The Obsidian Oracle

by Denning, Troy

  A sickening pall of self-loathing settled over Tithian, and for a moment he was more conscious of it than of the physical pain tormenting his body. He felt a foul darkness welling up inside himself, coming from a recess so deep and hidden that he had not even known it existed. As the guilty secret rose into the light, he recognized it for the hideous beast it was—but instead of recoiling from the terrible knowledge, he embraced it as a part of himself.

  All at once, a placid sense of relief descended over Tithian. He understood what had happened on that brutal night, and why everything since had come so easily for him: his rise through the templar ranks, his consolidation of the family fortune, even the fortuitous alliance that had made a king of him. And he also understood why, when all else had failed and no amount of treachery or bribery would win him what he wanted, he had always relished the final option—insisting, whenever practical, that he perform the deed with his own hands.

  Now that he thought about it, Bevus’s death had been his starting point, the moment when he had discovered what he really enjoyed in life, and when his destiny had become clear to him.

  The king raised his arms to embrace his brother, saying, “Come to me.” As he spoke, he used the Way to change his body into the ghostly semblance of a matronly woman. She had graying hair and sparkling brown eyes, with a slender nose, high cheekbones, and a stern, yet pleasant smile. “Yes, my son,” Tithian said, speaking in the soothing voice of his mother. “Give me one last embrace before we say good-bye.”

  As Tithian’s arms closed around his brother’s shoulders, Bevus looked up with horror-stricken eyes. “No!” he screamed.

  “Yes,” Tithian replied, pressing his lips to the young man’s cheek. At the same time, the king raised his hand and summoned his bone stiletto. When the weapon appeared in his hand, he brought the blade down between his brother’s shoulder blades. “Good-bye, Bevus.”

  FIFTEEN

  FYLO’S RETURN

  AGIS THREW THE SATCHEL DOWN, THEN REACHED OUT and grabbed Sacha by the topknot, plucking him from midair. “Where are Tithian and the lens?” demanded the noble.

  “He never left this tunnel,” answered the head. “The spineless wretch betrayed us all.”

  Agis smashed his prisoner into a gleaming wall of black mica. “Liar!”

  “Would I be down here if I knew where Tithian was—or the lens?” countered the head. “I came to search for them, the same as you.”

  Gripping Sacha’s hair with one hand, the noble slowly surveyed the mica-sheathed room, searching every corner and nook for some sign of what had happened to the king. He did not bother to light the shattered harpoon he had brought as a makeshift torch. The crimson sunlight that spilled through the fissure in the roof illuminated the chamber in bright scarlet colors.

  “You’re wasting our time,” said Sacha. “Tithian’s not here. I looked.”

  “I’ll look myself,” Agis said, systematically moving along every wall and peering into every dark corner. When he did not find the king, he returned his attention to Sacha. “If you’re telling me the truth, then explain how Tithian disappeared from this room with the lens.”

  Sacha rolled his eyes toward the crevice in the roof. The crimson orb of the sun hung about a quarter of the way from the eastern end. “Maybe he climbed,” suggested the head.

  Squinting against the glare, Agis studied the crack more carefully. Tilted at a steep, almost vertical angle and covered on both sides with slick sheets of mica, the rift would be a difficult, though not impossible, climb. It was just wide enough for a man to scale by pressing his back against one side and his feet against the other—or, in Tithian’s case, to ascend through levitation.

  “You’ll have to think of a better lie than that, Sacha,” Agis said. “From what Sadira has told me, the lens would never fit through that crack.”

  “It would if it was in the satchel,” suggested the head.

  Agis eyed the satchel. He was tempted to say that the Dark Lens would never fit inside, but he had seen Tithian draw enough objects out of the bag to know that there was something magical about it. “If the Dark Lens was in there, Tithian wouldn’t be gone,” said Agis, casting an eye at the crumpled sack. “He’d never leave it behind.”

  In spite of his words, the noble laid Sacha on the ground next to the satchel, placing a foot on the disembodied head to hold him in place. “Still, there’s no harm in checking. How does this thing work?”

