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

by Laraine Ann Barker

  To make things worse, the light was starting to fade. Peter glanced at his watch, but it still showed home time—2.20 am. He calculated that if he was indeed in England it must be nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. He peered around him, breathing fast with the force of his emotions, but his breath made so much fog in front of his face that he tried not to breathe at all so he could see better. In the looming half-light he could now make out two pillars of red brick some distance ahead. Between them stood a pair of wrought-iron gates. They were closed. As he moved forward, the wall in which the gates were set came into view. It was about six feet high and also made of red brick, draped here and there with clinging ivy. Bare trees spread snow-laden branches over the top of the wall. Softly falling snowflakes shrouded the view beyond.

  Peter ran forward and grabbed the gates in the center with the intention of shaking them to make enough noise to bring someone to his aid. At his touch, however, they swung noiselessly inwards. He stumbled onto a wide paved drive recently cleared of snow, which lay in piles on either side. As he moved away from the wide gates, they swung shut with a clang that made him jump. He looked back quickly to see who had closed them. There was no one there. For some unknown reason his scalp prickled, although he could sense no evil presence. He turned to see what was ahead on the wide driveway. However, the snow was falling so fast now that all he could see were a few bare trees. He broke into a run.

  He seemed to have been running for ages when abruptly a pillar loomed in front of him. He looked more closely and saw the pillar was in fact part of the entrance to a house. He took in a quick image of a typical Georgian-style manor house with large, blank windows before he realized there were steps in front of him. He stumbled up the steps and ran to the imposing entrance door, intending to beat his fists on its thick panels; but as soon as his hands touched the wood the door swung noiselessly inwards and he almost fell inside. The door closed behind him with a soft click. He looked around for the person who had shut it, but the hall was empty. The only light came from a room some distance ahead behind the curve of the stairway. Peter's gaze traveled briefly up the staircase, but it was too dark for him to see if anyone was there. He could feel no presence, either good or evil.

  Flickering light ahead gave promise of warmth. He was now shivering uncontrollably so he ran to the open door. His shoes made a tremendous, echoing noise on the tiled floor. On entering the room, he quickly shut the door before turning to survey his surroundings.

  Long and wide, the room had perhaps been intended by the house's architect to serve as a ballroom. The ceiling, painted and leafed with gold, seemed an immense distance from Peter's head. However, Peter had no eyes for the ceiling. Like a pin to a magnet he ran straight to the huge fireplace with its leaping, enticing flames. He was aware only of a kaleidoscope of colored light filling the rest of the room before he reached the fire and crouched in front of it. For the space of less than a minute he saw only red and yellow flame that seemed to envelop his whole body, warming him instantly. Then he turned to examine the room, and gasped in wonder.

  The tall, large windows were undraped and showed black against the now total darkness outside. Between the windows tall mirrors filled the walls. The walls without windows were all mirror. While the room was bare of furniture, every window and every mirrored surface reflected in a myriad of images an eight-foot Christmas tree in the center of the floor. A hundred tiny colored glass lanterns covered the tree, each lantern fitted with a glowing candle. Its branches were draped with silvery-white imitation snow and bright silvery ornaments reflected the candle glow in their surfaces. Peter thought it the most beautiful Christmas tree he had ever seen.

  His footsteps now slowed by awe, Peter approached the tree. It stood in a large silver tub and looked too perfectly formed to be real. He lifted his arm to touch one of the branches, and deep in the shadows of the room countless dim reflections did the same. Peter, mesmerized by the tree, didn't even see the images of himself, but was very much aware of the other trees. Most of the mirrored trees, reflections of reflections, were faintly hazy; none was as bright and perfect as the tree in the center of the room. Entranced, he turned to the room and started counting the trees but soon gave up in despair.

  "It—it's like a forest of Christmas trees!” he breathed aloud. An electric shock seemed to go through him as realization dawned. He turned and addressed the tree. “Is this the darkening forest flaming bright?” The empty room emphasized the clear bright treble of a boy. “Are you the One Tree that must be called by its proper name?” He felt faintly foolish standing addressing an ornamented tree growing in a tub and was very glad there was no one there to witness him making an idiot of himself.

