Jon Wilson - The Obsidian Man

by Jon Wilson

  “Thank you,” Keone told her, pulling his cup back to his lips. He took a good taste before placing it on the edge of the hearth.

  Ardee put the jug and her own cup back on the table between the two chairs. She rose and crossed quietly to the door leading to the bedchamber. Keone had gone back to watching the fire. Ardee found the boy sitting on the edge of the bed. She had not undressed him again, but his feet were bare and dangled childishly in the air a few inches off the floor.

  “Would you like to join us?” He watched her, but did not respond.

  “Perhaps he’d agree to help me in the kitchen.”

  Ardee started. How had Sihr snuck up on her? The girl was speaking right over her shoulder. That kind of unawareness could prove lethal in the field.

  “Would you like to help me with dinner?” the girl asked.

  Holt nodded, shyly, but waited for Ardee to beckon him before rising. Sihr offered her hand and led the boy off toward the kitchen. Ardee turned back to Keone. Still seemingly mesmerized by the fire, he might have been alone in the house. Ardee returned to her chair, trying to force words up her throat. Certain words—words that were reluctant to be spoken.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed at last. “About before. I shouldn’t have attacked you.”

  He did not look up—did not move at all except to tell her, “You should have broken my neck.”

  Chapter 7

  “The fare for tonight,” Sihr said, “is

  rabbit Feathersbone Isle style. Of course, we

  have no rabbits on Feathersbone Isle, so I

  can’t guarantee the results.” When this did not

  elicit even a smile from the boy, she asked,

  “Do you cook?”

  He continued to watch her a moment

  and then shook his head.

  “Well, then we’ll just have to take our

  chances. If all goes according to plan, those

  two will be too drunk to care what we serve

  them. Can you light a stove?”

  No reply, he just went to work.

  “I don’t suppose you spell.” She was

  skinning the animal, but looked over her

  shoulder. The boy was working at the stove.

  “Holt?” He did not acknowledge her. She put

  her knife down and crossed over to him,

  touching him lightly on the shoulder. She felt

  him stiffen. “Holt?”

  He picked a piece of charred wood from

  the belly of the stove and stepped to face the

  wall. He wrote slowly, carefully: S-P-E-L-L,

  and then turned to look at her.

  She smiled. “Very good. But we don’t

  want to deface someone else’s property.”

  Turning, she sped back into the other room

  and retrieved her knapsack. She noted

  unhappily the conversation in the large

  chamber was even worse than in the kitchen,

  but at least the wine appeared to be flowing.

  When she returned to Holt, he had added: AL-L D-E-A-D to the wall.

  “Pragmatist.” She tore a sheet of blank

  paper from her journal and handed it to him

  along with a pencil. “Write small.” She turned

  back to the rabbit. “But first start the fire.

  They may get suspicious if they don’t smell

  something cooking.”

  Holt went back to the stove as Sihr

  finished skinning the rabbit. She was looking

  for a pot when he came over to her and

  showed her the paper. It read: RANGERS? “Ardee, yes. And Lorre, her brother.

  Keone and I, no. We’re from VaSaad-Ka.”

  She looked him carefully in the eye. “You

  remember Kawika? The first ranger?” He held

  her eyes, showing no sign of understanding,

  and then wrote something else.

  KILLED.

  “Yes. He gave you a stone.” The boy

  took a breath and then nodded slowly. “We’re

  Wika’s friends.” That prompted a shake of his

  head, puzzling her. “No? I don’t understand.” DA’AN.

  She was even more puzzled. “How do

  you know that word?”

  RANGER. Slowly, almost bashfully, the

  boy indicated himself by tapping his chest

  with an index finger.

  Sihr smiled, weighing the information. “I

  see. You were Wika’s ward?”

  The boy’s expression twisted as if he

  were trying to remember, but finally he

  nodded.

  Her brow rose. “Well, that does change

  everything.”

  DA’AN KNOWS.

  “Yes, I’ve no doubt of it.” She looked off

  in the direction of the larger room. “Yet

  another reason to see he has a good

  headache in the morning.” She had put the

  rabbit over the flame and was indiscriminately

  adding seasonings as she discovered them.

  “Will you trust me?”

  He looked doubtful a moment, and then

  wrote. DANANN. He pointed at her.

  She smiled again. “Good. I want to try

  something, but you’ll have to help me. And

  we’ll need to be quick or he’ll know.”

  He drafted his longest entry thus far, but

  wrote furiously and it was but a moment

  before he showed her the paper. I DO NOT

  LIKE HIM.

  “That doesn’t exactly put you in the

  minority, I’m afraid.” She pulled two stools up near the stove. Sitting on one, she indicated the other. “Sit.” She took the pencil and paper out of his hands and put them on the table. “Give me your hands.” He did so, and she rolled them over in her own, studying them.

  “Farm boy.”

  He started to pull away, but she held

  him. “Trust me.” He settled once more and

  after a moment she asked, “Do you feel my

  hands getting warmer?” His gaze remained

  locked to hers, but after another moment he

  nodded. She released his right hand and

  reached up to touch the side of his face. Her

  fingers traced the fresh red lines of a scar

  stretching down his right cheek. “They’ll get

  warmer still, but don’t be afraid. Close your

  eyes. Concentrate on the warmth.”

