amongst the councilors, especially now in Valvius’ time of need, Gossimer did not doubt the ancient kinetic would be found at the head. In many ways, it sickened him with how much this one man had been able to convince the council to not interfere with the well being of peaceful Valvians. Knowing he had not keep his master waiting, Gossimer sped off for their belongings.

His steps brought him to a small cloakroom
.
The first items he gathered were Lucian’s top hat and gloves. Gossimer turned the hat offer to ensure the silk scarf still lay in the bottom. Next, he reached for the wool tailcoat Lucian had worn this morning. Gossimer checked the breast pocket to ensure there was a pre-rolled cigarette and matchbook waiting for his master. Confident with the articles, Gossimer reached for his thin waist coat and simple driving chapeau.
With a deep sigh, Gossimer headed back to where his master waited.

By the time Gossimer returned to Lucian with the requested articles, so too did Julien DiMarco.

“Is there something more you wish to add DiMarco? Something you may have forgotten in session?” Lucian regarded the kinetic with a certain disdain, the kind only a man held back by the powers to be could ever show.

“Good ser,” Julien began, as he caught his breath. With a spotted hand the old kinetic pushed his lenses up his thin nose. “Please understand, the council means no ill-will to you or your people.”

“Well,” Lucian faked a smile. “The council has a funny way of showing it then, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Listen to me Lucian.” Julien slammed his cane onto the hard floor, catching the attention of any onlookers. “The council is not a militaristic body. Our purpose is solely trade and industry. It is something the world forgets, and is something you must strive to remember. As stated in the mandate of the Grand Council, each province is required to protect its own peoples through their own means. We are not policemen, nor brave warriors. The council stands to better the everyday life of the people of Wynne through the industries I have stated.”

Gossimer paid the old man no mind as he set about dressing his master for the weather without. His young, proud heart found it difficult to be near such a wretched thorn as Julien, for Gossimer’s pride compelled him to defend his people. The steward in him, however, knew striking the kinetic would spell doom for not only himself, but for Master Lucian as well.

“I understand you are come from a proud militaristic background where action is required.” Julien continued. “However, that mindset will not suit you well here.”

“So I have learnt.” Lucian forced a smile and continued; “I shall keep your words in mind when the next massacre of poor, innocent children and their families occurs.”

Gossimer handed Lucian his top hat and scarf, which his master took eagerly.

“Come Gossimer, let us depart this place of cravens.” He gave Gossimer a quick look before turning on his heels and storming towards the iron doors of the hall. By the time he reached the heavy doors, the rest of the councilors began to descend the stairs, curious of the confrontation between Julien and Lucian.