Obsidian

by Lindsey Scholl

  Tengar saluted. “Of course, General.” He trotted off, not a little annoyed.

  Chiyo, meanwhile, had another mission for Vancien. “I think you should go and find Telenar. Those Patroniites need to be ready for anything, especially with the fiends so close.”

  Just then, Amarian ran up. He must have plummeted down the stairs, so quickly did he arrive and so winded did he look. Bedge was at his feet, looking as if she were enjoying herself.

  “Sir fell down the big stone steps!” she cried joyously. “Bounce, bounce, he went! Until Bedge stopped him.”

  Amarian looked a little sheepish. “I tripped. So, what’s the plan?”

  Chiyo took a moment to decide. “Vance, go find Telenar. Amarian, come with me. We need to alert all the gate battal—” He stopped mid-sentence as Bedge’s energetic maneuvers caught his eye. He knelt down to her level, pondering a better idea.

  “You have a lot of energy, don’t you, little one?”

  “Oh yes! Bedge can bounce and hop all over the city!”

  “Do you think you can run to each Risen battalion along the wall? Will you tell them that the Sentries and fennels are coming soon?”

  Bedge did not stop bouncing. “Yes! Yes! Bedge can do that!”

  “Good. Go do it. And then come find Amarian.”

  Eager though she was, she did not take off at once. First she looked at Amarian. Only when he told her to go, and be quick about it, did she take off like a shot.

  “That’s quite the partner you have there, Amarian.”

  Amarian gazed at her trail of dust. “She does have her uses. Vance, what are you waiting around here for?”

  Vancien jolted to attention. “Oh, right. Telenar.” After sending Thelámos off to the stables, he ran toward the palace.

  To his surprise, he found Telenar in his old office, alone, or close to it. Corfe was sitting in a corner, staring out the window.

  “Don’t mind him just now,” Telenar said as Vancien came in. “He’s wrestling through some things.”

  “I thought you were out doing some counseling.”

  Telenar gestured for Vancien to sit, which he was happy to do. It was comforting being with his mentor; despite all that had happened, Vancien knew he had much to learn from him. He hoped, when this was all over, that…well, he didn’t know what. But it probably wouldn’t happen.

  Telenar started wiping his spectacles, as he always did when he was stressed. “I was counseling. I went all around, looking for those who were refusing to go into the tunnels, or who wouldn’t let the Risen Ones go about their duty, or who kept clamoring to be on the soaking crew. But then, sometime before dawn, I just stopped. There was nothing I could say. After all, I didn’t understand him any more than they did. They kept asking me questions about the Advocates, and what he meant, and why he wasn’t with everyone at the same time.” Through glasses that were almost as smudgy as they were before, he looked at Vancien. “And I just didn’t have an answer for them. So I came back here to wait,” he tapped the desk in front of him, “and read.” He ran his hand over a much used, heavily marked copy of the Ages that lay open on the desk. “He came in about an hour ago. Hasn’t said a word.”

  Vancien looked over at Corfe, who was still staring out the window, not moving. The sight of him in the corner and Telenar reading behind the desk was eerily calm in contrast to the heavy activity outside.

  “I spoke with him again, when I was out tonight.”

  Telenar’s head jerked sharply. “Have you? What did he say? I confess I don’t understand what he’s doing here. It’s strange, but I feel more distant from him now than I did before he came.”

  Vancien nodded. “I know. I felt that way too. But then he came to me, out at Relgaré’s camp, before I took Thelámos over the army. And he talked with me—just me,” he added, as if marveling at it. “He said…”

  But Vancien did not finish his sentence before they heard loud cries outside of Telenar’s window. They hurried over to look. Men and Risen Ones were all racing toward the eastern wall. Even the soaking crew, distinguished by their wet clothes, were heading in that direction. Both Telenar and Vancien looked instinctively for Kynell, but they didn’t see him. Telenar drew back and looked at Vancien.

  “You have to find out what’s going on. And I can’t just leave him.” He jerked his head toward Corfe, who had shown only the slightest reaction to sudden noise.

