Diamond Stained

by J M D Reid

  They reached the entrance, Ōbhin and her both slowing to a walk. She panted, chest rising and falling from the effort, cheeks pink. The dark interior grew sharper. In the wagon bed, the dark-skinned man knelt over Carstin. He gripped something in his hand, a small stave of some sort, almost like a cudgel made of a dark yet shiny material. It reflected what little light spilled through the open doors and reached the wagon.

  Dark stone with a glassy surface . . .

  Obsidian?

  Her stomach clenched as she stared at the forbidden gem held in his hand, a wand like a sorcerer out of legend would wield. Every Colour had a gem, like the emerald on the pommel of Ōbhin’s resonating sword. The seven righteous hues of Elohm and the one dark. Evil.

  Obsidian was outlawed in every civilized land. Jewelchines made from the dark gem could only power nefarious devices. They required not tin or silver or gold or one of the other proper metals to act as a guiding catalyst, but black iron. A rare substance that poisoned the world.

  Blood dripped from the man’s hand gripping the obsidian wand. It dribbled down the fluted shaft to rain upon Carstin’s chest. It was like grasping the item had cut open the dark man’s palm.

  His head turned slowly to fix his gaze upon Avena and Ōbhin. The whites of his eyes almost glowed, reflecting the light. The jagged shadows reaching around his head seemed deeper than the black in the darkest corner of the barn.

  “What are you doing?” Ōbhin demanded, advancing slowly, weapon held low but ready.

  “Helping him pass,” the man spoke, his accent strange, different from the lilting way Ōbhin spoke. He had almost a sibilant hiss, reptilian and cold. It should be impossible for him to be a sorcerer. They were legends, bedtime tales of men who could manipulate gems without making them into machines. “He is dying. He should be free.”

  “No!” Avena squeaked, voice tight with fright. This man offended her. “I didn’t spend a sleepless night tending him for you to put him down like a lamed horse.” Despite the fear, despite the man’s unsettling presence, she marched forward.

  She’d stood by once before. Never again.

  Ōbhin’s left arm shot out before her, barring her progress. She squeaked in indignation. She wouldn’t let fear hold her back to protect her patient. She would march up there. The man might have a menacing air, but she would box his ears or . . . or . . . or do something.

  Ōbhin raised his sword, the blade humming. “Step away. If he dies, it won’t be with your aid.”

  The man rose to his full height, blood dripping from between his fingers. “Are you sure you wish to do this?”

  “Yes!” she snarled, refusing to be intimidated even as her bowels liquefied to jelly. The man’s eyes were dead of all emotion but a dark hunger. A flicker of inhuman desires that she had no word to describe.

  “So be it.”

  *

  The smell of death filled Ōbhin’s nose as he faced the dark man. Blood dripped, the only sound echoing through the barn. Avena bristled behind him as every instinct in Ōbhin screamed at him to run. Dark stories of sorcerers and black rituals danced in his mind.

  The foul stench rose.

  The horses whinnied in fear, screams of terror. One kicked at its stall door, rattling the wood. Fear squeezed Ōbhin’s pounding heart. Sweat soaked his gloves. His feet shifted their stance as a dark creature padded around the wagon. The lean dog he’d seen in the field. Its body had a strange form, subtle differences in the triangular shape of its head and roll of gait differed it from any breed he’d seen. Cloudy eyes, milky with cataracts, reflected the green light glowing from his resonance blade.

  The dark man drew an amethyst gem from the pockets of his clothing. The purple gem was cut with strange, asymmetrical angles and possessed no wires wrapped around it. Not a jewelchine, yet the man held it with a strange sense of confidence like he wielded a powerful weapon.

  Magic isn’t real, Ōbhin thought.

  The dog advanced at a slow stalk, lips curling back to bare yellowed fangs. The horses neighed and whinnied louder. Another loud crash echoed through the barn. The fetid stench cloyed at Ōbhin’s nose. Bile rose in his throat while his eyes watered from the reek.

  “Do you know what I can do to you with this?” the dark-skinned man asked in his hissing, almost slurred accent. He smeared a drop of the blood onto the amethyst. The gem drank it. “Do you have any idea?”

