To Alan Jackson,
my friend and mentor
who made this translation
possible.
Thank you!
Cold obsidian
Book 1 of “Obsidian Trilogy”
All poems in the book translated by Alan Jackson
Omnis is a world of unstable magic where all creatures are born with a natural ability to stabilize and use it. All creatures, besides humans. They were the only species that inherited the flaw of their creators – the immortal worldholders responsible for the very existence of Omnis.
To make things right, the worldholders created a system of three Horas with Hora Tenebris as the magic disperser and two other Horas – Solaris and Lunaris – as the stabilizers existing in equilibrium with each other. Inside the stabilized areas humans are free from their natural flaw and have full access to stable magic. But in a broad area where the stabilizers’ zones of influence intersect the magic is wild, anomalous. That area, known as No Man’s Land, divides Omnis in two.
Horas are the foundation of human civilization in Omnis. They look like precious gems encased in gold and silver. They are protected by magic that would destroy anyone who dared to touch them unless it’s a worldholder as well. They are impossible to steal. Even more: stealing them is useless, because they have no secret powers at all. Yet someone has stolen them nonetheless.
Who is the thief? What does he or she want? How did they overcome the protective spell? Worldholders themselves are puzzled. One thing is certain here: something big is going on.
Wise are my deeps, dark my coldness;
One I have sought, a warrior-poet –
Not thou, seeker! No swordwight thou,
No wise maker of the world’s song,
But a wild passion in thy pure breast
Hefts thy young soul; my heart trembles
Foreseeing thy death, myself thy bane,
Fate inescapable. The folk I see,
Hungry for fame, heart-slaved, mind-slaved,
Their shining lust by lich-light drawn
To the candle-flame of coveted pride,
Burn gloriously in battle with me –
Not thou! Not thou! No gleam-grabber thou!
Not thou! Not thou! No war-drum’s beat
Dances for thee! No dern magecraft,
No snake-syllables with sophistry snare
Thy unmarred soul; my timeless chill
Warms with thy touch; no woning in thee
For cold sin's taint; tears openly scape
Thy meek eyelids; thy mind soft clad,
Thy heart borne low, hands widely spread,
Scorning to bully or beat down others,
Opens to truth, to all truth’s source,
Each listening mind; thy light their praise.
One day thy cause shall call thee hither,
Facing my hero with failing power;
His part, his lot, thy life to shend
On that day forelaid, thy loss, thy doom.
Chapter 1. At the edge of No Man’s Land
It was blazing hot in Aren-castell that midday. Every fountain and every patch of shade was occupied by the citizens trying to escape the sun’s wrath. Life stood still. Dusty wind ruled the empty streets, sweeping sand, called “aren” by the locals, in tiny tornadoes leaving neat miniature dunes behind.
“Aren-castell” means literally “sand castle” and indeed the city looked like one, its little houses and towers resembling the ones a clumsy toddler would make while playing in a sandbox. A perfect illusion. The cement locals make with their “aren” is on a par with the Wanderers’ monolith when it comes to durability.