Jon Wilson - The Obsidian Man

by Jon Wilson

  nothing but a memory.

  He felt her lone, thin tear and when he

  looked up read her face telling him:Did you

  think I was like him? Did you think I, too,

  never cried? The snow is just the water

  frozen, sleeping until the spring—the sun—

  returns to free it.

  He wished to speak, to tell her he would

  leave signs for her only she could follow and

  the stonediver would never know. But he saw she knew that too. And so he kissed her softly on her muddy cheek, savoring the sweet taste of the damp, cold land that was like a part of her skin. A part of her. A part of them both.

  Chapter 12 Another day of travel took them across the valley and up into the holy crags of the ancientjirran. Without Sihr and without words they traveled faster and devoured their nourishment and hunted the demon on the wings of Holt’s consciousness with astounding speed and efficiency. And every hour or so Holt’s boot would leave a barely perceptible mar on a stone or his fingers would catch and twist the branch of some bush, or brush too heavily against the trunk of a tree. Keone, leading the way and seeming to grow more focused as their destination drew nearer, gave no indication of knowing.

  The stonediver no longer left Holt to scout their path alone; it would have been futile to try. Holt could nearly keep pace with the man, and felt to himself that he moved with less effort. So all through the valley and up the furrowed cliffs they raced until the darkness made them stop, and they camped in a flat hollow.

  While Keone prepared the camp, Holt hunted. When he returned, he found the stonediver gazing distractedly at the fire. He offered up his kill, another rabbit, for skinning, but Keone just pointed to the edge of the fire pit. A small knife was lodged in the ground there. Holt did not immediately move to retrieve it, largely due to the fact he knew he had never seen it before. It was neither Ardee’s nor Keone’s.

  “It is only right that you should take possession of some of his belongings. There is an entire ceremony at the VaSaad, even when no body is recovered. But this must suffice for now. Besides, our rooms are…” Keone’s right eyebrow went up; his hesitation itself seemed to intrigue him. “We have several more things there.”

  Holt reached down and pulled the tip of the blade free. He weighed the knife in his hand. It was not as big as the one he had wielded the night before but perfect for hunting and skinning.

  “They will teach you to fight with smaller blades too.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  Keone shrugged. “I knew where he normally stowed such things in an emergency. That is all I took. He was…” Again, a pause. Finally, he shook his head. “I buried the rest. They were all utilitarian—duplicates of supplies we already carry.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Holt was poised to speak but abruptly sat instead. He arranged the rabbit to begin skinning it. Several moments passed. When his work was well underway, he said, “Thank you.”

  The stonediver shook his head again, still transfixed by the fire. When at last he looked up and over, a wry smile played slowly across the bottom of his face. “I’m sorry. I am apt to lose myself. It is a condition of being what I am.”

  Holt looked down, away from the eyes that besides being green and handsome were also too dark and haunted. He concentrated on the rabbit. He listened to the crackle and spit of the fire—the occasional gust of wind among the crags. Finally, he asked, “Is that what happened to Ardee’s da’an?”

  Keone’s head tilted, and his lips parted as if to say one thing only to readjust, opting for another. “It is not the same thing. Really, I don’t recall hearing of Ardee’s da’an. It must have predated my time at the VaSaad. It is rare, but over the years many stonedivers have wandered too far into the mazes to find their way out. A paradigm must be very diligent in training his or her ward to prevent this…

  “But I was referring to my being a despondent idealist. That is what my teacher called it. My birth-father, and Wika as well, had a rather more humble term for the condition. They called me a daydreamer. Either way, I was speaking of my tendency to mope.” He offered a low laugh, equally as eerie as the look in his eyes.

  For a long while, neither spoke. Then, when Holt had the rabbit nearly ready for the fire, Keone asked him, “Do I frighten you?”

  Holt swallowed, but otherwise did not delay his answer. “Yes.”

  “But you did not hesitate to come with me.”

  “I trust you.”

