2025 O : Obsidian

    

In the challenge, "O" is for the black stone, obsidian. The archmage, Lord Dal, is on an isle in the Southern Sea. His old friend, Semelen, has joined Dal at a mountain spot used for meditation. The purpose of the visit was to help Dal uncover who murdered everyone on the Isle of Mages.

Warning - the subject of loss might be upsetting to some. From Windmaster:

A swig of fresh water from the gourd he carried refreshed him enough tofinish the climb to the ceremonial ledge near the mountain’s summit. He spotteda small pyramid of coral rocks. “This is it,” he said to a furred nose peeking outfrom between the thick ferns. 

Just beyond the marker, an outcropping, worn smooth by weather, formed anatural bench. Eons ago, islanders had carved the symbols for— fortune...happiness... and love—in the green-flecked volcanic rock. Dal folded his lankyframe to the ground in a single lithe movement. Despite the lava’s rumbling deepwithin the earth, he could sense a serene timelessness in the rock wall. His eyesclosed as he sank into meditation. 

Dal’s consciousness floated downward into the volcano. Closer and closer hemoved toward the gaping maw of a lava tube. The haunting notes of Ellspeth’stune floated up from the dark depths. The blue glimmer of runes on the tunnelwalls beckoned him into the darkness even as it lit his way. The sound of theflute led him through chamber after chamber filled with obsidian statues, theirblank-faces marred only by the flash of fire where eyes would have been. Dalcould almost feel the heat from their implacable anger.

The runes stopped at a pool of black water. A scene he knew well, the islandheart-home of all mages, formed in the unnatural mirror. The concentric rings ofwood and stone cottages seemed so real that he could see the feathers on theeagle in the council room’s stained glass window. Pushed by a southerly wind, ayellow cloud sifted over the island. Dal moaned at the scattered bodies left in itswake. His eyes strained in vain to see movement. Even in sleep, his handsclenched at the memory. Anger and pain vied for control, as the sulfur smellmingled with the remembered stench of hundreds of funeral pyres. Fires he hadset to send the dead, those closer to him than kin, to their final rest. 

“I’ll avenge your deaths,” he swore. “If it takes the rest of my days.”

~till next time, Helen 

 

Buy Windmaster at Amazon and These Sites

If you're following other blogs in the challenge, here's the master list of the other participants.