IDALIA sat down beside the table, gazing back at the pattern of stones on the great room floor. North. There were tiny flaws in the balance to the west, only a few, and hints of trouble in the south and east—the direction of Armethalieh—but almost all of her stones had been laid out toward the north. That was the direction in which the trouble lay, and that was where she had to go looking next. Not in the direction of Armethalieh and the Council.
And that was a great pity. Countering the meddling of High Magick would have been trivial to what she feared—and making trouble for Lycaelon would have been immensely satisfying.
She glanced at Kellen, who was foraging among the drawers and cabinets of the food storage with the same single-minded interest as a bear in a honey-tree. She’d been doing her best to hint to him about the way the Elves’ minds worked before he got himself too badly hurt, but she doubted she was getting much of anywhere. Right now, all Kellen could see was the perfection of Elven ways, but like anything else living, the Elves had their faults, too, stubborn inflexibility being chief among them.
Compared to some among the Elves, Lycaelon Tavadon is vacillating and spineless.
But Kellen wasn’t worldly-wise enough yet to catch a hint. She supposed he’d just have to figure it out for himself—and he’d be wildly indignant when he did, too; as indignant as he’d been when he discovered the High Mages acted out of self-interest more than disinterested justice …
“You look tired,” Kellen said bluntly, turning back to her with the makings of a young feast in his hands. “Look, come sit down and I’ll feed you.”
“I’ve been working,” Idalia said, taking a seat at the table as he laid out sliced vegetables and meat, bread and cheese.
“And you found out the drought’s not a freak weather thing?” Kellen asked.
She blinked. For a boy who was normally as thick as two short planks—to borrow a popular Merryvale saying—he did have disconcerting flashes of insight, portents of the man he would someday become.
“Yes,” Idalia admitted. There was no reason to keep the truth from Kellen; he’d be involved in the thick of it soon enough. “It isn’t a natural thing. Ashaniel suspected as much; I suppose you must have guessed that. That was why she was so worried, even frightened. And rightly—to tie up the natural world like this requires an immense amount of power. I tried to call the rain today, and couldn’t manage so much as a shift in the wind. That was proof: something, somewhere, is holding back the rain and doing it deliberately. Unnaturally. Now I have to find out who and where, if I can. I made a start on that today, and eliminated a few possibilities.”
“What can I do to help?” Kellen asked. Idalia blessed him for the bravery of his offer; she knew how wary Kellen still was of the Wild Magic—afraid, in fact.
It was the City still working in him, as much as he’d want to deny it. Armethalieh hated change: everything the High Mages did “for the good of the City” was to keep change from happening there, even the natural normal change that occurred everywhere. And the Wild Magic was all about change: every spell a Wildmage cast changed him or her in some way, small or great. Deep down inside Kellen sensed that. And no matter how much he said he accepted it; no matter how much he said he’d cast off the chains of the City; he was still fighting against it.
It was a battle no one could fight for him. The City’s poisons would have to work their way out of his system naturally. Even telling him she knew what he was going through would do as much harm as good, Idalia suspected.
“Nothing, yet,” she answered. “It’s delicate work, like following a trail through a forest. I’m not sure how long it will take, either. I don’t know what I’m going to find, but whatever I find, I do know it won’t be pleasant.”
She sighed and leaned forward. Kellen moved behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders to rub the tension out. “At least now I know it’s nothing to do with the City. It’s coming from the north. All the signs point to that.”
“What’s north of here?” Kellen asked idly. “All the maps in the City don’t even go as far as the High Hills. Hah! What am I saying? They don’t even go beyond the walls.”
Idalia sighed, feeling the muscle knots loosen. If she wished for one thing, it was that she and Kellen could have more time together before they were plunged into the trouble she saw coming.
“North of the Elven Lands? Mountains. High desert. And … trouble.”
She did not yet want to tell him how much trouble. Let him enjoy his first few days among the Elves, and revel in their wonderful city.
