Obsidian

by Lindsey Scholl

  “Verial, wait—” He tried to take her hand again, but she had lost interest.

  “I have to go,” she declared. Before he could stop her, she slipped back outside.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Amarian returned just as the rains were lifting. Some of Chiyo’s men were on duty to guard the camp that day. They eyed him with suspicion at the best of times. Now, as he approached with a small fennel bounding at his side, they had no idea what to make of him. Not knowing what else to do, they gripped their spears harder, in case the kit turned out to be a spawn of Zyreio.

  Bedge thought they were funny. “Look, sir! Look at the strange men over there! Bedge thinks they don’t like you.”

  He stopped while they were still several paces off. “Do you remember what I said? When we get close to camp, no jumping around. And don’t speak to anybody unless I tell you to.”

  “Yes, sir. Bedge says not a word. Not a sound from her. Not a—”

  “Enough. Here we are.”

  The guards let them pass without challenge, but they had not taken two steps past the low timber fortifications before N’vonne noticed them. She looked almost happy to see him.

  “Amarian! You’ve returned safely. Telenar will be so interested to hear what you’ve learned and…who are you, little one?”

  “My name is Bedge. Bedge came along with Sir after he argued with Bedge’s pridehead.”

  Seeing the sharp jerk of Amarian’s hand, she flattened her ears and looked apologetically at the ground. “Bedge is quiet now,” she whispered.

  Amarian didn’t give her a chance to start up again. “I need to speak with Vancien. Where is he?”

  N’vonne shook her head, shifting the basket of herbs she’d been gathering. “He’s not back yet. Will you speak with Telenar?”

  Amarian looked thoughtfully down at Bedge, who returned his gaze. He and Telenar had spoken very few words since his return in late autore; he knew the priest struggled with trusting him. He would much rather have spoken with Vancien first. But if his brother had not returned, then there was no choice. His news could not wait.

  “Of course. Where can I find him?”

  “He’s just come back from hunting. The Cylini were teaching him how to shoot a bow. He should be in the mess hall by now. I’ll walk over with you.” She looked ruefully at the herbs. “Hopefully the cook will be able to get some use out of these.”

  He doubted it. N’vonne had gathered hartroot, which was used to cure digestive problems. Its similar appearance to rosemary had fooled many a person before, but its disguise lasted only until it was boiled. Then the acrid smell could choke a voyoté. But the cooks would figure that out soon enough.

  The three walked in silence until she spoke again.

  “Have you seen Verial?”

  “She’s missing?”

  “Since the night you left. We thought that she might have followed you, perhaps to…” Her voice trailed off.

  Anger flared up in him. Would these people ever accept that he had changed? “Well, it wouldn’t have been to make up with me.”

  N’vonne grew even more flustered. Telenar’s decision to not send a search party for Verial still irritated her. “We didn’t figure she was much of a threat; she didn’t take any weapons and you are a trained fighter.”

  “But a woman’s vengeance is a fearful thing. So you thought we two villains would battle it out ourselves? Not a big loss either way, was it?”

  She flushed in embarrassment and he knew he was being unfair. He also knew the decision to not search for Verial was Telenar’s, not N’vonne’s. And N’vonne was not the type to undermine her husband in front of others. “No, I saw no sign of her. Perhaps she went to find her beloved Gair.”

  “That was our other thought.”

  They found Telenar finishing up a bowl of yemain stew and discussing hunting tactics with one of his tutors. His Cylini had improved greatly since the start of their adventures. When he saw Amarian he immediately excused himself.

  “Amarian, you’ve made it back. How was your journey? Are you hungry?” When Amarian nodded, he asked the Cylini warrior to fetch another bowl of stew. Only then did he notice Bedge, who was standing excitedly by Amarian’s leg, trying not to chase down every scent that wafted from the tables.

  “What is this? A fennel kit?”

  Amarian sighed and gestured for her to hop up on the bench. “Her name is Bedge. It’s a long story.”

  While N’vonne tried to rustle up some food appropriate for a fennel, Telenar returned to his seat. “So?”