  Both of the stonediver’s eyebrows went up, opening his expression, dispelling the air of doom that had seemed to be gathering about his head. “Well! It has been a remarkable two days.”

  “I trust you to kill the demon.”

  “Oh.” He made a show of his disappointment, but could not completely draw the grave clouds back across his brightened countenance. “I misunderstood. Still, a few days ago you said you thought I could not possibly fare against the demon, so I am making some headway.”

  Holt’s eyes returned to his work. “I still don’t know how you’ll do it. But I trust you to do it.”

  Keone’s voice turned suddenly serious. “Why?” He had prepared a spit and stand, and held out his hand for the rabbit.

  “Because you loved him.” Holt gave the skinned animal over and watched as the stonediver drove the spit steadily through the length of the carcass. “And he loved you.”

  Keone stopped, looked up, and smiled. He seemed about ready to speak but then apparently decided against it. He placed the spit upon the stand.

  “Ardee believes it too,” Holt said.

  The stonediver laughed again—more sympathetically than gaily. “Yes, well…Her doubts were never the same as yours.” He looked Holt in the eye again. “None of us have been as honest with you as we should have been.”

  Holt drew his knees up, bending forward to settle his chest against them. He did not understand, but neither did he feel comfortable pursuing the subject.

  “Would you like her to oversee the remainder of your training when we get to VaSaad-Ka?”

  Holt felt his lips twitching toward a smile —the very idea that events had brought him to a point at which the question was no longer would he ever go to the VaSaad, but rather who should train him once he arrived! He fought the fluttery feeling in his chest. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, no need to decide now.”

  Holt heard himself asking breathlessly, “What will it be like?”Dolt, dolt, dolt! Stupid, stupid Holt!

  That brought Keone’s gaze back up. He considered a moment, then rubbed his chin. Finally, he smiled again. “You’ll like it. Don’t let anything Wika said frighten you. He loved it.”

  Holt’s chin stabbed down between his knees and his chest. He clenched his teeth, fighting to keep back the words that demanded themselves spoken.None of us have been as honest as we should have been. He gasped, swallowing. “I wasn’t Kawika’s ward.” He punctuated the sentence with a heavy sob that immediately broke into a hundred smaller pieces and began to rack his entire body.

  He expected indignation, outrage, perhaps even contemptful smugness, but Keone’s voice stayed soft and low. “What do you mean?”

  Holt looked up, forcing himself to bare his tears. When he saw Keone’s expression was only sadly inquisitive, his crying intensified. He barely managed to push words out between his sobs. “I wasn’t.”

  Keone shook his head. “I heard him, Holt. He said— You know I heard him myself.”

  Holt did remember. He had been forced to live through Kawika’s death twice. The second time, Keone had witnessed it as well. The stonediver had heard his da’an speak— had heard Kawika say…What? Holt couldn’t recall.

  “He said you were his ward,” Keone reminded him, a faint edge coming into his voice.

  Holt shook his head, trying to dislodge the painful memory of Kawika’s dying words —a memory made even more unbearable by the sudden realization that he could not clearly recall it. Why?I can remembe
r nearly everything else about that awful night in perfect detail. He shook his head again, more helplessly. “But I never traveled with him. He didn’t train me.”

  “Silly boy. Didn’t I say, the Danann don’t sit you down and tell you things as if you were reading instructions from a book? He trained you. Probably more than you’ve yet to realize.”

  “But we weren’t even—” Holt’s sobs continued to make it hard to speak.

  “Then you and he are even more remarkable than I thought.” The stonediver reached forward to turn the spit again, his voice light. “Now, accept your fate. You were his ward. Look at you bawl. Just like him.”

  The sobs abated somewhat and Holt looked up. “You mean he cried?”

  “Of course, he cried. Everybody cries.” Keone’s voice sobered slightly. “Songs were his weakness. Nothing affected him like a well-sung ballad. One night we heard Thara Jadmere at the open air palace. I practically had to carry him home. He fancied himself a bit of a romantic.” He grinned at Holt. “You like songs, I imagine.”

