Obsidian

by Lindsey Scholl

  It took a few days, and some convincing, to get the small force ready to leave. The question that plagued them was whether it was better to inform the troops of their unsavory mission, thereby risking mass defection, or to keep their undertaking secret. Telenar, at Vancien and N’vonne’s urging, decided that it would only be right to tell the Cylini what they were in for. Chiyo could do with his own men what he chose, although once the word was out it would be impossible to contain.

  The reaction among the Cylini was dispiriting. Telenar told them the news in their own language. As he did so, they began to murmur, then fidget, looking anxiously back over their shoulders to the trees. Many of the warriors had wives and children in those marshes and were unwilling to travel far from home to combat a mythical undead army. In the end, a handful remained—predictably, the ones with no dependent loved ones. Chiyo’s men had a little more time to decide. Their route would take them through the marshes, then south of the Duvarian Range, before crossing the Trmak desert and drawing near to the Eastern Lands. In a little over a week, they would be directly south of Lascombe. Those soldiers who wished to return to the city could do so at that point.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The mood was sober as Vancien and his companions broke camp one wet morning, packed away what was transportable, and made their start. By afternoon of that day, they were back in the marshes, moving swiftly in Cylini boats. The air was still as the boats glided through the murky waters. A few creatures in the trees made their calls, but the large number of vessels forestalled any more ominous interruptions. Rather than reassure them, however, the placid environment only added to the tension. It was as if the marshes were taking satisfaction in leaving the humans to their morbid imaginings.

  Chiyo had his share of dark thoughts, though his concerned the past, not the future. He clenched his jaw as he remembered the last time he had entered this territory. His best lieutenant, Hunoi, had been killed during a Cylini ambush, felled by the first arrow of the assault. He had not even had a chance to bury him properly. Now they were gliding over the same waters that covered his friend’s body, aided by the same people who had taken his life. What a funny, horrible place the world was.

  Telenar watched Chiyo with concern. The general’s commitment to Kynell was absolute, but sometimes Telenar wondered what he thought of their unusual circumstances. Chiyo had, after all, come from the West to serve Relgaré and the House of Anisllyr. Now the king was dead and Chiyo had broken ties with the throne—what was worse, he was leading a small force that could potentially become hostile to the House of Anisllyr, should Relgaren make as many unwise choices as his father had. Telenar was not a soldier, but he understood the importance of loyalty, and in some ways Chiyo was showing more loyalty to the throne by opposing it. He could always have returned home to the West and let the Keroulians deal with their own problems (however short-lived an illusion that would be, since Zyreio was everybody’s problem). Yet here he was, in a Cylini boat, ready to lead a tiny group of men and women against a massive and unpredictable enemy. Telenar shook his head. The general may not be a scholar of the Ages, but he was committed to the right things.

  The observation brought Telenar some comfort, but not much. There still remained the problem of how they could possibly confront Zyreio’s army. He had spent the past few days studying not only the Ages, but the few books of history he had brought with him. As always, the Ages had proven more useful: those histories written under Relgaré’s reign were worthless for his purposes. According to them, the Advocates existed only as figurative representatives of moral epochs, whatever that meant. But the Ages were refreshing in their bluntness. The struggle between Tryun and Grens had been bloody and drawn-out: Grens’ reanimated Obsidian forces collided with those of Tryun in the Battle of the Knuckle, which turned out to be a complete disaster for the Prysm. The theater of war at that time was the Trmak Desert, which had once been lush rolling hills—the most sought-after land in Rhyvelad. Grens had held the high ground, a ridge running north to south called the Knuckle, so named because of its uneven, undulating surface. Although Tryun’s army was large, it struggled to capture the ridge. At first, the Prysm Advocate had forbidden his living soldiers to participate in the fight because of the danger from Grens’ reanimated forces. Only when his own reanimated soldiers had been cut down by Obsidian did he command his living men to flank the Knuckle on the north and the south. They did, and although they caught the reanimated troops by surprise, they discovered that living men could not prevail against dead ones. Tryun ordered a withdrawal, but during the course of the retreat, a flaming arrow pierced him in the eye. He was killed instantly and with him, the Prysm’s chances of overcoming Obsidian. It was said (not by the Ages), that the despair of good men and women was so great that it turned the rolling hills of Trmak into barren desert. Telenar thought it was a fitting legend, but subscribed to the belief that a dramatic climate change occurring about a hundred cycles after the battle accounted for the Trmak’s fate—he had the history books to thank for that.

