The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I shall bring tea,” Taranarya said. It was obvious that she felt that the room’s elaborate beauty would occupy them for some time.

  “We have come on the wings of the wind,” Jermayan said urgently. “And so our words enter the realms of suitable discourse like summer storms into an orchard, tossing the boughs about and shaking loose the fruit. Yet I believe it is with cause, for I know that which you do not wish to relate. Kellen has told me what he has learned from Rochinuviel, and so you must understand that we already know much of what has happened within these walls. I beg you, do not delay us.”

  Taranarya regarded him as if he had shouted curses at her. It might not seem so on the battlefield, but to the ears of a gently-bred Elven artisan, this was plain speaking indeed, and it was obvious Taranarya had never heard anything like it in all the years of her long life. She stared at Jermayan for a long moment in shock, then curtseyed deeply and rushed as quickly as she could—without seeming to—from the room.

  Jermayan and Idalia looked at each other.

  “That certainly went well,” Idalia said, after a moment.

  “Perhaps we should have brought Kellen with us, to apply his courtly manners,” Jermayan said ironically. “But I would truly feel more serene were I to know at once of the health of Andoreniel’s Counselors, and have speech of them, and that is a thing neither cups of tea nor sweet cakes can provide.”

  “I see that Kellen’s influence has been pervasive indeed,” Idalia said, though she shared his feelings.

  If Andoreniel was as ill as Kellen had implied, in Ashaniel’s absence the Elven Council was all that was left to govern the Nine Cities. Tyendimarquen, Morusil, Ainalundore, Dargainon, and Sorvare had advised Andoreniel for centuries. Morusil and Ainalundore, at least, had advised Andorieniel’s father Ari-naldariel before him.

  If all of them were sick, or dead …

  But to Idalia’s immense relief, before she and Jermayan actually came to the point of searching the House of Leaf and Star themselves for answers, Taranarya returned, bringing Morusil—and, inevitably, a large wheeled cart covered with savory dishes—with her.

  The oldest of Andoreniel’s Counselors leaned heavily upon a carved wooden staff as he walked into the room, and his steps were slow and hesitant. He seemed to have aged several centuries since Idalia had seen him last, though it had only been a handful of moonturns, and his ivory-pale skin was now marred with the ugly purple scars of plague.

  “You should not be out of bed!” Idalia gasped, rising to her feet to help him to a chair near the fire.

  Morusil chuckled faintly. “My dear Idalia, the Shadow’s Kiss rested on me very lightly indeed, and that some sennights ago. Indeed, I was considering participating in the Winter Running Dance this year, for the first time in quite some time. But come. I am sure that you have news for me, and I will tell you what I can. Meanwhile, surely there is time to eat and drink.” He raised a hand—though he was dressed in Council robes, he wore no rings, for they would have fit him far too loosely now—and Taranarya curtseyed once more and departed, closing the door to the Room of Fire and Water behind her.

  They settled beside him around the fire, and Idalia laid out the tea-things upon the table, for despite his protests, Morusil looked far from well. Out of respect for his years, Idalia poured tea while Jermayan prepared them all plates from the—rather hearty—selection of delicacies.

  Nevertheless, Morusil came quickly enough to the point.

  “You come in a good hour, Idalia, for the Shadow’s Kiss lies heavily upon us here. My old comrade Ainalundore has gone to the trees, and Sorvare with her. Only Tyendimarquen, Dargainon, and I remain, and … we do not know if Dargainon will recover. As yet, Tyendimarquen has not fallen ill, thanks be to the grace of Leaf and Star. But Andoreniel has not been so fortunate.”

  “That much Kellen has told us,” Jermayan said. “He sent us here from Halacira, where he has destroyed the last of the Enclaves of the Shadowed Elves. Redhelwar follows, to await orders at Ondoladeshiron. Artenel prepares the caverns to become a fortress, for if we are to shelter the women and children of the Wild Lands, we must have shelter to offer them.”

  Morusil nodded. “It is a plan that contains both good and ill within it, yet I do not see how we can abandon our friends and Allies. Still, I would give much to know how Kellen intends them to reach this shelter. The unicorns tell us that travel will be impossible in the Wildlands until after Kindling, at best; in the High Reaches, it may be late spring, or later. And that is only without considering fear of attack. Yet I know that Their creatures already roam the Elven Lands and fill the Lost Lands.”

