The Third Age of Obsidian [Quest for Earthlight Trilogy Book Three]

by Laraine Ann Barker

  Some time later he came to Sujad's wine cellar. The bottles on the shelves and the broken ones strewing the floor winked at him as the rocklight moved across the cellar. The greenness of the glass deepened the color of the rocklight. Briefly the reflected glitter strengthened the intensity of the light from the rock itself. The stench of the now dried-up spilt wine was still strangely overpowering. It made Peter feel sick. He quickened his pace. As he moved away from the wine-cellar, the rocklight's glow dimmed to its previous strength. It took a few moments for his eyes to readjust to the gloom.

  Then his heart quickened with excitement and apprehension combined—for he knew the end of his journey was almost in sight. Even before he turned the corner and saw the half-buried vault made of obsidian he knew this was the end. Power pulsed out at him. It had the same greenish glow with which the Voice of the Earthlight had encircled itself.

  When he turned the corner he was almost blinded by the throbbing light. It came from the black crypt itself. This time nothing resisted Peter's approach. He reached the steps leading down to the door. The black surface of the door shone like a mirror in the bright light. He could see his own reflection in it. He looked strangely small and lonely. Perhaps that was because he felt small and lonely. Then he felt the light draw him into itself. It was as though something swallowed him. Before he could decide whether to fight it, he started feeling sleepy. The drowsiness came suddenly just as he put out a foot to descend the first step. Then there seemed to be nothing there. It was as though the steps disappeared. Peter fell straight down into darkness.

  Chapter 7

  The Great Halls of Draining Light

  "AUNT ANGELA! Aunt Angela!"

  Peter quickly skirted the piles of broken stone caskets. He was breathing heavily as though he had been running. He stumbled on loose fragments of rock, scraping his legs on the broken caskets. Hardly had he recovered his balance than he slipped in the mud and nearly went down again. He grabbed at one of the upturned caskets and scanned his surrounding. He could no longer see his aunt. He couldn't even hear her.

  What am I doing down here again anyway? I couldn't find her last time so what was the point coming back? The echoes of his cry died. He stood listening intently, but all he heard was his heart thumping. He waited until the pounding in his chest abated and then climbed onto the upturned sarcophagus. From there he could see right over most of the rubble around him. But the cavern—part of the City of the Dead that became the City of the Reborn—was too vast for the beam of his torch to encompass in one sweep.

  Then a sound behind, like something falling into water, made him whirl, and he nearly lost his footing. The section of the huge stone coffin, however, remained stable under his weight. He flashed the torch light in the direction of the sound. The beam picked up a yawning hole in the floor of the cave. He had found the staircase leading to the lower cavern.

  He climbed down and made his way towards the staircase. He stopped at the top and flashed the torch beam down. The water reached halfway up the stairs, as on his last visit. It also looked just as dark and oily and he recalled what he had found in the water. He steadied himself with one hand on the wall, descended to the water and flashed the torch light across its still surface. There was nothing there, not even uprooted and broken ferns. But of course there wouldn't be—not after all this time. They'll be on the bottom, rotted or half-rotted by now. But she came this way. Is she down there, too?

  Peter flashed the light in all directions, feeling like an actor forced to go through the same scene repeatedly until he got it right.

  "She's not here.” He spoke aloud—but softly—and his voice came back eerily to him across the dark, evil-looking pool. “She's gone."

  A hand descended on his shoulder. He nearly dropped the torch with fright. He turned—and the torch light glared straight into the face of Merlin. The sorcerer instantly put up his other hand to shield his eyes.

  Peter let out his breath in a gasp of relief. “Oh, it's you! Thank goodness you're here! I still can't find her."

  "No,” Merlin said briefly, flatly. “She's gone. There's no point looking, Peter. You won't find her."

  The echoes repeated, “You won't find her; won't find her,” sounding further and further away with every repetition, while Merlin's face, still shielded by the upraised hand, started to waver and fade....

  ...and Peter became aware he was no longer standing but lying on his back on something hard.

