Obsidian Ridge

by Jess Lebow

  “Then why did you marry me?” he asked, not looking at her.

  “You seduced me with your promises of riches and power.”

  “Did I not deliver?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Xeries thought for a moment. “No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

  He gazed at the highly polished obsidian floor. He did not think of himself as the bent-over wizard who looked back at him from the reflection. His thin, pale skin, wrinkled and baggy, hung from his narrow frame. His cheeks stuck out at odd angles, and disfigured lumps protruded from his chin, forehead and ears—the leftover remnants of the day things all went wrong.

  There were bits and pieces of Xeries in this man. But it was not really him.

  The man looking back from the floor was something Xeries had become. Something he had transformed into, not entirely on accident. His mind wandered back to that day, so many hundreds of years ago.…

  Xeries could see her face as clear as if she had been with him yesterday. She was so beautiful. Golden brown hair, almost blond but more like the color of spun honey. Intelligent and kind, wise and patient, she was everything he had ever hoped for.

  They married young. He, the fourth son in line for the throne of Tethyr. She, the eldest daughter of a rich and powerful baron. They made magic together, both literally and figuratively.

  It was here, the kingdom now known as Erlkazar, where they had first concocted their plans. Back then, it was called Elestam, and it was little more than annexed wilderness on the outskirts of Tethyr. Xeries’s father, King Strohm II, had only just made this overgrown patch of land an official part of the kingdom within the last year.

  Xeries and his wife had been married since before the annexation. They had ventured out for a long ride, exploring the newest piece of what could one day be part of their lands.

  “Do you wish you were in line to become king?” his wife had asked him.

  “I am in line to be king,” he had replied.

  They rode side by side, their horses picking their way through the pass at the top of the Cloven Mountains. An entire unit of King Strohm’s army accompanied them.

  “Yes,” she said, “but you’re the fourth son. Your oldest brother will become king, and his son will inherit the throne.”

  Xeries nodded. “That is how it usually works, yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m not in line for the throne. If for some reason my three brothers and father are no longer fit to rule, then I shall become king.”

  “And I would be your queen,” said his wife, a wide smile on her face.

  He smiled back. “Yes, Shylby, you would be my queen.”

  Shylby cocked her head. They had only been married a few years, not a long time by most people’s standards, but he knew well what that look meant. “You have an idea,” he said.

  She nodded, her smile turning a little more devious. “If we were to live longer than anyone else in the family, we would be the rightful heirs to the throne.”

  Xeries spun around, looking to see if any of the soldiers could hear them talking.

  “Shh!” he said. “Someone may hear you. These soldiers all work for my father.”

  Shylby laughed. “You don’t think I’m plotting to kill your family, do you?”

  That was exactly what he had been thinking.

  She shook her head. “No. I said we had to outlive them, not kill them.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “I have heard of a spell that can be cast upon two lovers,” she said, leaning over in her saddle to place her head upon his shoulder. “If their love is pure, they live on forever, together in each other’s embrace. Then we could be together forever and always.”

  “And we would live long enough to inherit the throne,” said Xeries, finally understanding. “No matter how long it took.”

  “Precisely,” said Shylby. “And then all of this”—she waved her arm out, taking in the entire valley below the Cloven Mountains all the way to the Deepwash—“shall be ours to rule. Together.”

  It was nearly two years later before they had everything they needed to begin their spell. Their lives had been consumed by research and the procuring of rare magical components. But they had spent that time together, and they had only grown closer.

  “The very last part of the ritual requires absolute concentration,” Shylby said. “The words have to be spoken in unison.”

  Xeries nodded. “I know.”

  “If either of us misses a beat, the spell will backfire.”

  Xeries took a breath. “Are you sure you’re ready to do this?” he asked as the two of them laid out all the things they were going to need for their daylong ritual.

  “Of course I am.”

  Shylby smiled. To Xeries, Shylby’s smile was the most intoxicating thing in the world. It calmed him. It warmed him. And it wiped away any doubt he had.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, feeling tremendously lucky to have met and married such a wonderful woman. “I’m ready.”

  Taking their candles, they lit the censers and began the ritual. Since they needed an entire uninterrupted day to cast their spell, they had chosen a remote barn on the outskirts of Shylby’s father’s land. No one would find or bother them there, almost a full day’s ride from the baron’s keep. It was the perfect place.

  Ground herbs and botanical oils were poured into the flame, one at a time, each in its proper order and accompanied by the correct words. They had rehearsed, over and over, the many different verses of the spell. Oftentimes reciting them like poetry to each other, as if the archaic sounds from this long unspoken magical language were sweet nothings.

  The day passed, and finally they were ready to speak the last few words of the spell that would bind their souls, their spirits, and their life-forces together—bringing them immortality. Xeries and Shylby stood over a large stone altar in the middle of the room. It was filled with water, and they looked down at the reflections of themselves.

  They were so young, and both so beautiful. Shylby with her long, honey-colored hair, tied up now in braids. Her smooth porcelain skin, unbroken and unblemished. Her eyes were pure blue, like a clear sky on a new summer day.

