The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Read online

  Kellen winced, listening to the direction of his own thoughts. He slowed to a walk, and then stopped, realizing it had become too dark to see, at least for running. He risked a glance back over his shoulder. The Evensong Bells were silent now, and he could no longer make out the City behind him, though he knew it would probably be visible in daylight. The walls blocked off all sight of the buildings—and their warm and comforting lights—from outside.

  All at once the enormity of his situation seemed to settle over him like a far heavier version of the Felon’s Cloak. Who was he trying to kid? Even if he could manage to run full-out all night long there was no way he could reach the edge of City lands by dawn. He didn’t even know how far they extended—or where this road led. He could use the moon to keep himself heading due west, though there was no guarantee that the road would oblige him by going the same way.

  For once his father had been telling the simple truth, just as Perulan had. “My dear young Kellen, have you ever heard of anyone who simply LEFT the City?”

  No, Perulan. Not even you, Kellen thought mournfully.

  Banishment wasn’t banishment—it was murder. Banishment was just a convenient and innocuous way for the Council to explain how they got rid of troublemakers. A bloodless death sentence that the Council could claim—assuming anyone ever dared to ask—represented a fair chance for the victim. And until his father had told him the truth down there in the cell, Kellen would have believed them, just like everyone else in the City believed in the myth that the Banished just went elsewhere to live. Of course they did. The High Council was wise and kind; the Mages wouldn’t condone anything that wasn’t in the best interests of everyone involved. As for the Outlaw Hunt, well, that was just to make certain that the Banished didn’t sneak back inside the City with the farmers to make more trouble, of course.

  But Lycaelon had given him the reality behind the pretty myth. And no matter how much Kellen was inclined to doubt everything his father had to say, there was something about standing all alone in the middle of a dark forest on a road that led to nowhere that made Lycaelon’s words ring with truth. “Banishment is a death sentence. No one has ever escaped an Outlaw Hunt. No one!”

  Banishment was murder.

  How could anyone find the edge of the City lands when no one knew where they were? In all his fruitless days of searching the City Library for information about the lands outside the City, Kellen had never even encountered one scrap of information about the extent of the City lands beyond the City walls—nor had anyone volunteered to provide that vital piece of survival information to a Banished Outlaw.

  So that much of what Lycaelon had told him must be true.

  Kellen began walking again, more slowly now, as furious with himself for believing the High Mages’ lies so easily as he was with the Council for having lied to him—to all of them—for all these years. Why couldn’t they just be honest enough to admit they were executing people? Why did they have to play at being merciful?

  Because if they didn’t people would object to the killings. And there would have to be more executions. And then people would see them for what they are, a small voice inside Kellen said reasonably.

  It was all part of a pattern of life in the Golden City. The Council saw to it that there was nothing new that might make people think. Nothing to excite people, or upset them. Nothing that would make people question the way things were, or question the fact that the High Council acted for the good of all, always. Nothing that would make people question the way things were. In the City, anything unpleasant or distressing simply … disappeared.

  Just the way Kellen was going to disappear now.

  “Oh, Kellen? I remember him. Lycaelon’s son. He wasn’t happy here, so the Council Banished him, for the good of the City.” And everyone would nod their heads, thinking of how wise, how just, how kind, how merciful the High Council was. And life would go on, following the rules the Council laid down for it.

  But at least I have until morning before they release the Hunt. They’ll have to work all night to enchant the stone Hounds, and even if they’re ready early, the Council will abide by the letter of its decree and not release them until morning. If there was anything left for Kellen to be certain of among all the lies and betrayal, it was that. Why should they put themselves to the trouble of breaking one of their endless petty rules when the Outlaw Hunt could find him wherever he went, and they knew there was no way for Kellen to escape them?

  But they were wrong. Lycaelon had been wrong. Kellen did have a way. He just wasn’t sure he was going to use it yet. He needed to think very carefully about it first, and he wasn’t yet certain, really, truly certain, deep in his gut, that he’d come to the point where he had no other options.

  He walked on until it was too dark to see at all, stumbling several times on the wagon-rutted road before he tripped over some unseen obstacle and landed heavily on his hands and knees. That was the point that almost broke him; tears of fear, frustration, and anger welled up in his eyes and despair enveloped his heart as the Felon’s Cloak enveloped his body, and at last he was finally willing to admit that he’d reached that point. Groping carefully around himself, Kellen sat down in the middle of the road, facing back the way he’d come.

  There was nothing to see. If he’d hoped for a glimpse of the lights of Armethalieh on the horizon, he was disappointed. There was nothing there to see—not even the lights of the highest towers, for some reason. Nothing but more darkness, and more shadows.

  It was spring, but it was still early enough in the season that the temperature dropped sharply at night this close to the coast. Kellen shivered now in earnest, pulling his inadequate cloak tighter around himself. If he’d known when he got up this morning that he was going to be arrested and Banished, he’d have dressed more warmly and worn stout walking boots at the very least.

  At least there was nothing there he’d really miss. Everything he’d owned had been bought as part of Lycaelon’s idea of what Lycaelon’s perfect son should have. The few things he’d bought on his own, from the allowance that was also a part of what Lycaelon’s perfect son should have somehow never managed to stay around very long if they were deemed too unsuitable. Kellen had learned very early not to get too attached to possessions.