  Where am I? The thought was sudden and sharp and seemed to echo around in his head as though someone else voiced it.

  He opened his eyes, and experienced the instant panic of total darkness for the second time within a few hours. Or have I been lying here for longer than it seems? I've been dreaming again. Slowly, cautiously, he put his hands down to touch what he was lying on. It felt cold and smooth. He moved his hands out and eventually his fingers felt a hard edge on either side. Then slowly he raised first one hand and then the other above his face. They touched nothing, even when he stretched his fingers out.

  Gingerly, dazedly, he sat up. He felt very groggy and light-headed, as though someone had given him drugs or alcohol.

  What's the matter with me? Have I been sick? One hand inadvertently touched his clothing and the material felt foreign beneath his fingers. A frantic investigation with both hands told him he wasn't dressed in the clothing he last remembered putting on. It feels like a skirt, he told himself incredulously. There seemed to be some type of cord around his waist tied in a knot at the front with the ends hanging down and ending in tassels. A hospital garment, perhaps? Have I had an accident? But they wouldn't leave me lying on a cold slab in the dark, surely? A grisly, terrifying thought occurred to him. Do they think I'm dead? Is this an undertaker's parlor?

  Panic now took complete control of his mind. Frantically he strove to recall what he had last been doing. The only recent memory he could call up was of something greenish-black in which he saw his own reflection, before he plunged down into a dark, bottomless pit. He remembered the blackness opening beneath him as the stair he was about to step on vanished. The only other thing he could recall was the intensity of the power that, in the split second before he fell, he knew dwelt somewhere below. The rest, he realized, had been but a dream—a nightmare.

  "Essence of Obsidian, where am I?” he cried in mind-speech.

  "In the Great Halls of Draining Light,” the Power of Obsidian replied instantly.

  Peter sighed in relief at the sound of the familiar voice. While the Power of Obsidian remained with him he wasn't alone. “Where ‘the Sleepers weave dreams while invoking the revival of their power'?” He couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice.

  "Not quite. The halls are immense. The fortifying bower is only a part of them. The castle I built for Sujad Cariotis is another. The part that houses the fortifying bower was made during the days just before the witch Morgause tried to use the original Obsidian Orb for her own purposes and failed. Merlin made it expressly for this present war between the Earthlight and the Evil One and has never been used before. Up until now it has been under a very powerful spell of forbidding. Even Merlin and the Lady couldn't gain access to it before the proper time."

  "Oh!” Peter was too busy trying to pierce the darkness and get some idea of his surroundings to make further comment. He now sat on the edge of whatever he had been lying on. How far down would he fall if he tried standing up? Tentatively he reached down with one foot but couldn't feel the floor. He strained his ears to hear the slightest sound, but the enveloping darkness was as silent as the tomb. The only thing he heard was the painful thudding of his own heart. If only he had the rod of willow that the Essence of Obsidian borrowed for him once before. Well, he could at least ask.

  "Can you make a light for me as you did before?"

  "You must do that yourself, Peter. I am not permitted to help you on this side of the door. And don't forget these are the Great Halls of Draining Light."

  In that case,
we'll need an awful lot of light, Peter told himself ruefully. In his mind's eye he conjured up great banks of candles—a dozen candelabra, each holding twelve candles. He tried to visualize more but failed. That should be enough, surely.

  He waited, his eyes searching everywhere for the first lessening of the dark. When it came, the light was sudden and blinding. Golden-yellow rays poured into his eyes from all directions as a hundred and forty-four flames surrounded him. They burned from the tops of tall white pillars of wax set into sconces of pure, bright gold. The candelabra seemed to rest on air, for he could see nothing solid supporting them. The gold itself, deflecting the light from its surface, was a source of briefly dazzling radiance. Then the brilliance died as though something swallowed it, and the light of twelve dozen candles became as one solitary flame.