He’d find out the truth soon enough. They all would.
Chapter Nineteen
The Fruit of the Tree of Night
IF ONLY THE High Mages knew how pleased with them she was at the moment, it would surely vex them unutterably, Queen Savilla thought delightedly. It was Armethalieh, with its foolish adventure, that had filled the slave pits in the Heart of Darkness to overflowing with refugees fleeing from those lands that the Mages had chosen to claim for their own. Ah, bless them! There had been no need to go a-hunting, with so many refugees simply flinging themselves into the traps.
And the cream of the jest was that after flushing such choice game into the waiting nets of the Endarkened, Armethalieh had renounced its new holdings. The witless fools that had attempted to elude the High Mages’ tyranny need not have fled at all. The Golden City had hazarded much and gained nothing, while the Endarkened had profited by a rich new supply of slaves and toys; a deep reservoir of pain and suffering from which to draw power in the seasons to come.
Prince Zyperis had brought her the news this very morning, and sweet hearing it made indeed. As Armethalieh withdrew to the shadow of its own walls, weakening itself with its every deluded effort to make itself strong, so Sentarshadeen continued to wither and die, as certain as the Armethaliehans that it was the center and the pinnacle of Creation, and once each could have saved the other, did they only know …
But the seeds of discord and distrust had been sown well by Endarkened hands, centuries before. There were no Wildmages in the Golden City now to come to the aid of the Elves, and Armethalieh would never look to the Otherfolk for her salvation.
Savilla saw to it that her slaves dressed her with exceptional care that day, oiling her wings with glittering unguents to make them shimmer, painting her horns and talons with gold leaf, and choosing her finest jewels for her adornment. The dungeons were filled with candidates for her attentions—since the Ingathering, there were enough vermin and failed slaves to allow every member of the Endarkened Court a pleasant diversion or two—but Savilla had business to attend to today, not pleasure. Her youngest nephew, Goraide, was training several of the more promising candidates they’d captured, preparing them for a future spent serving the Endarkened. It was her duty to attend, to oversee the work and offer the guidance of a more experienced advisor.
Her duty, and her pleasure.
THE slave quarters were above the Palace levels of the Heart of Darkness, placed so that in the event that conflict should reach the Palace itself, the bodies of the slaves would serve as one more barrier to the invaders. Even so, they were deep underground, so far within the twisting labyrinth of the World Without Sun that no Bright World captive could ever find his way unaided to the world he had left behind. This was the first lesson captives were taught: escape was impossible. Submission was the only salvation.
Everything here was designed to reinforce the simple lessons that were the basis of the lives of slaves: submission, pain, despair. The ceilings were low, the passageways narrow and stark, the cells bare and cold. All was dim to Brightworlder eyes. Families had been carefully separated, lest they give comfort and strength to one another. The youngest children had already been taken away to be raised in Endarkened creèches deeper in the Palace. When they were grown, they would be the best and most trustworthy slaves of all, for they would have known no other way of life than that of the World Without Sun, and fed from childhood upon
the fruit of the Tree of Night.
But taming the wild-caught adults could be most rewarding …
She heard a groan of pain from one of the cells, and paused to glance in. A male Centaur was being shod by an Endarkened farrier. He’d already had his tail docked short and been gelded; his haunches were spattered with rusty streaks of blood.
Savilla nodded her approval. Centaurs were useful beasts of burden, but took care and patience to tame, and the males were particularly unruly. Once he’d been shod, walking would be agony, and without the constant attention that only his new masters could provide, he would be permanently crippled, his hooves split and festering. Still, the big chestnut was a magnificent beast, and Savilla had rarely seen this method of bringing the creatures under Endarkened control fail. It was a great deal of trouble, but worth it in the end.
Savilla moved on.
