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Trint had never been so scared in his life. He screamed and cried and kicked until Gorvy tossed him to the ground, clamped his hand over his mouth, and threatened a good lashing if he did not stop. His face was so close that Trint got a whiff of his breath, which smelled like rotten fish. Then Gorvy jerked him to his feet and led him through the crowds.
“Can’t go back there,” he was muttering to himself. “She’ll remember how to get there. She’s blind, but she ain’t stupid. Gotta go to Point Four.”
Point Four, as Trint soon found out, was the attic of a fabric shop, accessible from the street by thin, rickety stairs. Gorvy marched them up these. When he reached the top, he produced a jumble of keys. Holding Trint with one hand and juggling the keys with the other, he located the one he wanted. The door unlocked with an ominous clank, swinging open to reveal the barest of rooms, lit by one small window high up in the ceiling and furnished with a solitary chain attached to the wall.
“I know you’re good at getting in an’ out of tight places,” Gorvy said as he attached Trint’s thin wrist to one end of the chain, “But I figure this’ll keep ya. The lady downstairs is deaf. She can’t hear nobody screaming. So there’s no sense wearing yourself out over that. Just sit tight for now. I’ll be back in a bit to deal with your mutiny.”
Trint did not know what mutiny meant, but the chain spoke loud enough for him to understand. He sat mutely as Gorvy cuffed his ear before going outside, locking the door as he left. After the footsteps of his kidnapper faded, he began to cry.
The evening turned into night, which turned into eternity as Trint watched the door with dread. When would he come back? Would he bring something to eat? To drink? Terrified as he was of Gorvy’s presence, the boy realized that he was his only link to food. He was therefore both scared and relieved when Gorvy arrived long after nightfall. After lighting a candle and setting it on the floor, he tossed him a dried meatstick and a canteen of water.
“Here. Take this. Not that you deserve it, you little traitor.”
Trint ate, but his appetite left him when he noticed Gorvy unwinding a thick knotted rope that was looped around his shoulder.
“W-what’s that for?” he stuttered.
“It’s to show you what the punishment is for traitors ‘round here. And I plan on makin’ it a lesson you won’t soon forget.”
Trint dropped his food and started to sob, drawing himself back against the wall as much as he could. Gorvy took a step forward, then stopped, his attention drawn towards something to the boy’s right.
“How did you get here?” he snarled.
Trint looked up to see a bow-legged, sturdy man, completely out of place, looking placidly around him. Though he would swear he had never seen the man before, he knew exactly who he was.
“Daddy!’
When the man’s gaze fell on the boy, his expression lit up. “Trint? Is that you? My, how you’ve grown!” He crouched quickly to take the boy in his arms, then noticed the chain.
“What’s this?”
He looked up at Gorvy, who, in his astonishment, still had his arm raised. “Who are you? And what are you doing with that rope?”
Gorvy attempted to stand his ground. “I don’t know who you think you are,” he stuttered, “but you’ve interrupted something. If you don’t mind steppin’ outside, I’ve got to teach this boy a lesson.”
The man stood, placing himself in front of Trint. “I do mind. Now tell me what you were doing with my son.”
Gorvy raised his eyebrows, trying not to appear intimidated but already planning his escape. “Son? So you really are his old man? Trint, you never told me,” he wheedled, edging his way toward the door. The man noticed the movement and grabbed him by the collar.
“Not before you unlock him,” he growled.
Faced with the threat of direct force, Gorvy obeyed and soon found himself locked up with the same chain. Then the man, with a protective arm around Trint, shut the door on him, although not before kindly promising to send a guard up his way.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The three women were exhausted. Poor Ester was almost incoherent with grief and worry. She kept whimpering to herself, “It’s because I can’t see. If only I could have seen where he went…” N’vonne and Alisha had tried to comfort her several times on that score, but she would not listen and soon, they were too tired to try.
Nightfall had not deterred their efforts, but as the hours dragged by, their despair of finding Trint became acute.
They had stopped to rest in an alley. Ester had become very still in her grief, while Alisha was doubled over, rocking back and forth.
“How could I let him go?” She muttered. “I have lost two sons. I cannot be trusted with sons. I have lost them both.”
She was repeating this refrain over and over, when Ester suddenly raised her hand.
“Shh! Alisha, do you hear that?”
She jumped to her feet and ran down the alleyway, turning left, then right, not caring whether the two women were keeping up with her. When they caught her, she had stopped on another quiet street (so many of the side streets were deserted now), and was listening intently.
“It’s coming closer.” she whispered, her voice quivering with excitement.
The words had just escaped her mouth when a man rounded the corner with a small boy perched on his shoulders. They were both singing.
“Trint!” Alisha cried, startling both the boy and the man.
Trint waved as they rushed up to him. The man, meanwhile, recoiled as Alisha started pummeling him with her fists.
“Let him go, you monster! Drop him this instant or you’ll have me to deal with!”
But Ester tilted her head to where she thought Trint would be. “Trint, are you okay? Who are you with? He doesn’t sound like Gorvy.”
