The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 38

  At first, looking down at the unfamiliar tools beside his place setting, Kellen hadn’t been quite sure what to do, but he quickly realized the courtly table manners drummed into him in House Tavadon had no place here, and emulated the style of those he saw around him.

  He was saved from any embarrassment by the fact that Idalia was eating as heartily as he was, with a pragmatic attention to her food that would have given their father heart failure. But so was everyone else, even the old Healer, and Master Eliron’s cook was insisting that everything on the table must be eaten before she would bring out the pies and Haneida’s honey-cakes.

  “And don’t you a-go sneaking into the kitchen to steal any, Merana, or I’ve got a stout stirring spoon with your name on it, my girl!” the woman said firmly. Merana only laughed and switched her braided tail, reaching for another roll and the pot of honey.

  “OH,” Idalia sighed at last, chasing a drop of gravy about her plate with a bit of hot bread, “this is lovely. I only wish I could cook like this—but I’m afraid I lack three things: the talent, the time, and the tools!”

  “You know, my dear, that’s hardly an insurmountable obstacle,” Master Eliron said gently. “Were you to come here to live …”

  Idalia shook her head in refusal. “We’ve had this conversation before, my dear. You know I can’t. The forest needs me. How could those I serve out there find me here?”

  “I expect they would find you just as they always have, Idalia,” Master Eliron answered. “But perhaps you would consider coming to us just for a few moonturns during deep winter? The Wildwood sleeps then, and here in Merryvale, with your wants seen to, you could devote all your time to Kellen’s training. You would not have to fear being a burden on us, not with the Powers at your command, and it would be good to have a second Wildmage living among us.” He sighed. “We worry about you out there, with nothing between you and the deep cold but a few walls and a single fire. Do consider it.”

  “Very well, Master Eliron,” Idalia said, with a warm and kindly tone in her voice. “I will consider it.”

  But Kellen already knew his sister well enough to know that the answer was going to be “no.”

  Why?

  The aged Healer was right: those who needed Idalia’s help could find her anywhere. And from what she’d told him about how the Wild Magic worked, she could find work to do anywhere. But she wasn’t living with the Elves, and now Kellen knew that she’d had several offers to live in reasonably civilized comfort in Merryvale, and she wasn’t living here, either.

  Why not?

  A not-terribly-pleasant idea occurred to him, and he forced it away.

  BUT later, after much more food, and a long pleasant companionable evening spent in music and good talk around Master Eliron’s hearth, when Kellen was tucked up under the eaves on a guest-pallet, the idea returned.

  Why did Idalia insist on living out in the Wildwood all by herself?

  Was it that she really was Tainted after all, and that she feared that Master Eliron would discover it?

  He knew it was impossible, but the more Kellen tried to push the idea to the bottom of his mind, the more he seemed to be pushing sleep with it as well, until—bone-weary as he was—Kellen lay wide-awake. He stared up into the darkness, unable to do anything but think.

  Lycaelon had said that Wildmagery sent its users down the dark and twisted path to congress with Demons, that the High Magick taught in Armethalieh was the only safe magic for mankind to use.

  Of course, everything else Lycaelon and the High Council had taught—and the Priests of the Light—hadn’t been true, or so Kellen was discovering, during his Outlaw adventures.

  But what if this one thing was?

  It would be a lot easier if Demons didn’t exist. Then Kellen could just dismiss his father’s warnings as a last attempt to manipulate him. But Idalia said they did, and while Idalia might refrain from telling him things until she thought he was ready to hear them, she’d never outright tell him anything that wasn’t true.

  So Demons existed. But did that mean that Idalia had seen them? Possibly even dealt with them?

  Or … no!

