River’s End ch 38: What Does One Spark Matter?

Pain shoots through my side. A gravy-filled veggie roll slips from my grasp. My silent scream nearly drowns out the squelch of it hitting wooden boards.

My hands fly to the source of this agony, just above my right hip. I expect to find a knife or spear sticking through me.

The skin is smooth beneath my fingers, wet like everything on Grenswa, but unbroken. Is it bruised? With the way it burns and tears, it has to be much more than bruised.

I fall sideways, hands cradling my wound. Breath hisses through my clenched teeth.

“What’s wrong?” Pullee cries.

I can’t answer her. I can’t ask if she sees my injury or if my side looks as undamaged as my fingers claim. I barely hear her over the voices in my own head.

As initial shock fades, I recognize Rosa’s scream. This is her pain. Long, black teeth glisten in dim light.

‘Go away, Keilan. Your fake bond is in my way.’ This is the vedia from before, but malice is absent this time. Her voice floats, buoyed by fear.

‘This doesn’t feel fake,’ I snap.

My hand flattens on the wooden boards of the wagon’s floor, its grain rough against my palm as I push myself up. I am on Grenswa and safe for the moment. This is not my wound, and I can’t let it incapacitate me. I have to do something to help Rosa.

‘You think you are powerful, but you are too far away to help.’

This vedia sure is a bundle of sunshine and positivity.

‘If you’re closer, you do something. Save her. Please.’

‘The way she insists on clinging to you is in my way. Make her let go of you. Make her listen to me.’

I don’t trust this strange vedia, but Rosa needs help now. The vedia is there, and I’m not.

‘Tell me your name,’ I demand. I have practice making my mental presence small, unnoticeable. I’ve never had cause to do the opposite.

Within my mind, I stand tall, arms extended. I shield Rosa behind me. This is a shifting world, cities swept aside with a thought, but I hold tight to this stubbornness. To the threat I fully mean but have no idea how to carry out.

Does the vedia see what I want her to? Or does she see a frightened child with no idea what he’s doing?

I see her, face fractured and incomplete. She has no eyes this time. Her lips tilt in a smirk.

‘I am known as Lady Alaysq. Now, do as I said before we both lose this precious one.’

I stretch toward Rosa and concentrate on one thought. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Fredo? Where are you?’

Hope and terror flash as bright as a pair of suns. As her attention lands on me, the pain rips anew, ten times as strong. I can’t feel my legs, as if they’ve been torn off. I collapse. My own shriek sounds distant.

I don’t let go of her, imagining her hand in mine. Small. Soft. Warm.

A buzz surges through my arm. It ripples across our palms and pours into Rosa. Her eyes widen, and the draw becomes stronger. I flinch. It’s too strong, like being struck by lightning, then having all that ripped away.

Almost all the energy is gone, a heavy coldness in its place. My limbs gradually turn to stone. My grip is listless and unresponsive, but Rosa clings to my hand.

Floating on the edge of unconsciousness, I don’t have the strength for anything more than a near-silent plea. ‘Let go of me.’

‘I need you, Fredo.’

A speck of warmth swells in my chest, pulled away an instant later with everything else.

‘I think...you’re killing me.’

Black, smoky fluid spills. Her horror. It fills the space as she tears away.

Then nothing. I feel nothing.

Slowly, the heat of this world sinks through my skin and simmers in my bones. It’s also raining. The droplets tap on my robe and exposed arms. They slide over the hands shaking me awake.

I can’t move yet. I can only breathe. Air rushes in and out, shallow and quick.

What happened? Did I give Rosa my strength? Mykta take energy. They don’t give any back. But vedia do.

Curved, black letters scrawled on pale paper leap in front of the chaos of my thoughts. They’re from an old book Rosa handed me not long after declaring me her mykta. Instead of the enthralling legends that spilled from one page to the next, keeping me up all night, this is a quote I thought irrelevant and forgotten.

“To give their entire soul and ask for nothing in return. That is the vedia’s strength and the vedia’s weakness.”

Fear pours through me, sloshing cold against the inside of my skin. I don’t know how to be a vedia, how to survive being a vedia. But is that what I am?

Because I’m certainly not a mykta.

Or am I whatever a keilan is? And who kills them? Why have I never heard of them?