At the sound of her question, Alisha stopped her attack, stepped back, and studied her young charge. It certainly didn’t look as if he was being kidnapped.
Trint was beaming from ear to ear. “He’s my daddy.”
Ester frowned. “Trint, your father has been dead for almost four cycles.”
Trint shrugged, clamored down off of his father’s shoulders, and allowed Alisha to swallow him in a hug. “Still,” he responded, his voice muffled by Alisha’s dress, “he’s my daddy.”
N’vonne had watched the scene first with relief, then delight, then with amazement. She alone of all of them could suspect what had actually happened. She approached the man cautiously, as if approaching a cornered animal.
“Sir, are you this boy’s father?”
The man, a picture of health and energy, nodded enthusiastically. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him but, oh, I’d know that boy anywhere. My name’s Wake.”
“Okay, Wake. How did you, uh, find Trint?”
The man scratched his head, then stooped to pick up his son again. “Hard to say. I was with Kynell and some others, then suddenly I was in this room. Dingy place—nothing Kynell would have done. There was a man…” His face darkened at the memory. “He was about to hurt my boy. I stopped him, of course, chained him up. Then Trint and I decided to go for a walk, didn’t we, little guy?”
Alisha and Ester had started listening to their conversation as N’vonne continued. “And do you know why you’re here? I mean, pulled out of Kynell’s presence?”
“Don’t know if I’d say ‘pulled,’ ma’am. I was happy to go, especially when I figured out where I was. Beyond saving my boy from that scoundrel, I imagine I’m here to help fight Obsidian. It’s about that time, isn’t it?”
N’vonne couldn’t hold back tears, nor could she refrain herself from embracing this cheerful stranger. “It finally worked!” she exclaimed. “Vancien did it!”
She blubbered for a few seconds along similar lines as Wake politely returned her embrace, then asked the way to the palace. He wasn’t familiar with this neighborhood, he explained.
N’vonne pulled herself together
and told him to follow her. Trint, meanwhile, had latched onto his father’s hand. Ester had grabbed Trint’s other hand and Alisha followed them all like a mother hen.
They arrived on a main street completely changed. Anxious silence had been replaced by joyful shouts and tearful greetings. Everywhere they looked, loved ones were hailed, children scooped up, and women swept off their feet in long, intense embraces. It was as if, on the eve of invasion, the people of Lascombe had decided to host a family reunion. For Trint, the change served as a confirmation of the joy he was already feeling. Alisha and Ester, however, were mystified. Mystified, that is, until Alisha saw her parents talking with a dear, departed friend. And with them stood a young man whose appearance stopped her in her tracks. At first she said nothing, but it was obvious that she was torn between running to her loved ones and staying with Trint. She wavered until Wake assured her that he would watch his son as well as Ester. After making hasty arrangements to meet up later, she ran to join them. Then Wake wandered off with the children, leaving N’vonne alone, trying not to watch the crowd for the one man she wanted most to see—the man she had not seen since that fatal accident had deprived Vancien of his father.
She found him standing in front of a seed shop, looking in the window and pointing out items to the woman next to him. She was short, with a round face and expressive eyes. The way she cocked her head was so familiar that N’vonne could not restrain her cry, the sound of which made them both turn around. When they saw her, both their faces lit up in recognition and before she knew it, she was in Hull’s arms, sobbing, as Vancien and Amarian’s mother stroked her hair.
“It’s all right,” the woman soothed. “See? It all turns out all right.”
Feeling a little awkward about hugging Hull with his wife watching on, N’vonne stepped back with a sniffle.
“I can’t believe you’re here. I mean, you—you’re both here,” she stuttered. Hull’s kind blue eyes were the same as they’d always been, only more intense.
“N’vonne,” he began, although he had to stop as she regained her composure. “N’vonne, I want you to meet Chera, Vancien’s mother.”
Chera’s smile was warm, without the slightest hint of jealousy. “So you are N’vonne! I’ve heard so many things about you. You were the one who took care of Hull after I left and then, when he joined me, you took care of Vancien. How can I ever thank you? Vancien needed a mother so badly…”
With that comment, she wrapped N’vonne in an enthusiastic hug, broken only when Hull politely interceded and asked to be shown to their children. “I’ve never been in such a big city,” he added. “Will we be able to see Amarian and Vancien soon?”
N’vonne nodded eagerly and hurried them through the streets, glancing back at them again and again, trying to assure herself that they would not disappear as suddenly as they had come.
Vancien and Amarian, meanwhile, continued to pray in Chiyo’s room. The candles had burnt out and the chamber’s thick walls prevented almost all outside noise from entering. Sometimes they would take turns, each asking Kynell for mercy, for protection of their loved ones, and always for the return of his faithful. Sometimes they would pray in silence, each opening his heart to the Prysm god. Sometimes they would be on their knees, sometimes pacing around the room, occasionally with their eyes open and often with their eyes shut. Amarian, who had so recently felt what it was to fear Kynell through the Ealatrophe’s talons, prayed as humbly as he could manage, submitting everything to his will. If the god wanted Rhyvelad destroyed, well, who was a converted Advocate of Obsidian to stop it? Vancien approached the god boldly, relying not on his past service but on his assurance that the Prysm god was an accessible deity, one who forgave wrongs and listened to human petitions.
