The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Huh,” the old man said, as if speaking to his plants. “And they say humans have no manners. Come and sit a moment in my garden, Kellen Tavadon, and listen to an old man talk to his plants, if it would please you.”

  “It would please me and honor me very much, goodsir,” Kellen replied, cheered that his first attempt at Elven manners had succeeded so well.

  The old man came over to the edge of the path, ushering Kellen into his garden. There was a low wooden bench placed along the wall of the house where it would catch the morning sun, a bench made of wood carved in the sinuous lines of a curving vine and as soft and silken beneath his hand as an Elven cloak. Kellen seated himself carefully as the old man returned to his watering.

  “Here is eyebright, which will soothe the weariness brought on by late nights over books, and goldcap, which makes a soothing tea, and purple hand—you will remark the shape—which is an excellent poultice for bruises. And you are a Wildmage.”

  The last was stated as matter-of-factly as the names of the herbs, so it took Kellen a few moments to figure out that it might be a question.

  “I … yes. No. I don’t know, not really,” he managed, feeling, somehow, that nothing less than the absolute truth was needed here. “I have the three Books, and I read and study them, and I—I do my best. I haven’t been studying as long as my sister, though.”

  “Yet quite long enough to be filled with questions about where the Wild Magic comes from, for that is the nature of humans, to always be filled with questions.” The elderly Elf appeared to be addressing his herbs, not Kellen. “It is in the nature of the world that if something is absent from one place, it merely goes to another, and as there are no questions among the Elves, it follows that humans must ask twice as many questions to make up for it,” the old one said, smiling down at a set of rosemary bushes, then looking up at Kellen, still smiling. “Perhaps.”

  “I think you might be right,” Kellen answered, smiling back.

  “Then it may be that you would be good enough to satisfy an old man’s curiosity, Kellen Tavadon, and tell him where the world comes from,” the old one said, moving slowly along the rows of plants with his dipper, pouring out a small measure of water onto the roots of each.

  “The world doesn’t come from anywhere,” Kellen said, confused. “The world just is.”

  The ancient Elf nodded, satisfied. “And so it is with the Wild Magic, young Kellen. The Wild Magic just is. Root and leaf, world and magic, you will never have seen a leaf without a root, or a root without a leaf, in the proper order of things. As I tend my garden, so do the Wildmages tend the world, by their bargains and prices keeping the world as much in balance as I with my hoe and dipper. Anyone in Sentarshadeen will tell you the same, for we are a long-lived people, who have not yet forgotten the Beginning of Days.”

  “Then—” Kellen stumbled to a halt, unable to think of any way to phrase what he wanted to know so it wouldn’t come out as a question. “I would like to hear more about the Wild Magic, and the history of the Elves,” he finally said.

  “Come another time,” the old man said agreeably, setting the dipper back in the now-empty bucket, “and I will tell you of the Beginning of Time, long before our race had met your own, and of the Great Queen Vielissiar Farcarinon, who riddled with dragons and learned the secret of making the bargain that gained the great boons of peace and long life for our race. If you lose your way, ask any you meet the path to Morusil’s house, and they will be happy to bring you to me.”

  “Thank you,” Kellen said, getting to his feet. He was starting to get used to the Elves’ ways of putting an end to a conversation by now, though he wasn’t sure he was ever going to get used to their indirect way of asking-without-asking, and answering questions you hadn’t asked. He bowed to Morusil, and stepped out onto the path again, continuing on his way.

  The path led onward, toward the river, by a different route than he had followed yesterday. He saw no one else in the gardens as he passed them, but perhaps the folk who lived here were indoors—or perhaps they were elsewhere, working. He supposed that even Elves must work …

  His conversation with Morusil, short and inconclusive though it had been, had certainly given him a lot to think about, even if he hadn’t answered any of the questions Kellen had really wanted to ask. The Elves were a lot like the Wild Magic itself in that way, Kellen thought. But as far as he could tell, it seemed as if the Elves thought that the Wild Magic was actually the magic of the entire world, and that when he and Idalia—and the other Wildmages, who must be around somewhere, even though Kellen had never yet met one—were making their bargains and paying their prices, they were actually bargaining with and paying to the same force that was responsible for, well … everything, from twigs to unicorns.