  It wasn’t possible, Kellen told himself firmly. Idalia was a good person. He knew that all the way down to his very bones. She healed people. Healing magic couldn’t possibly be wrong. How could something good open you to corruption? That made less sense than anything he’d ever learned in the City … and his sister was a much more interesting person than anyone in the City, for that matter. More honest, too. She thought about things, she answered his questions (even if the answer was “I don’t know, why don’t we see if we can find out”), and she didn’t always assume that an answer was the only answer, or even the best answer.

  As far as Kellen could tell from the time he’d spent living with her, Idalia seemed to spend most of her time helping people, with and without magic.

  How could that be bad?

  How could Idalia be bad?

  But …

  Could she be bad without knowing she was bad? Was that even possible?

  I just don’t know, Kellen realized miserably. Nothing makes sense. I just know that Idalia’s always telling me to trust my instincts. And my instincts tell me there’s some kind of connection between the Wild Magic and the Demons. And I don’t know what it is. And that scares me.

  And I think Idalia might know what it is.

  And I think I’m afraid to ask her.

  But if she doesn’t live out in the forest alone because she knows that she’s Tainted and fears to be found out … then why?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darkness and Lies

  THE ROOM WAS smaller than many in the Heart of Darkness, a room for very private pleasures. The curving walls were covered with closely fitted tiles of amethyst of a flawless purple so dark it was nearly black and overhung with slave-woven tapestries depicting the feasts and pleasures of the Endarkened Court. The floor was thickly covered with silk carpets whose pile was so deep that taloned feet sunk into them as if they were fur. In the cool pale spell-light cast by the enchanted globes in which captured forest pixies slowly died for the pleasure of the Endarkened, the patterns on the floor glowed like a captive garden.

  Hanging from a heavily jeweled golden chain attached to a large bronze ring in the center of the ceiling was a large silver and enamel cage, crafted to look like serpents twining over graveyard bones. It was a pity, Prince Zyperis reflected, regarding the three fauns cowering inside, that its inhabitants lacked the discernment to properly appreciate the beauty of their confinement. Still, that would not be a problem for them for very much longer, and the next occupant might have higher sensibilities.

  Carrying a large shallow bowl carved and polished from one piece of black obsidian, the Prince advanced to the center of the room and placed it carefully on an iron and ivory table draped in heavy red silk. A sharp knife was already there, waiting.

  He paused to savor the moment, and the terror of the fauns, before proceeding.

  The war-to-come was going forward nicely. Just as he and Mother intended, the Mage City continued to draw inward even as it expanded its territory, isolating itself not only from the Otherfolk, but also from all outside human contact, wallowing in its own spiritual decay. Lovely.

  “Let us see how their plans proceed, eh, my little friends?” Prince Zyperis murmured.

  The fauns began to scream.

  He picked up the knife and opened the door of the silver cage. Reaching in, he dragged out the first of the struggling, screaming fauns. It was no match for his strength; it writhed in his grip to no avail. It might just as well have been thrashing against the grip of a dragon. With quick efficiency, he lifted it over the obsidian bowl and slit its throat, holding it upside down until the last of its blood had drained into the bowl. The screaming turned to a gurgling, and he feasted on the final dregs of its despair as it felt its life ebbing out of it; horror of the other two as they watched it dying, their own screams now s
tifled in their throats by sheer terror.

  Then he turned to the cage again, and the shrieking began anew as they flung themselves against the bars in a vain attempt to elude him and prolong their wretched lives for another precious moment or two.

  The other two talking vermin followed in short order—not from any sense of mercy on Zyperis’s part, but because today, the death of the fauns was merely a means to an end. Tossing the last of the tiny bloodless corpses aside, the Endarkened Prince leaned over the bowl of hot fresh blood, peering into its depths.

  “Show me what I desire,” he commanded huskily. The surface of the liquid shimmered, growing misty and then clearing.

