Obsidian

by Lindsey Scholl

  “Boys, I must be about what I’m here for. Take good care of your mother and tell her what I told you.”

  He was about to open the door when the door opened for him. It was Ruponi, flush with righteous indignation.

  “Ah, Relgaré,” he said. “Glad to see you. I think you’re wanted at the Stoa.”

  Relgaré nodded meekly and stepped out to obey the summons, but not before looking once again at his family. “Please remember what I told you. You may not have the time to reflect that I had.”

  With those ominous words, he was gone. Ruponi did not watch him go; he was focused on Relgaren.

  “Now then, young king. It appears you are having a family reunion while your city’s about to go up in smoke.”

  Relgaren gave a great shudder, as if waking from a dream. “Uh, yes, I’m sorry. And you are?”

  Ruponi’s introduction was enough to sir him into action. Without another word to his family, he followed him down to the Great Hall, the duty of what lay before him weighing heavily on his shoulders.

  __________

  Telenar was lingering alone outside the corridor running past the king’s chambers. Chiyo had come with him to inform the king of the resurrections, but upon overhearing Relgaré’s voice inside the chamber, the general had decided to proceed to the Great Hall. Telenar had been left wondering whether he should disturb the interview. He was still unresolved when Corfe stumbled out with an expression so distraught that Telenar decided it would do more good to follow him.

  Corfe did not see him at first, nor was he paying attention to anything else but his own thoughts. He made his way to one of the palace’s many towers, avoiding eye contact with anyone he encountered. Consequently, he was twelve steps up the narrow spiral staircase of the northeast tower before he realized someone was following him. The close quarters prevented him from seeing his follower, so he was forced to bark out an irritated “Who’s there?”

  Telenar made haste to answer. His response elicited a grunt and more climbing. In a few moments, they had both emerged under the wet sky. Corfe acknowledged Telenar’s response with a slight movement of his hand, then proceeded to the far edge. It was still raining—a warm, steady drizzle.

  “Corfe, what’s wrong?” Telenar called out through the rain, fearing that if he approached too quickly the young man might do something drastic.

  Corfe did not answer, so Telenar took a few steps forward. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now, if you’ve just learned what I think you’ve learned.”

  “The last person I want to see is Vancien, priest. But you’re close.”

  “Vancien is down in the Hall. He has no idea we’re up here.”

  Again, Corfe did not answer, but resumed looking out over the city. Telenar did not press the issue. He would talk in his own time. His limited patience was taxed, though, as Corfe continued to stare out into the rain for several minutes. Finally, he spoke.

  “You had better go inside. You’re needed much more in there than out here.”

  “I’m not confident of that.”

  “You think I’m going to throw myself over the edge? I’m not planning on it. But if I did, what is it to you?”

  “A waste is what it would be. Kynell didn’t save you from Zyreio to have you hurl yourself from the top of a tower.”

  “He’d rather I made a fool of myself instead?”

  “That was your doing, not his.”

  Corfe drew a deep breath. The city below seemed to mock him, as if it had known of his mistake this whole time. He was racking his brain for signs of where he had gone wrong—how he had gone wrong, especially when he felt that he had been doing so much right. To buy time, he digressed.

  “If you had known what I would become that day I was in your office, what would you have done to me?”

  “Done to you? What should I have done? Locked you up? The hold Amarian had over you was spectacular, Corfe. It was not my place to punish you for it.”

  “You would have saved us all a lot of trouble if you had.”

  Telenar wished that Corfe would at least turn around. It was awkward talking to the back of his head. But at least he was talking.

  “Kynell saved you. And no matter what has happened since, that’s what you have to remember.”

  “And I should just block out these past months?”

  “Yes. And do it quickly, or we will catch our death of cold before Zyreio’s troops ever lay a hand on us.”

  Corfe allowed himself a morose smile, then turned toward the entrance of the stairwell. “One of these days, priest, you’ll have to point out to me where I went so horribly wrong.”

