The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Kellen did as he was bid, and suddenly he could see them—women, sitting in the trees, looking down at him with amusement. Their skin was pale green, like new leaves, their long hair the emerald of the leaves of high summer. They were crowned with apple blossoms, and every single one of them was quite naked. They appeared to be perfectly comfortable in that state, and for a moment, Kellen had the disoriented feeling it was he that was the one who was foolish for being clothed.

  “Oh … no,” Kellen whispered, appalled.

  “Apple-dryads,” Shalkan said matter-of-factly. “Tree-spirits, tree-guardians. Not all trees have them, of course, or we’d be up to our hocks in dryads; no, only a few select trees are inhabited by dryads, though they do a certain amount of tending of all the trees in their domain. This is their grove. And their apples, of course.”

  The dryads came down from their trees; not so much climbing as gliding, and began pacing deliberately toward him. Their long hair swirled around them with a life of its own, now concealing their bodies, now revealing them, a breast here, a thigh there. Kellen would have turned to run, but now Shalkan backed around him, blocking his retreat. They clustered around Kellen, plucking at his clothes as if in perplexity, and giggling at his horrified embarrassment.

  “I—I—I didn’t know,” Kellen stammered, blushing hotly. To his horror, he was surrounded by naked grove-maidens and not quite sure where to look. “I’m sorry.” The head of the tallest of them barely came up to his shoulder, and their pale green skin had the hard glossy sheen of a polished, unripened apple. Unlike the sylph, which he hadn’t been quite certain he was seeing, the apple-dryads seemed as solid and real as Idalia.

  “Ladies, this is Kellen,” Shalkan said, and Kellen would have been willing to swear the unicorn was smiling. “He’s new here; he’s Wildmage Idalia’s brother—and he’s under a vow of chastity, so have pity on him.”

  The apple-dryads drew back a little, regarding Kellen and Shalkan gravely out of dark eyes the color of apple-tree bark. Kellen had recovered his composure enough to realize that they weren’t quite naked—or rather that they were, but that they weren’t quite human; their slender nakedness, while giving the strong impression of femininity, was the featureless androgyny of a sculpture, or a doll. Vaguely, he supposed that only made sense. After all, they only looked human. He cleared his throat, awkwardly.

  “I’m sorry I was going to steal your apples,” he said. “I mean, I wasn’t going to steal them. I was just going to take some, and I didn’t realize that they were yours. I mean, Shalkan brought me here, and I figured he wanted some, and I knew my sister would like them …”

  One of the dryads—she seemed to be the leader, though Kellen couldn’t quite say how he got that impression—spoke. Her voice was like rustling leaves, and contained no human words, though Kellen felt that his apology was accepted.

  *A gift for you, human child, and for your sister, on whom be honor.* This time he heard the words clearly inside his head, as though she were making an effort to be sure he understood her.

  Suddenly the dryads whirled and went sprinting away, each to her own tree. There was a wild rustling of leaves and a great deal of giggling that sounded more like bubbling water than girlish laughter, and a few moments later several of them returned, carrying apples, which they reached out and placed into his basket amid much jostling and amusement. Before he could even begin to stammer out his thanks, the dryads had dashed away again, leaving him staring down at their gift—not as many apples as he might have gathered for himself, but all of them gleaming and juicy and without flaw.

  He looked around, but now, no matter how hard he stared, once more the orchard was only an orchard, with no dryads to be seen. He looked at Shalkan, doing his best to make sense of what had just happened. Without the apples in his basket, it would have been easy to dismiss the last few minutes as an especially vivid waking dream, an aftermath of his injuries.

  “What can I do in return?” he asked. Gifts required gifts in return—that was the first lesson both of magic and good manners.

  “Bring them water in a dry year,” Shalkan answered approvingly, as though Kellen were an especially apt pupil. “Not this year—the rains have been good. But always respect the forest.”

  “I will,” Kellen answered humbly. Humility seemed in order; and so did a lot more consideration than he had been giving to his surroundings! Things weren’t what they seemed here—and he’d certainly never look at an apple the same way again!