  Holt hiccuped and quickly covered his mouth with his hand. He nodded.

  “It’s something about being a ranger, I think. Music, songs. I’m indifferent for the most part. Poetry, I despise.”

  “Did Kawika like poems?”

  Keone made another face. “Naturally. And the more baroque the better. He also adored plants and flowers, but I guess that’s less surprising. He used to fill our home with them, and every year he’d have to replace them because they’d all wither and die while he was away. Well, at least until Sihr came to live with us. She’s not incapable of keeping plants alive. I’m hopeless.”

  “How long…? How long has Sihr lived with you?”

  “Since she was thirteen. About four years.”

  “And Kawika? You and he…Six years?”

  The stonediver nodded. “Or half that.” His voice dropped again. “Six years.” He reached for the spit. “Shall we eat?” Removing the rabbit from the fire, he tore some meat off its flank and offered the rest. “It’s very hot.”

  Holt accepted the meat timidly. It was quite hot. “You can feel the heat?”

  “Certainly.” Keone had answered offhand, but then made another face. “Well, that’s not fair. Let’s just say I am aware of its presence.” He fed himself a bit, looking out from beneath a single arched brow. “You’ve no more questions about Kawika then?”

  Holt shuffled his feet. “Not if you don’t want to talk about him.”

  “He was my da’an. If I had a voice I would sing of him!” Keone chuckled, but clearly at some joke Holt did not understand. He continued in a brisk voice. “Wika was from Llayrn. His birth-father was in the military. He ran away from them to come to the VaSaad when he was only ten. That is very young. And he had to cross an ocean.” He paused for sustenance, savoring a few chews as his eyes lingered over something only he could see. “He used to tease me that I was almost fifteen and Faer nearly had to drag me screaming from my birth-mother’s arms.” He smiled, much more softly this time, almost sadly. “He was already a ranger when I arrived.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “The Hound.”

  “Thewhat?”

  “It’s a tavern. I’m certain Sihr will take you. I was ordering a drink at the bar and he sat down beside me and stared until I had to speak.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What didI say? I expected you to bristle like a kitten when I told you he sat and stared atme.”

  Holt nodded once. “I believe it.”

  Keone rocked back, eyeing him skeptically. “Do you?”

  Feeling himself about to blush, Holt asked, “What did you say?”

  “I honestly can’t recall. Probably something completely inane, like ‘hello’.”

  “You must’ve been awfully flattered.”

  “That’s more like it!” Keone laughed. “I wasn’t initially. In fact, I remember thinking something along the lines of, ‘He must be drunk. He’s a ranger and far too goodlooking.’ Then he told me that he had seen me debate three times. He said that he had come to the second and third debate only because he knew I’d be speaking. He said he came to the Hound that night because someone told him I’d be there. By then I was completely his slave and we can save the rest of the story for when you’re older.”

  Chapter 13 Later, Holt found himself flying again. The food and the fire and the stonediver’s story had filled him with such comfortable elation, exhaustion claimed him unchallenged. But no deep dreamless sleep. He rose, aware as usual of the camp and the bodies below (one of them his own) without needing to see them. Keone was not truly asleep, not as Holt slept, but deep beneath a heavy layer of reminiscence that dulled his awareness beyond any possibility of noticing the boy’s departure. Holt sensed that, as always, a sliver of the man’s consciousness patrolled the outskirts of their camp, but the stonediver was guarding against intrusion, not escape.

  Once he had achieved a great height, Holt discerned for the first time the peculiarity of the circular flat on which they camped. It clearly was not a natural formation. Growing things and falling water had eroded the edges; rocks had tumbled down to mar the base. But clearly once, the flat surface had been an indentation, nearly perfectly oval except for three protrusions facing westward, toward the holy valley. As he leveled and began to sail eastward, he remembered that the indentations (for there were several others marking the mountainside) had a name. He even recalled the name:Jir’sPaw. But how do I know this? Where would I come by such knowledge?