SHE found Goraide in one of the main Training Chambers, with half a dozen of the more promising young human males. Their skins were still an odd parti-color—brown where they had been burned by the sun, lighter where they had been covered by their clothing—but in time it would all fade to the proper pale shade of slaves who lived their whole lives in the World Without Sun. Not as pale as that of the Elvenkind, but it had been long—too long—since the Endarkened had enjoyed the pleasure of entertaining one of the Elves.
Soon, perhaps, that time would come again. If the Elves could be forced to abandon their cities, they might be as easily caught as these creatures had been. And then the halls of the Heart of Darkness would echo with an eternity of rare feasting and sport, as a thousand past injuries were repaid to the last full measure …
The humans stank of terror—as well they should, for since their capture, every experience they’d had was carefully planned by their masters to cause them to despair. They hardly realized it, but even now Goraide was subtly manipulating their minds, undercutting their will and imagination so that soon they would be unable to see any other possibility than blind unthinking obedience to their new masters.
And the best of it was, he was using their own fears, their own anger, to fuel his spells. When anger was gone, and only fear and unreasoning despair remained, a slave’s training was complete.
They cowered back as Savilla entered the room.
“Did I say you could move?” Goraide asked gently. “Who moved first? Tell me, and the rest of you will not be punished.”
Savilla watched with interest. The lad had good instincts. Were the humans ready to betray their own already?
There was a moment of indecision.
“He did—it was him. Cadin moved first,” one of the males said. He was a well-built, dark-haired creature; the slaves Goraide was seeing to were intended to serve the Royal Court, and thus were the most comely and vigorous of the captives.
“No! It was you! Not me! Dairt lies!” Cadin lunged for Dairt, but stopped when Goraide spread his wings with a snap. All of them froze where they stood, staring at the young Endarkened Prince in helpless terror.
“Well,” Goraide said, regarding his slaves pleasantly. “You cannot seem to agree. Perhaps you are not as obedient as I had hoped. I will give you some time to reconsider. Now, kneel to your Queen.” He folded his wings and turned his back on them, walking over to where Savilla stood as the six slaves all dropped to their knees.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted her respectfully, bowing his head. Behind him the slaves were arguing in low vehement hisses that they thought their masters could not hear. There would be time enough to awaken them to the folly of that assumption later.
“Nephew,” Savilla said warmly, spreading her wings to enfold him in a silken caress. “You’re bringing them along very well—turning on one another already? How lovely.”
Goraide smiled. “They blame one another for their capture, Aunt Savilla, and I have encouraged them to hate and distrust one another even further. Despite that, they know that if all of them do not please me, none of them eat—and I keep their rations short.”
“An excellent plan,” Savilla agreed. “And I have delightful news for you to share with them.” She lowered her voice to a whisper only Goraide could hear. “They have fled from their homes and into our hands for nothing. Armethalieh has just renounced all claim to the Western Hills and withdrawn to the City gates. Had they only stayed where they were, they would be safe in their own beds today.”
Goraide’s yellow eyes gleamed with pleasure. “All this—for nothing? Oh, they’ll be so pleased to hear it!” His tail lashed back and forth with glee. He turned back to the slaves.
“You—come here.” He pointed.
Dairt got slowly to his feet and shuffled reluctantly forward. Goraide put an arm around his shoulder and leaned down so that his mouth was near the slave’s ear.
“It was you, wasn’t it, little soft one, who made the trouble? You’re afraid, and that’s good. Fear is the beginning of wisdom. But you belong to us now, down here in the dark, and you must always do exactly what pleases us, because your Bright World Gods have given you to us as a present, did you know that, little Dairt?”
Savilla saw the human’s eyes flicker with fear and confusion.
“Do you know how I know that?” Goraide went on, in the same gentle confiding tones. “Because I know how you came here, Dairt. You were running away from the High Mages, because Armethalieh was going to take over the High Hills. And so you ran to us. But Armethalieh changed her mind. She went home to her own walls and left the High Hills alone. You didn’t have to come here at all. You could have stayed right where you were, inconvenienced for a time, but safe.” As Goraide spoke, Savilla could see him weaving the subtle strands of magic around his words, drawing power from the human’s horror and despair to make the man believe him utterly.