  AFTER that, the two of them moved onward, deeper into the forest. Now that he was getting used to looking, Kellen realized that the forest was not the empty unoccupied place it had first seemed to be. In fact, the creatures that were only hinted at in his High Magick lessons seemed to be everywhere, and Kellen was sure that he and Shalkan were constantly being watched. Gathering cress by the bank of a stream at Shalkan’s direction, Kellen looked down into the water and found more than his reflection looking back. Something that could only be an undine stared into Kellen’s eyes for a long moment before flitting away.

  Undines and sylphs … that’s two of the four Elemental Powers that I remember from my lessons in the High Magick. The other two are salamanders—fire—and gnomes—earth. He wondered where dryads fitted into the scheme of things. I’m not sure I’d want to meet a salamander in a forest, but I wonder what gnomes look like? I would have paid more attention to my lessons if Anigrel had ever said the Powers were real live creatures … but the High Magick always taught that they were abstract concepts, symbols of the elemental forces of Creation that Mages work with, not … real. It’s like Idalia said. The Mages take everything and squeeze the life out of it, turn it into entries in a ledger. No wonder the High Magick is so bloodless and boring!

  But it still works. Kellen remembered the Hound-golems and shuddered.

  While gathering mushrooms—holding each one up for Shalkan’s approval before adding it to his basket—Kellen came across a door in the base of an oak tree. It was only six inches high, but aside from that, it looked just like any other door that Kellen had ever seen. He straightened up and turned to Shalkan.

  “How did they get here? What are they all doing here?” he demanded, making a sweeping gesture that took in the door, the dryads, the sylph, and everything else he’d seen in the forest.

  “Your folk don’t own the world,” Shalkan replied reprovingly. “They just claim they do, sometimes.” He shook his head. “Creatures of Magery are far more vulnerable to Magery’s effects than humanfolk are. They’re here because they were driven outside the bounds of City lands by spells, some of them. Your—ah, pardon me, not your—the High Mages don’t care for creatures that they can’t control, and they don’t care for things that might remind their citizens that they don’t own and rule the world of nature or the world of spirits, and that they share the world with creatures that don’t abide by their rules. Most of the Otherfolk here in the Wildwood were chased out by Hounds. None care to remain where they aren’t welcome.”

  Kellen looked back at the minuscule door, wondering which of the half-mythical creatures from his neglected studies lay behind it. Something tiny that built doors just like human doors, at any rate. Maybe someday he’d get to meet it.

  Reluctantly, he turned and followed Shalkan.

  He’d thought that by escaping the Outlaw Hunt and leaving City lands he’d be outside the influence of the City, but it didn’t look like that was the case. If the City had pushed these creatures out of their homes by claiming so much land, then that was an influence, too, one that could be felt far beyond the bounds of the City. What if the City kept claiming more land? Where would they all go?

  It wasn’t fair.

  IT was midday when they reached Shalkan’s goal; an immense clearing in the center of the forest, filled with a vast welter of thornbushes that bore a suspicious similarity, to Kellen’s eyes, to those Shalkan had charged through so many times during their escape. He regarded it dubiously.

&nbs
p; “What’s that?”

  “Blackberries,” the unicorn answered happily. “Oh, come now, City-child. Where do you think black-cap jam comes from? It doesn’t grow on trees in little pots. It comes from bushes like these—well, not quite like these. This particular patch is special. It bears fruit out of season, and the most delicious fruit in the whole Wildwoods, I’ll wager. Come along. There’s plenty for everyone.”

  “There aren’t going to be any more dryads, are there?” Kellen asked suspiciously, still holding back.

  “No,” Shalkan answered. “Only brambles—but that’s why you’re wearing all that leather. And a few scratches are a small price to pay for blackberry jam. And blackberry pie. And blackberry griddle cakes. And—”

  “Okay, okay—I get the idea,” Kellen said, laughing. He was starting to suspect Shalkan of having a sweet tooth, and even Kellen could smell the sugary scent of the fruit from where he was standing. Unlike some of the things he’d gathered today—including what Shalkan said were truffles, which Kellen couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to eat!—it actually smelled familiar—like the baskets of the blackberries sold in the City markets. But instead of reminding him of home and all that he’d lost, the scent of wild blackberries made the forest seem like home—or like a place that could come to be home, anyway.

