Ashes Unwritten: Oblivion's Heir [Volume 1 Complete!]

Kess drifted in and out of consciousness. Once or twice—she couldn't remember—those clammy hands reached into the cell to drain her of what little Fulminancy came back. She tried to use the visits to judge the time, but her mind was too frayed to keep track, and the visits too erratic.

With the storm occupied and no other way to pass the time, Kess turned her attention inward towards her Fulminancy. It was gone, but she still felt Rowan's there, a calm and familiar presence. It was the cool to her heat, soft and gentle—so unlike her own Fulminancy. She had a hard time believing it was the same power at all. She began to draw up pieces of it, though it slipped through her mental fingers like sand. Still, the task kept her occupied and relatively calm.

The next day they pulled her out again for another session with Northmont, and Kess kept her mind on his son's Fulminancy instead of bruises and cracked bones. They always kept the injuries just short of requiring an actual healer—they would give her none of that satisfaction of relief—and Kess took some comfort in knowing that they might keep her alive as long as they thought she might know something.

She didn't remember returning to her cell, but woke in it just the same, her head aching fiercely. She wasted little time feeling sorry for herself and instead turned her attention inward towards that life-giving Fulminancy. She didn't know how much time she had, but she pressed towards that Fulminancy with desperate haste. She didn't know what she would do with it—it wasn't a weapon like her own, and it might fizzle and die the moment she brought it to life. And yet, just once before she died, she wanted to feel peace again—real peace. Not the lies her brother had offered her.

Kess was asleep again when footsteps approached the cell. She braced herself for her brother again, but it was an older man's voice who spoke to the guards. "Leave us," he said. Kess sat up, frowning at the bars, but the man simply unfolded a stool and sat. It was the grandfatherly Councilman from the ball. He smiled at her so kindly that she wanted to burst into tears. But Kess knew she'd receive no kindness down here. She turned away from him, watching the wall instead.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Just a word, child."

"Why would you want a word with Mariel, destroyer of cities, eater of souls, shaper of the Ashfall?"

The old man smiled wanly, and Kess felt her face grow warm.

"All stories have a grain of truth, but not all of them are true," the man said, his eyes twinkling. "I, for one, should like to speak with the woman herself."

"Why would you believe anything I have to say?"

"Because just as I've heard stories of what you describe, I've also heard stories of men and women saved by Mariel, and of the grand healing that took place with her there—albeit with help from another young woman I'd also thought deceased." He frowned at that. "I've also heard of a woman who visits the insignificant and the forgotten—a person who truly cares about people."

"You must get your stories from an odd source."

"Well, I suppose that many would consider the people of Downhill an odd source for a Councilman, sadly." Kess looked sidelong at him, watching for the telltale signs of lying, but finding none. Why would he bother speaking to anyone Downhill? The Council's word was law, and few of its members had ever stopped to think about anyone outside of their direct influence. It was the main reason Mariel's powers were stronger than other Council members—to keep the rest of them in check in case the temptation to abuse became too strong.

The man peered at her intently, as if trying to decide something. Then he spoke again, his voice sadder this time. "We live in dark times, I fear. The Seventh Seat eliminated, its opposition funded with stolen powers, a destructive storm rampaging through the city."

"The Council has stolen powers for years," Kess said, feeling her ribs for new bruises. "That's nothing new."

"Unfortunately not, but usually those powers are given up willingly. We give these people a new life, away from the city. We take this destructive power that none of them want, and give it to those better suited for it. You of all people should understand the temptation of that."

And yet that same courtesy isn't extended to someone born into the Seat, she thought bitterly. She'd never been given that option. Though something in her hesitated at his words. They sounded almost…fair.

"The Seats were not designed to oppress the common people, though I fear they tend to do that anyway. Instead, they were founded as a way to keep out something more destructive—something worse than the consolidation of those powers into the hands of a few."

"What?" Kess asked, curious in spite of herself.

"Chaos," the man said simply. "World ending storms, fires, floods. The common people were incapable of wielding such power, so they gave it up to be repackaged as Fulminancy."

She'd read that much with Rowan. It was an old story at this point, a secret closely guarded by the Council that made no real difference in the present day.

"There were famines," she said. "They were promised food. A starving man will willingly give up anything if it means survival." The man nodded, conceding her point.

"And yet most were happy with the arrangement—a few chosen knights to protect, provide, and keep away the storms while they worked the fields and provided for their families. With Mariel's checks and balances, the system went on without issue for quite some time."

"There were powerful people before the Council. Worldshapers and the like. Why not employ those people?" The man looked slightly displeased, though his face remained fairly pleasant.

"As you mentioned, starvation was a very strong persuader."

Kess winced as she pressed against one of her ribs. Definitely cracked, that one. "It seems to me," she said, "that men should retain the right to choose what to do with the gifts they've been given. Are a few men lording over the rest guaranteed to make the right decisions? Personally, I'd rather make my own, for better or for worse."

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The old man watched her for a moment, his expression considerate. Then he spoke again, looking at the ceiling as if he could watch the storm from so far below.

"Tell me, child—do you think your abilities define you?" Kess frowned at the sudden change in topic, but answered automatically.

"The entire city seems to think so," she said bitterly.

"And there is wisdom in many counselors," the man said, "but so often group-think can lead us astray as well. You were given these powers without a choice in the matter, but who were you before Fulminancy took root in your soul?"

"I don't know," Kess whispered, broken. "It's always been there."

"And yet, a swordsman often does not remember the first time he held a sword, or swung a stick. Does he then become the weapon itself and forget himself along the way?"

"I—I guess not."

"And yet the weapon is a part of our swordsman. Perhaps he admires the art of swordsmanship itself, or perhaps his sword is his source of employment—but there are multiple types of employment for a man with a sword. Child, is a man a murderer simply because he wields a sword?"

