Victor of Tucson

40 – Darkness and Light

Victor stared into Chantico’s eyes, waiting, but she didn’t speak again. She wanted him to draw a conclusion or ask a question, no doubt. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t contemplated his fear affinity before. When he’d first unlocked it, building that dark, malignant ball of Energy in his Core, he’d hated the idea that he was so attuned to it. Thunderbite had chastised him, reminding him that without fear, he couldn’t be brave. What had his words been? Something about those without fear being “bold,” but that only those who conquered fear could be brave.

That idea had mollified Victor, helping him come to grips with the idea that, despite his great inner well of fear, he persevered. He took action and did the right thing more often than not, and it seemed to him those actions were more meaningful in the face of his fear affinity. None of that answered the question, though. What was the root of his fear? Where did it come from? If his other affinities were byproducts of his fear, could his fear, then, be a byproduct? Is that what Chantico meant?

He supposed she could mean something else. His fear affinity could be the base of his other affinities, but perhaps she simply wanted him to explore where his fear came from. Was this a supernatural, otherworldly, out-of-body counseling session? Was he supposed to confront his demons and find out—

Perhaps she sensed he was drifting because Chantico spoke then—her voice calm, soothing. “Victor, when do you first remember being truly afraid?”

The answer came immediately—memories of bright lights, hushed voices, adults talking over his head like he wasn’t even there. He’d known something was wrong. He knew what pobrecito meant, and he’d seen the sorrowful eyes of his abuela and his aunties. He’d recognized the hard looks his tíos kept giving each other. Yes, he decided, when his parents died, he’d known his first, true taste of fear. Any arguments or scolding or trouble up to that point became meaningless. Nothing was like the cold finality of his parents—his mother—being gone from the world.

“Did you find it?” Chantico prodded.

“Yes.”

“Good. Victor, you’re an intelligent man. I think you would have come to this process on your own eventually, but I believe you’ve been avoiding it. I don’t mean recently, either; I believe you’ve been avoiding these thoughts your entire life.” She chuckled, her voice rich in a way that made Victor think of his tío’s expensive guitar. “I speak as though you’ve been hiding for centuries, but you’re a young man. I’m sorry to push you so before you’ve had a chance to truly live and come to grips with these thoughts in your own time.”

“So. Use that brain of yours, think about your fear and the times you’ve had it. What was it rooted in? What did you lose? What were you afraid of losing? What about your rage? What made you the most furious? When did that start?”

Again, Victor let his mind drift back to his childhood, and just as Chantico said he would, he began to make connections. His first fear was rooted in the idea that he wouldn’t see his parents again. He’d never feel his mother’s hand on his forehead, hear her gentle voice, or see the smiling approval on her face. After that, he felt fear constantly. In those first, early years, Victor feared disappointing his abuelo, but then the grizzled old man had died, and Victor found himself fearing he’d lose his abuela, who’d stepped into the void his mother had left behind.

After that, he’d feared being ostracized by his cousins and the scolding, disappointed looks on his aunties’ faces—the way they talked about his mother’s family, rightfully disgusted by the fact that they wanted nothing to do with Victor. Those were the first memories that helped him see the connection between his rage and fear. He fought when he felt unwanted—when fear whispered that no one liked him, no one cared. He’d taken on cousins years older and earned himself quite a few good beatings. Still, the pain of kicks and punches was easier than that of rejection.

That line of thinking—the thought of rejection—helped Victor to see more clearly how his glory affinity was tied to his fear. What was the rejection related to, though? What was he afraid he wouldn’t have? Acceptance? Friendship? Family? Love? He supposed it was all of those things and more.

Putting aside his youth, Victor tried to focus on more recent feelings. What did he fear now? Most people might, very reasonably, say they feared death. Victor couldn’t say the same—not since he’d learned about the spirit plane and his ancestors. He knew this life wasn’t the end of everything, and that made it impossible to truly fear death. At least not death itself. He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t fear missing out on things in this life if he died. Wouldn’t he like to see what became of Deyni? Wouldn’t he like a chance to make sure Cora had a good life? What about love? If he died, he’d lose any opportunity to—

Something gripped Victor’s heart then, and he knew he was onto something. Why did he love so hard? Why did he so desperately want things to work with Valla? Why had it crushed him so when she’d left? What about Tes? Why were his feelings, so profound and visceral, real? Was he just trying to fill that void that had begun to grow in his spirit when his parents had died?

He thought about that word, void. Was it a coincidence that he’d used that term when that was the type of Energy he’d been cursed with? Was the figurative void in his heart somehow related to his weakness to the curse? He frowned, concentrating, trying to make the wispy, fragmented thoughts more solid, more concrete. It became clear how fear and rage fed the emptiness—the void in his heart.

Glory, too, he supposed, was the same. When he experienced those “glorious” moments in his life, he felt whole. He felt the rush of adoration, of belonging. What about inspiration? He felt like it had a lot to do with hope—when he was inspired, he felt like the hole wasn’t bottomless.