  Leaf and root, Morusil had said. World and magic, two sides of the same coin, indivisible. All part of the same thing, with the Wild Magic, the magic of balance and healing, to bind them both together.

  And somehow, the Mages of Armethalieh had just managed to … forget … that, if they’d ever known it.

  Why? How? When?

  Kellen frowned. There was something on the tip of his mind, something he’d heard once, and almost remembered …

  But the thought was gone before he could chase it to its source. He shrugged. He could ask Idalia about it tonight. Or he could ask some of the other Elves, assuming he could figure out how to do that without asking any questions. Hadn’t Morusil said that anyone in Sentarshadeen would tell him about the Wild Magic? He thought he’d see if the old man had been right: he could stand to learn a lot more about it—and as soon as he could—if he was going to use it to help the Elves.

  But right now there didn’t seem to be anyone tracking him down with demands that he do something. Not even the Queen.

  Maybe Elves, with their centuries of life ahead of them, rarely saw any reason to hurry.

  If that was the case, he supposed he could afford the time for a leisurely amble along the byways of Sentarshadeen, retracing the paths he’d taken yesterday with Sandalon and learning new ones.

  Besides, Idalia was probably looking into the situation already; he surely didn’t know enough to determine what was causing this drought! He wouldn’t even begin to know where to start, and as for actually doing anything about it—

  I think I’d better leave that up to Idalia. If there was a place for him in the solution, she certainly wouldn’t be slow in telling him about it! After all, she hadn’t hesitated for a moment in getting him involved in everything he didn’t actively and strongly object to.

  And I did tell her that I had promised my help already. Given that, Idalia would probably send someone to fetch him the moment she had anything constructive he could do. I might as well enjoy my holiday while I’ve got it, Kellen decided, walking on.

  Slowly the form of the Elven city began to take shape in his mind. It was a thing of gentle curves and meanders; where a human city would have broad straight avenues, imposing vistas, and large dignified public buildings, the Elven city seemed designed to present small quiet opportunities for reflection, and often Kellen saw no houses at all, though he was sure he must be in the middle of many of them.

  But even in the middle of so much quiet beauty he saw evidence of the specter that hovered over Sentarshadeen. Fountains that should have been sparkling in the sun stood dry and empty; reflecting pools that once held water had been carefully filled with patterns of colored sand instead; tiny bridges arched over dry stones instead of over trickling streams. Though these substitutions would hardly have been noticeable in a human garden, in an Elven one, the tiny imperfections among all that was perfect sounded a jarring note. Tumbled stone and tiled basins were meant for water. As they were, they did not fit. They were not—quite—harmonious enough. The more he saw of such substitutions, the more determined he was to restore Sentarshadeen to what it had been before.

  He’d grown so used to the absence of water that when he heard the sound of ru
nning water coming from a house up ahead of him, it took him several minutes to believe his ears. Feeling faintly alarmed and very curious, Kellen hurried toward the sound.

  There was a house set back away from the road. The path leading up to it was made of rough-surfaced tiles, each a different shape and color, with strong raised designs upon their surfaces. The house was tiled as well, its entire surface, even the roof, covered with an intricate mosaic of handmade tile, until it resembled some giant fantastic creature from one of Kellen’s bestiaries—a manticore or a basilisk, perhaps, or even a sleeping dragon.

  In addition to the trickling and splashing, Kellen could hear a peculiar creaking and groaning sound coming through the open windows. Intrigued and a little concerned, he came closer and looked inside.

  It was a potter’s studio, Kellen realized with relief. The peculiar sounds came from the spinning potter’s wheel. An Elven man was bent over it, his back to Kellen, busy with the clay, while his bare feet worked the pedals that kept the wheel spinning. He was bare to the waist, his hair bound up in a turban of dark blue cloth. His hands and arms were covered with ghost-white clay.