  “And Tyendimarquen believes the best course of action is to sit and do nothing,” Idalia guessed, “and let everyone who isn’t an Elf fend for themself. Well, it’s too late for that. Lerkelpoldara has been completely destroyed. Deskethomaynel and Windalorianan have been evacuated, and the survivors have regrouped at Ysterialpoerin. The Shadowed Elves may have brought Coldwarg, Deathwings, and a few other things in through their caves and past the wards, but if the wards in the north haven’t already fallen, they’re going to fall soon, and then you’ll have Ice Trolls and Frost Giants here. They move slowly, and they have a mountain range or two to cross, but they’ll reach Ysterialpoerin eventually, and then they’ll destroy it just as the Coldwarg and serpentmarae did Lerkelpoldara. Only they’ll wipe out three cities, not one.”

  “And should you tell him so, Tyendimarquen will insist the army return to defend Ysterialpoerin to the last Knight,” Morusil said, seemingly undaunted by the catalogue of disasters that Idalia related to him. “Yet Redhelwar already knows the threat they face, and he has left them.”

  “There is plague at Ysterialpoerin, just as there is here,” Jermayan said. “So far, by the Grace of Leaf and Star, it has not spread to the army, and Redhelwar wishes to preserve his force. Further, Kindolhinadetil can only feed so many, and the refugees are a great tax upon his reserves. It was thought wise to bring the army to the War City instead.”

  “It would please me greatly were I to be allowed to know why it was Redhelwar chose to do such a thing,” Morusil said mildly.

  “Kellen suggested it,” Idalia said bluntly.

  “Then it is the Wild Magic which guides Redhelwar. I find no fault in that, though no doubt Tyendimarquen will try hard to raise some objection. It troubles me that Ysterialpoerin is left undefended, however.”

  “Kellen believes—and it has been shown to be the truth—that They are attempting to draw our forces in many directions at once, scattering us so that we may be more easily destroyed, while They gain the power They need to launch Their final attack upon us. Though we now know what They mean to do, without Andoreniel…” Idalia shrugged helplessly.

  “The King must live, so that he can rule,” Morusil said. “There is no one in Sentarshadeen—indeed, in all the Elven Lands—who would not give up their life for his. All our arts have only held the Shadow’s Kiss at bay, for it rests as heavily upon him as it has upon anyone I have seen. Can you, with your powers of healing, do more, Idalia?”

  “I can try, Morusil. Fond as I am of Tyendimarquen’s optimism and good cheer, I do not think he should speak for the Elves this year,” Idalia said.

  “Nor do I. In times of peace, his good counsel provides excellent balance. But a balance is composed of many sides.”

  “I have brought several remedies with me,” Idalia said. “We have had some success with them at Ysterialpoerin. And perhaps there will be more that I can do.”

  For all our sakes, I hope there is.

  ANDORENIEL’S bedchamber was draped in green silk, giving the room the shadowy likeness of a summer forest. A small stove kept the air warm.

  If one had survived the plague, Idalia knew, it was still possible to get it—or the other disease—again, though surviving it once seemed to grant a certain resistance to it.

  No one who got it a second time survived.

  Idalia asked Morusil to wa
it outside Andoreniel’s bedchamber, something the aged Elf seemed ready to do in any event, out of simple common sense. Two Elves in the simple leaf-green robes of Elven Healers sat by Andoreniel’s bedside. Idalia recognized both of them from her own stay in the Elven House of Healing. Their names were Volcilintra and Nelirtil, and they were both Master Healers, with centuries of practice at their craft.

  “Idalia,” Volcilintra said, rising to her feet and coming toward the door. “By the grace of Leaf and Star, you come in a good hour!”

  Idalia bowed. The Healers could be nearly as direct as Elven Knights when it suited their purposes. “I wish I did not see you again under such circumstances, Volcilintra.”

  “Ah, Idalia, we all wish circumstances were other than they were.” She glanced at the box Idalia carried beneath her arm. “Perhaps your medicines will have more effect than mine.”