  “I know what I can do with this,” Ōbhin said, raising his blade from a low guard to a raised stance, prepared to deliver a slashing attack with his vibrating tulwar, the emerald light bathing across his set face.

  The sorcerer smiled, dead and full of promise all at the same time. He stepped off the back of the wagon and landed with a light thud on the ground. The strange, black dog approached the man with the familiarity of a hunting hound returning to its master.

  Avena squeaked and pressed into his back. His hackles rose as he felt a second dog stalking up behind him. His left hand moved with deadly care to his belt knife. He drew it with a steely rasp, his attention divided between the man and the first hound before him.

  “Here,” Ōbhin said, passing the dagger behind him.

  Avena grabbed it, her dress rustling.

  “You have no idea, do you?” the man said, advancing. “You have all forgotten the true power held in the gems. You work them in only the crudest of fashion.”

  The hound’s lean body tensed, ready to spring at its master’s command. Ōbhin braced himself for the attack. The amethyst flickered with a violet flame in its interior, sparked to life in some manner.

  Gibbering terror rippled through Ōbhin. Something alien and terrible stood before him. Gems should not do that without being cut and properly wrapped in a precise manner by a wire to channel the Tones. That was how jewels worked. How the emerald set in the pommel of his sword or the ruby that activated Grey’s igniter.

  The man pointed his wand at Ōbhin. Both dogs tensed to—

  “Dje’awsa,” a feminine voice spoke, “what is this?”

  *

  The dagger quivered in Avena’s trembling grip.

  The white-haired lady casually strolled around the dark, lean hound like it were no more than a friendly mutt who lounged by the fire and not some darkling cur who’d clawed out of the bowels of the earth. Her words resonated through the barn, bright and light.

  “You have upset our guest’s companions,” the woman continued, her snowy hair falling about her fair, youthful cheeks. She looked not much older than Avena, and yet those pale-yellow eyes held wisdom that left Avena reeling. “That is impolite.”

  “My apologies, my lady,” the man said.

  Avena turned to follow the woman as she almost floated past. She approached the dark man, Dje’awsa, without a hint of fear; a deva facing a darkling. Her presence seemed to drive back that deathly chill, if not the stench, permeating the barn. The horses’ neighing died down, their whinnies only nervous nickers instead of frightened screams.

  “The man neared death. I sought only to ease his passage.” The wand the sorcerer held vanished into a deep pocket. His hand emerged dripping with blood. “They objected.”

  “So you sought to unleash your jackals upon them?” Amusement tinged the woman’s voice. “They are our friends.”

  Dje’awsa shrugged, his face flat.

  “Oh, my,” Dualayn said from the entrance. “The stench . . . Has your hound been rolling in a carnal pit?”

  Avena whirled to see her employer holding a white handkerchief to his nose, his face paler than usual as he edged around the strange dog standing in the doorway.

  “I have agreed to aid this man,” the white-haired lady continued. “Do not be so quick to deal death, Dje’awsa. It is irreversible.”

  “Malleable,” the man said, his words stiff like he’d received a harsh rebuke instead of her mild admonishment. The amethyst he held vanished into another pocket. He glanced at the hound by his side. It turned and padded off into the dark. The second ru
shed back to the field, the putrid rot fading to a memory in the air.

  Avena glanced at Dje’awsa. A vein throbbed in his forehead as he stared at Ōbhin and his sword. Avena gripped the dagger tighter at the naked hatred shining in Dje’awsa’s eyes. The intensity slammed into her like an icy punch. It was worse than her mother’s eyes.

  Odium brimmed in that look. A hatred pure and distilled like the back alley whiskey.

  The man strode by, hardly caring that Ōbhin tracked his progress with the buzzing point of his blade. Avena wanted to flinch as the man passed her.

  “Who . . . who is that man?” Avena croaked once he’d left.

  “Useful,” said the white-haired lady. Her skirts swished as she climbed up onto the wagon bed.

  “It’s okay, child,” Dualayn said, coming up beside her. He lowered his handkerchief. “Just take a few deep breaths.”

  She nodded, the shakes besetting her. She forced down that terrible memory of her mother’s wild eyes while her throat felt choked, wanting to strangle her words again. She gasped as Dualayn took the dagger from her hand.