  So there it was. He looked around at the others, admiring their resolution. Yet without Kynell’s armies, their case was hopeless. Vancien had told him that he had tried to summon the faithful every day since they had first received the news, but with no success. On the other hand, Corfe had thousands of men at his disposal. Men, Telenar considered grimly, who would soon be slaughtered if Corfe persisted in his delusion. How desperately Corfe needed to be convinced of his mistake, but mere words would never persuade Corfe he wasn’t the Advocate. Still, if he could be reminded of Tryun’s failure, maybe he could set up defenses around Lascombe to fend off Zyreio’s forces, at least long enough to realize his mistake. Perhaps by then, Kynell would have answered Vancien’s prayers.

  Yet even if they joined Corfe at Lascombe, he would never trust Amarian. For the moment, Amarian only complicated things. If he could lie low for a time, then perhaps he, Telenar, could attempt to dissuade Corfe of his delusion while Chiyo oversaw the city’s defenses. As for Vancien, it wouldn’t hurt to have him lie low, as well.

  A splash interrupted his reflections. One of the younger voyoté had grown anxious in the confined space of the boat and had jumped into the water. Now its handlers were having a great deal of trouble getting him back into the boat. No harm was done, though there was a great deal of angry shouting. He sighed. Cetla, Lansing, and Nagab—their own faithful voyoté who had carried them so far last cycle—had long ago been sent back to Lascombe. The royal head groom had been nervous about letting them go in the first place; the least Telenar could do was to return them, unharmed, when he had thought their journey was at an end. Truth be told, he missed their strength and agility. The Cylini kept a healthy stable on the border of their territory, but the plains voyoté tended to be scrawnier and less reliable than their royal counterparts. If he had to go into battle against Zyreio, he would at least prefer to have Lansing under him.

  His anxious thoughts then returned to Vancien and Amarian. It seemed more necessary than ever to have them out of the way, if only for a time. He looked nervously at N’vonne, wondering what she would think of his strategy and promising himself that he would tell her and the others before they reached the road to Lascombe. Until then there was no point in disturbing them.

  __________

  Ester and Trint had the easiest time adapting to Sirin’s strange habits. So grateful were they to have three square meals a day, with snacks in-between, that they submitted to the routine of the house with no complaint. Teehma and Lucio struggled the worst. Living with a munkke-trophe did not suit their independent natures. While Ester, with her gentle spirit, quietly learned to mix his joint poultice and Trint fetched his brocade slippers whenever Sirin asked, the other two spent their time recalling the “freedom” they had enjoyed under Gorvy. The city and life in general, it seemed, was passing them by as they batted carpets, cooked their own meals, and polished those beautiful front doors.

  More than two weeks h
ad passed when Lucio, as usual, was thrashing one of Sirin’s rugs, the one with the macaw bird and the gigantic purple snail.

  “By the Chasm, that old monkey sheds more than three voyoté combined!”

  Teehma, who was holding the great rug for him, looked nervously at the door. The “dupes,” as they called the two other servants, were away with Sirin on an errand, but she still feared their ingratitude would be reported. “He’s a munkke-trophe, Lucio, not a monkey. And aren’t you happy to have a hot meal and a soft bed?”

  “You mean a lumpy bed and the same meal every other day? We work like slaves.” He gave the rug another thwack and watched the dust particles fly off the snail and into the cold air. “We are slaves.”

  They switched positions. Now it was Teehma’s turn to beat the snail. “No, we’re not. Sirin didn’t buy us. He’s looking for a home for us.”

