Coldspark

There weren't always dragons in the Valley, or so I'm told. Yet every night I dream of them sleeping in the ashes of our ancestral villages. Their scales glinting in the wavering firelight as they curl into circles, backs to the large campfires they construct each evening, and let the warmth soak into their hide and soothe them to sleep.

I watch from a distance as the dragons rest and wonder if they too wander the world in their dreams. If I were a dragon I would spend my nights soaring the starlit sky, swimming through the clouds and feeling the wind beneath my wings.

Oh what I would give for such freedom.

"Kiru, get down from there! Father will begin the gathering soon, we do not want to be late! Do NOT make me drag you again."

My older brother's voice stirs up a swirl of leaves that spin away into the evening air. I turn to see his spirit-echo and grin mischeviously.

"You'd have to catch me first, Remo." A tease, as I dance easily down from the tree I was balancing on and flit around him, causing a small tornado of dirt and dust to lazily waft up into the air and rustle the trees all around us. "Maybe a few seasons ago you could have, but now? You are too old. You have grown too solid, too stiff. Your spirit is rigid and heavy. You cannot catch me old man!"

Remo's astral form flickered in annoyance. "Enough games, Kiru. If you wanted to play you should have gone with the other children instead of wandering off to look at the stupid lizards.

"They're not stupid lizards! They are majestic," I protest. "And you know the other kids won't play with me anymore."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Queia's. She started it. She's not a good friend. I told her about my idea and she just laughed. They all did."

"Why do I even bother? Forget about the dragons. They are pests, brother. When we rise up against the Masters, we will return to this valley and clear away their infestation. Now follow me or I'll tell father you're being rude."

Remo slides away from my perch much faster than any physical body could move. His echo looks like him, strong and clearly visibile, an adult. My own echo is constantly shifting. Sometimes I float like a bird or a glitter-bug. Most of the time I scamper around like a little rodent. But I am fast, so much faster than he is in his more solidified state. I let him get a ways ahead of me before rushing forward to catch him, my echo takes the form of a rabbit hopping through the underbrush. A breeze follows in my wake that disturbs the greenery all around.

"I do not understand why you cannot let this nonsense about the dragons go, Kiru. They are not your tribe. We are. If you keep pushing away the other children what will you do when you become Xontarri? Who then will you rely on?"

"No one. I will rely on myself," I say stubbornly.

"Foolishness. No one can become Xontarr alone."

"Just because you couldn't doesn't mean nobody can, Remo. Plenty of people can do things you can't do!"

Remo's laugh startles a bird from its nest and makes several of the nearby trees creak anxiously. "Name five of our people who are better than me, I dare you! I am the best Xontarr our people has ever seen and you know it brother. Question me again and I shall bruise you come dawn."

I pause, halfway up a tree in the shape of a squirrel, and quiver in mock fear. "Brave words from a man threatening a boy half his age."

"Ha! Fine, then I shall wait as many seasons as you like. But when you become Xontarr all by your scrawny self, then we shall fight."

"Ooh, a tempting offer. Winner becomes Speaker?" I tease.

Remo halts his march through the forest so suddenly that I am already a stone's throw ahead of him (fluttering between branches as a long-beaked honey-bird) when I realize he is no longer keeping pace with me.

"I am our father's heir, Kiru. I am to be the next Speaker. It is your duty as second son to replace uncle Esco as our Silencer. We must each-"

"'Play our part' yes yes I've listened to father a thousand times, Remo. Becoming Xontarr really leeched the joy out of you didn't it? I miss when we used to play in these woods all night instead of hearing you lecture me about duty and honor and responsibility. Why do all Xontarr have to sound the same?"

"Because we owe it to our people to be the best we can be. If we are ever to overthrow the Masters, we must first master ourselves. There comes a time Kiru when we must set aside such childish notions as riding dragons, grow up, and face reality head on. Like a true warrior does. You will understand this when uncle Esco teaches you the way of the spear in a few seasons' time."

I drop to the forest floor as a plump little toad and stick out my ridiculously long tongue at my brother.

"See? You're no fun anymore."

Remo marches past me without addressing my statement.

Reluctantly, and not without a significant fuss, I follow him to the gathering stones.

Long ago our Valley was where we spent our lives. At night we strode around in our astral forms (spirit-striding) discussing philosophy and charting the stars, enjoying life. At dawn we awoke and used our rested bodies to tend to the land and shape it to our needs. We built beautiful homes here which the dragons have since burnt down. We kept herds of animals as well, some we used for their eggs, some we used for their milk, others were useful for plowing the fields and helping us grow the majority of our food. In return we protected them from the dragons and other predators that tried to hunt them down. This was, in my father's words, a symbiotic relationship. We kept them and they kept us. Together, we prospered.