  Sihr closed her own eyes, reaching out

  the first timid tendril of her consciousness.

  Fortunately, like most wicked pupils, she had

  many times practiced focusing awareness

  outside of herself while shielding her actions from her instructor. This was the first time, however, she had gone to the great length of bolstering his wine to get him too drunk to sense what was happening right in the other room. She knew he would be absolutely furious if he discovered them, so she was hurrying, forcing the boy’s own consciousness to recede even as she worked to hypnotize him. “Feel how the warmth is spreading through you. Up your arms. Down your throat. Let it move inside you. Let it seep into all the

  hidden places.”

  Her success amazed even herself. The

  pressure of the boy’s essence was pushing

  hard against her one moment, and then

  abruptly gone. She descended after it. Her

  own disembodied voice came to her from

  somewhere far above them. “Show it where

  your words are hidden.” And then she heard

  two sharp knocks and nothing more.

  * * * * In the other room, Ardee was on her feet. As she spun to face the door, she saw Keone thrust his hand into the fire to grab a burning log.

  She shouted, “Speak!” After a moment, a guttural voice sounded quietly from with
out, “Laesombea.”

  The ranger felt her forehead scrunch into the folds she hated. She gestured to Keone, who was also up, to stay back. She moved to the door, slipped the latch, and pulled it slowly open.

  It had begun to snow. Flakes were landing lightly on the faded cloak around the old troll’s shoulders. He was standing slightly back from the threshold, his staff nearly horizontal to be nonthreatening. His empty right hand he extended toward her, palm up. “How fares the snow woman?”

  Ardee’s frown deepened. Even a cagey old troll should not have been able to reach her very threshold without her hearing him— she had heard Lorre take two steps. Had the wine impaired her senses so drastically? If so, it was the first time. But for a ranger, it might take only one time. “She lives. How is Bill?”

  He looked past her, into the room. “Tell the witch that I am not the enemy.”

  She half-turned to look back toward the fire. Keone was still holding the burning log. Flames enveloped his hand. It was just the sort of trick she had always despised. “Put it down,” she said. He eyed her skeptically a moment and then tossed the log back among the others. His hand, of course, was unharmed. She turned back to the door, suppressing a quiver of revulsion. Was it any wonder she detested stonedivers? “What are you doing here?”

  The troll looked off, over his left shoulder. “Dreaming,” he said. “The child has lost her way.”

  Chapter 8 Sihr touched the wall. Ice. She was in a maze of ice. Above, below, left and right, all frozen. She moved on. The boy had to be here somewhere. “Holt!”

  As always, she was without a sense of time in the netherworld of extraconsciousness. She only knew she had penetrated but a portion of the maze. At its heart lay hidden the white room. Any moment Keone might inadvertently brush his essence over her and he would know, wine or not. She hurried her steps. One stratagem after another failed her; the web was too complex. She could ascend, taking Holt with her, but all of her efforts would have been for nothing. She pressed on.

  “Holt!” She rounded another corner and noticed the walls had grown less opaque. With an effort she could see through them. With the proper illumination, she might distinguish shapes. Movement caught her eye. “Holt!” But no, she knew this was something else—something darker that roamed the maze with her.

  A white shape rose somewhere off to her left. The white room. Within it stood the throne. Someone was seated on the throne— someone who wore a white mask. The white mask that protects. The white mask that saves. The white mask that allows neither tears nor cries. The white mask that allows nothing to disrupt its frozen serenity.

  “Holt!” Closer now. Two more turns and she would be there. She would help him rise from the icy chair and guide him to where his own warmth radiated. “Holt!”

  And then he was in front of her, blocking her path. “No! Don’t go. Run! Run!” He grabbed her hand, pulling her back the way she had come.

  “Wait,” she cried, trying to resist. “I can help you. Take me to the white room.” “No! No! No!” He ran on. “All dead. All dead.”

  “Holt!”

  He stopped suddenly and she impacted with his back. The collision was so violent she nearly fell. He turned, pushing her down against the wall. He pressed his back to her, covering her, forcing her to shrink behind him. She struggled, managing to lift her eyes above his shoulder. She gasped when she saw the dark, twisted shape that blocked their path. It was a melted conglomeration of many things, but the face was Holt’s own.

  A scream rose in her throat as she sensed the thing’s torment, its anger. The emotions threatened to overwhelm her. She knew instantly that she could never tame this —never heal it. This she would have to destroy or else suffer her own obliteration. The knowledge unhinged her; she began clawing at Holt’s back, fighting him. He was nothing but a farm boy; she was a trained fighter. She could easily throw him, and yet he resisted. His back was strong, his shoulders broad. She grabbed his hair, pulling his face around and found he was Wika now. He said, “Peace, daughter, he’s coming.”

  The wall behind her began to melt, molding to her back and she sank into it. Water splashed her face, washing over her, submerging her. She felt Keone’s hands on her shoulders; she heard his voice from above.

  “These are only his memories. You have surrendered yourself to them, silly child. Remember who you are. Remember your strength.”