  He too was quite handsome. His chin covered in trimmed, brown hair. His face tanned from the sun. His eyes clear and kind, a peaceful man with only love in his heart.

  Shylby gave him that same smile as they moved to the final stage of the spell, speaking the words in unison.

  Bind us heart and soul

  Bring us together as one

  Neither living apart

  Our love the string that ties us

  May we live forever together

  Or live not at all apart

  Magic swirled around the barn. Motes of light lifted from the censers. Scents and sounds filled every corner. Their spell was reaching its climax, growing in intensity just before it would break and wash over them both.

  Like a wedding ceremony, the two lovers were to speak their devotion to each other, then kiss, consecrating their immortal love.

  “I shall be with you forever,” they said to each other. “Or I shall die—”

  The door to the barn burst open.

  Startled by the sound, Xeries turned to see a man, his body lit from behind by the late afternoon sun.

  “Alone,” said Shylby, her voice intoning the last word of the spell without his.

  Xeries heart froze. He had failed to speak the word in unison, and the ritual was broken.

  The next few moments were a blur to him. He remembered hearing Shylby scream. The torrent of loose magical energy lifted him into the air. He felt himself thrashed around, then as if he were gripped from the inside by a million hands, his body bent and disfigured. His back bowed. His face grew boils. His chest caved in. His arms stretched, and his knees knocked together.

  He dropped back to the floor, every inch of his body wracked with pain. He squirmed on the ground, trying to claw his way out of his own skin.
But it was no use. There was nowhere for him to go.

  When the pain began to subside, Xeries tried to move, but he could not get to his feet.

  “Shylby! Shylby, are you hurt?” His words sounded strange, as if both he and Shylby were speaking them at the same time.

  Shylby lay on the floor beside the stone, water-filled altar. One look at the love of his life, and Xeries found a new level of misery. The aches in his own flesh were nothing compared to the torment he felt over seeing Shylby, her face and body turned nearly inside out. She twisted and flopped, writhing in pain, her mouth agape, open for a perpetual scream that never came out.

  Pulling himself across the rough wooden floor to lie beside her, Xeries scooped Shylby up in his arms. Her beautiful honeyed hair had fallen from her head in huge clumps, leaving weeping bald flesh in its place. The smooth, perfect skin on her face had been tortured and burned. Huge blisters consumed every inch, covering her eyes and nose. She tried to touch her face, but she no longer had fingers. Her arms were warped, and her hands had melted into little more than smooth stumps.

  Watching her struggle was the most horrific thing Xeries had ever endured. Not in his wildest nightmares could he imagine feeling so powerless, so tormented. Shylby’s pain seeped into him, more every moment, and it was then that he knew that nothing worse could ever happen to him. Nothing he could ever experience could be as bad as this.

  Unable to see him, talk, or touch, Shylby flailed for a moment longer. Her ruined hands found his neck, and she pulled herself as best as she could up against him. She labored to breathe, moving her mouth with tremendous effort. She gasped, struggling with all her might.

  “Alone,” she whispered, her voice all but gone.

  Her body convulsed, jerking uncontrollably. Xeries squeezed her against his chest. Holding onto her was all he could do as she slipped away, her spirit taking a long time to leave her tormented body.

  Xeries continued to clutch her to his chest long after she passed. His body twisted and in pain, nothing else mattered to him. Shylby was gone.

  “What is happening in here?”

  Xeries looked up at a man wearing dirt-spattered clothing. He drew closer, hunched over and carrying a pitchfork.

  “What?” said Xeries, confused, not sure where the man had come from. His voice still sounded strange.

  “Who are you?” The farmer lowered his pitchfork and pointed it at the young man. “What are you doing here? I heard your strange noises and saw what you did, so don’t lie to me, boy.”

  Xeries’s memory came back to him then. This was the man who had opened the door to the barn at the end of their ritual.

  “You killed her,” said Xeries, his sadness growing into anger. His words echoing each other as if Shylby were still there speaking them in unison with him.

  “I saw what you did to her,” said the farmer. “Don’t try to blame nothing on me.”

  “It was you,” said Xeries, reliving the moment in his head. “You interrupted our spell. You were the one who made me slip.” He laid Shylby’s head down on the floor and slowly got to his feet, not taking his eyes off of the man.

  The farmer started to twitch, clearly nervous. “You better tell me who you are before I run you through.” He shook his pitchfork.

  “You killed her,” Xeries said, pointing an accusing finger at the man. “You took her away from me. You ruined everything.”

  Shoving his arms out at the farmer, a torrent of magic spilled from his hands. The air rippled and distorted as a shock wave blew the man backward, sending him smashing through the wooden wall of the barn.

  All of his sadness and frustration came bubbling to the surface. “You killed her,” repeated Xeries, walking toward the man he’d just sent sailing away. “And now, I’m going to kill you.”

  “Have you heard me?”

  Xeries watched the last of his memory play inside his head before answering. “No. I was … somewhere else.”

  “We’re here so that you can replace me. You’ve brought me here because I’m no longer useful to you, and you’re going to cast me away, just as you have all the others. Isn’t that right?”