  “If we survive that long,” Telenar responded, following him into the shelter, “I’d be happy to.” He paused on the top step. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you find out the truth?”

  Corfe’s voice echoed up to him as they made their way down the stone staircase. “Relgaré made me the butt of a joke. I don’t think he realized what had happened.”

  “Ah, Relgaré,” Telenar sighed to himself, “still the same, even with the Prysm.”

  “There’s another problem,” Corfe said after they had reached the bottom of the stairs. Though his voice was calm, he was clenching and unclenching his right fist with manic intensity. “Most everybody here believes that I am the Advocate. If I just go out and say ‘No, sorry, I was wrong,’ what will that do to them?”

  “Would you rather they die believing a lie?”

  “I’d rather they fight before they die than just give up altogether. Half of them don’t even know Vancien exists.”

  Though he did not like it, Telenar could see the validity of Corfe’s point. Still, he could not sanction heresy, even for tactical purposes. “I don’t have an answer to that,” he replied frankly. “But maybe somebody else does. We must hurry to the meet the others. It will be daylight in a few hours.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Though several Risen Ones had already dispersed, the massive room remained filled with past notables, both from Keroul and other countries. Their murmurings rose to the vaulted ceiling, bouncing off the timber rafters and creating a productive din. The figures themselves were all gathered around a large table, looking at something. Several cycles ago, Chiyo had ordered a small-scale model of the city to be constructed in as exact a manner as possible, insisting that it was essential to the city’s defense. Relgaré, who at that time feared the Cylini might encroach so far as the capital, had supported the project. The mock-up had sat unused for cycles, except for when Chiyo would come and stroll around the great table on which it sat, reviewing the city’s weak points, ordering adjustments both to the real and miniature fortifications as he saw fit. The miniature city was so large, however, that Chiyo soon had to rig up a system of mirrors that would allow him and others to study its interior, which was impossible to examine from the perimeters.

  He was now employing those mirrors to great effect, using a pointer to indicate the locations of the barracks, storehouses, etc. Occasionally he referred to a map of the city that hung on the wall nearby, but he seemed to take the greatest satisfaction in showing off his model to an appreciative audience.

  “Those of you new to Lascombe should know the general layout of the city. You see that we’ve constructed a makeshift wall three hundred yards out.” He pointed to a thin miniature wall built of wood scraps. “The model does not show it, but we’ve made it as traction-less as possible. It’s finished on the eastern front. I have a team working on the western front as we speak—if they haven’t been completely distracted by your arrival, that is,” he added with a smile. The resurrection of the faithful had given him new life. Although he never enjoyed battle, at least now he could find satisfaction in the challenge confronting them, knowing that all hope was not lost.

  A tall, elegant lady leaned over the miniature. She was dressed in leather armor, her thick hair pulled up in a business-like manner. Her name was Jana. All the Risen Ones tr
eated her with grave respect. Originally, she was from further south than even Vancien’s territory, past the Osai Sea. Her people, like Corfe’s, were sea-faring. Although Corfe had taken pains throughout his life to forget his connection to the sea, Jana obviously enjoyed her heritage, lingering over her accent like it was a prize in itself. Chiyo had never heard of her before, but he already liked her: her questions had shown that she had a keen awareness of strategy and urgency, and her accent was sweet to his ears.

  “They will dig under the wall if they do not tear it down,” she was saying.

  He nodded. “Yes, most probably. And we won’t be able to see where they’re digging. We couldn’t prevent that in the time we had. But at least we can slow them down that much more.”

  Jana appeared satisfied with his answer. She leaned back, folded her arms, and listened as he resumed his speech.

  “The tar teams should have everything slicked down right before orbrise. Casing tar takes a few hours to lose all of its tackiness, so hopefully the scouts are right and we won’t be in for a dawn arrival.”