  “What will you do?”

  “Try to put him with some of the other priests. I believe several of them are on soaking duty.”

  Vancien did not spare a glance for Corfe as he left, but he could not help looking back at his friend. Telenar was sitting again at his desk, flipping through the Ages.

  “You should go to him, Telenar. He’ll talk with you.”

  Telenar shook his head, and Vancien could not stay to discuss the point. He took off down the hallway, pulse racing. When he emerged out into the orblight, he began to jog through the streets, squinting at the distant battlements to see what was happening. Occasionally, a boulder would whistle overhead, forcing him to take cover. Even when he made it to the Eastern wall, it was almost impossible to tell what was going on.

  After a few moments, Hull found him.

  “Vance! Thank Kynell you’re here. The Sentries and fennels are at the base of the wall. They’ve found a way to scale the casing tar, though they can only do it slowly. There are thousands of them!”

  “Aren’t we dumping rocks on their heads?” Vancien asked.

  “Yes, but it just knocks them back a bit. It won’t kill them. And we’re running out of rocks.”

  “So what’s our plan then?”

  “Chiyo is over there.” He pointed to the general’s temporary headquarters. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Is Kynell there, too?”

  Hull gave a sharp jerk of his head. “No. He’s with the soakers again. I don’t know why.”

  Vancien did not either, but he was relieved to see that even the Risen Ones were confused about the Prysm god’s behavior.

  “Glad to see you made it back safely, son,” Hull added.

  “Me too. I guess it was fortunate for me that the Sentries and fennels were already on their way.” He bit his tongue, but not before all the words came out. How selfish that sounded!

  Hull clapped him on the shoulder as they headed in Chiyo’s direction. “It was a good thing. I prayed for you to come back in one piece.”

  “But why? I mean, if I had died, I would have come back as a Risen One, right? And then I would only be stronger.”

  Hull shook his head. “The Risen Ones are here and the living ones are here. A man can die only once in this fight. It’s Kynell’s wisdom—otherwise, it could only end when everyone on Rhyvelad was killed. Plus,” he added, “I don’t want to outlive you.”

  They had arrived at Chiyo’s base. He was again arguing with Tengar.

  “A sortie is our only option,” Chiyo was insisting. “We have to move before they get their claws into that tar.”

  “And I’m saying that we maintain the defense at the top. Tarl, what do you think?”

  The Sentry captain scratched one long claw under his chin. He had recovered well from Corfe’s failure. The presence of Risen Sentries made him believe anything was possible—even serving Kynell. He fanned his ears in and out, looking over the handful of men who had assembled to face of this new danger.

  “It is tough to say, General,” he responded to Chiyo. Tengar he viewed as little more than a nuisance. “Once they get to the top, they will come over in droves. But to send out a sortie would be a massacre.”

  “See? The top is our best option!”

  Chiyo shot Tengar a withering look. “One moment. We must think about this carefully.”

  But he had only begun to ponder the problem anew when a young lieutenant came racing up on a voyoté. “General! General Chiyo!” His words were overwhelmed by the sound of trumpets rocketing through the city. It was a long, solitary
note, signaling that Lascombe was being invaded.

  “It’s the southeast gate! We’ve been betrayed!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It had almost been too easy. Did the fools think that every soul in that city was a follower of Kynell? Zyreio knew human nature very well, yet he never ceased to be amazed by its naiveté. Did they not think that somewhere in those swells of men, women, Sentries, and cursed munkke-trophes there would be one person—just one—who would sell out his neighbors for money? Or vengeance? Or even simple curiosity?

  Coercion had not been necessary. Zyreio had found his man tied up in a shop attic, foaming at the mouth, almost a full day after a shiver had gone through the very fabric of Rhyvelad. Of course the burst of power had come from Kynell; Zyreio knew the Risen Ones had appeared the moment it happened. Their arrival did not trouble him much. Now the presence of Kynell himself—that was a little surprising. But so far Kynell had done nothing but water down a few buildings. Zyreio’s more immediate concern was the wronged and bitter individual chained to the wall. Those types were usually the most eager for conversation with him.