  Lucio snorted. “If this is what a home is like, I think I’d rather be on my own.”

  Teehma agreed. She had been only seven cycles when her parents, weak from hard living, had both succumbed to illness a few months apart. All she remembered of the life up to that time was her mother’s exhaustion and her father’s dangerous flashes of anger. Sirin’s house was a great improvement on that life, and on the wretchedness of working for Gorvy, but she was still a drudge—fetching for others, cleaning up after others, and cooking for others, with little benefit to herself. Who was to say that this new “home” she was supposed to find would be any different?

  “Besides,” Lucio continued, “who would want us? Someone might take Trint—an’ they’d have to take Ester, too, if they took him—but we’re too old. We’re not cute like Trint,” he rolled up the rug and threw it in the corner, “an’ we’re sure not as nice as Ester.”

  Again, Teehma had to agree. But she wasn’t about to let Lucio have the joy of being right. “We’re old enough to be apprenticed. We could learn a trade, like the dupes are doing.”

  “And go on doing more drudgery.” He leaned over the balcony and squinted at the distant peaks of the Duvarian Range. “What would it be like to get out on our own? To get up when we wanted? Eat when we wanted? Sleep when we wanted?”

  Teehma followed his gaze. “If you’re thinking of escaping to the Range, you’re a silly narfat. The mountains would kill you and if they didn’t, some wild fennel would.”

  “Shows how much you know. Fennels don’t live in the Range. They like the woodlands.”

  “Oh yeah? How do you know?”

  He shrugged and scratched his head. His now-clean blond hair had been neatly trimmed for the first time in his life and he was still getting used to it. “One of the old monkey’s lessons. He says if I ever learn to read, I can find those things out for myself—I guess ‘till then I have to listen to him go on about ‘em.”

  Teehma gave an unlady-like grunt and followed him into the house. Sirin was teaching them both how to read, but only Lucio was getting the geography lessons. The munkke-trophe, who believed that all girls should know how to keep house properly, had put her under the charge of the female dupe, Lidia. Every morning, she was forced to learn the domestic arts, while Lucio learned about more exciting things like military history and where fennels lived. Lidia was a gentle and effective teacher, but her efforts were wasted on a girl like Teehma, who equated being female with being cooped up inside or being sold as the worst sort of slave. Though she would never admit it to him, she was jealous of the privileges Lucio enjoyed just for being a boy.

  Crossing by the top of the spiraling staircase, the two were surprised to hear Sirin’s voice below. He was not due back for several hours yet, but nevertheless they heard his sonorous tones in conversation with another, lighter voice.

  “You’ve come for the boy, no doubt,” they heard the munkke-trophe say. Lucio and Teehma looked at each other in alarm.

  “If the boy needs a home,” said the other voice, “my wife and I would be happy to give it to him. Ever since we lost our own Nes…”

  Sirin cut him off. “You know the child is very dependent on the blind girl. He’ll barely talk with anybody else.”

  Teehma stifled a guffaw. What four-cycle old wouldn’t be scared stiff around Sirin? Trint talked to her and Lucio plenty.

  The other voice continued, sounding very earnest. “We understand that he’s very attached to the girl. If you don’t think…” Here the voice paused, as if its owner were considering something. “If you don’t think the boy will be happy without her, we would be willing to take her in, as well. You say that she’s very useful around the house.”

  “I’d say she’s more helpful than the others combined. The two older ones mope as if they’ve been whipped.”

  “If we could return to the boy…”

  “The boy’s yours, but you’d better take the girl, too. I’ll come around tomorrow to your house to make sure everything is in order. Then if all is as I see fit, you’ll have yourself two new bratlings.”

  Teehma and Lucio did not bother with the rest of the conversation. They had to talk to Trint and Ester before Sirin did. Trying to ignore the feeling like they’d been punched in the stomach, they hurried to the kitchen. Ester was there, washing some vegetables, while Trint was sitting at the butcher-block table, kicking his feet and fingering the necklace the man Vancien had given him. When they came in, he jumped to his feet.