My breaths slow. Thoughts buzz in my head, too fast for me to catch and make sense of. So, I don’t bother. I let them float somewhere above my consciousness. Rosa will give me the answers. She always does.

I reach for her shakily, terrified of her touch. Also craving it.

I find only emptiness. A never-ending tunnel. Scoured and burnt. Raw like flesh torn from bone, and I can’t stand it. I sink back into myself. Body heavy. Surrounded by heat and humidity.

The hands on me are weighty. I shift and try to shove them away.

“I’m fine,” I insist, but they help me sit up anyway.

A flat, hard board presses against my back. It creaks at the stress of my load. It keeps me from falling out of the wagon.

“I’m fine,” I say again and again. I want to scream at them to stop touching me with their scaly, cold hands.

I’m too scared to yell. To call out their ardor and offense. Sit quietly, Fredo. Don’t do anything to give them reason to shoot me again. Or lead me off a cliff. Or feed me to one of this world’s many predators.

I sit. Compliant. Trying not to scowl. My arms cradle my side. A slight throbbing twinge is all that’s left of Rosa’s pain. Is she safe now? Did the vedia help her?

I need you, Fredo, she said, but I let go. I made her pull away.

If not, I would have died.

Now she might be dead because I wasn’t enough to help her.

Guilt tastes like vinegar.

Fear, slick as oil, slides through it. If she is dead, won’t I die anyway?

“To give their entire soul...”

The wagon sways, wheels scraping over rock and grinding into mud. Wind teases my hair. Its short ends dance on my cheeks and tickle my neck. I swat at it.

My stomach growls. Where did the food I dropped go?

My hand searches the floor beside my hip, venturing further when it finds nothing but sandy wood.

“The food’s disagreeable to your body?” Pullee asks by my ear.

I freeze. Concentrate. Map my surroundings. From the vacuum of warmth by my right shoulder, she must sit on the wagon’s rail.

Tap-tap. Her heels beat against its side as the vehicle bumps along.

I shake my head. “Granny assured me all the ingredients in that food were safe for Seallaii-na consumption. I would like to finish eating it.”

“Then what happened?” She slides down next to me, knees clinging to the wall.

How much should I say? And how to explain?

Head tilted, I pretend to look at her. “Some Seallaii-nas have a connection in their minds. No matter how far apart they are, they know what the other one is dealing with.”

“The one you’re connected to’s hurt?”

“Smart girl.” I nod. “Rosa is with the Shlykrii-nas, and they’re hurting her.”

“They took Prince Hent, too. They’re hurtin’ him also?” She grabs my hand. Instinct says to pull away, but the desperation in her tone stops me.

I don’t know what to tell her. If they’re hurting Rosa, who should be a valuable ally, how are they treating the prince of their enemy?

I let her hold my fingers with her tiny hands. The hoofed toes of the leempree towing this cart puncture the ground at a steady rhythm. They tick off how long it’s taking me to come up with an answer.

Pullee’s face snaps back to the scenery, and she clambers onto the wagon’s rail. With the creak of leather armor, the two men sitting on the front bench turn as well. One coos to the leempree. The other slides off our transport. He sloshes through soupy mud, racing to the side.

As soon as the wagon stops, his companion jumps down and follows.

Do they hear something?

Wiping rainwater off my face with an oversized sleeve, I scoot out the back of the simple cart and trail them. Rocks pummel the bottom of my feet, and I grit my teeth. Beneath the blindfold, my useless eyes moisten as the stench of burning hair and flesh fills my nostrils.

I see fire. I can’t breathe. I stumble, arms seared and slashed.

No, that’s the past. Focus, Fredo. Keep walking.

One foot in front of the other. Toes slide through mud, wary of rocks. The ground slopes.

A groan, gruff and low. An old man in pain. Is this real? Now? Or more forgotten memories summoned by the smell? I hurry toward it.

“He’s pinned,” says one of the men from the cart. They both refused to give their names when introduced. This one has a nasally voice, so I dub him Schnoz. “Help me lift this slab.”

Feet splash and squelch on the ruined ground. Pebbles grind and clink, tumbling down the hill. Skin slides on rough rock, and grunts punctuate the older man’s groans.

One of the rescuers slips. A smack and a yelp rip the air as everything plops down.