  The man was exhausted and hungry, too worn out and full of self-pity to be surprised at his appearance. He had simply looked up from his position on the floor, with his arm dangling from a chain above him. His greeting, as Zyreio recalled, had been less than ceremonious. Something to the effect of a snarl and a “What do you want?”

  “Oh, it’s not about what I want,” Zyreio had purred. He had chosen a fancy wardrobe to impress the man with his power. Humans were especially susceptible to such shallow displays. “It’s about what you’re willing to do to get what you want.”

  “And what do I want?”

  “I assume you want revenge for being jilted by a man and his four-cycle old son.”

  The pathetic man had started snarling again. “What do you know of it?”

  Here Zyreio had felt it appropriate to get down on his level. So he crouched down, making sure he had his complete attention. “Many days ago, you were robbed of four good workers. Then, when you tried to get back a little of your own, a man appeared out of nowhere and chained you to a wall! Now I am here to offer you revenge and you’re asking questions?”

  His victim glanced at the door. “How can I get revenge? I’m chained up like a galley slave.”

  “Now we’re on the same page. Come, let us talk together like men.”

  And so Gorvy had agreed to pick out a handful of men and Sentries like himself, unwillingly trapped in the city. At the appointed hour, armed with blades and violent indignation, they created enough distraction at the southeast gate for Gorvy and three others to loosen the two great bolts that held the gate shut. As the massive metal pins were lifted out of their sockets, the Sentries and fennels outside gave a mighty pull. The gate opened. Of course, Zyreio would have preferred to open the gate with a simple word of command. But that was not how this game was played. And as much as he hated it, he was not in a position to make the rules. Not yet.

  __________

  Gair ran the voyoté so hard that by the time the lunos had risen in full, the beast was exhausted. When they reached the spot where Zyreio had first appeared, it refused to go another step. Gair dismounted to give the animal a well-deserved rest, but to his dismay, it vanished again into the trees. Perhaps it was just as well. He couldn’t imagine that it would do well in the Chasmite army.

  He went the rest of the way on foot. It did not take long until he was a stone’s throw from the Chasmites. They had been beaten into order and were now standing in agitated formation. Occasionally, one would give in to a burst of anger or start pounding its head to shake out whatever evil spirit was tormenting it. When that happened, an officer, himself just as jittery, would whip the soldier until he had cowered back into the ranks or was a gibbering mess on the ground.

  He spent several hours watching, waiting for his move. The orbs were beginning to rise when, as he looked on, the whole force started forward. He spared a glance toward the city. Was Corfe ready? He shook his head to clear the thought. That was not his concern just now.

  The grim parade marched on before him. He tried to spot Verial, but it was impossible to see anything in that writhing mass. He had to make a move soon, though, or she would be carried off with the tide. Who knew? Maybe she was already gone. The thought seized him so violently that he almost panicked. Could it be? Maybe he was too late. Even now, maybe she was bound in the Chasm, suffering her punishment.

  Visions of her distress assailed him. Clutching at his stomach, he rocked back and forth, trying to shake off what he knew was Zyreio’s own doing. Obsidian would be happy to paralyze him with fear. And it was working. He started to sweat, moaning at his own impotence.

  Then, as clear as the toll of a bell, he heard a voice. It was his own, echoing inside his head, cutting through the fog that gripped him. He was speaking words from the Ages: My children are my own. I have sent them for a good purpose. The plans of the evil one will come to naught.

  They were familiar words, words that his mother used to speak to him as a child. They had given him comfort then. Now they became a lifeline.

  “My children are my own,” he breathed as he staggered to his feet, “I have sent them for a good purpose. A good purpose.”

  Slowly, he relaxed his arms and straightened his back. “My children are my own. I have sent them for a good purpose.”

  There was nothing else to do. The army was moving. If he failed to act now, he might not have another chance.