  He set down the large shallow gathering basket and unslung the berrying bucket from over his shoulder, advancing warily toward the berry bush.

  “Bears and birds have gotten most of what’s on the outside,” Shalkan said helpfully, “but there are still plenty of berries inside the thicket.”

  Resigning himself to a few scratches, Kellen got down on his knees and began pushing his way inside. He quickly realized that this wasn’t just one bush, but a cluster of bushes grown together—and Shalkan was right; though the outsides were picked almost clean, here inside the bushes were still heavy with fruit. It wasn’t as difficult to get inside as he’d feared, either; the way the bushes grew together made a sort of tunnel for him to push his way into.

  He quickly stripped a handful of berries from their twigs and popped them into his mouth. They were warm with the sun, and the flavor was intense, piercingly sweet. Greedily, he wolfed down another handful, before reluctantly realizing he ought to share his bounty.

  The next several minutes were occupied with Kellen feeding himself and Shalkan, as he stripped the fruit from all the bushes within reach. The unicorn took the fruit directly from his hands, and Shalkan’s lips were soft against his palm. Soon berry juice had stained Shalkan’s muzzle a startling red-purple, and Kellen’s fingers—and probably his mouth, he imagined—were much the same color.

  “I suppose I ought to pick some to bring back, too,” Kellen said when both of them had eaten their fill.

  “I suppose you ought,” Shalkan said with mock sternness, swishing his tufted tail back and forth. “I don’t think you’re really the container Idalia meant those berries to come home in. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour or so—that’s half a bell to you, though you’re really going to have to stop thinking in City measures. I’ll be back before then, and we’ll still have plenty of light to get back to the cabin by. You’d better tuck that gathering basket in with you, though—you wouldn’t want squirrels to get those apples.”

  From the look on Shalkan’s face, Kellen doubted that squirrels were what the unicorn was thinking of, but Kellen was in no mood to ignore good advice, no matter how cryptic. He crawled out from under the brambles and dragged the heavy gathering basket back in with him deep under the bush—it would have to be a very determined squirrel who went after its contents now—and concentrated on filling his leather bucket.

  He heard the unicorn trot off, but intent on his task, Kellen didn’t pay much attention. Shalkan wouldn’t leave him here alone if this was a particularly dangerous place, and so far nothing he’d met in the Wildwood had seemed likely to offer him harm. He’d seen deer and rabbits, and supposed that where there were deer and rabbits there must be things that ate them—foxes and wolves and bears and even mountain tigers—but so far he hadn’t seen so much as a paw-track, and he knew from things Idalia had said that the great predators tended to be shy and unwilling to exert themselves, not attacking unless they were wounded and starving, or the odds ran very much in their favor.

  The bucket filled slowly, even though Kellen now conscientiously tried to keep from eating the berries instead of collecting them, and he slowly worked his way toward the center of the patch, lying almost full-length in order to reach the lowest twigs, where the unharvested berries were thickest.

  He was totally engrossed in his task, focused entirely on the world a few inches from the end of his nose, when suddenly several terrifying things happened at once.

  Kellen felt something seize him by the back of his pants and drag him out of the thicket—straight through the brambles. He dropped the bucket, flailing for purchase as he was swung through the air and dropped rudely to the ground beside the thicket.

  A voice—a booming, baritone voice—rang out above his head. “Oh, ho, you grubby little thief! What do you mean by sneaking in here to steal Cormo’s berries?”

  Kellen stared up at his attacker, and for one blurred befuddled moment he thought he was seeing a man on horseback. Then he realized what he was really seeing.

  A Centaur.