  “How long has he lain ill?” Idalia asked.

  “The fever came ten sennights ago,” Volcilintra said. “The Shadow’s Kiss had already descended upon Sentarshadeen, though at first we did not see many cases. Now more than half the people are ill, though as yet few have died. We dare not use the House of Healing to treat the cases any longer, for fear of the Quick Plague that sometimes follows. We have taken a district of the city and made it into our healing place, and keep those who are ill as far apart from one another as we can.”

  “Yes. We found that to work in Ysterialpoerin,” Idalia agreed.

  “At first Andoreniel thought nothing of his fever, for there was much to do, and few hands to do it. But a fortnight later the bruising began to appear, and then we knew the nature of his illness. Since then, all we can do has only kept him in life.”

  They kept their voices low, but Idalia did not worry about wakening Andoreniel. He was far too ill to be awakened, even if she had shouted at the top of her lungs.

  Two moonturns since the bruising had appeared. Yet in all the other cases Idalia had seen, the plague ran its course—for good or ill—in less than one. Sometimes much less.

  The Healers were very skilled. And Andoreniel was very strong.

  Idalia approached the bed and turned back the light coverlet gently.

  Andoreniel looked as if he had been severely beaten. His body was wasted; veins and tendons stood out clearly against the bone, and his ribs could be seen plainly. His chest rose and fell with slow, effortful breaths.

  Along his neck and arms, spreading along the jaw and extending over his body in the pattern she had come to recognize, the livid purple weals of the plague stood out sharply against his pale skin in winged patterns. No wonder the Elves had named it Shadow’s Kiss.

  She set down her box beside the bed and opened it.

  “Will he drink?” she asked, taking out a vial of brown liquid.

  “It is difficult,” Volcilintra said. “But we manage,” she added simply.

  “You must give him this. One vial every six—no, four hours. And there is a salve. Rub it into his skin where you can.” The bruised areas were delicate, and the skin there could quickly rupture and bleed at a rough touch. Death followed quickly when that happened. “I will prepare an infusion of herbs. You must wash him with it.” She emptied her box. She had brought all of the plague medicine they could spare from Ysterialpoerin, but she wasn’t sure it was enough. “I will need a place to prepare more.”

  “Nelirtil will conduct you,” Volcilintra said, drawing the coverlet back up over Andoreniel. “I had thought, perhaps, a spell of the Wild Magic …”

  “Each of these is infused with the power of the Wild Magic,” Idalia told the Elven Healer. “We have tried direct Healing on the plague victims at Ysterialpoerin. It does not work.”

  THE time had nearly come.

  Once again Savilla descended to the Black Chamber.

  With each passing day in the World Above, the veil between it and the majesty of He Who Is thinned further. For the first time in uncounted centuries, her creatures, her subject races, walked openly through the Elven Lands, searing the very ground beneath their feet to sterile stone.

  The nursery of her creations—that place which the Wildmages had called the Lost Lands—was truly lost once more. Nothing remained but rock and ice and darkness. Zyperis had enjoyed a fine hunt, scouring the land of those fools who had chosen to remain behind, paving the way for her creatures to claim, once again, lands they had lost a thousand years before.

  It was good, but it was not enough.

  Only a few sacrifices remained, until the bounds were broken, and He Who Is could walk the world once more. This was one of the last.

  It would be painful beyond words for her, but it was necessary. Already his power grew, adding strength to the blights and torments she had released upon the Children of the Light, rendering the Wild Magic weak and ineffectual. When He Who Is walked the world once more in truth, the power of the Wild Magic would be gone forever.

  Behind her, two of the Lesser Endarkened followed, dragging a unicorn in a sack. Its legs had been broken, and its eyes and tongue had been gouged from its head—these things done by one of the Mage-men that Zyperis had brought her. The Mage-man had acted in exchange for clemency and freedom, but Savilla had no intention of granting either.

  The unicorn’s whimpers of agony soothed her nerves as she contemplated what lay ahead. This was a delicate time, for after this sacrifice she would be weak. It was good, then, that she had sent Zyperis to the High Reaches to enjoy himself. Her son was young, and—as yet—easily distracted. She did not intend to take him fully into her confidence just yet.