  Two walls of the studio were lined with shelves, on which stood pieces of pottery in every stage of completion, from those that looked as if they’d just come off the wheel, to others, gleaming in jewel colors, that looked as if they were ready for Queen Ashaniel’s table. On the third wall, Kellen could see a row of deep sinks, into one of which water trickled and splashed. It was that sound that had drawn Kellen here.

  “Drought or none, it is water and fire that shapes the clay,” the potter said without looking up.

  How did he know I was here? Kellen wondered. But the potter hadn’t said anything that indicated he didn’t want Kellen to remain, so Kellen continued to watch, enthralled.

  The potter dipped his hand into a water bucket at his side, and returned it to the clay again.

  He was making a bowl, Kellen realized. He watched in fascination as the clay thinned and flared out under the potter’s hands, very much as if it had a will of its own, until it went from a muffin-shaped doughy lump to a wide flaring shape.

  The potter lifted his hands from his work at last and let the wheel slow.

  “It will crack as it dries.” He addressed the pot, not Kellen, and there was a faint tone of regret—or, perhaps, disappointment—in his voice. “The clay is too soft to hold such a shape unsupported. But when it does, I will return it to the slip and try again, and perhaps one day one of them will not.” He rose to his feet and turned.

  “I see you, Kellen Tavadon. Be welcome in the house of Iletel.”

  “I see you, Iletel,” Kellen answered formally. “It is a pleasure and a privilege to see a skilled artist at work.”

  Iletel smiled, opened the door for him, and then went to wash off the clay in the sink, take down his hair, and don a loose linen wrap-tunic in pale shades of peach and pink, while Kellen gazed around the studio.

  Everything was arranged with an eye to the order and perfection he had come to expect here, even in so messy an environment as a potter’s workplace.

  “These pieces are wonderful. I have never seen such beautiful things as I have seen in Sentarshadeen,” Kellen said honestly.

  “It is a great pity we no longer trade with the City as we did when I was younger,” Iletel said, “for it was a great pleasure to sell beautiful things to humans, as it is always a joy to instruct the young. I am sad that our two races no longer speak together as we once did.”

  “So am I,” Kellen said feelingly. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here—because I know that the Elves know many things I wish to know.” He sighed. “I am very glad that the Elves do find joy in the instruction of the young, for I would rather that my presence was not considered a burden.”

  Iletel’s smile broadened. “Your presence, Kellen Tavadon, would not be a burden to anyone who is wise. The wise know well that wisdom must be shared, or it grows stale, and that even the wisest can learn new things from the young.”

  Well, that was encouraging! “I spoke to Morusil this morning,” Kellen ventured, “and he told me that everyone here knows something about the Wild Magic. I’m hoping to find out why they no longer remember it in the City.”

  Or, Kellen amended conscientiously, if only to himself, why they didn’t remember it properly—or lied about it if they did.

  Iletel smiled. “So direct! I had forgotten that consequence of your brief lives,” he said in an amused tone that warned Kellen he had come a little too close to overstepping Elven etiquette. “But come, Morusil’s student. Perhaps it would please you to view my latest works, and afterward join me for refreshment. It is nearing my hour to take tea.”

  Kellen blushed, and assented, wondering if he’d ever really get the hang of the indirectness of Elven manners. Iletel conducted him around the small studio, showing off the various examples of his work—and to Kellen’s surprise, finding fault with most of them.

  Several pieces that Kellen thought were perfect Iletel announced were only waiting to be broken up so that their clay could be reused “—for there is truly no purpose in keeping those things which are less than perfect—do you see this flaw here? Terrible. And here, where the glaze ran and puddled. A child’s error; the temperature in the kiln was uneven that day. But they will be reborn again, without flaw.”

  As Kellen had suspected, Iletel had made the tiles Kellen had seen outside as well, though when Kellen praised them Iletel dismissed them as journeyman work, too unimportant to speak of. All his work now was in the translucent white shell-clay with which he had been working when Kellen entered. It was harder than earthenware, and translucent when fired. Larger pieces, Iletel told Kellen, were often cast instead of wheel-worked, because the clay’s thin shapes were unstable while wet. But Iletel still experimented with larger shell-clay pieces on the wheel, for that, he explained, was how one learned.