  Xeries returned to the dais and climbed the steps. Setting his goblet down, he stood in front of his most recent wife.

  “I am not casting you away. We are here because this is where I was a young boy. This is where my bloodline started.” He took hold of the veil and began lifting it over her head.

  She tried to take it from his grasp, but her hands were shaky and slow.

  “Please don’t. Don’t look at me.”

  The veil came over her head, pilling up on the stone back of her throne. Underneath, her face was terribly wrinkled. Her cheeks were deep craters, her eyes nearly falling from her head, and her veins bulged as if they wanted to burst through the skin. She looked drained, like a shriveled fruit, sucked dry from the inside out. This was not the effect of a long life, running its course on the human body. This was something else.

  “Do you see what you have done to me?” she said, looking up at him with bloodshot, dried up eyes.

  “But your sacrifice has given me eternal life,” he said. “Does that not please you?”

  “Does it matter? You have drained me, and I am no longer of any use. Now you will find another, and you will drain her too, all the while professing your love.”

  Xeries nodded. “That is my burden, yes.”

  “It is not a burden if you make someone else carry it,” she said, gathering her veil and dropping it again over her withered face.

  Xeries sat back down in his throne, and resumed his waiting. His wife’s life force would not last much longer, and he would need a new bride to drain, very soon. His patience was indeed running thin.

  chapter twenty

  King Korox paced the battlements on the outer wall of the palace. A fortress, it wasn’t. Llorbauth had been selected as the capital for two reasons. First, it was centrally located to the rest of the baronies, so travel to the capital and communication with the king would be easier. And second, because Korox’s father, King Valon didn’t want his seat of power to be dominated by the threat of invasion. Choosing a palace on the edge of the kingdom meant they would constantly be on alert—ready to repel attackers at any moment. Deciding on a location in the center of the kingdom meant that it could be safe without so many defenses.

  He wanted the citizens to feel as if their king lived among them, not holed up in a stone and metal castle, unapproachable and unseen. He believed in the strength of his army and of the speed of his scouts. He believed that the business of the kingdom should be conducted in a place of safety. And the architecture of the palace reflected that.

  Korox might have thought his father short-sighted, except that he himself never would have imagined his kingdom invaded by a floating magical citadel. So he walked the few defenses that they had, looking for ways to improve them and working out a strategy for fighting the growing horde of gibbering black monsters massing under the Obsidian Ridge.

  He spoke with each of the unit commanders and gave encouragement to the soldiers manning the wall. From up here, he could see down on the entrance to the palace. The drawbridge was being lowered, and the contingent he’d sent to the docks was returning.

  Korox was eager to hear if they had any news. He’d sent them to deliver a message to the Matron, which in and of itself was not an easy task. They had been given five sealed envelopes, each an exact replica of the others. Inside was a simple letter from the king, addressed to the Matron, accepting the terms of her offer. He would turn over the Claw as soon as his Magistrates were able to locate and apprehend him. In return, the Matron would begin collecting her mages to help with a convocation. The exchange of the Claw for Princess Mariko would happen as soon as possible.

  The five letters were delivered to the five most notorious criminal lords in Erlkazar, each being asked to pass it along to the Matron. Korox hoped that at least one of those letters would make it to its destination.
There was little else he could do, other than post handbills all over the docks.

  Working his way down into the great hall, the king greeted the contingent. He was relieved to see that all five messengers had returned.

  “How did you fare?”

  Five very young men, all sporting the official twin wyvern crest of the king, bowed before him, nervous from the attention they were receiving.

  The oldest among them, no more than eighteen years, stepped forward, cleared his throat, and spoke.

  “The letters have been delivered, my lord.”

  “Any trouble? Any response?”

  The young man looked to the ground. “No trouble.”

  The king put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Son, this is no time to shy away from the details. You have done your job, and you have done it well.” He lifted the messenger’s chin, looking him in the eye. “Now you must tell me everything. Even if you think I do not want to hear it.”

  The young messenger nodded.

  “My lord, at least two of the letters were torn to shreds upon delivery,” he said. “Two others were opened and read aloud. The men reading them laughed and threatened us. But we were not harmed.”

  “And the last?”

  “It was received, and we were asked to leave. No trouble, but we do not know the fate of it.”

  The king smiled. “You did well. All of you. There is a commission to the Magistrates for any of you who so wish it.”

  The boys looked to each other, clearly excited.

  “But I have one last task for you before you take on your new duties,” said the king. “Gather up all the royal messengers in the palace. Send them out in all directions. Spread the word. We need every spellcaster in Erlkazar to come to our aid. I’m calling a convocation. If Xeries wants a fight, we will give it to him.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the oldest. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The drawbridge had not even finished being raised when it began coming down again. The king looked up from his messengers to see Lady Herrin and her entourage riding into the palace. She had with her what appeared to be a lynch mob of wealthy merchants, all wearing gaudy clothing, all frowning and pinched, like they were holding their entire fortunes in their buttocks by simply squeezing them together.