  Perhaps not ever.

  The Lesser Endarkened gazed curiously about themselves as they entered the Black Chamber. They were the lesser children of He Who Is: wingless, where Savilla and her kind had great ribbed wings; tailless, or with short stubby tails, where those of the Greater Endarkened were long and barbed; hooved where their brethren had long elegant feet with talon-tipped toes. Their skin was often rough or scaled as well, usually ebony instead of the clear pulsing ruby usually found among the Greater Endarkened, and they often had barbed crests and dorsal ridges instead of exquisite curling horns.

  Still, they were Savilla’s children as well, and had their own place in her dominion.

  And today they would serve her to the ultimate of their ability.

  The cavern hummed with the power of the many sacrifices she had offered to it in the past hundred cycles of her Rising, and they could sense that.

  It would be the last thing either of them ever sensed.

  They opened the sack and dumped its contents on the floor. The unicorn writhed weakly upon the stone, blood marring its pale fur.

  “Take it and place it upon the spire,” Savilla ordered.

  The Demons cringed. A living unicorn’s horn would kill their kind. To touch one would bring agony. But Savilla knew they would not dare disobey her.

  Gasping and whimpering as their flesh bubbled away, the two Lesser Endarkened dragged the screaming, flailing unicorn upright, then lifted it higher. It took all their strength, and the chamber was filled with the burned scent of their flesh by the time they had it poised over the spire.

  They let go.

  The unicorn screamed as the black glass spire slid through its body. But it was not dead. Not yet.

  Waves of its delicious pain washed over Savilla, and the entire chamber vibrated with satisfaction.

  The two servants crouched at her feet, mewling with agony.

  Savilla reached down and tore their throats out with her hands. Black blood welled over their skin, and they fell to the floor, twitching weakly.

  They were not dead, even now. But they would be soon, once she had done what she had come here to do. And their deaths would go to feed the power that would liberate He Who Is.

  She bent down and picked up one of the large round stones that littered the floor of the chamber. Dipped it in the blood of one of the writhing Demons.

  And struck the spire with all her might.
<
br />   The spire vibrated, sending forth a high sweet tone that made the entire chamber ring like crystal. The screams of the two Lesser Endarkened and the unicorn blended with the sound, making it richer, fuller.

  The Endarkened died first, their bodies turning to liquid in the crystal cry, spreading across the stone and sinking into it.

  The unicorn was not so fortunate.

  Any creature to die in the vibrations of the Crystal Spire died a death more agonizing than any even the Endarkened themselves, with all their arts, could contrive. The one who struck the spire—and caused the death—shared in every moment of the pain.

  That was the price of the spell.

  And the death of a unicorn, ultimate embodiment of the Light, whose very body it was agony for one of the Endarkened to touch …

  Savilla endured as long as she could, but at last the torment drove her to her knees, then upon her face. She groveled in the liquefied bodies of her servants, weeping the thick golden tears of her kind. It was as if she were being unmade. Reduced to humanity. Worse. The agony tore her mind from her, until she no longer understood why she suffered. She did not remember the pain’s beginning, and could not believe it would have an end.

  But at last—as with all things, save the Endarkened—it was over.

  She lay upon the floor of the Black Chamber, too weak to move.

  It thrummed with power.

  Except for Savilla, the power was the only thing that remained within the walls of living rock. Everything else was gone.

  Scoured.

  Empty.

  Pure.

  A great distance up the narrow path that led to the Black Chamber, Zyperis pressed himself against the wall, shuddering in pain from the echoes of magic. He jerked his head to the side and sunk his fangs into his arm until the blood flowed, but not even that could ease his distress.

  He knew what was down here. That was why he had come.

  Oh, it was not that he had ever known precisely. But he had known that it was something powerful. Something that his Dearest Mama wished to conceal. Something that required sacrifices, and many of them—he had spies in her household, and even in such a time of plenty as had not been seen in a thousand years, when every Endarkened torture chamber was filled to overflowing and the flesh of slaves graced the tables of even the Lesser Endarkened, the disappearances from Savilla’s slave-pens were too great to account for by anything other than the working of great and secret spells.