Catalyst(10)

She kissed my hands. “Things will never be the same again, Hellsfire.”

My emotions raged against one another. I cried, seeing my mother's face. She was willing to put her only son in danger. She had a lot of faith—not just in the angel, but in me.

“Mother, I—”

My inner anguish over staying or leaving spilled over. The heat within me rose again. This time it didn't release through my eyes. It went to where my mother held me tightly—my hands.

“Mother!” I released her hands as quickly as I could. I wasn't fast enough. Flames exploded from my hands. She screamed in pain. My mother was on the floor, squirming, blowing on her hands. I wanted to rush to her, but I couldn't while my hands were on fire.

I tried my best to concentrate and extinguish the flames. I couldn't do it. I kept thinking of my mother and what I had done to her. I closed my eyes, doing my best to think of something else. I visualized water, ice, snow, the lake. Slowly, the cool pictures helped the fire disappear.

When my hands were back to normal, I rushed to help my mother up. I bent down to touch her, and she flinched away from me. The look of fear in her eyes cut me deeper than any sword could. I took a few steps away from her.

“Mother, are you all right?”

“Yes. Please help me up.”

I was relieved, but didn’t move. The image of her being afraid of me was burned into my mind.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I did as she asked. She stared at her hands, checking to see if they were burned.

“I'm fine. There's no more pain. It was like touching a hot stove for a second. See?” She held her hands in front of me. After inspecting them and seeing no marks, I breathed easier.

“I'm sorry,” I said. I cried like I had when I was a small child—loud and bubbling. I couldn't believe I had hurt the one person I loved more than anything.

“It's all right, son. Shhh.”

Whatever fear my mother had of me earlier was no longer there. She swept me into her strong arms and held me. Her warmth overcame me as I continued to cry and apologize. She reassured me that I had done nothing wrong, but I was never going to be able to forgive myself.

Finally, I pulled away from her. She wiped my tears with her thumbs. “I'll leave, mother. I have to. Just tell me where I have to go.”

She went to her bed and reached underneath, where she kept a box with her few treasures. She returned with a scroll, handing it to me. “You’re going to need this to get where you’re going.” It was a map, showing a path to the dangerous and mysterious White Mountain.

I gasped. Out of all the places in the world, I had to go there? I might as well go to the Wastelands while I was at it. “The White Mountain? You’re joking right?”

“You must.”

“But how in the world am I going to survive with no help? I’ve heard the tales. No one has climbed the White Mountain and lived. How can I possibly make it to the top? I’m only a fourteen and—”

My mother put a finger to my lips. “I believe in you, son. You can do anything you put your mind to. If you weren’t meant to survive this journey, the angel wouldn’t have told me to send you there. Have faith, and you will find the answers you seek. He will guide you. You have the power of fire. Use your gift and it will protect you from the cold…Hellsfire.” She teased me, but not in the way some of the others did. My mother smiled, and, despite my nervousness, I couldn’t help but do the same thing.

“Help me gather your things,” she said. “You’re going to have to buy some supplies and warmer clothes. These just aren’t going to do you any good.” My mother tugged at my clothes, making me feel like a child again.

I futilely tried to shoo her away. “Mother.”

“And buy food that can survive the cold. Use the money Her Highness gave you. But don’t waste it. Only buy what will help you on your journey, and make sure you can carry it all.”

“Are you sure you won't need any money?”

“The princess gave it to you, son, and you're going to need it. I can manage just fine on my own.” She studied me for a moment. “And take this. You’ll need it more than I.”

In one fluid motion, she pulled a dagger out from under her clothing. My own mother went armed, in our quiet, peaceful town! And this was no shoddy, nicked peasant dagger. The blade was fine quality, and the hilt was inlaid with gold. It was balanced and lightweight, yet strong enough to kill a man. Flawless. Even someone with my limited fighting skills could use it. There were some markings on the hilt, but I couldn’t read the language.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, my eyes still tracing the dagger.