This is not the way of the Masters. We are not companions or allies to our keepers. We are things. Shaved monkeys they have trained to perform tricks. The only reward for performing the work they give us is enough food to subsist and perhaps a reprieve from their preferred method of interaction with us. Torment.

Here in the ashes of the homes they stole us from, Remo guides me through the multitudinous throngs of our people. Many times the numbers of families that were torn from this place long ago, our tribe has grown larger in order to better serve the needs and wants of our cruel Masters. As sons of the Speaker, Remo and I take our place in the center of the ruins where once our ancestors' village stood.

Father's echo appears less transparent than most of the other Xontarr present, and more closely resembles his physical body than even Remo's does. Remo's actual body is not that strong-looking, nor is he quite so tall. Father appears exactly as he is both day and night. An older, but still very muscular, man with a spiralling nest of hair decorated with feathers and bones and other marks that tell the members of our tribe that he is both the wisest and strongest of our number. He stands in the center of an untouched ring of stones, eyes cast upwards as he waits patiently for my brother and I to take our seats.

The moment we do, the sky rumbles with tremendous force and a streak of lightning cuts through the sky; briefly linking the ring of stones to a tiny puff of a cloud that was not present before we arrived.

A roaring flame springs up within the stones and my father's echo grows taller, his image flickering and waving in the night sky as he looks out over all of us with a proud, warm smile.

"Welcome, my fellow Xonteri. To another blessed evening. I appreciate you all making this long journey to our sacred land from the many points along this continent that we find ourselves scattered across. It has been four generations since we last stepped foot in our Valley, and they have not been gentle seasons that have guided us from there to here. But we have survived. And grown stronger. And bided our time waiting for the moment to strike back against the cruel Masters. It is my cheerful duty to inform my great people that tonight is the last night we shall spend beleiving ourselves to be at a disadvantage. For we have learned of a way to Silence the elves' cold sparks."

A ripple of disquiet spread through my people as fiercely as a blade through cream.

"Hush, my people. On this last night, I ask that you journey with me through out ancestral memories to witness the first time we felt the dread we have all lived with our whole lives. The moment we understood that our elven Master's posses a terrible power over this world that we have not understood, until now. Behold, our last in the Valley."

My father raises his hand, still towering over us as his form flickers in the light of the bonfire, and casts a familiar memory onto the stars above us. We all lean back to bear witness.

We were in the midst of our midday tasks when we first heard of their approach. Strangers from afar, tall and gangling beings with pointed ears and slit-pupiled eyes. They looked so much like us, the differences only noticeable in the sharpness of their features compared to the roundness of ours. But we quickly learned they were not like us at all.

A messenger from our tribe approached them, unarmed, and bid them fair morning. This was the first time we saw the way they moved, so unlike us. Rapid shifts, lots of pacing back and forth, jerky movements like a hungry bird or a territorial snake. They always peered at us from the sides, and often let their eyes wander away as we spoke, as if they were expecting threats to come from behind them or perhaps they were simply bored of us.

When we day-stride, our bodies have an acute sense of smell. We can normally tell things like what emotions a creature is feeling or how exhausted they are by minute differences is the scents they are putting off.

Elves don't smell like anything. So it was impossible for us to tell at first what they were planning.

One of them pulled a long blade from their side, a sword, and jolted forward with those same jerky rapid movements that characterized how they spoke with us. Our messenger was decapitated before she could even react.

Our ancestral memories are not merely images or vague ideas. They are full-sensation recollections. Around the gathering stones I feel my people react in unison; clutching at their throats or crying out in pain despite the many, many seasons that have passed since that blade found its mark. I too, share their pain, but I do not react. I would not want Remo to think less of me, and he barely even winced.

The next time we saw the elves they arrived at the edge of our village. Warned already by the spirit of our messenger, our warriors had rallied and collected their spears.

When the small band of five elves approached, our ancient Speaker bid them to halt else he would order his warriors to attack.

The elves did not break their pace as they approached.

Our Xontar, our warriors, hurled a volley of spears towards our new enemy and hoped to drive them away or kill them the same way they had with dragons and cave hounds and mountain cats. But these elves were no mere beasts.