Was that it? Was everything related to the void that had begun to grow when his mother died? A hole stretched wider by his inability to fit in with those he loved? An emptiness that deepened with each failed love, each fleeting victory on the mat—short-lived glory that vanished the moment the crowd stopped cheering?

Short-lived. The word resonated with Victor, and he contemplated his earlier notion of how inspiration was like that, too. When he was inspired, he forgot about the void, but it didn’t last. How often did he turn to rage or fear when the inspiration he’d gotten from an exemplar—Lam—or a wise word—his abuelita—failed to keep him going through his troubles? For a long time, Victor thought about that. He ran through the memories of his life, remembering his fights, his triumphs, and his constant efforts to fill the missing parts of his heart—his spirit.

After a while—he couldn’t have guessed how long—he turned his gaze inward to his Core, and it seemed to him that it didn’t look right. Why was glory, a presumably positive influence on his spirit, encircled by rage and fear? Had Dar set him on a faulty path? Why was inspiration, the most positive of his affinities, so much weaker than the others? It seemed to him that—

Victor’s eyes flew open, and he looked at Chantico again, locking his eyes with her. “I don’t think glory and inspiration are right.”

She smiled, revealing those sharp canines as she slowly nodded. “Go on.”

“My inspiration Energy is wonderful, it’s easy and helpful. It helps me when I’m stuck, but it’s fleeting. It doesn’t fill that emptiness—the hunger that fuels my rage and fear.”

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She raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak.

“Glory, too, is fleeting. Worse, I think I’m getting the wrong thing out of it. When I feel people see my accomplishments—spectators, fellow soldiers, even my ancestors—it fills that void, but only briefly. It’s not a lasting connection.”

“You’ve done well to see so much, Victor.” Chantico squeezed his hands, and Victor realized he’d forgotten she was holding them. “Everyone has darkness and light in their spirits. Yours is very bright, indeed, but you’ve let the things feeding on the emptiness in you grow too strong. You’ve broken up your light. Think about it: inspiration and glory… they’re echoes. Incomplete. Inspiration is a spark—steel on flint. It burns fast, and then it’s gone. And glory? That’s a reflection of light—borrowed, bounced from others. It’s not real unless it’s shared.”

“A reflection of what?” Victor frowned as he contemplated her words. “I feel like everything is sort of related to love—the love of my mother, my grandmother, my love of so many others, and that desire to be loved. It doesn’t feel right, though.”

“That’s because we’re talking about something missing, Victor—an emptiness in you, a hollow spot, a void. Yes, that void was first brought to life early on when you lost something or someone dear, but it’s been growing. Your other affinities are a reflection of it. You fight to regain what you lost and what you fear you’ll lose. It’s not just love; it’s friendship, camaraderie, a sense of belonging, a place in this world or the next.

Victor sighed. “So, yeah, love is another incomplete answer. Like inspiration or glory.”

“That’s right. Think about it: can you fill a void with love? Perhaps, but not your own. Your need for love is immense, but it’s fed from the outside. You give love, but when it isn’t returned—when it’s lopsided—the emptiness grows instead of healing. No, the light in you must be self-generated and lasting, something that can stand against any darkness. Don’t you see it?”

Chantico’s implied insistence that the answer was right in front of him frustrated Victor, and it must have shown on his face because when he grunted and shook his head, she smiled and squeezed his hands again.

“I wish I could make you see what is so plain to me without my guidance, but I fear you’re too close to the subject. Maybe with time and more life experience, you’d find it, but I think you’ve done enough. You’re right on the precipice. Let me, then, nudge you over. What you’re truly attuned to—what’s always been there—is hope.

“Think about the times you refused to give in. When you stood alone on a corpse-strewn battlefield, bloodied and unbowed. When you wrestled with an ancient being of fire in his own lava-filled home. When you stood, defiant, against not one, but many, who have pierced the veil of power. Again and again, you refused to surrender.

“Beyond the battles, beyond the defiance, you believe in love. You believe you’ll find it. You want to share it. You want to lift others. None of that says inspiration or glory to me. It says hope. The kind that burns bright enough to light a world.”

When she stopped speaking, her voice echoing like music through his mind, Victor stared into the strange, shifting currents of Energy for a long time, trying to see if there was a flaw in her logic. Was it true? Was he so hopeful? Were his love and courage rooted in hope? Was that how he defied his fear? Was that why he felt inspired? “If I really have an affinity for hope,” he said, frowning, “and it’s strong enough to fill the void in my heart—or my spirit, or whatever—then why hasn’t it?”

“Victor, how do you think you have such a wonderful life? Why do you think people love and follow you? Your hope is there! It works in the background, helping you to survive and thrive. You just need to fix your Core to properly reflect reality.”

“Fix it?”

Chantico nodded. “As I said, everyone has darkness and light in them. I think it’s fortuitous that your rage and fear are splitting your darkness. Your light, however, should stand unified before them. You should combine your glory and inspiration and properly build your true affinity, a light that will outshine the darkness in your heart.”