  Zyperis gazed down at a village square, where a Lawspeaker in Armethaliehan livery stood on a mounting block, reading out a decree to an assembled crowd of farmers. The words the man spoke came to him faintly, and Zyperis smiled. According to the Prince’s spies, in recent months the Golden City had expanded its borders once again, seeking to drive out both Otherfolk and Wildmagery. Such decrees were initially popular, since the Otherfolk had to leave their property behind, enriching the humans who remained, but the City’s favor was a double-edged sword, and this village was now feeling the bite of the other side of the City’s poisoned blade.

  Their Wildmage Healer had left as well, of course. The village had petitioned Armethalieh to send them a new Healer, and today they were receiving their reply.

  No Healer would be sent to their village. Any who needed help might come freely to the City to receive it—providing, of course, that they were tax-paying humans willing to wear the City token, and who fit City standards of suitability for help.

  The villagers’ anger came to him only distantly, but it was a heady vintage nevertheless. Prince Zyperis chuckled, and waved his hand across the surface of the bowl, breaking the link. Now that another village had tasted the bitter along with the sweet, they were ready to receive one of his agents—a trader from the High Hills, perhaps, primed with horror stories of the tyranny of the High Mages, to urge the villagers to desert their homes and fields and migrate elsewhere—outside the City-claimed lands—further isolating and impoverishing the City. All the vast acreage of fertile fields in the World Above did the City precious little good if there was no one there to farm it. And after generations of keeping its own citizens pent behind the City walls, there was not one citizen willing or able to take up that task, even if the City was willing to release any of its own precious citizenry to the labor.

  The City of a Thousand Bells was the largest single concentration of humans in the land, the stronghold of High Magick, so its destruction was the keystone of the Endarkened’s strategy. Since the War, the Mages had completely lost touch with the adaptability and flexibility that was once humanity’s greatest strength, utterly rejecting the Wild Magic and imprisoning themselves within a web of inflexible rules and regulations. That had opened them to Endarkened influence, though of course, they had known it not. A subtle influence, that, a careful nourishing of superiority—first of human over not, then of City over foreigner, then at last of Mage over mere citizen. And then, a more subtle influence, one that suggested, oh, so delicately, that since Wild Magic could not be controlled by the High Mages, it must be dangerous … or evil. Now the Mages were utterly certain that there was no situation that could not be dealt with according to their lifeless and unthinking rules. In setting themselves up as the sole authorities within the City, they had cast their rules in stone, and used them to build a wall between themselves and the other races of the land.

  And since—thanks to careful coaching by Endarkened agents—the High Mages had determined that all the other creatures in the land were destined to be ruled (if human) or enslaved (if not) by the City, if not exterminated outright, those races’ reaction to them now ranged from mere annoyance to utter fury …

  “Oh, yes,” Prince Zyperis said softly, rubbing his long taloned hands together and spreading his wings wide in contentment. “Everything is going forward precisely as it should.”

  KELLEN had finally dropped into an uneasy sleep—plagued by dreams of Demonic Hounds near morning—and even the chance to see more of Merryvale had not been enough to rouse him out of the black mood he’d awakened with. He hated inflicting it on everyone around him, but unlike back in the City—which he still thought of as “home” in unguarded moments—there really wasn’t anyplace he could go off to be by himself until it passed, at least, not until he and Idalia went back to her cabin.

  There, if need be, he could make an excuse to go off alone hunting for foodstuffs or wind-felled timber for building or the fireplace. He’d wondered when he first arrived why Idalia wouldn’t cut a tree that wasn’t already dead—until he’d met the dryads. Now he was glad of it; searching for more wood made a good excuse to get away when he needed to. But that wasn’t possible today. All he could do was try to keep to himself as much as possible, and hope that nobody noticed.

  He would have preferred to just curl up on his sleeping pallet and hide until it was time to leave, but Idalia had shopping to do this morning, and since yesterday Kellen had been so eager to see the rest of the village, there was no way he could get out of going with her without attracting attention he really wanted to avoid.

  Armed with a borrowed basket—Idalia had one too—Kellen trailed after his sister as she made her way to Merryvale’s Market Street.