  He wasn't at all surprised that the tree didn't answer, but received another electric shock when a voice in his mind chuckled in a deep bass. “You'll be quite sure of the answers to your questions when the time comes, Chosen One. You won't need to ask."

  Peter swung round, looking for the speaker; but the darkness was empty of moving things apart from his own reflections. Crestfallen and feeling more foolish than ever, he remembered the Chosen Ones could speak into each other's minds from very long distances.

  "Uncle Paul?” he called silently into the night. “Merlin?"

  "It is I—Merlin,” came the reply. “You are doing fine, Chosen One. Keep up the good work.” Then there came a deep audible chuckle, which seemed to fill the room before fading into silence.

  Merlin's mirth was more reassuring than his words—the somewhat dour sorcerer wasn't usually given to merriment—so Peter turned back to the Christmas tree determined to enjoy it with the pleasure of any normal 14-year-old boy, or at least enjoy it as much as was possible on his own, he thought as he began to miss the presence of his stepfather and his uncle. There was little else to do but gaze at the Christmas tree and its myriad reflections and warm himself at the enormous fire.

  "I do wish you could tell me what I'm doing here, Christmas tree,” he whispered into the tree's spreading branches. “I must be here for some purpose.” As an idea occurred to him, he walked slowly round the tree and scanned each branch. However, the tree bore no message for him.

  Peter now found himself beginning to feel tired. He longed desperately for somewhere to curl up comfortably and sleep and wondered, not for the first time, why the room had no furniture. Puzzled, he looked around again—and this time he saw the room was splendidly furnished. Although most of the furniture was in keeping with the Georgian style of the house, it was over-furnished in typical Victorian style, looking crowded in spite of its size. To Peter's delight, however, there were two enormous chairs at each side of the fireplace and, even better, a large sofa directly facing it.

  Past wondering by now why nothing made sense, he took one step towards the fire, only to freeze in his tracks as footsteps came from outside the room. The door opened. A large man wearing a dark voluminous coat appeared in the entrance. His face was invisible behind the stack of parcels in his arms.

  "Here already?” a deep voiced asked cheerfully. “I didn't hear you arrive and Jameson said nothing when he let me in. Here, put these under the tree for me while he takes my coat."

  The voice was familiar. Peter stepped forward to take the stack of enticingly wrapped boxes, but the new arrival, obviously realizing the pile would be too big for Peter to hold, dumped them unceremoniously on the nearest chair.

  "Uncle Paul? Merlin?” Peter hesitated in mid-stride.

  About to give his coat to the butler hovering at his elbow, the big man turned towards Peter, and it was indeed Uncle Paul's face, slightly older looking, and Uncle Paul's dark eyes regarding him with a sternness belonging more to Merlin than to Peter's uncle. Then Uncle Paul swept off his hat and placed it on top of the coat folded over his left arm.

  The butler said deferentially as he took the proffered hat and coat, “Would your lordship like some tea and something hot to eat?"

  "I'm sure our young guest must be hungry and th
irsty after his long journey. Shall we say—"he turned to Peter as though seeking his approval “—hot buttered crumpets and cheese muffins with a large bowl of whatever soup Mrs. Watson has made today? When we've finished that I'll ring for tea and cake. Does that suit you, young one?"

  "Thank you, sir,” Peter waited until the door closed behind the butler's stiff back before pouring out a string of questions. “Please, where am I? What am I doing here? Who are you?"

  "I'm Lord Merrilyn, but Uncle Paul will do. It doesn't do to use the name of Merlin.” The big man brusquely answered his last question, ignoring the others. As though to stop more questions, he gestured at the pile of Christmas presents. “Help me put these under the tree, will you?"

  Obediently, Peter picked up as many boxes as he could and placed them one by one under the tree. His Lordship silently arranged the rest, with Peter surreptitiously looking sideways at him. When Lord Merrilyn abruptly turned his head, Peter colored guiltily, as though caught in the middle of a misdeed. Lord Merrilyn's piercing dark gaze seemed to Peter to bore right into his mind.