  Still, he had a good pair of heavy boots there, and a warm sturdy cloak that would come in handy right now. If the Council had really wanted to even pretend to be fair, they would have let him get proper clothes from home. But the Council only wanted to make a good show for its citizens, not for its victims, and right now Kellen had other concerns. Right now he had to think—hard—about what to do next.

  He didn’t have his Books of the Wild Magic with him. The Council had those. And they probably thought that without them he was defenseless, but he actually didn’t need them. He’d been right when he accused the Council of not having any idea of how the Wild Magic worked, and despite all Lycaelon’s fine words about how they’d studied it a long time ago (he bet they hadn’t) they were assuming it was just like the High Magick they were familiar with.

  But unlike High Magick, which needed so much calculation, preparation, tools, and endless memorization of stock formulas, Wild Magic, as Kellen had already learned, was driven far more by the intent of the caster than by calculation. He didn’t need pages of written-out spellcasting—a grimoire, a temple full of tools and furniture, and rigid observance of planetary hours—to be able to use it. He could cast an effective spell with what he already knew and what was around him.

  But what kind of a spell?

  What did he want?

  To stay alive was the easy and obvious answer, but maybe it was a little too easy. There was always a price, and for a need this big, the price would be high. That much Kellen knew already. What price would the Wild Magic ask for the gift of his life? How would it answer such a request?

  Was it a price he was willing to pay?

  He hadn’t, after all, been willing to pay Lycaelon’s price f
or remaining in the City, so Kellen already knew that some prices were too high.

  Better not ask for just staying alive, then, Kellen decided warily. He thought carefully about all he’d read. The three Books were less about spells than about the principles behind them—the physics, not the ethics. Ethics, apparently, was something the Wildmage had to work out for him or herself.

  But as he recalled from The Book of Moon, the less you specified in Wild Magic, the better your response was likely to be. Getting specific meant getting selfish—thinking too much, and at the same time, not thinking enough.

  I guess … maybe … if when you ask for something from the Wild Magic you’re always promising to give something in return … the easier you make it for Something to give to you … maybe the easier it becomes for you to repay in return?

  Or maybe I’m completely wrong! I have no idea what I’m doing here! he thought in frustration.

  Kellen sighed. What was the smallest, simplest, least thing that he needed? The less he asked for, the less he’d have to give, after all. Or so it seemed to him right now.

  To be out of City lands by sunrise. I need help to be out of City lands by sunrise. I don’t care how, or where I end up, but that’s what I need—REALLY need. And I don’t care what I have to pay for it—no, that’s not true, I won’t murder to pay for it, and there are probably other pretty horrible things I wouldn’t do, but something personal probably wouldn’t be a problem. And that’s what I need—REALLY need.

  He felt a great sense of relief, as if he’d managed to solve a riddle correctly. That was what he needed, and that was what he’d ask for. And how badly awry could the spell possibly go? According to The Book of Stars, if he didn’t specify a payment limit, he would be granted the chance to turn down what he was offered—with no hard feelings, as it were. For instance, if he was asked to murder someone …

  Because some things, as Kellen was already discovering, came at too high a price. And if, just if, as Lycaelon claimed, there were Demons involved, Kellen knew there might be a price worse than that of giving up his own life.

  With the matter settled to his own satisfaction, Kellen waited some more, this time with a purpose. At last the moon rose through the trees, shedding its dappled light through trees rustling with the new leaves of early spring. Finally, he could see where he was, and what he needed to get.

  The Calling Spell he intended to try was a bit more elaborate than the simple Finding Spell he had cast twice before, and required more ingredients. Fortunately the trees were already in leaf, and those simple ingredients were easy enough to find. Two chimes’ search allowed him to collect leaves from each of three trees: an oak, an ash, and a thorn tree, and to amass a good handful of tinder and dry sticks from the forest floor to build the fire to burn them.

  Returning to the center of the cart track, he piled his kindling and tinder carefully in a heap, then took the strongest of the sticks he had gathered and carefully drew a circle around himself, digging the line as deeply as he could into the rutted bare-earth surface of the road. He broke up the stick and added it to the pile, and then with a flick of his fingers, set the small pile of sticks and tinder alight.

  It was such an easy spell—the first one in The Book of Moon, the first one that the Student of High Magick studied—that for a moment Kellen wasn’t sure which method he’d used to summon the flames. He felt disoriented, caught between two paths: the rigid discipline of the High Magick, the fluid inspiration of the Wild Magic.

  There’s still time to back out.

  But there wasn’t. Not really. There was going forward, or there was giving up and staying where he was out of fear. Those were his only real choices just now. The City would not take him back. When morning came, the Outlaw Hunt would kill him.

  He bent down and picked up the three leaves that he’d set aside. There was one last thing he needed to cast the spell. Still holding the fresh green leaves between the fingers of his left hand, he opened his pencase and pulled out his little penknife. Holding it carefully in his right hand, he cut a shallow scratch along his left palm. They’d taken none of his possessions from him except his Talisman—he even still had the key to the back garden. He wondered if Lycaelon would miss it and change all the locks.