  The Centaur towered over Kellen. Though from his hooves to the crown of his head he was not very much taller than Kellen, his horse limbs were stocky and heavily boned, and his human torso was muscled like a blacksmith’s. Like the apple-dryads, once you took a good look, he didn’t look quite human—the proportions were a little off, somehow, though Kellen didn’t think this was quite the time for a detailed inspection—and his face was flat and wide with a heavy brow ridge and flat cheekbones. His eyes were black, narrowed now with anger and suspicion.

  He wore a sleeveless tunic of goatskin, with the hair left on so that the brown goat hide blended with his chestnut flanks, wild hair, and heavy beard. He stamped one massive hoof menacingly, and Kellen scrambled backward, out of reach of immediate peril.

  “I’m very sorry,” Kellen gasped. “I didn’t realize—” He stopped himself just in time. Cormo had said these berry bushes belonged to him, but Shalkan would never have brought Kellen here to pick berries if these bushes belonged to anyone. After all, he’d been careful to warn Kellen about the apple-dryads. Was this a bluff? He got to his feet, watching Cormo warily. “Perhaps we can work something out? I’d be happy to—”

  “Perhaps you will give me what you stole, and I will let you escape without the beating you so richly deserve!” Cormo snarled, taking a menacing step closer. Those hooves looked as large as dinner plates, and very heavy. “Everybody knows these bushes belong to me! Everybody!”

  “But that’s the thing,” Kellen said, thinking quickly. “I’m new here. My name’s Kellen. I’m staying with my sister Idalia down at her cabin—maybe you know it? I don’t know a lot about the forest, and I certainly wouldn’t want to trespass in anybody’s farms or gardens. Or berry patches.”

  “Idalia.” Cormo suddenly looked worried, but tried to hide it. “She’s your sister, you say? Well—”

  Just then Shalkan arrived, vaulting a fallen log at the edge of the clearing with the grace of a leaping deer. His sides worked as if he’d been running hard, but when he walked up to Kellen he sounded almost bored.

  “Is there a problem here?” Shalkan drawled, sounding for all the world in that moment like one of the Senior Apprentice Undermages back at the Mage College—a particularly dandified fellow who cultivated a pose of great world weariness and took great delight in making trouble for the Student-Apprentices.

  He tilted his head to the side, and his horn flashed in the sun. “I see you’ve met my friend Kellen, Cormo. Idalia will be interested to know he’s encountered you.”

  Cormo took one look at the unicorn and backed up, shaking his head as if bees were swarming about it. “There’
s plenty here for everyone, I always say,” Cormo muttered, turning and stomping away. “Don’t know why everyone has to make such a fuss.” He crashed off through the underbrush, still muttering to himself. Kellen couldn’t make out all the words, but thought he caught something about “damned unicorns.”

  He turned to Shalkan, light-headed with relief. “Glory, am I glad to see you!”

  “It looked like you were handling things well enough on your own,” the unicorn observed. “What happened?”

  Kellen explained. “—and when I mentioned Idalia, he suddenly got very cautious. I think he would have let me keep the berries, even if you hadn’t shown up.”

  Shalkan snorted derisively. “There’s no ‘let’ about it—Cormo doesn’t own this berry patch, and he knows it! He’s a notorious bully—and a lazy one at that, to want you to do his picking for him. He comes from the village a few miles from here—the one that Idalia trades with. It’s a human-Centaur village, actually. Most of them are good quiet farmers, just like folk anywhere, but a few of them are like Cormo. Once he found out you were Idalia’s brother, of course, he didn’t dare offend you. Well, to be honest, he didn’t dare do anything that would offend your sister.”

  “Why not?” Kellen asked curiously.

  Shalkan chuckled. “Centaurs can’t learn magic. It’s not a case of an old wives’ tale or a Council proscription or tribal custom—they really can’t. Some think it might be because they’re closer to beasts than humans are—not in reasoning power, or intelligence, and certainly not because they don’t have a soul, but in their natures—and obviously the beasts can’t do magic at all. Mind you, they’re so strong, they don’t need magic most of the time! But if they need serious healing from something that might well injure them permanently or even kill them, they need to come to a Wildmage like Idalia—and there’s no other Wildmage anywhere closer than the High Hills that I know of. Except maybe you.”