Amarian was just considering lighting another candle when they heard a voice coming down the hallway. It was indistinct, though they could tell it stopped right outside their door. It continued muttering to itself as the door opened, allowing light from the corridor to spill in and cast its form in silhouette.
“Now, he told me I could find them here,” the voice grumbled, “but blast it, it’s so dark! Is the treasury so depleted that they can’t afford candles?”
The voice, now recognizable, brought back a flood of memories for both of them. Memories of opening packages sent from far away, of breach harvest and the festivals that went along with it, and of a generous-hearted uncle whom as children they loved to see.
“Uncle Naffinar?” Amarian asked hesitantly.
“Ah, so somebody is in here! Amarian, be a good boy and light a candle.”
Amarian did as he was told. Soon the room was lit again and the brothers were reunited with their beloved uncle—one who, not two cycles before, had been slain before Vancien’s very eyes by Amarian’s orders.
Vancien couldn’t contain his excitement over Naffinar’s sudden presence, as well as what that presence meant for Rhyvelad. He would slap Naffinar on the shoulder once or twice, then race to the hallway to see who else was there, then return to pound Naffinar’s shoulder once more. Amarian held back and fiddled with a candle.
“Amarian, lad!” Naffinar exclaimed as soon as he could get a word in between Vancien’s exclamations. “Come here and give your uncle a proper greeting. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. You’ve grown into quite a man!”
Amarian pulled himself up to his full height, emphasizing the already considerable difference between his stature and his short uncles’.
“Uncle,” Amarian began, “I cannot forget how it was that you left us so abruptly. Were it not for my actions, you would still be with us. I owe you an apology, although I understand if you don’t accept it.”
Naffinar was so silent that Vancien feared that Amarian would not be offered the grace he had requested. He should have known better. Naffinar’s time in Kynell’s presence had improved him, not impoverished him. He gestured for Amarian to come stand before him.
“Amarian,” he replied, his hand resting heavily on Amarian’s armored chest, “how could I, who have been forgiven so much, not forgive you for something you did before you even knew Kynell? Perish the thought—but remember it!” He could restrain his smile no longer. “By Ruponi, it’s good to see you!”
The name sent Vancien’s head spinning. “Ruponi! I bet he’s here in the palace!” He ran to the open door. “The Ages say that all the dead of the past ten thousand score will…” his voice trailed off as he stared down the corridor.
“What is it, Vance?” Amarian called, following him to the door. He, too, stopped as if he’d seen a ghost. Naffinar, muttering again, poked his head out behind them.
“Ah, Hull and Chera! And N’vonne! Come on in! The boys’ll be happy to see you.”
The boys were happy to see them—so happy that they stood mute. Vancien, who had never seen his mother, stared at her as if she were a portrait. Amarian felt tears well up in his eyes. The last time he had seen his father was the day he had left to serve Obsidian.
No one but Naffinar spoke until Hull, Chera, and N’vonne were in the room. An unknowing onlooker might have thought the two brothers were facing an enemy, so hastily did they back away from the visitors. For Amarian, this was not far from the truth. He had departed from everything his father had taught him, used the name of Hull for the purpose of evil, and had killed Hull’s child with his own hand. His father had every right to judge him, and his mother too.
To forestall the inevitable, he seized on the one good thing he had tried to do. “I wanted to take care of Vance after I left,” he mumbled, not sure how to begin, “but Zyreio wouldn’t let me. And I couldn’t fight him. He was too strong.”
But Hull did not speak at all. Instead, he pulled him so close that Amarian became a frightened boy again, crying because he had seen something scary next to the fireplace.
“I’m proud of you, ‘Ian,” he whispered. “You tried to protect your brother the only way you knew how. You must have been terrified. I’m so incredibly
proud of you.” He repeated that last phrase over and over, until he knew without a doubt that his son heard it and believed it.
Happy reunions were taking place throughout the city as lost loved ones from all over Rhyvelad were called to muster at Lascombe. The city swelled with the increased numbers, but no one noticed or cared. Few were the individuals who did not encounter a spouse, parent, child, cousin, grandparent, or friend who had chosen to follow Kynell, if not always in life, at least in death. The old city saw more tears of joy that night than it ever had of sorrow. But Lascombe could not forget the cause of its current happiness; the orbs would soon rise and with them would come Obsidian’s army.
Telenar and Chiyo had enjoyed their share of delightful reunions. Chiyo had been delighted to see his old friend, Hunoi, whom he had promptly assigned to the southeast gate. Yet Telenar was happiest when N’vonne made it back to his side. When he met Hull along with the others, he tried to be as amiable as possible. N’vonne had been open about her feelings for Hull and at the time, Telenar had not felt much jealousy over a man who was dead. Now, he couldn’t help but be intimidated at the tall, muscular figure who glowed with life. Nor did he feel more at ease when Hull pulled him aside for a quiet conference.
“Telenar,” Hull whispered, “may I have a quick word with you? I know we have much to do.”
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