  It was a very different sort of market from the ones in Armethalieh. Of course it was smaller—much smaller. That went without saying. Half the places Idalia dragged him to were actual shops, not proper markets such as he was used to. And everything was jumbled in together in the same place—fruit and honey and meat and bread and cloth, all crowded into the same little part of town. And there wasn’t really very much of anything, and what there was, was—he guessed—pretty crude by Armethaliehan standards.

  But not one item there had been passed by the Council. Not one item there had received a license to be sold.

  He passed by the door of a sweets-seller. The trays of brightly colored sugar caught his eye, and he stopped, thinking of Shalkan. The unicorn had a notorious sweet tooth, and would enjoy the treat.

  But how could Kellen pay for it?

  He glanced up the street. Idalia was stopped in the doorway of a spice-merchant’s, and from the look of things, she was going to be there for some time.

  Kellen went into the small shop. It smelled of sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, and other spices he couldn’t put a name to. As he entered, he dug in his pouch for some coins—Armethaliehan coins, and probably worthless here, but maybe the metal in them would be worth something. Only the Golden Suns were bespelled, after all; the lesser coins of the City were only ordinary silver and copper. He pulled them out and held them toward the seller, a middle-aged Centaur wearing a white apron who smiled as he saw Kellen approach.

  “I don’t know if these are worth anything here …”

  “What were you looking to buy?” the Centaur asked amiably. From his girth, he was his own best customer. “Say, aren’t you Kellen—Wildmage Idalia’s brother?”

  “That’s right,” Kellen said. “And I’ve got a friend with a sweet tooth. I think he’d enjoy some of the rock sugar, or maybe some of the sugar sticks.”

  “And you wanted to pay in coin?” the Centaur asked, sounding baffled. “Idalia usually pays with weather, and all. Still …” He inspected the coins on Kellen’s outstretched palm critically. “Never seen anything like them, but they look like good silver, right enough. I reckon one of those’ll be enough to buy your friend a fine tummy-ache, if you think that’s fair.”

  “More than fair,” Kellen agreed. He handed over the coin, and the sweets-seller took out a square of paper and made up a large packet of brightly colored sugar stick and glittering lumps of rock sugar. He tied the packet up with a length of twine and handed it over.

  “And this is for you. A treat for luck.”

  He picked up a small wooden dish and held it out to
Kellen. Resting in the middle of it was a round brown doughy object, its surface coated with powdered sugar.

  “What is it?” Kellen asked curiously.

  “New from Midsummer Fair. The Mountain Traders brought it. They say it came out of the Southern Deserts, a spice-bean called xocalatl. Try it.”

  “Something new.” Kellen hardly needed to hear anything more. He picked up the unprepossessing-looking object and popped it into his mouth.

  It began to dissolve immediately, and the rich taste filled his mouth, bitter and sweet and complex. Like kaffeyah, but not quite. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he was glad he’d tried it.

  “ ‘Xocalatl,’ ” Kellen said, trying the unfamiliar word. “Thank you. I’ll remember it.”

  “Come again,” the sweets-seller said genially. “And remember me to your sister.”

  Kellen nodded and moved on, tucking his package carefully into his basket and hurrying to catch up with his sister.

  IDALIA completed her trading in Merryvale by midmorning, and she and Kellen began the long walk back to her cabin.

  A lot of what she had traded for would be sent later—bags of flour, meal, and salt, too heavy for them to carry—and some things they would be returning for when they were ready. Kellen had been glad to find that they would be trading a quantity of smoked venison and wood-pigeon pickled in brine for an equal weight of salt-beef, preserved eggs, and dried fish (though Idalia warned him he’d be very tired of all of them by spring).

  But what they were carrying home with them was heavy enough, since it principally consisted of two large kegs of nails and some coils of thin thatching rope to be used for the construction of the addition to the cabin. He hoped that Idalia knew how to thatch, since he didn’t, and from what he’d seen, it would be a difficult task to learn.