"Swords can be controlled," Kess said simply. "Fulminancy can't."

"The first time a man swings a sword, it's a dangerous tool, just as likely to cut the man wielding it or those around him as it is to defend or protect." The man shook his head. "Fulminancy is no different."

"Then I should have learned to control it earlier," Kess said. "I should have made it impossible to lose control, then left the city." Even as the words left her mouth, Kess knew they were impossible. She'd been a child. Even on that dark night in the Council chambers, she'd been barely into adulthood.

"Kess," the man said, shocking Kess out of her thoughts. How did he know her name? "Fulminancy is a difficult power to wield—by its very nature you are controlling the hopes, dreams, and willpower of a great many people. Power is not something so easily dealt with by humans. We strive for it, and when we achieve it, we often find it lacking. We find it frustrating, I suppose, that even tremendous power can't solve our problems so easily.

"Given power, the more arrogant of us will play God, meting out justice as long as it satisfies our view of what is right and wrong in the world. But humans are messy creatures. Our morality is influenced by what we've experienced in the world, and what we can see in our limited field of view. We make decisions from the inside of our caves, while outside other lives and realities play out. We are blind men trying—and failing—to see."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Kess asked, tired. "Humans abuse their power, just like you said. I did the same."

"Perhaps," he said. "And yet, when given power, you peeked out of your cave, saw the world around you, and at least tried to fix it. You can't be faulted for the limitations of your humanity any more than the rest of us, I think. We are flawed people, so I think it wise to take a sum of the whole picture before condemning yourself—or an entire group of people."

He smiled at her, and Kess held his eyes, and saw something tragic in them. This man had experienced loss, perhaps because of the Fulminant. And maybe, as a Seat, he had used his power poorly as well. And yet, he didn't seem to condemn her as Oliver had.

"Child," he finally said. "You've blamed yourself for far too long for being born a certain way. Perhaps these powers have not been used as Founder Mariel intended, and perhaps the Council itself has been corrupted, but you are not defined by your abilities any more than the swordsman is defined by his. You are defined, instead, by how you choose to use those abilities."

Kess considered his words as she leaned against the wall, body aching. Her choices had not always been admirable, but she'd tried, at least, to do the right thing with them. She'd taken action even when others would have been content to remain the same. Maybe that was what counted.

Cloth rustled near her ears as the old man reached into his sash to pull something out. A locket. Kess's locket. She recognized the dents as soon as he dangled it in the air. Her fingers twitched as it twirled, the torchlight bending against its contours. The old man smiled, admiring it.

"They've had quite the search going for this," he said. "I'm afraid I've somehow acquired it, and it has accidentally slipped my hands as I passed your cell." He tossed her the locket and Kess snatched it from the air, gripping it tighter than she meant to. Her hands warmed where the metal touched. She'd been trying to figure out why they hadn't taken her powers yet. This was the reason. The old man had saved her, somehow—and perhaps condemned her, if the guards found it.

"Why?" she asked, looking up at him. "Why do this for me?"

The man gathered up his chair, standing with a wince. "Because I knew Mari," he said, naming Kess's mother. Kess got to her feet then, leaning against the wall to steady herself as she looked up at the man. His eyes were sorrowful as he stood there, holding his chair. "She was a wonderful woman. Smarter, braver, and kinder than any I have ever known. What happened was…an unfortunate consequence of a system that I think pushes young people beyond what they have grown the ability to bear. I still miss her every day." Kess gripped the locket as tears fell down her face.

The man's own eyes were overly bright as he looked her over, something like pride in his gaze. "I felt like I owed it to her to see what kind of woman her daughter grew into." His voice broke when he spoke again. "I'm glad to see that she is a young woman Mari would be proud of, even when faced with something as grim as her own death."

"Thank you," Kess said, her voice thick. The man smiled, then looked left and right.

"I cannot release you," he said, and Kess felt the words like a blow. "I do not have access to the keys, and the guards will talk." He gave her that piercing gaze again, and Kess tried not to fidget. "However, you have everything you need to leave this place on your own." He shook his head as Kess held up the locket. "You had everything you needed before I visited you, child."

And with that, he left, his steps echoing in the dark. Kess frowned at his back, exhausted from standing already. She slumped back down to the floor, fighting a torrent of emotions.

She realized then, sitting in that dark cell, that the old man was right; being Fulminant wasn't a curse any more than being talented at swordplay, or fighting. I've been running from the wrong thing all this time, she thought. Fulminancy wasn't the problem, but how it was used. Even after embracing Fulminancy, Kess wielded it like an enemy, her touch light and hesitant. She let Fulminancy master her instead of being its master.

Mariel's request at the Archives suddenly made much more sense—release Fulminancy. Give it back to the common people and let everyone choose what to do with that power.

She leaned her head back against the cool wall, trying to imagine a world in which everyone was born with a gift. Some large, some small, all capable of being used. If you gave a man a sword, did that make him a murderer, or a protector like Rowan?

Kess opened her eyes and stared at the locket in her hands, thinking. She'd been so determined to fear, run, destroy, and then embrace Fulminancy that she'd neglected the most obvious answer to her problem. What if the solution wasn't to eliminate Fulminancy, but to make everyone Fulminant instead?

It was a wild idea, but something in Kess rejoiced at it. True equality, men and women who were able to choose for themselves what to do with this power. The storm came whirling back, as if celebrating, its presence calming and invigorating at the same time. Instinctively, she reached for her own Fulminancy to greet the storm, and felt Rowan's Fulminancy instead, bubbling to life within her hand.

She stared at that familiar gray flame, glowing faintly in her hands, and grinned, sobbing. She wouldn't die alone in this dark cell. Life, after all, was about second chances.