  “The plans of the evil one will come to naught,” he said to himself one more time. Then he stepped out of the trees and into the flow of Chasmites.

  __________

  The evacuees were oblivious to what was going on above ground. They could no more tell if the attack had begun than if it was rainy or orblit outside. The hours slipped by as they went about their daily task of self-preservation.

  Haven was not without its difficulties. Quite apart from the stress of having husbands, fathers, brothers, and friends above ground was the tension between the evacuees themselves. Being thrown into a new, primitive, living arrangement while surrounded by thousands of women and elderly in the same position brought out some of the evacuees’ darker sides. By the end of her first full day there, Alisha noted that the orange-banded “hosts” had been called upon to break up at least three fights and investigate four accusations of theft.

  Alisha tried to stay away from trouble as much as she could. She had volunteered for trepofam duty, which meant that she visited most of the “neighborhoods,” and often was brought in as an impromptu judge over a dispute. The trepofam she didn’t mind so much; having to decide whether a portly old man needed a hands-breadth more cooking space than his younger, thinner neighbor was what she loathed. Usually, she just called a host over and relayed the argument to her. The host never seemed pleased to inherit the problem, but Alisha figured that she was at least better trained to handle it.

  To return to the tent from trepofam duty was her chief delight. Trint and Ester were always there waiting for her and Ester made it her duty to have food from the dining tent already prepared. That was fine with Alisha; after hours of overhearing squabbles and cleaning waste houses, socializing was the last thing she wanted to do. Instead, after their meal, she would read to the children from the Ages, or they would swap stories about their lives. There was so much to learn about each other. Often enough, Alisha would break down in tears over what the children—her children now—had been through.

  Ester, in particular, delighted to hear about how she and Tertio had fallen in love. Alisha never would have guessed that the girl had a romantic streak a league wide. This tendency wasn’t helped by Bertrice’s frequent visits. Their onetime guide had become their friend, so she would often stop by when she was off duty to regale Ester with romantic stories from far-off places. Alisha doubted the truth of these accounts, but since Ester never took them too seriously (except for swooning over a
handsome prince), she figured little harm was done. It was much harder to find stories to impress Trint. Tertio’s life had been steady, with minimal amounts of swordplay and adventuring, which were the only things Trint wanted to hear about. And though Bertrice’s stories had plenty of combat, she always lost the young boy at the kissing parts. Yet he was content enough to play with some of the toys he had brought along. And, of course, he lived for the times when N’vonne would come visit.

  Although she was the chief administrator of Haven, N’vonne still found plenty of time to stop by Alisha’s tent alone. On the second morning after the evacuation—the same day that Vancien returned with news of the Sentries and fennels—she stopped at their tent for over an hour, chatting with Alisha, helping Ester with some dishes, but above all, sitting on the floor playing with Trint’s set of wooden blocks. Together, they built lofty towers, squat castles, and Trint’s favorite, a rounded arch, complete with a wooden keystone. This was his building of choice because it was necessary that they rig up a support for the arch in order to build it and then, when the keystone was in place, they would remove the support. There the arch would stand, as if by magic. He would giggle with delight and then, with N’vonne’s permission, send it crashing to the ground.

  After an hour or so, N’vonne had to leave to go about her other duties. On her way out, though, Alisha pulled N’vonne aside and thanked her for spending so much time with Trint.

  “I’ve never had the opportunity to have children of my own,” N’vonne said, a little embarrassed. “So it’s a privilege to be around Trint and Ester. Plus, I guess Trint reminds me of Vancien.”

  Alisha nodded. The night before, over tea, N’vonne had shared her distant past. She knew of N’vonne’s career as an instructor, of her interest in Hull, and of her care for Vancien. Though she had never met Vancien himself, she had nothing but gratitude for the young man who rescued Trint and Ester from Gorvy. So she took N’vonne’s comment as a compliment.

  Alisha checked to make sure both children were distracted, and her voice cracked as she responded. “Yes, my boy was just a little younger than Trint when the sickness took him.”