  Amarian watched the priest for any sign of suspicion or of softening. He saw neither. Apparently bringing Vancien back from the dead and returning from his first solo undertaking was not enough to garner credit with the man. No matter. Telenar could spend his whole life not trusting him for all he cared.

  “It was unsuccessful. Koeb will not help us. But neither will he help Corfe.”

  Telenar nodded, then gestured toward Bedge, who had been silent for an amazingly long time. “Then why…?”

  “She insisted on returning with me. Her parents are dead and it turns out that she’s a bit of an explorer.”

  “Does she speak?”

  It was too much. “Oh yes, Bedge speaks! Bedge loves to speak Keroulian.” She lengthened out the “oo” sound until it became almost a purr. “Bedge is happy to meet a holy one of the light-god.”

  Telenar nodded graciously and even smiled. “I am far from holy, but I am happy to meet you too, little one. How did you know I was a priest?”

  She sniffed. “Holy ones smell the same. Like books.”

  Impressed, Telenar opened his mouth to respond, when she added, “And Sir told Bedge.”

  “I see. Amarian says you like to explore?”

  “Yes, yes. Bedge likes to wander many places, back and forth.”

  Amarian accepted a bowl of stew as N’vonne returned with a meaty bone for Bedge. “Tell the holy one what you saw in the windy place.”

  It took longer than the original telling but eventually, in-between bites, Bedge related what she had seen in the Eastern Lands. When she had finished, Telenar and N’vonne sat in stunned silence.

  “Bedge needs to run. Can she go?”

  Amarian nodded, not taking his eyes off of the others. “You may go. Just stay away from the hunters.”

  She left and Amarian returned his gaze to the other two. “Well?”

  N’vonne spoke first. “I don’t understand it. How can there be a howling army of Zyreio’s dead servants without an Advocate to lead them?”

  Telenar nodded agreement. The same question had occurred to him.

  Amarian, on the other hand, allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. His new friends had no concept of Obsidian’s determination. “He doesn’t need an Advocate. He never has. I suspect that he feels victory has been snatched out of his teeth and he wants it back.” Even as he said the words, he had to fight down a shiver.

  “Do the Ages say anything about this?” N’vonne asked Telenar.

  “No. When Amarian defeated Vancien and then brought him back from the dead, the pattern Kynell had set was broken. We’ve moved beyond the prophecies.” He looked at Amarian. “So what do we do now?”

  “Take cover. It’s all we can—”

  His words were lost to a loud screech, followed by the shouts of men. All three of them jumped to their feet and ran outside with the other diners. Vancien and Chiyo had returned.

  The orbs were beginning to set, casting a dramatic light for the arrival of the great Ealatrophe, who was as intimidating as ever. His fierce gaze cut through the throng of men as his dark wings, spread wide for landing, cast a chilly shadow. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he landed and allowed his charges to dismount. Poor Chiyo was shivering in starts and fits; the padded saddle and multiple layers of clothing were about as effective as medical gauze in the face of the Ealatrophe’s cold—only Vancien could stand the Destrariae klathonus. Everybody else who
approached had to suffer heart-stopping chills.

  Bren, the Ealatrophe’s self-appointed handler, hurried forward and checked it for signs of fatigue or injury. He had made himself a “cold suit,” which allowed him to come closer than most, although he looked and moved like an overstuffed scarecrow. Crooning softly, he led the Ealatrophe away from the crowd.

  Vancien watched them go. “Thelámos likes him.”

  But Telenar had grabbed him by the arm. “Yes, Bren is a good boy. Now come with me. We need to talk.”

  They followed him, N’vonne, and Amarian into Telenar’s hut without comment. Telenar was not known for his social skills, but they could tell that he was agitated beyond his usual brusqueness. Even so, they made him wait for a few seconds while Chiyo demanded a bowl of warm soup and Vancien insisted that he stretch his legs. A three-day journey on an Ealatrophe was no casual matter. Finally, both men settled in enough to ask what was bothering the priest so much.

  After looking hesitantly at Amarian for a go-ahead, Telenar began. “As you might guess, Amarian has been to visit the fennels in the southern woodlands in order to feel them out as allies.”

  Chiyo nodded. “We knew that was in the works before we left.”