I hurry closer and shove my way between Schnoz and his fallen companion. Stone is wet and warm beneath my fingertips. My left hand skims the lumpy surface and finds the edge. My right traces the slab’s side in search of a second grip.

“We could barely budge it. You think you can…” Schnoz trails off as my legs straighten. The rock angles to meet my shoulders.

“Get him out,” I say.

My left thigh twitches and burns, protesting the work. I press my heel further into the mud, jaw set. I wish I could watch them, see the moment they are safe. Instead, I listen.

My own breaths are the loudest sound, followed by the trill and rattle of insects reveling in their feast. The Grenswa-na rescue workers shimmy under the slab with barely a swoosh. Several pops of released suction snap as they tug the victim from the mud.

“We’ve got you,” they tell him as they skate back.

A small sigh escapes me. I can be useful. I can save, not only destroy. As I breathe in, their retreating wake hits me with a new scent. Strong and sharp. Lacquer.

They’re behind me. I let the slab fall, and that burning, acidic stench sweeps over all. It denies me fulfilling breaths.

A choked sob muddies a scream. “My masterpiece! You’ll ruin it, you monster!”

Monster. I flinch. He tears free of the rescuers and shoves me aside as he rushes back to the slab. My left leg refuses to catch me, and I fall.

“You’re injured,” Schnoz reasons. “We’ve to get you back to the medical ward.”

“He broke it!” the man wails. An artist. He painted this, and his own work nearly crushed him.

I crawl closer.

“I’d just completed it, and now look! I can’t leave it to be seen like this.”

I run my hand over the slab. It is smooth and rough. Layers caked on. Tiered hills and steep valleys. Is it beautiful? Will I become accustomed to this? Can I recognize beauty when I cannot see it?

My fingers sink into a wet, viscous substance. I grimace and pull back.

“You smeared it! Don’t touch it!” The artist smacks my hand.

“It’s a stupid painting,” Schnoz argues. “Come with us now, and you can return for it later.”

Snorts and sliding. The rescuers towing the artist toward the wagon. Smack. They get kicked for their trouble. Thud. They drop him, and he scrambles toward me.

“What’s it a painting of?” I ask, hand hovering over its surface.

He catches my wrist. “The life of the world. Don’t you dare snuff out any more of those flames.”

I choke on my own gasp. He knows I’m a murderer, that I snuffed out the lives of Joqshon and Yol. He’ll immortalize my guilt in his art, on display to be viewed by those to come, known forevermore.

Fredo, who was meant to save and could only destroy.

“Ah, leave him here,” the other rescuer says. “We’ve lost so much, what’s one more, one star among a thousand? What does one spark matter? Who cares?”

“I care.” So soft, I’m surprised they hear me, but I feel their gazes on my downturned face. I force power into my voice. “It matters to me.”

Wrapping an arm around the artist, I stand, throw him over my shoulder, and plod to the wagon.

“No, I’ve to finish—”

“We’re saving you,” I tell him as his rump hits wooden boards and I climb in to sit across from him. “That’s that. Now be quiet.”

The wagon rocks as Schnoz and Apathetic get on, calling for the leempree to return. Wood creaks as the equines press their chests against the towing handle. They don’t have harnesses.

With a whoosh, Pullee spreads a blanket over the artist. He curls up and turns to the corner. I hang my feet out the back, scraping mud from my soles and pant legs and too-long sleeves. Why does it have to smell like death and decay? Why can’t the crisp, cool breeze of Rokanaye Forest find me here, carrying the fragrance of berries and spring water?

Because I’m on another planet, dummy. I can’t expect anything to be like home.

Cloth hits my shoulders, soft as suede against the exposed portion of my biceps.

I shrug it off. “It’s too hot for a blanket, Pullee.”

“You looked like you wanted something.”

Normalcy. I want normalcy, but instead I say, “A pair of shoes.” That would be one step toward normalcy, at least.

She sits alongside me. “What’re shoes?”

“They protect your feet.”

She claps. “Soldiers goin’ into battle’ve those, but they call them greaves—armor coverin’s that go over their shins and the top of their feet with spikes stickin’ up from the toes.”

“That would be useful if you had to kick someone, but shoes protect all of your foot—the bottom, too—from sharp rocks and twigs or disgusting mud.” I scrape off another layer of said substance and fling it beyond the wagon.

“They cover your foot completely? Sounds like it’d be a prison for your toes.”