“But you did come, Dairt. So it must have been because you wanted to come, to live with us and serve us. And now you will. You will never see the sun again. You will live here, with us, to serve us in any way we choose … and it was all your own free choice.”
The human was gasping and whimpering by the time Goraide finished speaking, shaking his head in denial but unable to disbelieve. His eyes filled with tears—Savilla had always found that to be one of the odder and more charming things about humans, that they wept for nothing more than a harsh word or two—and he swayed on his feet, his knees buckling. Goraide steadied him, his long black talons digging harshly into the human’s soft skin.
“Soft one, soft one … you have what you came to find. There are pleasures to be found in service.” Goraide turned the human’s body against his own and kissed him full upon the mouth.
Savilla watched with interest as the human’s body shuddered in protest and then stilled, the callused hands clenching and opening as Goraide’s hands moved possessively over the soft unscaled body, leaving faint red welts upon the skin.
Yes, her nephew had a fine touch with these matters, one almost as good as Prince Zyperis’s.
HIS visit with the Elven seamstress had been less stressful than Kellen had expected—and shorter, as well, since Tengitir wasn’t really interested in any of Kellen’s opinions about what clothing he should have. She’d made him stand in the direct sunlight that spilled through the skylight of her workroom as she held various swatches of fabric up to his skin to gauge the effect of the colors, taken a large number of measurements, confiscated most of the Elven clothes Kellen had been requested to bring with him (although she had allowed him to keep one outfit, to his mild surprise: a set of tunic and leggings in an odd steel-grey, almost the color of storm clouds.)
And just as well, Kellen realized on reflection, as Tengitir would have seen no reason that he should not leave the shop wearing nothing but his skin rather than leave in what she considered unsuitable clothing. Once she was done taking his measurements, she told him to be on his way. Kellen, happy to make his escape, quickly dressed in the steel-grey tunic and leggings, and got out of Tengitir’s shop as fast as possible.
At l
east he still had his buckskin clothing, and the Mountain Trader outfit, and he wondered, as he was measured and remeasured, if perhaps he ought to just take to wearing the buckskins again, since Idalia was mostly wearing hers.
Because as hot and scratchy as it is, he thought as the seamstress held up yet another series of swatches to his face, the only way anyone will get me into that Trader outfit again is at knifepoint …
All in all, his visit to the Elven seamstress could have been a great deal more embarrassing. The only bad part about it was that Kellen hadn’t gotten a chance to pose any questions of his own.
Sandalon had been there, of course, offering his own suggestions about the items Kellen should have for his wardrobe for various esoteric Elven events. Kellen supposed he should be just as glad he hadn’t really understood most of the suggestions. What was a Flower War? And a Winter Running Dance just sounded exhausting.
Tengitir vetoed all of the young Prince’s suggestions, gently telling the child that “I don’t believe we are going to be holding any of those this year, Sandalon, what with the drought.”
Just as well he wouldn’t be getting outfits for either one, Kellen thought.
He spent the rest of the day entertaining Sandalon—and, not incidentally, helping several of the water-carriers in their tasks. Now that he knew more of what to look for, he could see that everyone in Sentarshadeen was completely occupied in keeping the valley that held the Elven city irrigated. And in the time they could spare from that task, work parties toiled in the forest beyond the canyon rim, fighting the losing battle to save the forest beyond.
Kellen promised himself that first thing tomorrow he’d see about formally joining one of those work parties. He might not be able to help Idalia in her work right now—he was only a half-trained Wildmage, after all—but there was no reason for him to be completely idle.
He only hoped that Tengitir had included work clothes in his new wardrobe—and that he’d be able to recognize them if she had. The new clothes she was promising him didn’t look very much different to Kellen than the old ones—except in color—though it did seem that they would have more decoration, but then again, he really didn’t care. He had more important things to think about.
The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 54