Out

Chapter 23

Wilds, 324 Era Vulgaris, Centennial 38

I was afraid of lightning when I was younger, in the same way I feared Arci guns; both had the potential to be destructive. Fatal. Vesper was felled by a bolt and a bullet, a vision I am not likely to forget as long as I live. In these past few weeks, I have held lightning in my hand, felt the electricity ripple through my fingers, and reveled in the power of a controlled heat. Lightning built me from a powerless child. I have conquered with that power, and now, I have fifteen Sparks at my back. These women are hopeful in their desire to save their tribe, and each speak to an impossible natural force. The closer we come to Quarantine, the stronger they become.

Last night, not one of us slept. We meditated instead on Ignis, abandoned our supply packs beneath a rock outcropping, and left camp at first light. Not one voice has risen in complaint; the women speak instead of reuniting with their family members and friends in Q. When one woman is mentioned, three stories are shared about her. Their joy is palpable, and I am connected to our imprisoned people as individuals, instead of my burden. Their reunion with the tribe will be not be solemn. There is much joy ahead, should we succeed.

At midday, my Sparks are giddy with nostalgia.

"Oh, Antista! You have not lived until you have heard Rahel's voice!" Oris says.

"When she opens her mouth, the Decuriate stops to listen," Emira adds.

"And she knows it," Oris says. The women dissolve into fitful laughter.

"Her mother was worse! All that beauty and not a humble bone in her body," Neci says.

"Poor Luhel," Emira says. "Riva never forgave her—oh!" She gasps.

All are silent at the mention of the Spark Mother.

"What happened?" I ask. I do not want to indulge gossip, but I want to know more about Riva. I know so little about who she was, and even less about her relationships with other Cerani.

Neci links her arm through mine. "Riva's partner left her for Luhel," she says.

"Aron's father?" I ask.

"Yes. His name was Ovid," Neci says. "He was the worst sort of man, the kind who looks into his own past and sees only triumphs, never failures. He thought he was faultless. Ovid did not see how he broke Riva."

"How did he die?" I ask. I do not wish to speak of death, so soon after Riva's demise, but this is a part of Aron's history, a history I want to share.

"Aron goaded his father into a fight," Neci says, "and Ovid beat him senseless, and then spat on him. Aron threw his knife. Ovid was dead before he hit the ground. Aron was not punished, and that is when the men made an agreement to hold each other to a code of honor. Any man who dares hurt his partner, as Ovid beat both Riva and Aron, will receive punishment equal to his crime. No man has done so since."

"That is not true. Aron struck Riva," I say.

Neci pulls her arm away from mine and wrings her hands. "He did."

"Why?"

"She called him Ovid by accident," Neci says. "By her account, he whipped around to raise issue with her, but he caught her with his elbow instead and knocked her to the ground. She was stunned, and he was horrified."

"That all happened the day you were taken to Quarantine?" I ask.

"Yes. We were taken mid-morning, and Aron deserted by first light. When Riva found out he deserted the tribe, she compared him to his father and swore he would be punished. No one believed she ought to kill Aron, but neither did they deny her right to exact revenge for Ovid's treatment of her. Had she killed Aron, had you not come into our lives, his death would have been considered retribution for his father's actions."