  “Put your hand inside and picture the lens,” the head said. “If it’s in there, it will come to your hand.”

  “What does the lens look like?” the noble asked.

  “How should I know?” Sacha snarled.

  “Rajaat used it to imbue you with the powers of one of his Champions,” Agis replied, pressing his foot down on the head.

  “It’s big, obsidian, and round,” came the strained reply. “That’s all I remember—I was in pain, and the tower was full of flashing light.”

  Agis gripped the satchel beneath the elbow of his broken arm, preparing to thrust his good hand inside. Before he did so, he looked down at the head and said, “If this is a trick, I’ll tie you to a rock and drop you in the Bay of Woe.”

  “I want to locate the Oracle as much as you do,” snarled Sacha. “And to find out what happened to Tithian.”

  Agis put his hand inside the sack and pictured a large obsidian sphere, similar to the ones that they had found in Kalak’s treasury when they killed him. An instant later, he felt the cool, glassy surface of obsidian in his hand. The noble pulled his hand out of the satchel and saw that it contained an obsidian ball about the size of his own head.

  “Too small,” hissed Sacha. “Try again.”

  Agis tossed the sphere aside and returned his hand to the satchel. This time, however, as he pictured what he imagined the Oracle to look like, he also concentrated on the cool, smooth feel of the glassy stone, hoping the added detail would compensate for never having seen the lens.

  When nothing came to his hand, the noble shrugged. “Nothing.”

  Sacha looked back toward the ceiling. “Then he had to have taken it out through the crevice,” said the head.

  Keeping the satchel tucked under his broken arm, Agis picked Sacha up again. “What about magic, or the Way?” he asked. “Could Tithian have used his powers to take the lens out of here without going through either exit?”

  “Anything’s possible with the lens,” said Sacha. “Which is all the more reason we should leave now.”

  Agis frowned. “Why are you so anxious to get me out of here?”

  “Because that traitor Tithian has a good lead on us,” sneered Sacha. “Let’s go.”

  Agis shook his head. “I think not,” he said. “It strikes me that you’re trying to hide something. Tithian’s still down here, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” hissed Sacha. “You can see for yourself we’re the only ones here.”

  “And what about Wyan?” asked the noble. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know where he is?”

  Sacha’s gray eyes widened. “He was supposed to be watching the entrance to the tunnel,” he said. “Didn’t you see him there?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Agis growled, stuffing Sacha into the satchel. “And I’m tired of your lies.”

  The noble closed the sack and folded the top over to form a tight seal, then, using his knees to help hold it, he bunched it together in a ruffled wad. Next, he tore a strip off his cape and used it to bind the sack closed, using the surest knot he knew. Once that was done, he dropped it near the exit, where he would not forget to pick it up on his way out of the chamber.

  The noble began searching the chamber again, this time more carefully. Several times, he used his broken harpoon to scratch away at crannies and niches that seemed suspiciously deep or straight, hoping to find a secret door or hidden passage lurking behind them. Twice he even resorted to peeling sheets of mica off the walls when the light played tricks on his eyes and he t
hought he had spied a torch flickering behind them.

  Agis discovered nothing but more mica. Whatever had become of Tithian, it seemed that he was not here—and the noble doubted that the king had any intention of returning. He looked around the room one last time, then turned to leave.

  That was when he heard a giant’s heavy breath puffing down the tunnel.

  With his wyvern’s tail wrapped around the Oracle, Tithian continued to fly through the Gray, traveling in what he hoped was the direction from which the red flash had appeared a few moments earlier—or had it been longer? The king had no way of telling. All he could do was flap his leathery wings, keep his nose pointed straight ahead, and hope that he was flying on the correct course.

  After driving away his brother and the other murder victims, Tithian had rested for a time—he did not know how long. His welts had slowly faded, and with them his pain. By that time, he had regained his strength and was ready to continue his search for the exit.