  But when he spoke His Lordship's words were inconsequential, if somewhat abrupt. “There's one there for you, young man. You may unwrap it if you like.” The tone of his voice was more commanding than inviting.

  Peter looked at the pile of presents. He opened his mouth to ask which box it was, but Lord Merrilyn had turned his back and was about to warm his hands at the fire. Peter therefore turned back to the tree and knelt on the floor to read the labels on the presents.

  The first few he examined, however, were still unlabeled and he was beginning to feel foolish when his eye lit on the smallest parcel of all, the only one with a label attached. He didn't remember seeing it amongst those he and Lord Merrilyn placed at the foot of the tree. He picked it up. The label read, rather quaintly, in old-fashioned copperplate handwriting, “Master Simon Peter FitzArthur.” Peter slid a finger under one of the folds in the wrapping and tore the paper off with one pull.

  A small box emerged. Exquisitely made of something like crystal, it had a dragon cunningly fashioned into the surface of the lid. The dragon appeared to be of ruby-colored quartz and his eyes were a deeper red, cut like rubies. Every scale on his twisting body was cut and polished with breathtaking precision to a pearly luster. Peter stared long and hard at the box and it was as though it sang to him: a few notes in a strange voice, bell-like and yet not having the strictly percussive sound of bells. It was the same music Peter had heard many times before. Strange emotions engulfed him A spell wove itself over him and sent him yearning—yearning for the secret of the box's magic.

  "Open it, Peter,” Lord Merrilyn said quietly, and there was sympathy in his voice, as though he knew Peter's torment. “Your gift is inside. The box is not intended for you and has to go back to its owner."

  Peter dropped the wrapping paper on the floor and swiftly lifted the lid. Inside was not the Christmas gift he half expected but merely a folded piece of paper, yellowed and spotted with age. His first reactions were those of a typical 14-year-old boy. Bitter disappointment swept over him and his heart, previously fluttering with excitement, seemed to drop down to his boots. He swallowed hard, trying to hide his feelings from the dark eyes whose gaze bored into him.

  Slowly he put his hand into the box to withdraw the paper. As soon as his fingers touched the crackly parchment his emotions changed and his heart started hammering again. He drew in a sharp breath and held it. His fingers shook and he almost dropped the paper. He let out his breath in a quick gasp as a corner of the paper crumbled off and dropped to the carpet. “Oh dear!"

  Anxiously he looked at the man in front of the fire. His Lordship stood with his hands in his pockets, his back to the fire. On cursory observation he appeared to be relaxed. Peter, however, could feel the tension zinging in the air and as he looked Lord Merrilyn appeared to grow until he almost filled Peter's line of sight. Peter blinked to bring his vision back to normal. He walked towards the fireplace, holding the box out at arm's length. His Lordship gravely took the precious object and carefully put it in his pocket.

  A sense of loss engulfed Peter and he stood for a moment staring at the pocket containing the box as though willing it to reappear.

  "Well, open it, for goodness’ sake!” The words were almost testy.

  Peter obediently unfolded the slip of paper. To forestall any more irascible commands, he read aloud:

  "I, the first Christmas tree, do hereby assign

  The role of the One Tree to a noble pine.

  The One Tree stands in gathering gloom

  On my location within this room."

  He looked up, his forehead creasing in puzzlement. “It doesn't make sense."

  "The first line does.” Lord Merrilyn gestured with a wide theatrical sweep of his arm towards the tree. “This is the first Christmas tree to appear this year in a private house in Britain. The only other tree is the Royal one, which I think has perhaps not even been brought into the palace yet, let alone decorated. We're a little early for our first year, because of your coming."

  Peter frowned. “How can the One Tree be standing where your Christmas tree is? That doesn't make sense at all. Two trees can't stand in the same place, at least not at the same time."

  Lord Merrilyn smiled wryly. “You're thinking like a boy. It will make sense when the time comes. The One Tree isn't likely to appear in this room, but then again you never know. Stranger things have happened and will continue to happen. We don't use pine trees as Christmas trees in Britain, Peter. The true Christmas tree is a fir. Its evergreen foliage represents eternal life. Its origins are, of course, pagan, but the Christians adopted it for their Christmas festival, just as they cleverly appropriated other things from pagan festivities to represent various Christian beliefs. For Christmas trees in your country in the twentieth century you use an exotic tree from California called pinus radiata, which is also an important timber export for your country."