  What is this madness? she demanded of herself all at once.Of course I know this! I am Raot, daughter of Wul. The first huntress of the Huerunan. Why are my thoughts shredded so?

  “You have failed me,” the dark voice hissed again—tearing through her skull like jagged teeth. The words issued from that corner of her mind where the night roosted like a writhing den of serpents—the corner that had led her to kill huntresses of her own pride.

  How have I failed? she wished to know. Did I not kill Katawanif and my sisters who followed her? Did I not lead my few surviving huntresses against the troll-killers and their brood? Did not all of those who would follow medie to serve you?

  “And yet this witch seeks me still! He crawls up the very spine of God with his wicked bloodhound, his wretched child. I will have to kill him myself! I will have to give him back to his mate. And then I will destroy you, Raot.”

  But I have given you my life! Tell me what else I can do; I will do it!

  “Come to me, Raot. They are near. Kill the witch for me.”

  Where are they?

  “He is with us at this moment.”

  Suddenly the walls of the white room rose around him, and Holt found himself tumbling across the frozen floor. The troll— the mad troll whose thoughts he had shared— huddled in a corner.

  Within the ice wall, the great black demon spread its wings. “Taste it, Raot. Know its scent. Then climb up the god’s spine and rid the world of it!”

  The troll rose slowly, hesitantly—clearly terrified of its strange surroundings. The demon’s voice cracked like a whip. “Do it!”

  Holt, still somehow connected to the troll’s thoughts, felt the sting in his own mind. He managed to get to his feet, wanting to flee the advancing creature but too disoriented to command his legs. Raot caught his arms, heaving him easily off his feet. He watched the troll bare its fangs—watched the teeth inching toward him.

  “Taste it!”

  A spasm seized Holt as the fangs penetrated the flesh of his shoulder, tearing the skin as easily as the cloth covering it. He cried out, struggling as the troll held him tighter, pinning him to its chest. He felt warm blood flow out over skin, down his chest beneath his clothes. The rending teeth withdrew and the troll lifted its head. Through his agony, Holt saw his own blood coating the monster’s lips. His own terror was reflected in its black, staring eyes.

  “Do not kill it!” the demon commanded, and Holt could feel the monst
er warring with itself.

  So easy to kill it now. Why not now? Will it not please you to have it dead sooner?

  “No. You must use him to find the witch. Hunt his scent.”

  But he is here now.

  “This is not now. This is not here.”

  The troll began to tremble and finally dropped Holt. It sank to its knees, whimpering, as he crumpled to the cold floor. He sprawled flat, feeling the blood continue to spurt from the gaping wound on his shoulder, feeling what little warmth he had managed to retain—what little had been given him by Ardee and Sihr and Kawika—spilling out onto the ground. He had to stop it. He would not let it all go.Even if I must die, I will die with some of them still inside me.

  He pushed himself slowly up onto his hands and knees. He knew the throne was behind him—knew it was his only hope.The throne will freeze me, finish me. But I will die with a little piece of them. He began to crawl toward the throne, trembling as each agonized movement tore at his flesh, spilling more blood. He wanted to weep, but recognized tears were just another way to cheat himself out of the warmth he clung to so desperately. He reached the foot of the throne and began to climb.

  “Holt.”

  Keone’s voice sounded behind him, and Holt turned. Like the demon, the stonediver was within the frozen wall. His entire body was covered in blue flame. He beckoned gently. “Come to me.”

  But it was too far. Already Holt had wasted too much energy—too much blood. He could never reach Keone. He struggled to pull himself up into the seat of the throne.

  “Holt!”

  No! Didn’t he see—Keone who could see everything, who knew what they all would do and plotted all their movements for them?I can’t save myself. But I can save some part of what they’ve given me. Let me have that.

  “Holt.” Softer then, the voice sounded, and closer. Almost as if it were just behind his shoulder and no longer Keone but some other, more cherished voice. He felt the hand slide onto his shoulder, covering the wound, stopping the flow of the blood, sending warmth coursing back down through him. “Holt.”