  Gradually Peter's eyes adjusted to the light. Relief at being able to see tempered his disappointment at the inadequacy of the candles he had conjured up. He slid off the high slab of obsidian and stood beside it, trying to probe his surroundings. He could see little beyond the circle of flames that stood around the obsidian slab like candles around a coffin. At the image he conjured up, a shudder went down his spine and he returned his gaze to the black slab. It looked too much like a tomb for his liking, he decided. He was about to move quickly away when a pulsing greenish light appeared in its center. The pulsing ceased, leaving Peter looking at the rocklight he had used to guide him to this place.

  He reached out to pick it up. As he placed his hands on either side of it, its green light momentarily filled his vision, blocking out even the sight of the murky candles. However, as his hands closed over the rock, its light dimmed and he thought he caught a glimpse of something white moving in the distance beyond the field of his eyes’ focus. His heart lurched and started pounding again like a bass drum. He held the rocklight out towards where he thought he had seen the movement and stared into the gloom beyond the ring of candles.

  He drew in a sharp breath. Was that a faint footfall? Or was it just the hammering of his heart that he could hear?

  Then he saw the movement again—a fluttering of white that resolved itself into a figure dressed in a long robe tied at the waist with a silken cord. Peter looked down at himself and saw that the strange clothing he himself wore was similar. When he looked up again he saw there were now several figures in white coming slowly towards him.

  In the echoing acoustics of the cave the whisper of their bare feet on the black floor was surprisingly loud.

  "The Reborn!” he said softly, in wonder, as he recognized the leader.

  There were twelve of them—all women—and Judita led them. She smiled faintly at Peter but said nothing as she drew abreast of him. With both hands she took hold of one of the candelabra and moved along to allow the second woman to take the next one, until the members of the Reborn completely encircled Peter. “You've made them rather heavy,” Judita said in mind-speech; but her smile canceled out any criticism.

  Peter grinned back. “Sorry."

  Judita turned away and moved off. Peter followed, walking in the center of the circle without any conscious decision on his part. Surrounded on all sides by figures taller than himself, he could see little of his surroundings but was very much aware of the unseen forces of power within that terrible place.

  The women neither spoke to nor looked at him but kept their gaze fixed ahead. After a while he plucked up enough courage to address Judita again. “Where are we going?"

  "To the Hall of the Lightwell."

  Judita answered so readily that he dared another question. “What's that?"

  "The Lightwell is the receptacle where all the drained light goes. It's where the Earthlight turns trapped light back into power—the power that enables a Chosen One to swim under water like a fish; to create a light out of nothing but a willow twig or rod; to bring forgetfulness to those who have witnessed what was not for their eyes; or to go back in time—and ultimately to defeat the Evil One and his Lords of Corruption."

  "But hardly any light comes down here. It's the blackest place I've ever seen!"

  "You'd be surprised.” Judita gave a small chuckle. “The Earthlight has ways of redirecting any form of light down here. It doesn't matter what originally created the light. For instance, when one of the Lords of Corruption lets fly with blue fire in the forest, even parts of that light can be used by the Earthlight. Lightning can be used. So can the eruption of a volcano. The Evil One knows nothing of the purpose of the Great Halls of Draining Light."

  "But Sujad built his fortress almost on top of the Halls. How come?"

  "Oh, he knew the Great Halls of Draining Light were here because he was Lord of Obsidian and anything made from obsidian couldn't be hidden from him. He just didn't know their purpose. He built his fortress on top of the Great Halls partly to divine their purpose. Don't you remember he assumed he had learned everything he could from the Book of Obsidian and therefore didn't really need it? When you managed to recover it from the lake in the first sacred grotto he made no immediate attempt to take it from you. By the time he realized his error and recovered the book, the Power of Obsidian had separated itself from the book and it was too late, so the Earthlight allowed him to take the book. Sujad made his biggest mistake in leaving it so long—if you don't count the fact that the Evil One has now taken possession of him."

  "So really the Enemy has made as many mistakes as the Earthlight?” Peter's heart fluttered with hope.