  “Ester says I have to eat all those veg’tables tonight!” he announced. “She says Sirin won’t be happy if I don’t eat ‘em all. But I don’t ever see Sirin eat veg’tables.”

  “Hush,” Lucio ordered, steering Ester away from the washbasin and toward the table. “You both just sit down and be quiet. We have some news.” Then he looked at Teehma, uncertain how to begin.

  “Sirin’s found you a home.” Teehma blurted out. Better to have it done and over with.

  Trint gave a loud whoop and started running around the table. But Ester did not move. “For whom has he found a home?” she said, so quietly that Teehma barely heard her.

  Teehma was not given to discernment or compassion, but one would have to be a stone not to sympathize with the girl. She was relieved that her answer was a good one. “He found the same home for both of you. You and Trint will live together.”

  The sigh that Ester released sounded as if she’d been holding in it for cycles. She reached for Teehma’s hand, and when she found it, Teehma could feel her shaking. “That is good news. I don’t know what I would have done…but what about you? And Lucio? Will you come, too?”

  Teehma fought back tears while Lucio forced Trint back into a seat. The boy’s excitement and Ester’s profound relief only exacerbated their own disappointment. “Sirin only talked about you and Trint. I think that we’ll stay here.”

  “Like the great green Chasm we will,” Lucio interrupted. “The day you and Trint leave, Teehm’ and I are going too.”

  Trint’s jubilation ceased as soon as he figured out that Teehma and Lucio would not be accompanying them. “Are you gonna follow us?”

  Teehma glared at Lucio. “Lucio and I are not going anywhere. And I’m sure that, if you want, your new family will let you come visit us.”

  Trint’s eyes grew even wider as he wailed, “I don’t wanna visit you! I want you to come with us!”

  “We can’t, Trint,” Teehma replied even as Lucio proclaimed, “We’re not staying!” The two girls ignored him in their efforts to comfort Trint; they barely noticed him stalk out of the room.

  Two days passed awkwardly. Ester and Trint were torn between excitement about their new prospects and reluctance to leave the other two. Teehma, on the other hand, had her hands full trying to keep Lucio from flying off the handle at the slightest provocation. Sirin did not help matters. After officially announcing the news, he proceeded to order the older two to wait on the younger two. Lucio was supposed to polish Trint up and teach him to mind his manners, while Teehma was pushed into all the chores Ester would be leaving behind. The result was more awkwardness and res
entment. Consequently, when the day came for Ester and Trint to leave, Teehma and Lucio suffered from violently mixed emotions.

  Sirin woke them all up early that morning and told them to come down to the parlor. After some quick washing, they staggered downstairs and laid eyes for the first time on Trint and Ester’s new masters.

  The man was tall, so tall that Trint barely came up to his knees. He looked like a giant standing among the miniature furniture of the parlor, there being no comfortable place for him to sit. He had a kind face and a ready smile. There was a lady standing next to him, whose plump figure complemented his height. She wore a plain dress, a plain apron over it, and a colored scarf which hid all of her hair. Her face, too, was cheerful, although a little sad. When she saw Trint, she gave a little gasp and then retreated to the corner.

  Sirin took up the introductions. Pushing Trint and Ester forward, he said, “These are the two brat—er, children. Trint and Ester. You can see that they’ve had hard lives.” He pointed to the scar on Trint’s cheek and to Ester’s unseeing eyes. “I trust you won’t make life any harder for them.”

  The woman stayed in the corner, but the man crouched down in front of Trint, who watched him nervously. “Hello, Trint. My name is Tertio. I own a store not too far from here, where I sell all sorts of food and clothes. This is my wife.” He pointed to the lady, who was watching the proceedings at a distance. “Her name is Alisha.”

  Trint looked at him, then at her, then at Ester. Then he gave a jerky gesture in the direction of the last. “This is Ester.”