  He spoke of glazes and firing times with an artist’s love and passion, and showed Kellen a few pieces a friend who worked in cast shell-clay had given him: a tiny perfect unicorn, its tufted tail coiled over its back, with shell-pink horn and hooves; a selkie leaning on a rock, a wriggling trout caught in one splayed hand. Every detail was flawless, so real Kellen could almost imagine they breathed.

  Long before Kellen tired of seeing the wonders of Iletel’s art, the Elven potter led Kellen through the studio into an inner room whose windows looked out on a wooded hillside of birch and pine. The birch trees had already gone yellow with autumn, though of course, being in Sentarshadeen itself they were well watered by the Elves, but the pines, Kellen was relieved to see, were also still a healthy green. Pines were fragile trees, fast-growing and (comparatively) short-lived. They had shallow roots, and were often the first to suffer the effects of drought, Idalia had once said.

  “Their roots are strong, by the mercy of the Forest,” Iletel said, seeing the direction of Kellen’s gaze, “and by the grace of Leaf and Star, our valley has been spared the worst of the fell weather. But should there be another year of drought, even they will begin to suffer.”

  Iletel indicated that Kellen should seat himself on one of the long benches that seemed to be a standard feature of Elven homes. As Kellen did, Iletel knelt and busied himself at the tile stove, heating water and preparing tea. Kellen cast about for a safe conversational subject.

  “I haven’t been studying Wild Magic for very long,” he said, as self-deprecating as Iletel, “and my sister Idalia is a much better Wildmage than I am, but both of us are going to do all that we can to help make the rains come.”

  “That makes good hearing,” Iletel said, his back to Kellen. “Each day, all who can be spared from other tasks go to carry water to the trees of the rim and to the farther fields. Even I shall go in a few hours to do what I can, though it is so little in the face of the forest’s need.”

  So that’s where everyone is! Kellen tried to imagine the amount of work it was to carry water—presumably by ha
nd—to try to keep the forest alive, and couldn’t. And the wondertales all make it seem as if all the Elves do all day is play music and games, and sing and dance …

  A few moments later Iletel rose, bringing Kellen a cup of steaming tea that smelled strongly of roses and herbs, and seated himself with his own cup in a chair facing him.

  “But, if I understand your need, you come to us to learn something more of the history of humankind.” Iletel frowned, just the tiniest bit. “Now I fear from what you do not say that the Wild Magic is another thing the City has forgotten—or has cast aside. This gives me reasons for why the City of Armethalieh no longer trades with us. Perhaps they fear Wild Magic, as they evidently fear us, as the harbingers of chaos and confusion.”

  Kellen shifted uneasily in his seat. Iletel’s indirect assessment was uncomfortably close to the mark.

  “But once again it is their brief lives, Wildmage, that lead them into misunderstanding and error,” Iletel continued gently, his free hand moving in a graceful gesture of apology. “So far from being the magic of chaos and confusion, the Wild Magic is ultimately the magic of order, as Morusil will have told you already. But it is an order that encompasses the whole world, you see, and so it cannot be a form of order that the ordinary human being can easily grasp,” Iletel said, his dark eyes regarding Kellen compassionately.

  Kellen nodded, although he only half grasped what the Elf was talking about.

  “You must understand, Wildmage, that the ordinary human, or even these High Mages who have lately appeared in Armethalieh, is essentially a selfish creature. It is a consequence of having such brief lives, I fear; and not to be wondered at. Humans barely reach maturity before they begin to die: it is not surprising that all they are interested in is the form of ‘order’ that best suits and benefits each of them alone—or perhaps, if they are the wisest of their kind, an order that benefits their fellows for the duration of their own brief lifetimes. But their lives are so very short that even such magnanimity is barely better than the most insular selfishness.”