  The task had been more difficult than he expected. At first, he had called on the Oracle’s power to visualize the opening to his satchel. The effort had failed miserably. Although he had created more than a dozen red circles resembling the exit, after passing through them he always found himself back in the Gray.

  Next Tithian had tried magic, and the results had been even more devastating. Because there were no living plants in the Gray, he had turned to the Oracle for his power. But when he had summoned the energy into his body, its intensity had burned the flesh from his hand. From that, the king had deduced an important lesson: as a mindbender, he was experienced enough to channel the power of the lens through his body without injury. But as a sorcerer, he could not control the savage energies.

  Next, Tithian had tried to use the Way to make a compass out of his bone-handled dagger. When he balanced the blade on his finger, the tip had always pointed slightly to the left. It had taken him only a short time to realize that by following it, he would do nothing but fly in circles.

  The king had just decided to stop and try to think of something new when he had glimpsed a faint red flash. Casting aside his useless dagger, he had turned toward the light and flown as fast as he could, pulling the Oracle along with him. Tithian had seen no more red lights, flashes or otherwise, since.

  Cold fingers of despair were just beginning to creep into the king’s heart when he spied a small point of darkness in the Gray ahead. He redoubled his efforts and flew toward it as fast as his wings would carry him. He did not even allow himself to blink. It was the first substantial form that he had seen since chasing his brother away, and the thought that it might disappear before he reached it terrified Tithian.

  To his relief, it did not. As he approached, the dark point became a dot, then a circle, and finally he identified it as the back of a head—a disembodied head with a long topknot of hair.

  “What are you doing here?” Tithian demanded.

  The head slowly turned around, and the king saw by the broad cheekbones and yellowed teeth that it was Sacha. His gray eyes darting to the lens, Sacha said, “I see you’ve found the Oracle—though I don’t know what you think you’re going to do with it in here.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the entrance to the tunnel?” the king bristled, resisting the impulse to leap too quickly to the question foremost in his mind—how to escape.

  “I did what I was supposed to,” Sacha snarled. “That’s why I’m in here with you.”

  “What do you mean?” Tithian asked.

  “Somehow Agis freed himself and located the Oracle chamber,” the head explained. “When we saw him enter the compound, I came down to warn you. All I found was the satchel—with no sign of you or the lens. Agis showed up a little later and stuffed me in here.”

  “Does he know where I am—or the lens?”

  “No, he thinks you used magic or the Way to disappear,” replied Sacha.

  “Good—then I’ll be able to take him by surprise,” snickered the king. “Now, tell me how we get out of here.”

  “When you put Wyan and me in here, there’s only one way we ever found,” Sacha replied, laughing bitterly.

  Tithian scowled. “And what’s that?”

  “We wait—until someone takes us out.”

  Agis looked up the tunnel and saw the blocky silhouette of a small Joorsh crawling toward him. Although the figure was not large enough to be an adult, it filled the corridor completely. The noble could see that, even had the giant been willing to let him pass, there was no room to squeeze between the lumpy body and the passage’s slick walls—much less to do so without alerting the warrior to his presence.

  The Joorsh stopped crawling, and Agis feared that the giant had glimpsed him peeking around the corner. Although his heart began to pound like a Gulgian war drum, the noble forced himself to remain motionless. If the Joorsh was not sure of what he had seen, the last thing Agis wanted to do was draw attention to himself by making a careless move.

  To the noble’s immense relief, the giant peered back over his shoulder. “I see the Oracle, Sachem Mag’r!” he called. His voice was that of a boy, but it was so loud that it shook the narrow tunnel. “A red glow, just like you said! It’s real bright!”

  “What?” Mag’r’s coarse reply thundered down the passage with a deafening rumble. “You see a bright glow, Beort?”

  Beort nodded. “Very bright,” he said. His tone was not as enthusiastic as it had been a moment before.

  “Something’s wrong!” the king growled.

  Before the youth could look down the tunnel in Agis’s direction, the noble backed away from the corner. He picked up Tithian’s satchel and slung it over his uninjured shoulder, then he crossed the tiny chamber to where the crevice in the ceiling met the far wall. He paused there to pull his injured arm from its makeshift sling.