  Flatterer, she thought,I can not save myself. What a fool I was to think I could save the boy. What a child.

  “Remember yourself,” he told her. “Remember the stool and the stove and the kitchen. Remember the rabbit. Remember how angry I shall be and how you will pout and put your head on my shoulder and I will realize I love you and smile.”

  The water grew warmer and softer below her, forming a barrier. Above her it became air and she opened her eyes into it. She was sitting on the floor of the kitchen and Keone was behind her, holding her in his arms. She was lying heavily against his chest. Holt was standing a few feet off, near the stove. Ardee stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder. The ranger’s hard face, as stern as ever, clearly held no compassion for Sihr. As the last remnants of her awareness closed in upon her, they brushed another being somewhere in the house. The alien presence momentarily confused her, but then she returned completely, and Holt was leaning forward.

  “Is she all right?” he asked.

  Chapter 9 Ardee was listening to her own footsteps now. The snow was crunching beneath her feet as if she were some fat, feldyshfool out for a winter stroll. It was her anger; each step sounded the call of her outrage. The fact that Bill was moving alongside her in his usual, silent glide only served to further stoke her temper.

  They had left the house—left the town. Even the charred remnants of Darnouth had begun to close in on her. Perhaps she would sleep outdoors tonight, she mused; but no, there was no telling what those two VaSaadites might do to that boy next.

  It was bad enough coming from the stonediver; that was to be expected. Her dealings with the airy mystics, few though she kept them, had long since taught her to expect nothing comprehendible. But Sihr was little more than a child herself. Why had she done such a thing? Why risk the boy’s sanity, not to mention her own? To heal him? Ardee cursed. That type always spoke of aiding others; what wanton lies! Wasn’t their attraction to the stones nothing but selfishness? Delving the depths did not expand your awareness; it closed you off. It separated you from life and the living. From love.

  “You confuse yourself, Laesombea. These thoughts follow no path. Good enough for whiling away the hours, but they will lead you nowhere.”

  Now the troll too. “Stay out of my mind, Bill. I’ve snapped spines for less.”

  He laughed, if one could call it that. The jirranmirth was sometimes indistinguishable from their sorrow. And most trolls had a sense of humor about equal to her own. “I have no feel for such things,” he told her. “But your feet and your eyes and your pathetic little feldysh mouth, they tell me much. Again, is it true you humans sometimes exchange expressions of your passion by joining your mouths?”

  Ardee shook her head. “Not me.”Not for many, many years.“I think I have seen such a thing.”

  “I would very much like a chance to see it. Before I die.”

  They walked on—slow for them, but in a few moments they were a mile from the village. “Can you tell me no more?” she asked at last.

  “No. If G’nash as yet rides the slope of MountGir, I may know more in three days.”

  “You mustn’t go there if you fear any danger.”

  “The Huerunan will not kill adthakof Yul. Not on aj’ranna.” He looked up at the sky. The snow had stopped, but the clouds were low, nearly as claustrophobic as the walls of the town had been. “Perhaps not at all in these times. Soon the existence of the jirranmay depend upon our numbers.”

  Ardee found she could not speak of such things. “But thekaolsay the demon is still here, somewhere beyond the lands of the Huerunan?”

&
nbsp; “Thekaoldo notsayanything,” he told her wryly. “They scream. But from what I can understand of them, the demon was badly maimed in his fight with the troll-killer. He waits for his wounds to heal. And they say he controls the minds of many Huerunan huntresses. This I believe. They are a simpleminded folk. Not unlike thefeldysh.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I said only that you had a feldysh mouth. You are no more feldysh than I, you and the stonediver.”

  “We should have brought him along. He shares many such strange notions.”

  Bill stopped, turning to face her. Her movements synchronized with his, she stopped also. “No. The path you forged tonight shall remain a week. With the stonediver here feeding your fury, you might have marred the forest forever. Also, if I am to share acajir with thedthakof G’nash, I must carry no scent of the Danann. You reek, Laesombea, but he is unbearable, even to my accustomed snout.”

  She wanted to smile. Before she could reply, he continued. “Watch him, Laesombea. He ran through the forest today saying he would kill a troll. My brother’s daughter, who journeys with me, would have offered him the chance. At another time, I might have given my blessing. But I do not wish to cross his path. The trail he follows leads to death.”

  “His own, I hope.” Her flippancy shocked her. What had Lorre said?He was Kawika’s da’an, no matter what we might think of him.

  “Perhaps. But I fear it is not in him to die alone or he would have done so already.”

  “Well, tomorrow his trail will depart from mine too. Then he may run through the forest and call down the demon himself, for all I care.”

  “Yes. He may call down the demon.”

  She shook her head quickly, almost as if he had made a joke. But thejirrandid not joke in such a manner. “No, Bill. Even he couldn’t be that stupid. And he wouldn’t risk the life of his ward.”

  “Then why does he come so far out into the wilderness? Could he not have mourned in the safety of VaSaad-Ka?”

  “I don’t know.” She crouched, instinctively. Her hand passed over the snow, a fraction of an inch above its surface. She might have been tracking. “I do not try to understand him.”