Just one of them raised a hand, and gave us all our first taste of the Cold Spark. A bright white glow emitted from its palm. Fire that gave off no heat. They pointed this frozen flame up towards our warrior's spears and made their hand into a flat 'stop' shape.

The spears halted their descent. The elf made a fist, and half of the spears snapped apart like dried twigs.

I cannot stop the jolt of fear that races through me. Whether it is a result of the memories of what my ancestors felt, seeing their weapons so casually dismissed, or it is my own fear racing through my echo. I have seen similar demonstrations of that dreadful power as recently as this same day. Time has not made the cold sparks any less terrible.

He or she (it is so very difficult to tell with elves for they all have long hair, sharp features, and hide their bodies beneath the same sorts of clothing) then rotated their fist and splayed their fingers down into a pointed gesture. Our warrior's spears turned about to point back at those that threw them.

Our ancestors stared in shock, too stunned to recognize the danger in the split-second the elf gave them before they drove their knife-shaped hand down towards the ground. The spears caught in the grip of their cold spark hammered into the dirt beneath our warrior's feet; splattering it with blood as the weapons made no distinction between friend or foe on the path they took to reach their target.

Impaled and bloody, some of our brave warriors were left to die slowly as the elves marched through our village using their cold sparks to slaughter any who opposed them as they rounded up those they did not kill and forced them to obey.

That was the last day our people spent in the Valley, and the first time we called the elves 'Masters.'

My father's hand drops to his side and releases his grip upon the memory we have all just shared. Though very far away, I can feel a cold sweat breaking out on my body and I know from the scent of the air that I am not alone in this response.

"This our past. Our present has been much the same. The masters wield the cold sparks ruthlessly, bruising and killing us for any perceived disobedience. Long have we known that in order to survive, we must submit. Long have we lived with this shame. But no longer. We have discovered the secret to their power. Our Xontarr have struck a blow against the masters. In the southern wastes, the territory of the builder tribe, the short and mighty defenders of that land defeated one of the elven armies. A small group of our warriors led by my mighty brother, Esco, allowed their elven general to be captured. His body now rests in the hands of the dwarves, and he has earned their trust. The builders call themselves 'dwarves' and we may now count them as our allies. Through my brother's eyes I have seen their prowess, and I have spoken with their elder folk. We have an agreement. The elven general is weak. They have already begin to steal the secrets of the cold sparks from his mind. From him, my brother will learn, and then he will teach us. At night we will all train. At dawn we shall speak none of this to one another, ever, lest the elves learn of our plans. One day... one day very soon, we will rise up and take the cold sparks for ourselves. We will turn the elves weaponry against them! We will free ourselves!"

With each word my father speaks, my world changes a little more. I turn to my brother Remo, who looks solemnly unsurprised by this revelation.

"Did you know this already?" I ask him.

Remo smirks. "Brother, my body rests beside uncle Esco's right now. We are learning from this elven xarq each day. I can already summon a tiny bead of light into either hand with a bit of concentration. Soon I will be able to summon my spear without touching it. Then? Who knows."

I gaze at my brother in wonder as he tells me that he can do magic. My father speaks for the rest of the night, answering questions and laying out the timeline for how long it will take for us to master the cold sparks and rise up against the elves. I hear none of it. All I want to do is learn the way of the spear, and of the cold spark, and become like my brave brother Remo.

"... why we shall wait a few seasons more, in order for our latest generation to reach maturity and become the first wave of Xontarr to be armed with cold sparks, before we move against the masters. Patience, my people. Our time spent suffering is at an end. From this day forth it is only a matter of seasons before we step foot in this Valley once more!"

The crowd roars along with my father's closing words. But one voice calls out in the darkness a word we do not want to hear. Caution.

"And what if he is lying?"

Many eyes turn to face the woman now standing and staring not at the pillaring height of my father's image dancing in the bonfire, but deep into the belly of the flames where his echo truly lies. The voice belongs to my mother.

"Lishari, I... it is good to hear your voice."

"Answer my question, Gitan. What if the elf lies? We know that elves lie, it is like breathing for them, or shedding blood. What if our Silencer is being mislead, by an elf so wise they let him lead armies?"

The crowd once more gives in to disquiet as they consider her words.

My father's image nods, acknowledging her valid fears.

"The builders, sorry, the dwarves have a concotion they brew deep in their mines. None who drink it can tell a lie or conceal some part of the truth. They feed this brew to the elf with each meal."

"How useful. I would very much like to know the secret to brewing this myself. It might have saved our marriage."