  The blood welled up, pooling in the palm of his hand. He wiped the penknife dry on his pant leg and replaced it in the pencase, and took each leaf in turn, dabbing it in the blood until each had been marked. Probably there wasn’t any need to make quite so much of a mess, but he wanted to be sure he was doing everything right.

  Then he dropped the leaves—and his blood—carefully into the fire, willing his spell, his call, as they burned and sizzled, sending up a thin plume of peculiar-smelling smoke. Help to leave the City lands by daybreak. Nothing more. Help unspecified, for a price unspecified.

  Kellen had expected—or at least hoped—for fireworks and drama, but there were no bright lights, no mystic bells. The fire was small, and a few minutes later it had burned away to embers and ash. Kellen rubbed it out with the sole of his boot. His left hand itched, and he licked it clean, then rubbed it gingerly against his velvet tunic, wary of starting it bleeding again.

  Still nothing happened. Kellen stalked back and forth, stopping automatically at the edges of his circle. The moon was above the trees now, and he could see his shadow on the ground pacing him as he turned, but though he strained all his senses, he heard nothing more than the cry of a night-hunting bird, the faint rustle of its prey, and the rhythm of the wind through the trees, and he saw nothing at all.

  How long do I wait?

  Emotionally battered by the events of the day, Kellen couldn’t stop himself from wondering: What if there had been truth in more of his father’s words than he wanted to believe? What if the Wild Magic was … unreliable? What if it was going to betray him now, just as everything else in his life had?

  No.

  Kellen wasn’t sure where that conviction came from, but it was deep and sure. The response to his attempts at spellcasting might not be exactly what he’d like—it might be downright scary in fact, confusing, unexpected, utterly puzzling, but the Wild Magic was not a cheat and a lie.

  Finally he stopped fidgeting and looked up at the moon. It was still rising. Kellen wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d cast the spell—at least half a bell. No matter what, he knew he couldn’t simply stand here all night, waiting for help that might never come. Maybe the spell hadn’t worked—that wouldn’t be the Wild Magic’s fault, after all. He wasn’t exactly a full-fledged Wildmage, was he? Maybe he already had all the “help to get out of City lands by daybreak” he actually needed. Maybe he could reach the edge of City lands on his own two feet, unlikely though that seemed. Lycaelon might have lied about that, hoping to make him give up without trying.

  He sighed. Might as well start walking, anyway. If help is coming, it can find me wherever I am. No harm in that.

  He was about to step out of his circle when he saw a flicker of something white and glowing heading toward him from the west. It looked as bright as the moon itself, but it was clearly coming through the trees toward him. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Was this the answer to his call? Was it a ghost, or some other noncorporeal creature?

  Kellen took a deep breath and resolved to stand his ground.

  It approached cautiously, as if, whatever it was, it was as wary of him as he was of it. As it came closer he could see that it had four legs—a deer? No, a horse.

  Then it stepped through the trees and out onto the road, and Kellen saw that it was neither.

  It was a unicorn.

  The unicorn was about the size of a small pony, but there the resemblance to anything equine ended. It had long slender legs and a long, lithe, slender—almost feline—body, covered with short plush silvery-white fur, fluffed out against the nocturnal chill. It had a lionlike tufted tail—which it carried, catlike, curled up and away from its body—and narrow pale cloven hooves, like a deer’s or
a goat’s. It had a long slender neck, with a short roached mane that stopped just short of its horn. Its head wasn’t really shaped like either a deer’s, a goat’s, or a horse’s, though a little like each.

  But its horn … !

  The unicorn’s horn was the most beautiful thing Kellen had ever seen—like polished diamond, or perhaps silver, if silver were somehow transparent. The horn was set in the middle of the unicorn’s wide forehead, between its large dark eyes, and seemed to drink in the moonlight from the air around it and glow with a blue light that came from within. It was spiral-shaped, like the narwhal-teeth the Selken-folk sometimes brought to the City for sale, but where they were blunt, the unicorn’s horn tapered to an elegant point sharper than any needle …

  “If you’re quite through staring,” the unicorn said acerbically, “I believe we need to get on with this.”

  Kellen blinked, then stumbled back in alarm. While he’d been gawking in awestruck wonder, the unicorn had walked right up to him and stopped, close enough to reach out and touch. Its eyes were on a level with his own—deep fathomless pools of spring green, fringed with long thick silver lashes. Its small elegant ears flicked back and forth as it spoke, signaling amusement—or was it annoyance?

  “Well,” the unicorn said. “You know why I’m here, Wildmage.”

  Finally it seemed as if Kellen was able to think again, and not just stare. Not only a unicorn—but a talking unicorn. It was too much to comprehend all at once. “You’re—going to get me out?” Kellen suggested feebly. “Of the City lands?” he added, stammering.

  “Yes, but—you know why I am here,” the unicorn said implacably.

  Kellen suddenly remembered something he’d read about unicorns and felt himself blushing hotly. Unicorns only came to virgins. A virgin could tame a unicorn; non-virgins got skewered if they approached too closely or threatened one.