  Telenar and Corfe slipped in as he spoke. No one noticed them, except for Relgaren and Lors, who were standing among the other dignitaries. The brothers of Anisllyr glanced at their old ally, then back at the table. They had realized no less than Corfe the gravity—almost the fatality—of their mistake. Corfe did not blame them for ignoring him.

  “I don’t see Vancien or Amarian.” Telenar whispered.

  Corfe started. “So you were telling the truth? Amarian really is here? How can you trust him?”

  “The same way I can trust you—or think I can.”

  Corfe had a retort but decided to keep it to himself. Telenar was his only friend at the moment.

  “Come on,” Telenar hissed again as Jana asked another question. “We’re not needed here. Chiyo, Ruponi, and whoever that lady is will get along without us. We’ve got to find Vance.”

  “Where would they be, if not here?”

  “My guess is at the Stoa or the Courtyard. Hull’s not here either. Chiyo must have sent them all on.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We need to find Amarian.”

  “Not Vancien?”

  “If we find one, we’ll find the other. But it strikes me that if Amarian is allowed to fight at all, he’ll need your public endorsement, or else your armies will turn on him.”

  As Corfe pondered that, Telenar slipped over to Chiyo’s side and said a few words to him. Chiyo paused long to respond with a brief comment. When Telenar returned, his tone was urgent.

  “He’s at the Stoa. Hull is going to direct the forces there and Vancien and Amarian are with them. We should hurry.”

  The Stoa was a large portico with columns dating back from Erst’s reign as Advocate. They were the oldest Prysmite architecture in Keroul, since followers of the Prysm weren’t allowed to construct long-standing buildings in the first two Obsidian eras. Although a few earlier scraps of rough stone structures survived throughout the countryside (rude pyramids with K’s inside indicated their orientation) the columns had symbolized the Prysm from the time they were erected. They were older and more respected than even the Square that surrounded them.

  The portico itself was long and narrow, with one broad side facing an open square and the other pressed against a high retaining wall. Although just seven paces wide, it was a hundred and fifty paces long and set above the surrounding pavement by four deep, almost impracticable steps. When the Stoa was first built, the columns would have been painted in rich colors, with their leafy capitals overlaid in gold. Over the many cycles, however, the vibrant colors had faded and worn off, the leaves turning from gold to bald stone once more.

  Despite, or perhaps because of, its age, the Stoa continued to serve as the city’s most respected assembly point. It was the hub of the Square’s political activity. Here, stump speeches were made, taxes announced, and scandals publicly regretted. That night, like the rest of Lascombe’s residents, the representatives of the Square were either involved in the defense or commanded to evacuate. Now the courtyard facing the Stoa was beginning to flood over with Risen Ones. Living soldiers intermingled with the crowd.

  The constant metallic clink of armor and blades also filled the square. Lascombe’s armory had been depleted by the influx of troops under Corfe, although reportedly reinforcements were coming in from the West with extra arms. Yet the added support would not arrive soon enough, and many of the living soldiers feared that they would have to surrender their arms to the Risen Ones. But the Risen Ones were already equipped. Mundane blades, Hull had told his sons on their way to the Stoa, were of no use against the Chasmites. Only weapons forged in Kynell’s furnaces would be able to slay the enemy. Every man and woman of the Prysm’s army was equipped with the means of sending Zyreio’s followers back to the Chasm from which they came. What those means were, he added, might not be revealed until the battle itself.

  When they arrived at the Stoa, the rain had still not let up. Hull could barely see the crowd, though he knew it must stretch for hundreds of yards into the surrounding streets. “Fellow soldiers!” he called, projecting his voice as well as he could. There was no response. He tried the call again. In the end, it took four bellows to get the Square to quiet down.

  “I am here to give you directions, not a speech. I trust that those Risen Ones who can hear me will relay my words to those who cannot. I was sent here by General Chiyo. But I am also the proud father of the two Advocates. They have been granted the authority to give orders. Vancien is young,” he brought forward his youngest, who was lingering behind a column. “But he will have charge of…”

  His words were drowned out by shouts of protest. The Risen Ones looked on in amazement as Lascombe’s soldiers started a cry of “Imposter!”