“Sometimes freedom is sacrificed for safety. Like with this old man.” I gesture vaguely behind us. “We’re bringing him back to help him, to keep him safe, but he wanted to stay. We traded his freedom for his safety.”

“I’d choose freedom,” she murmurs as her hand alights on mine. Her scaly fingers trace my scars.

I jerk away. “What is wrong with you?”

She gasps, and tears flow in her voice. “I’ve a condition, okay?”

Rough hands grip my shoulders and haul me back. As my spine hits the rail, a smelly, mud-covered leg presses against my chest, meant to pin me—either Schnoz or Apathetic. I could throw them both halfway across the world.

Instead, I make a show of glaring at Pullee and hope it looks that way. “A condition that compels you to touch people uninvited?”

The warm edge of a blade lines the hollow of my throat. I lean back from it, pushing harder against the rail.

“How dare you make Lady Pullee cry,” Apathetic snarls. He’s the one sitting on me.

I don’t move. Don’t fight. Wouldn’t Rosa’s tears have prompted me to do the same as him?

I didn’t mean to make the little girl cry. She just doesn’t have any manners.

“Because of my condition, I can’t really breathe,” Pullee explains, sobs still plain in her voice. “Usually, I can’t even be out of the water, but Rose made this medicine for me, and now at least I can be a little helpful.”

I know the feeling. I picture the labs deep within the citadel. A staircase adults had told me never to climb. Rosa beckoned me to follow her every day. My body moved on its own when she slipped, and I caught her, finding myself halfway up those stairs and too curious to go back down.

There was an outside, and I wanted to explore it. It only showed me how different I was. Not a Lokma by blood like the rest of the clan. Not a River Guardian like their honored guests.

I wanted to be something. To be useful. To matter.

“These scars mean you survived something awful, don’t they?” Pullee picks up my hand and holds it in front of my blind eyes.

I dare not breathe as the future ruler of my world slides to the top of my memories, blood-purple lips twisted in a grimace.

“We’re survivors.” Pullee’s voice echoes over the old scene. “Stuff’sn’t always easy for us, but we live on anyway.”

I hear Rosa’s sister. “What do you mean, everything about him is classified? If he is what I suspect, he will destroy our Sine. Do not let him near her.”

Needles in my head. Invisible. They pierce every part of me.

She opens her mouth to seal my doom, but Kietyn’s deep boom cuts her off. “You cannot order his execution without proof, Sil. He is a child, a precious thread connecting Seallaii to the future.”

The dungeons then. Bars and chains and darkness.

That is where the princess still believes me to be, safely locked away. What would she say if she learned I accompanied Rosa here?

Yet, I need River Guardian assistance. I can’t get off this world, can’t get Rosa back, without a ship. Can the Lokmas handle this without involving the royal family?

Seallaii needs to be informed of what happened here as well as of Rosa’s capture. Shlykrii also needs to be included so they can take responsibility for what they’ve done.

There must be some communication system in place. These Grenswa-nas can connect me to those who need to hear what I have to say.

The cart rocks as others hop aboard. The children of chaos all shout over one another. Wary of the knife at my throat, I strive to stay as still as possible.

“Pullee, go get in the water,” the Lord of Ruby orders as he leaps over the wagon’s side and nearly lands on my head.

“But—”

“Don’t argue. I see that pained look. You’ve been out too long.”

“Fine.” She huffs. “You come with me, Kral.”

Apathetic obeys the tug on his arm and releases me as he slips off the back of the transport to follow the stomping girl.

I sit up and do my best to avoid all the feet and swaying tails.

“Lord Sjaen,” I call, but he’s busy by the artist’s side. I doubt he hears me over the old man’s screams. Bone cracks.

“Stop thrashing. I need to get a good look at this.”

Is he a doctor as well as a lord? Or is he butting in where he doesn’t belong?

It’s not any of my business. It’s his lord title I need. He can arrange for an off-world message. Right now, he might be distracted enough to order someone to set it up so I get out of his way.

I stand, step into the chaos, and place a hand on the Ruby’s shoulder. “Lord Sjaen, I need to send a transmission to Seallaii.”

“No.” With a violent shrug, he slips free.

“Has Seallaii been informed at all of what’s happened?”