  "It's not the number of mistakes that counts. It's the one that loses you the war.” As she spoke, Judita and the other women came to a halt and Peter, busy pondering what Judita had just said, barely managed not to collide with her. “We must now be quiet,” Judita cautioned, still in mind-speech.

  Next moment Peter heard a grinding sound that echoed and reechoed around him. Over the heads of the Reborn he saw part of the obsidian wall split. Rainbows of light played in the widening gap as two massive doors swung away from them. Before the doors were fully open Judita and her people stepped smartly forward, sweeping Peter along in their center. The kaleidoscopic light swallowed the three women in front of Peter and then he felt it reach for him and suck him into itself. Behind him he heard the doors grind together again. He knew in that moment that countless years—centuries—had passed since those doors last opened. The Earthlight wouldn't open them without sound reason.

  Judita turned to face Peter. Over her candle flames—now burning with their normal intensity—she smiled at him and closed her eyes. As he looked at her, numbly wondering what they expected of him, through the corner of his eye he saw the other women move past him on both sides. As he swung his gaze to follow them, he realized the room in which they stood wasn't circular, as he first thought, but twelve-sided. The women of the Reborn moved around the room, each placing her candelabrum in unseen niches in the eleven empty walls and turning to face the center of the room. Then Peter noticed the rainbow colors flickered only on the walls. The light falling upon the Reborn was as pure as sunshine.

  Judita's voice, whispering into his mind, brought his attention back to her. “Take only one candle, Chosen One. All twelve will be too heavy for you.” Was there a faint suspicion of laughter in her voice as she smiled reassuringly at him?

  Peter reached out and grasped the end candle on his far right. It came out of its sconce easily. Its wax felt as smooth as warm polished marble under his fingers. Then Judita transferred the candelabrum briefly to her left hand while she removed the candle at the other end. The weight of the candelabrum forced her arm downwards and the flames lengthened and danced madly for a few seconds. Then suddenly Judita stood with one candle in her hand and the heavy candelabrum had vanished. She turned to face the room, beckoning to Peter with her free hand.

  Peter's heart lurched as his eyes rested on the Lightwell in the center of the hall. Instead of being twelve-sided like the hall, the well was perfectly circular. No wall or railing surrounded this enormous hole in the floor of the great
hall built to house the Lightwell. Inside, the top was inky with the blackness of obsidian but further down became brighter and brighter.

  Peter knew instinctively blindness would descend on human eyes exposed to the dazzling depths within the Lightwell. He also knew—for he now realized he gained the knowledge during his lessons from the Book of Obsidian—that he would have to enter those depths.

  Alone.

  Chapter 8

  The Lightwell

  JUDITA STOOD on the well's lip, apparently unafraid, and stretched both arms over the void. She held her free hand palm down, with fingers splayed. Then slowly she moved it in a circular motion, as though feeling the air above the pit. All the time her gaze remained fixed on the candle's flame. Her eyes looked unfocused, as though they saw not the flame but something in another dimension. She dropped the candle into the well and, turning back to Peter, took the rocklight from him and repeated the performance above the Lightwell, this time dropping the rocklight into its depths. Then she stepped back.

  "The Lightwell is ready for you, First Chosen,” she said into Peter's mind, and took his candle as he moved forward.

  Peter stopped on the well's lip and raised his hands to his closed eyes. Behind his eyelids the stars wheeled and he heard again their strange song. In a bare whisper he spoke the words they gave him and opened his eyes. Feeling light-headed again, he lifted his arms over the chasm as Judita had done, palms down, but kept his fingers pointing straight ahead. He looked out across the well and judged its width. So great was the expanse it felt more like looking out over a lake of fire than a well of light. The power trapped in the abyss surged up at him. He felt its outer surface tingle through his fingers like an electric current. He knew if he made even one small error the potent untamed forces could destroy him. For not all the light within the well was benign—at least not yet. And even the harmless light was only partly bent to the will of the Earthlight. Slowly, deliberately, he looked into the depths—and launched himself forward and downwards...