  The limb was in no shape for a climb. From the elbow down it was grossly swollen and discolored, with a huge purple lump directly over the break itself. The noble tried to lift it and discovered that the muscles would not obey his will. The injured arm had become a dead weight.

  A quick glance at the wall’s sheer surface confirmed Agis’s suspicion that it could not be climbed with a single functioning arm. The noble closed his eyes and visualized a healthy, fully functioning limb in its place. He opened his spiritual nexus and felt a surge of power rise through his body, then he guided this energy into his injured arm.

  A pang of agony shot from the point of the break back through his arm and even into his chest. Agis concentrated on the image of an oasis pond, keeping his muscles and mind relaxed, allowing his suffering to flow through him like the wind. The edge quickly faded from his pain, and soon the anguish tapered to a dull ache.

  Agis opened his eyes again and tried to lift his arm. A surge of spiritual energy flowed into the limb, bringing with it a fresh wave of agony, but his hand slowly rose into the air. He flexed his fingers, curled them into a fist, and opened them again. Then, convinced that his arm would serve in spite of his injury, he stepped over to the wall. Using thick sheaves of mica for handholds, he climbed.

  Agis had not healed his arm; he had merely used the Way to animate it, much as he had animated the dead bear when they entered the castle. To move the limb he had to summon energy from deep within himself, then consciously direct it to do what he wished. Each time he did so it sent a fresh wave of pain rushing through him, but the noble hardly noticed. He was accustomed to pain. Besides, he felt certain that letting the giant catch him would result in agony much more severe than what he was suffering now.

  Just a short distance from the ceiling, as Beort’s knees were scraping along the floor outside the chamber, the noble heard a soft hiss from one of his handholds. The mica peeled away from the wall, and Agis felt himself beginning to fall. The satchel slipped off his shoulder, landing on the floor below. He paid it no attention and thrust his good arm up into the crevice, his fingers madly grasping for another grip. He found the edge of another sh
eet, clutched at it, and pulled.

  His fingertips scraped along the surface of the crevice, finding purchase in a rough-edged hollow. Agis quickly transferred his weight to this arm and pulled himself up into the crevice, bracing his back against one wall of the fissure and his feet against the other.

  As soon as he felt secure in his new perch, the noble looked down at the satchel he had dropped. Although he didn’t know what Tithian had stored inside, it seemed too valuable an item to leave behind. He closed his eyes, preparing to retrieve it with the Way.

  In the same moment, a rush of hot breath filled the room, and Beort crawled inside. Agis opened his eyes again and found himself looking down on a mass of greasy braids, as large as a kes’trekel’s nest and just as tangled. The Joorsh boy’s shoulders were so broad that he had to turn them sideways to fit through the chamber entrance, and his arms were as long as a normal man was tall.

  “There’s nothing here!” Beort yelled. His gaze fell on the satchel, and he reached across the room to grasp it. “What’s this?”

  The noble began to climb, leaving the sack to the young giant. Although he tried to move as quietly as possible, he was more concerned with speed. Even if the Joorsh heard him, Beort would have to turn over on his back before he could thrust one of his long arms up into the rift. The noble ascended quickly and quietly, pushing his back up the fissure a short distance, then bringing his feet up. By the time the young giant had pulled Agis’s binding off the satchel and peered inside, the noble was already halfway up the crevice.

  Stuffing Tithian’s satchel into his belt, Beort craned his neck and peered up into the crevice. Although safely out of the youth’s reach, Agis climbed even faster. The youth squinted in the noble’s direction, trying to shield his eyes against the sunlight with a massive hand. “What’s that?” he asked, rolling onto his back. “Come down, you!”

  His heart pounding from the hard climb and the exhilaration of escape, Agis returned his attention to his ascent. He had neared the top of the shaft, where the silvery mica reflected the sun’s crimson rays with such intensity that even the air seemed to glow blood-red. Just a few more moments, he told himself, and I’ll be safe.