  “Yours, I believe?” Dualayn asked, handing it to Ōbhin.

  He took it with a nod as she struggled to find her composure. Then she threw her arms around the rotund, older man in a shaking hug. She clutched to him, on the verge of apoplectic tears running down her face. It all swept through her, how close she’d come again to death. How she avoided it by the narrowest of margins.

  “W-what is . . .” Her voice broke off into croaks as the sobs built in her chest.

  “I’ve agreed to resume my working relationship with Grey,” said Dualayn. “He has promised me a primer for the Recorder. They’ve been looking for one.”

  “How can they have a primer for it?” she asked, latching onto the question to flee the fear the sorcerer’s eyes seared on her mind. “It’s been buried for three thousand years.”

  Dualayn shrugged. “They need what the Recorder contains. And so do I. So . . . a trade.”

  She shook her head.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said, slowly prying her from his form. He gave her a gentle nudge and she found herself suddenly leaning against Ōbhin, feeling his solid strength. His dusky features looked pale, bleached to a sickly tan, sweat shining across his brow.

  He gave her a nod, a flash of understanding. He didn’t think her weak or womanish to tremble now. Not after experiencing that man’s presence. She clutched his arm, fingers digging into his naked skin as breath by breath the fear drained out of her.

  *

  “You’re not even afraid,” Avena whispered as she clutched to Ōbhin’s arm, her fingernails biting into his flesh. He led her out of the barn so the White Lady and Dualayn could attend to Carstin. Her naked, unashamed face stared at him with all her emotions revealed, her inner self laid bare to his scrutiny. “I was terrified. Look at me . . . I mean . . . that man . . .”

  “Everyone’s afraid,” Ōbhin answered. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He breathed in the fresher air outside. “Bravery is about managing fear.”

  “How do you?” she whispered. “I’m about to shake myself to pieces.”

  “It’s easy when your life is worthless.” An old wound throbbed in his heart.

  “No life is worthless. Colours can be found beneath the thickest stain.” Her fingers bit deeper into his arm even as her trembling slowed. “Even your soul can be polished bright, like a diamond plucked from the earth.”

  He glanced at his black gloves.

  “You managed your fear well enough,” he said. “You held it together until he left.”

  “I was just so furious,” she muttered. “That awful man wanted to take away what little hope Carstin has left.”

  Ōbhin nodded. Dje’awsa’s amethyst worried him. It drank blood. What had the man meant? What dark magic could he perform with it? Did we do more than save Carstin’s life?

  “There’s no shame in the rush of emotion after a battle,” said Ōbhin, his thoughts skittering away from Dje’awsa and his obsidian scepter. His bloody hand. “It affects us all differently. Don’t compare yourself to one numbed by life’s horrors.”

  He felt her eyes on him, the same expression she wore when she stared at Carstin. A surge of anger filled him. He wasn’t a wounded thing to be pieced back together. No one could mend acts already committed. The past could not be unmade.

  “Where did you learn such a skill?” said Dualayn.

  The White Lady swept out of the barn trailed by the rotund man, his eyes wide. He rubbed at his flushed brow with his white handkerchief, his breath fast, stretching out the front of his waistcoat.

  The White Lady ignored him and glanced at Ōbhin, her expression full of deep sorrow. “I am sorry, I could not mend him fully, but he shall have strength. He won’t pass away for weeks yet, but if he doesn’t receive more aid . . .”

  “How did you use diamond to sustain him?” Dualayn asked. “It is associated with light and truth.”

  “Truth can be used in many ways,” she said, “including to encourage a soul lost in darkness.” A soft smile spread on her lips. Her yellow eyes seemed to deepen to blue. “I do not know if you have the skill, good Dualayn, but he should survive the trip to your home. It is all I can do. I have other business to attend.”

  “Thank you,” Ōbhin said, his voice croaking with disuse.

  “You are most welcome,” she answered in his native Qothian, her words bright and airy, spoken with the same refined accent as found in the capital.

  He wanted to ask her questions, but she had already turned around and swept towards the ruined farmhouse. Dje’awsa stood in the shadow of the sagging porch. Ōbhin felt the anger in the sorcerer’s eyes, a deep and odious rage.