  One of the men close to Hull rattled his sword. “That boy’s not the Advocate!” he bellowed. “Lord Corfe is!”

  Despite the calm, reasonable murmurs of the Risen Ones to the contrary, his cry was taken up by others around him. Hull was beginning to think he was going to have to take coercive action when Corfe himself, accompanied by Telenar, appeared at his side. They had obviously been running.

  As soon as the soldiers saw him, they gave a hearty roar. But Corfe, once he had caught his breath, put up a hand to stop them.

  “Good men and Sentries of Lascombe,” he shouted hoarsely, “do not shout my name. My name is nothing. I am nothing. I have made a horrible mistake.”

  The roar stopped, first in the front, then towards the back as his words were passed on.

  “Though I love the Prysm,” Corfe continued, “I was in error. I am not the Advocate. I never was the Advocate. But this man,” he put a hand on Vancien’s shoulder, “is Kynell’s chosen. He is the one equipped to lead you into battle. He is the reason that we have the Risen Ones among us.”

  Before the troops could protest again, he gestured to the Risen Ones. “If you don’t believe me, believe them. They have come from Kynell himself! Do they not acknowledge Vancien as the Advocate?” he asked urgently.

  The Risen Ones did not disappoint. As one, they saluted Vancien and cried “Vancien pa Hull, Advocate of the Prysm!”

  They did not stop their chant there, however. Changing the angle of their salute, they shouted again, “Amarian pa Hull, Advocate of the Prysm!”

  Amarian had also been hiding behind a column, watching the scene. When he heard his name, he stepped out. The crowd, excepting the Risen Ones, cried out in anger when it saw him. Some of them threatened to rush the Stoa, so enraged were they by the sight of him. The Sentries were as confused as they had ever been.

  Amarian flinched but did not retreat. He watched with no small amount of distress as the Risen Ones restrained the troops. But they could not stop the shouting. Cries of “Murderer!” “Traitor!” and even “Dragonmaster!” all piled on top of each other in a chorus of accusation.

  Both Corfe and Hull were shouting at the top of their voices to s
tay the crowd. Bedge, who had been following Amarian, moved protectively between her master and the soldiers. With front paws planted and hackles raised, she growled—a deep, throaty sound Amarian had never heard from her before. Some of the men laughed at this show of defiance. Those who were better acquainted with fennels gave her wide birth.

  It was the piercing shriek of an Ealatrophe that stilled all protests. Thelámos’s cry cut through the shouts and the rain as he swept low over the assembly, landing in a hastily cleared area at the base of the steps.

  There was a rider on his back. Unlike everyone gathered in the Stoa, he didn’t carry a sword or a shield. He dismounted, patted Thelámos on the neck, and led him up the steps, out of the rain. The crowd watched in surprise. Most of the Lascombian soldiers had never seen an Ealatrophe before, and the Risen Ones were just as taken aback by its presence as their comrades.

  Once under the protection of the Stoa, he shook his head and clothes free of excess water, then pushed his hair back from his forehead. Then he began to study the crowd, as if he had come for no other purpose.

  Vancien, a little offended that someone would dare ride Thelámos, decided to speak first. He didn’t know who this newcomer was, but clearly some questions were in order. “Who are you? Have you been sent from Chiyo? How is it that you can ride an Ealatrophe?”

  The stranger began to roll up his sleeves, giving his answer to the stones at his feet. “I have not been sent from Chiyo. And Thelámos is an old friend of mine.”

  Vancien started forward. “Then who are you? Why don’t you look us in the eye?” He glanced back at his father, who was also staring at the man. “You are not a Risen One.”

  The man still gazed at the stones. “No, I am not a Risen One. Neither are you. Not yet.”