I have no idea what she is saying. My eyes dart between her, Remo, and my father in search of some clue that might explain her words. She is defiant and spiteful. My brother remains as stoic as ever. But I can see the lines of pain that etch themselves across my father's face, like an old statue cracking under sudden pressure.

He shakes his head softly. "Lishari, there is no truth you could have spoken that was too terrible for me to cease loving you. I am sorry the same was not true in reverse."

My mother rolls her eyes and vanishes in a puff of astral vapor, gone in an instant as she chose to awaken early and return to her body.

My father says nothing further on the matter and continues to address other, less dramatic, questions from his people.

I am left to wonder at the meaning behind my parent's exchange. But I do not wonder for very long as the far more exciting prospect of wielding the cold spark for myself. The idea that I could one day lift an elf into the air and slam them down onto the unforgiving earth again and again fills me with great joy. I have seen too many of my people split open or thrown dashed against rocks by the elves and their cold sparks not to indulge in visualizing a bit of payback.

"Easy, Kiru. Look at yourself."

At Remo's warning I glance down and see that my echo has taken on a dangerous form. I am nearly myself, which is not something a child should appear as before his or her time to achieve full maturity and become Xontarr.

If we take our own shape whilst spirit-stride before we are fully adults we run the risk of becoming stuck in our present state forever. As our bodies mature around us we feel less and less connected to them, until one day we find it too painful to return to a body that does not feel like our own. It happens all too often; usually when a child who has only just discovered the ability to spirit-stride does so during the daytime, which is forbidden, or is forced outside their body by en extremely damaging event. Father has shared with our tribe memories of a young man on the cusp of becoming Xontarr who witnessed his best friend get torn apart by an elven Keeper right before his eyes. Something about the event changed him, and when he next took his astral shape he was confined to the shape of his adolescent self forever, never able to recover from the dark memory of that event.

Recognizing this danger in myself, I quickly move to master myself and reform into the shape of a fox.

"Better. Watch it, Kiru, I like having you around. Makes me look even cooler when people realize how lame my little brother is," Remo teased.

I turn to him in indignation only to catch one glimpse of him sticking his tongue out at me before he vanishes into the fading night, returning to his body as dawn slowly draws nearer.

For a moment I consider joining him but as the gathering melts away and my father steps out of the blazing ring of stones I realize that I still have some time left before my day must begin. There will be plenty of time for me to master the cold spark and become Xontarr in the days, nights, and seasons to come. But for now I am still a child, and I will allow myself one final indulgence.

In a blur of vaporous feathers I launch into the air and race away from the gathering place at top speed. I may not yet be as strong as my brother or as wise as my father, but I sure am fast.

My perch overlooking the sleeping dragons is waiting for me right where I left it. The branches of my favorite tree greet me like old friends as I alight upon them and stare down with eager eyes upon the wondrous creatures that everyone tells me are irredeemably evil.

In the ancestor's memories, dragons were no larger than rodents. No less than three were required to haul off one of our goats. A single well-places spear could punch right through their bright scales and kill one of them instantly. But these that I gaze upon now are much, much larger. Closer in size to the hooved steeds that pull the Masters' carts and chariots. Their shimmering scales are thicker and darker than their more resplendent ancestors, and I have no doubt that it would take multiple spears to fell one of these beasts.

How can something so beautiful be bad?

A childish part of me wants very badly for these majestic creatures to be my friends. Remo says that is foolish. The other children laugh at me for saying it. But I can still hope, for a little while longer anyway.

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. They used to be our enemies. But when we were forced from our homes by invaders wielding a powerful weapon, the dragons claimed our sacred home as their inheritance. Unchecked by our spears, they grew stronger amidst the ashes of our ancestors' hard work. For a long time my people hated them for that. But I, and I alone, am glad that they live here now. I know they were our enemies once, and perhaps will be again, but it comforts me knowing that our Valley has been so well protected in our absence.

The path back to our Valley will be long and difficult. Many elves will need to die before they learn not to call themselves our 'masters.' Reuniting with our separated tribes will not be easy. Eventually though, no matter what it takes, I will step foot in this Valley. I will come here and place my hand against this tree in the daytime and remember a time when I looked down from it in my dreams.

I know this will come to pass. What I do not know is how many seasons it will take, or what it will cost. But this is the challenge the gods have laid before me. This is the duty my people require me to undertake. I will rise to meet it, and hone myself into the sort of Xontarr my descendants can be proud of.

Kiru is my name, and my people will remember it long after I am gone! For I will become the Xontarr who leads us home to our sacred Valley!

End Prologue