Of course, Victor liked the sound of that. He liked the idea that he had a more potent, positive affinity that could properly balance his rage and fear. He didn’t like the idea of giving up inspiration, though, and, despite what Chantico said, he liked his glory-attuned Energy and spells. She must have seen his thoughts written on his face because she chuckled, shaking her head.

“Change is difficult and frightening, Victor. Will you give in to your fear now?”

“Chingado!” Victor chuckled. “You know the right buttons to push.” He shrugged and then nodded. “All right, big sister, how am I supposed to do this?”

###

Arona stood beside Bryn inside the gatehouse, the closed, amber ore portcullis behind them. A man approached—a man who’d leaped from a hovering airship and fallen like a feather to the road. He wore a platinum-colored fighting gi that made her squint as it reflected the noontime sun, and she could see a long, black-handled sword jutting up behind his left shoulder. She knew who it was: Resh A’kel, the champion of Voth, sent by King Bomar Lund to parlay with Kynna. Arona had no intention of letting him anywhere near the queen.

She could feel Bryn’s nervous energy and didn’t blame the woman. Even from some hundred yards distant, Arona could feel the man’s aura—he had a certain vitality and grace, a deadliness that went unspoken, like a predator cat among grass-eating lesser creatures. She had the pattern for Solar Shell prepared, ready to instantly deflect an attack, and she knew Bryn would be quick to strike with that deadly glaive Victor had given her.

Between the two of them, she had confidence they could hold him at bay long enough for some of Kynna’s other champions—waiting atop the wall—to join the fray. She dared to hope that her fears would prove unfounded. She wanted to believe that he’d come to offer aid, though her experiences in her past life told her that it was doubtful. Bomar Lund was power-hungry, and even if this man were here to help, there’d be a catch.

The man, Resh, stopped twenty strides from the gate and surprised Arona with a respectful bow. He was tall, though not a giant, and his platinum garb extended to a band of matching cloth he’d used to cover his left eye. Was it missing? When he bowed, she caught a glimpse of his blade—a longsword that flowed and reflected the sun like liquid silver. After his bow, he stood straight, waiting.

“Speak,” Bryn called. “We’ll hear your intentions.”

He cleared his throat, and in a smooth voice, devoid of malice, he called back. “May I approach?”

Bryn looked down at Arona, and she nodded. Bryn called out, “Come closer, then.”

The man glided forward; it seemed he took two steps, but then he was there, just an arm’s length from the two of them. Arona fought to control her reaction, not wanting to look surprised, but poor Bryn inhaled sharply, and her glaive tilted forward before she caught her reflex and steadied herself.

“I am Resh A’kel,” the man announced, nodding in a much more reserved bow.

“I am Arona Moonshadow, and this is Baroness Bryn of House Dar.”—Queen Kynna had given Bryn official status in her house—“What is your business here?”

Resh nodded, narrowing his one eye. He was a handsome man with a strong jaw, though his grooming left something to be desired; it looked like he’d missed shaving for a day or two. Still, his smile was pleasant as he said, “I had hoped to parlay directly with Queen Kynna.”

Arona inclined her head. “I’m sure, things being as they are, you can understand why that won’t be possible. Her Majesty has given us permission to speak on her behalf regarding your visit.”

Resh pointed to a tiny silver bell hanging from the sash around his waist. “If we’re to parlay here, in the open, may I employ this device? It will make our words difficult for prying eyes and ears to discern.”

Arona arched an eyebrow. “Do you mean to imply that the queen would—”

“No, no!” Resh held up a hand, shaking his head. “The reason for my caution will become plain if you’ll allow me to proceed.”

Arona nodded. “You may.”

Resh unfastened the bell, then held it high over his head, flicking his wrist. Tiny tinkling sounds poured out of the device, echoing, rebounding, and resonating. Soon, the tinkling rose to a crescendo, and then a muted heaviness filled the air. When Resh spoke again, his voice was clear, but it sounded somehow smaller. “We should be safe to speak freely now.”

“Speak plainly then,” Bryn growled. Arona couldn’t help but half-smile; the warrior was covering her nerves with bravado.

“Very well. King Bomar Lund would like Queen Kynna Dar to know that the empire moves against her. Even now, a host of champions and assassins gather, preparing to move against this palace. The veil walkers will not intervene, as they, too, are at war. King Lund knows this because Empress Matessa Khaliday invited him to have me join in the slaughter. He reserves the right to do so but makes an offer to your queen, hoping for another outcome.”

Arona wasn’t surprised by any of that news, though she was surprised by the frankness of his speech—he must place a great deal of trust in that little bell’s magic. “Go on,” she said.

Resh smiled, summoning a small rolled parchment sealed in gold-flecked purple wax. Again, he bowed as he held it out to her. “King Lund asks for your Queen’s hand in marriage. If she agrees, I will join the fight on your side, and King Lund will rally some allies to strike your foes from the flanks while they assault your palace.”