  “Well, I didn’t meet with any success,” Amarian took over. “But one of the fennels—a kit—sought me out privately. She told me that she likes to go out exploring, often far afield from her new home.” He fixed his dark eyes on his brother, and though they held no trace of cheer, the shadows around them were disappearing. Despite his complaints, life at camp had been good for his constitution. “Vancien, the armies of Zyreio’s dead have risen. They’re preparing for battle.”

  Vancien almost laughed out loud at such an absurdity, then he looked again at his brother, then Telenar and N’vonne. The looks on their faces told him that they were serious enough. But what they were telling him was impossible. Kynell had won the battle, albeit by unorthodox means. Zyreio was to be stilled for the next ten thousand scores of mornings and evenings. The only “enemy” they had now was that duped Corfe.

  While he was still processing the news, Chiyo spoke. “How did you say you found out about this? A fennel kit?”

  Amarian nodded. “As unlikely as it seems, yes.”

  “Why would you trust a fennel informant, even a young one?”

  “Hang on.” Amarian jumped to his feet and went to the door. Opening it a crack, he looked outside. Soldiers were wandering here and there, going about their chores. Some wives who had chosen to join their husbands at camp were doing laundry in the distance, outside of the ring of rude buildings. The voyoté were stabled in a large pen to his right. One of them was fixing an intent gaze on an adjacent woodpile, giving him the clue he was looking for.

  “You can come out, Bedge. Come over here.”

  Two eyes peered out from the shadow of the logs. Then a streak of brown and tan raced toward his feet.

  “Bedge did not run for long. Bedge saw great big wings and was scared. Bedge followed Sir.”

  “It’s all right. I want you to come in. There are some people who would like to meet you.”

  He opened the door wider and allowed her inside. Bedge instinctively went to sit by N’vonne, who began to pet her.

  Chiyo looked displeased. “What in Rhyvelad persuaded you to bring back a kit?”

  Amarian shrugged. In his mind, the only person whose opinion mattered was Vancien’s. “She insisted on coming. Her parents are dead.”

  Chiyo grunted but said nothing.

  Vancien was fascinated, never having spoken with a fennel before. “Do you speak Keroulian?”

  Bedge had started purring under N’vonne’s ministrations. “Bedge knows Keroulian.” Again, the long “oo.”

  Vancien nodded. She must have been born in the Eastern Lands, where Keroulian had been spoken ever since Varrin, himself a Keroulian, had taken up residence there. He realized with a start that he didn’t know the nationalities of the other Advocates. Were they all from Keroul? Surely not. He had a dim memory of Tryun and Grens being from the West…the fennel kit stretched, bringing his attention back to the present.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Her name is Bedge.” Amarian interceded before the fennel could answer. Well-meaning as she was, her introduction of herself went on too long. “She followed me because she heard I served Kynell, or ‘the light-god,’ as she calls him.” He turned to her. “Tell them again what you saw in the windy place.”

  Although originally terrified of recounting her expedition into the Eastern Lands, Bedge had begun to warm to the tale. Amarian noticed that the fennels had turned more eerie, the humans had become extremely violent and vicious, and the eyes of the Sentries were now red. Still, the meat of the account was the same.

  Vancien had started pacing as she spoke. When she finished, he didn’t bother restraining his frustration. “How is this possible? Kynell won! He won. Zyreio can’t—”

  He was cut off by his brother. “Zyreio can, Vancien. And if he can, he will. Think of it from his point of view. He was betrayed and now he wants vengeance. In his mind, the next ten thousand scores are his.”

  N’vonne resumed stroking Bedge in the hopes that the fur would hide her shaking hand. “Forgetting that it shouldn’t happen, if we assume that it did happen, what do we do now?”

  Amarian’s response was much the same and this time he had Chiyo to agree with him. “After all,” the general observed, “we don’t even know how to fight this type of enemy.”

  “But we can’t just sit here and do nothing.” Vancien objected.

  “So what do you suggest we do? Fight Zyreio with a handful of Cylini?” Amarian certainly believed his own protest, but he would have been lying if he said he had no ulterior motive: the thought of going back to the Eastern Lands made him almost sick.