  If he could stab my heart with his gaze . . . Niszeh’s Tone resonated with the man, and not just because he used forbidden obsidian. The dissonant melody that ruined the perfect harmony of the Seven Tones caused all manner of problems in the world. Its song could drown out the other Seven and lead you to acts of jealousy, anger, greed, and lust.

  His fingers clenched, the black leather creaking.

  “Well,” Dualayn said, “we are free to leave when we wish, Avena. Ust and his disreputable companions will not hinder us.”

  “Truly?” Avena asked. She glanced at Dualayn, opened her mouth, then snapped it shut with obvious displeasure.

  “Could I pay you for an escort?” Dualayn asked the Qothian.

  Ōbhin opened his mouth but could find no words, shock leaving him dumbfounded.

  “What?” asked Avena, color paling from her cheeks.

  “Well, we seem to be out of a guard,” Dualayn explained.

  “Because he killed Ni’mod.” She pulled away from Ōbhin and planted hands on her hips, giving him a fierce look.

  “Yes, he did.” Dualayn shook his head, the tail of his graying hair brushing the collar of his dark jacket. “A senseless waste.”

  “I’m good at wasting lives,” Ōbhin muttered.

  “Indeed,” Avena said, her look sharper than any knife.

  “I was lost,” Ōbhin’s words from earlier echoed through his mind. “They gave me a path.”

  “Not a great one,” Avena had answered.

  “I will escort you to your home,” Ōbhin said as he felt two paths before him. What would the Brotherhood ask of him next?

  “Good, good,” Dualayn said. “I’ve been there, you know. That hopelessness. You just have to remember that no matter how deep the dark is, the light always rises.”

  Chapter Seven

  Twenty-Second Day of Compassion, 755 EU

  Two days later, and Avena still marveled at the change in Carstin. The man’s infection no longer ran up his leg, and he no longer needed the tube in his chest to breathe. Despite that, he remained unconscious. When she touched his flesh, she felt almost a harmonic resonance rippling through him. She did not understand what the White Lady, as Ōbhin called her, had done to her patient.


  Was it magic?

  The woman had bought Carstin time for them to return to Kash, Lothon’s capital, and Dualayn’s home on the southern shore of Lake Ophavin. His lab would possess healing jewelchines and his surgical tools. They could do more for Carstin there.

  They were now north of Upfing Forest. They’d left the woods around noon and as night approached, neared the first village. Dualayn, who seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of farming villages dotting the road, declared it to be Branglin. As the wagon trundled to it, she thought it looked no more remarkable than Upper Kash, the place she’d been born and had dwelled in for the first six years of her life. The houses were old and worn, roofs covered in drying thatch. Wood beams framed whitewashed walls of wattle and daub. They passed fields sprouting with what was perhaps buckwheat. The farmers had already retired for the day.

  Ōbhin drove, back straight. He didn’t wear his chainmail, it rattled in the back amid their supplies, but had his sword resting on the wagon bench beside him, ready to be drawn in moments. Not that they were in any danger. We left the bandits behind.

  She still found it troubling that Dualayn had hired Ōbhin, and that she was already accepting it. She should feel more for the remote bloodfire. Ni’mod had served Dualayn for years, but he always faded into the background like furniture. She felt terrible for thinking so little of a man who had died, and yet he’d merely existed, like all his passions fed the fires inside of him, leaving his outside a burned-out husk.

  In some ways, Ōbhin was the same. A brooding shadow, but one that parted to allow glimpses of light. He didn’t fit with Ust and his men. An aberration. He had the spirit of a good man, but one who had been so covered in black mud that he could blend in with such despicable people.

  Like most villages, the public house of Branglin dominated the town’s market square. Though the village’s church lay across from it, the lessons of sobriety were often relaxed after a long day spent walking up and down rows of sprouting crops, waging the never-ending war against pests, weeds, and blight. The public house had two more stories piled above the tavern floor, rooms for travelers, merchants, and teamsters to utilize. A sleepy boy stumbled out of the stables to help Ōbhin with the horses and wagons before assisting in carrying Carstin up to a room. Dualayn slipped the small book that his agreement with the Brotherhood had provided. Her lips still tightened with disapproval when he used the primer to decipher the Recorder’s writing.