He whirls. Spittle lands on my cheeks as he hisses, “We don’t need more spies and traitors runnin’ us over. Grenswa can take care of its own.”

“You have spaceships, then?”

He pauses, air drawn to reply but trapped within. As he turns away, the artist’s scream sunders any notion of silence.

“You have to let me contact them.” My hand aims again for his shoulder. It finds the top of the artist’s head instead, and I’m smacked for it.

“Seallaii’s friends with Shlykrii. It’s no secret. You can’t be friends with us both.”

“I’ll contact Shlykrii as well. They’ll be held responsible.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Take me to the king. Let him decide.”

“The king’s dead.”

The news hits me like a bolt of lightning, and I barely hear the rest of his denouncement.

“Most of our lords and ladies and their heirs’re also dead. Our Opal prince’s taken.”

It’s like it was the last time Shlykrii attacked, the hierarchy shattered. Rosa’s Uncle Sjaealam searched for the next living heir to the throne. Supported him. Helped the world rebuild.

Are they expecting something similar from me?

I’m not a politician. I can’t even see.

“Who’s in charge?” I breathe a few beats too late. The Lord of Ruby is no longer listening.

“We’ll have to amputate this hand,” he says as the artist shrieks again.

I grimace. “But he’s an artist.”

“Better a one-handed artist than dead. Bon, knock him out.”

A thud chases the old man’s screams away. A shink of metal scratches my ears as Lord Sjaen unsheathes a blade.

I don’t want to hear it. As I stumble back, my heel finds the end of the cart. I slide out and scurry away, wincing as blade strikes bone. I cover my ears.

Bad idea. I don’t know the area and can’t see. Denying my hearing only secludes me more. I crash into a doorway, hurry through it, and stumble into a crowd. A few of them nudge and shove me in return, attention elsewhere.

I peel my hands from my ears. The men’s hushed whispers possess an eager vibe, individual words smashed and indiscernible.

“Prince, here they come!”

Prince? If the king is dead, is he in charge?

I press my way through the crowd in search of this prince.

The shout elicits a roar of excitement. A song, I realize a moment later. Deeper vocals of the men rise and fall in harmony with a higher, feminine chorus. Claps and footfalls set a beat as the women draw nearer. Water drips and splashes from them in a cascade of bell-like sounds.

A baby cries, but it fits with the song. It chimes over the melody and rides the waves of the adults’ notes.

I’m at the front of the crowd of men. The women are near. They dance and coo. The one holding the baby stands right next to me.

“It’s a boy,” she says softly. Even the shuffle of blankets as she hands him over adds rhythm to their music. “You’ve a son, My Prince.”

“Thank you, Auntie,” the one who takes the child responds just as gently. At hearing his father’s voice, the baby’s wails fade into a giggle. “Niiq’s okay?”

“Still in her birthin’ trance. You’ll come to the underwater room and await her awakenin’?”

“Of course.” Relief and joy fill the words. A tamp of steps quicken the beat as the women clear a path for him.

No, he can’t go. I need him to approve my call home.

I should wait. This seems like the middle of an important ritual.

I can’t wait. I’ve already wasted too much time, and with every lost moment, Rosa falls further away.

What if he denies the request like Sjaen did? Calls me stupid and cuts off someone’s arm instead of believing how imperative this is? If this prince is the highest-ranking person here, I can’t risk him refusing to let Seallaii know what has happened.

My feet move on their own. They carry me swiftly, the kind of speed I know is hard to track with the eye. The kind that annoys Kunai and makes Rosa clap for me.

I pivot around the prince and snatch the baby.

Metal sings, and I feel the wake as the prince pulls a dagger from a sheath on his thigh. With the baby cradled in one arm, I catch the father’s wrist and twist him onto the ground. My foot stomps on his sternum.

Grenswa-na bones are flexible and difficult to break, but I hear a telltale snap. The prince cries out, hissing in pain. Too late to turn back. To make friends. I am a threat. A monster. Act like it.

I let the prince’s arm slide in my grip. My fingers roll the dagger from his limp grasp. It’s a heavy weapon, blade longer than my hand. It probably gleams.

I point its tip at the infant in my arms, jaw set as I’m bombarded by a myriad of gasps and bellows. Several would-be heroes rush toward me.

“Be still,” I growl, “all of you.”

Continued in chapter 39: In the Mists of My Mind

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