  Peter grinned. “Hey, stop it! You're beginning to sound like one of my school masters.” He forgot he was speaking to a total stranger and addressed His Lordship as though speaking to Merlin or Uncle Paul, both of whom had merged to represent one person in Peter's mind.

  Lord Merrilyn's face split briefly into a schoolboy grin. Before he could say anything, however, there came a knock at the door, which then opened to admit Jameson wheeling a trolley, in the center of which stood a large soup tureen with a burner beneath it. At the delicious smells wafting to him from the laden trolley, Peter's stomach rumbled and he forgot all else in the sheer ecstasy of indulging in gluttony after what seemed like a long journey through the snow, and an even longer fast.

  When Peter had crammed himself as full as possible, he and Lord Merrilyn sat on either side of the fire while Jameson sedately and silently cleared away the used dishes and majestically wheeled the trolley from the room. As he closed the door softly behind him, Peter sighed contentedly, staring musingly at the fire. It had been so good to be waited upon, especially by someone who made so little noise he might almost have not been there.

  The ticking of the long-case clock standing in one corner and the rustle and murmur of the fire in the grate were the only sounds in the room for some time. Peter and Lord Merrilyn sat in companionable silence. Lord Merrilyn's mind seemed to be completely occupied with enjoying his generous glass of fine brandy.

  As he sat staring at the blazing embers, almost mesmerized, Peter gradually became aware something was happening. The red and yellow of the flames almost imperceptibly began turning white. The white grew and shifted until the whole fire was a flickering white blaze. Taller and taller it rose until it started to resolve itself into something other than fire. It took Peter a few moments to realize the transformation was a figure—that of a white-clad woman.

  Instantly he recognized the Lady and, as in a misty dream, saw her smile at Lord Merrilyn. She gave him a greeting which Peter jealously strove to hear but couldn't. He could only see her l
ips moving. And, while Lord Merrilyn's lips moved in answer, Peter couldn't hear what he said. With her lovely gentle smile, the Lady held out a long slender hand towards Lord Merrilyn and Peter saw His Lordship place the gleaming crystal box in the upturned palm. He caught the flash of many colors from the crystal. Then this was drowned by the glow from the dragon's eyes.

  The glow grew into a dazzling beam of ruby light before the Lady closed her hand over the box and the glow disappeared. Gradually, then, the Lady herself dissolved until the last essence of her being seemed to vanish into the flames. Vainly Peter sought her in the red embers of the now-dying fire. But she wouldn't return. Peter used every power within his reach to bring her back. All he received in answer was a few scales of the music he had heard from the crystal box and a whisper, so faint he couldn't even be sure he really heard anything: “I shall return ... I shall return..."

  The log in the fire, nearly spent, settled down with a sudden noise that made Peter jump. He realized, with contrition, he had fallen asleep.

  "I think it's time you went to bed, young man. I'll take you up myself."

  Peter looked around in confusion. “What time is it?"

  Lord Merrilyn consulted a watch on a chain that he pulled from his pocket. “After ten o'clock. Past bedtime, I should think."

  Peter started up in alarm. “But I must get back! They'll be missing me."

  Lord Merrilyn smiled indulgently. “Come, come! You should've learned by now not to think like a boy when you're acting as a Chosen One. You know very well no one will miss you."

  Peter ruffled the hair on his forehead. “Yes, of course. I'm too sleepy to think properly."

  He meekly followed Lord Merrilyn from the room, up the curving flight of stairs he'd seen on his entry to the house, along many corridors and finally into a large bedroom with an enormous four-poster bed. A fire burned brightly in the grate. Peter felt no surprise to see his pajamas neatly laid out on the bed.

  "Because we ate so much on your arrival we didn't bother with dinner tonight. Are you sure you're not hungry?” Lord Merrilyn asked solicitously.