  Vancien turned moody, so Telenar took over. “To respond to Chiyo’s point, there is no recorded means whereby living soldiers can defeat Zyreio’s, er…” He stopped, wondering how to describe them. .” . .shall we say ‘reanimated’ army. This type of conflict has only happened once before. The battle between the first Advocates, Tryun and Grens, is the only struggle that lasted long enough for both forces to form and be deployed. Varrin and Heptar, Nejona and Erst…one brother was dead before either could raise his own followers.”

  Bedge yawned. N’vonne shushed her but Telenar took the hint. “There must be something we can do,” he concluded lamely. “There are still Kynell’s own faithful to consider.”

  All heads turned to Vancien, who looked as helpless as they felt. “I haven’t tried because I didn’t see a need. Surely Kynell will hear me now, though.”

  Telenar nodded, happy to seize the hope. “Kynell responds in his own time. The point is, we no longer have any reason to stay here. We must head toward the Eastern Lands. Perhaps we can confront this army before it does any damage. ”

  Later that evening, Vancien caught up with his brother as he was walking outside the camp. Bedge was hunting a little distance from them.

  “Do the fennels know she’s gone?”

  Amarian nodded, then cursed as a gust of wind blew chaff into his eyes. He dug at his face with the corner of his coarse sleeve. “The Chasm take these plains!” Then he looked at his stained and dirty clothes; the exquisite wardrobe he had brought from the east so long ago was stored away. “We live little better than beggars here.”

  Though itching in his own clothes, Vancien had to disagree. “Not better than the beggars I saw in Lascombe. It’s wretched to be poor in the city, surrounded by people who don’t know how to help or else don’t want to. ‘Ian,” He put a hand on Amarian’s shoulder. “Did you know that they’ve started a slave market there?”

  “A slave market?” Amarian had, of course, possessed slaves of his own in the Eastern Lands—mostly unwanted children or people kidnapped from the Ulanese. He still cringed when he thought of their misery. How did Kynell ever manage to forgive him for the things he had
done? “I thought those abominations were outlawed in Keroul.”

  Vancien shook his head, grieved by what his country was becoming. “It started this past breach. Apparently things are bad enough that people are selling their families. Now they’ve started selling Cylini captives.”

  “I wonder how our friend Corfe justifies these new developments.”

  Vancien had been wondering the same thing, too. A Prysm Advocate had never sanctioned slavery before; it was understood as a sign of man’s distance from Kynell. “I think he means well—in that he thinks he wants what Kynell wants. But so many things can get distorted when you think you’re an Advocate.”

  Amarian grunted. Nobody knew that truth as well as he did. “When do we leave for Donech?”

  “Do you think they’re still there?”

  “It’ll be even worse for Rhyvelad if they’re not. Better that they stay close to home.”

  At that moment, Bedge came bounding up, to the considerable relief of both men. It was hard to dwell on the negative with someone like her around. After dropping the gift of a dead bird at Amarian’s feet, she sat down.

  “Nice hunting, Bedge.” Vancien commented, watching his brother’s reaction with amusement. Amarian was torn between retaining his gloomy dignity and acknowledging the gift with the warmth it deserved.

  “Thank you, Bedge,” he prevaricated. “But you know that this is not enough to feed a man.”

  The little fennel purred loudly. “Bedge knows. But Bedge’s other kill is too big to bring to Sir.”

  Amarian and Vancien exchanged looks. Other kill? What exactly were fennel kits capable of? Curious, they followed her a little further into the meadow and were astonished to find a dead bohide—a large, slow bison-type that had killer instincts when cornered. Bedge gripped its tail in her teeth. “Bedge cannot carry slow-cow on her own.”

  The entire camp ate well that night, with enough meat left over to salt and carry with them on the journey. The cooking team both grumbled and rejoiced at the provision, while Bedge instantly became the soldiers’ mascot. They took turns talking with her, petting her, and offering her choice tidbits. Amarian thought that such displays were unnecessary but the kit glowed under the attention. As he watched her preen, he had to remind himself that she had lost her mother at a very young age. A little extra attention surely would not hurt her. Even so, he was gratified that she still came when beckoned. He was jealous, though he would never admit it.