The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  The Sons of Hull

  Book One of the Advocate Trilogy

  By Lindsey Scholl

  Copyright © 2013 by Lindsey Scholl

  Cover Copyright 2013 by Lindsey Scholl

  Map of Rhyvelad created by Patrick O’Donnell

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (eLectio Publishing) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  eLectio Publishing wishes to thank the following people who helped make these publications possible through their generous contributions:

  Chuck & Connie Greever

  Jay Hartman

  Darrel & Kimberly Hathcock

  Tamera Jahnke

  Amanda Lynch

  Pamela Minnick

  James & Andrea Norby

  Gwendolyn Pitts

  Margie Quillen

  Other titles from eLectio Publishing:

  Tales of the Taylor: Songs that Changed the World by Ethan D. Bryan

  Learning to Give in a Getting World by Marcus R. Farnell, Jr. and Jesse S. Greever

  At the Back of His Mind by T. Marcus Christian

  The Wall & Beyond by Joanna Kurowska

  Drunk Dialing the Divine by Amber Koneval

  The Advent of the Messiah: Finding Peace, Love, Joy, and Hope in a Modern World by Tony Turner

  More From Life: 99 Truths to Understand and Live By by Christopher C. Dixon

  Living to Give in a Getting World by Marcus R. Farnell, Jr. and Jesse S. Greever

  Anabel Unraveled by Amanda Romine Lynch

  www.eLectioPublishing.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are several people I would like to thank for helping with this book. First, Patrick and Laura O’Donnell (my mom and dad), who always said I could be a writer, and who had the patience to read all my efforts, good and bad. Dad, your artwork has helped me visualize my characters in a wonderful way; I have been gifted with a delightful family that is blessed with remarkable creativity. Dan Schaeffer, your friendship, experience, and enthusiasm for the book were a great help during my time in California. Lloyd Williams, you were my first young reader and I value your insights. Also, I’d like to thank Dave and Doreen Moore, friends whose knowledge about publishing and enthusiasm for this project were greatly needed at the time God provided them. To Rachel Carroll: your persistence and creativity with the cover art were invaluable. And to my husband, John: you have patiently supported my writing and given me time to pursue it. I love you.

  My greatest thanks go to God and to His Son Jesus Christ, who is my life.

  To Dad and Mom. You always believed in my writing.

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Amarian..............Uh-mare-ee-un

  Anisllyr................Ahn-is-leer

  Chasm.................Ka-zihm

  Chiyo..................Chee-yo

  Cylini...................Sih-lee-nee

  Destrariae............Des-trair-ee-eye

  Ealatrophe...........Ee-luh-troaf

  Jasimor................Jaz-ih-more

  Keroul.................Kuh-rool

  Kynell..................Kih-nel

  Lascombe............Las-cohm

  Munkke-trophe....Muhn-kee-troaf

  N’vonne...............Nih-von

  Obsidian...............Uhb-sih-dee-uhn

  Patroniite..............Pa-troan-ee-ite

  Prysm...................Prih-zihm

  Relgaré.................Rel-guh-ray

  Rhyvelad..............Rih-vuh-lad

  Telenar.................Tel-ih-nar

  Vancien................Van-cee-in

  Verial...................Vehr-ee-uhl

  Voyoté.................Voy-oh-tay

  Zyreio...................Zuh-ray-oh

  PROLOGUE

  “The day of the advocates always comes. Kynell will not sit silent in his house of Prysm. Zyreio will not keep peace in Obsidian. Ten thousand score of mornings and of evenings, then Rhyvelad will tremble again. Brothers will fight as enemies and one will die.”

  Book of Ages, Seventh Folio, First Line

  The town of Win, South of the Glade possessed a scenic little schoolhouse, situated at the edge of a gentle wood and fronted by a crisp, manicured lawn. On this particular school day, twenty boys and girls sat attentively at their rude and uncomfortable desks. The studious children were literally sandwiched between small planks of smooth wood attached by a metal bar to stiff chairs that inspired good posture but little else. As a further benefit, every time a child squirmed in her seat, the desk would emit a tell-tale creak that drew all eyes, including the instructor’s, toward the offender. The instructor, Mr. Ackburton, was a middle-aged man with wiry hair, sporting a shiny brass-framed monocle. He would grow irritable when one of these creaks interrupted his lecture. But in other respects he was an affable fellow with an impressive degree and a condescending willingness to enlighten these backwater students with his academic learning. He was currently lecturing them on religion, which happened to be his favorite topic. He loved to expound on the many exciting theories he had learned during his tenure in the city. The fact that his students failed to grasp even the basics of these theories bothered him not at all.

  “So the question is,” Mr. Ackburton proclaimed, tapping his blunted pointer on a board covered with chalk writing, “why does Rhyvelad need two gods? Why isn’t one god enough?”

  The boys and girls stared back at him. Some of them shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, but none of them responded. He eyed them hungrily, excited by the vistas he was about to unfold. Finally, one student nervously raised his hand.

  “But, sir, the Ages. . .”

  Mr. Ackburton shook his head vigorously, as if an annoying insect had crawled into his ear. His tussled dark hair shot out in every direction and his monocle nearly fell off of its perch.

  “Come now, let’s think about this. What are the Ages anyway? Let’s review.”

  Just then, a boy burst in through the rustic, creaky door and hurried to his seat. He was about twelve cycles, with short hair as dark as Ackburton’s. Tall for his age and keenly aware of his offense, he clumsily found his desk and commenced staring at his hands. The cuffs of his sleeves were damp.

  “Amarian,” Mr. Ackburton began, only half-concealing his exasperation, “this is the third day you are late. Do you have an explanation for your tardiness?”

  The poor child looked around at his colleagues, who stared back at him with curiosity. “Yes, sir.”

  “And? What could possibly detain you for three days in a row?”

  The boy flushed a deep red and shrugged. Water, or perhaps sweat, dripped from his brow.

  The class burst out in giggles, causing the boy to blush even harder. Mr. Ackburton was not impressed. “Shrugging is not a reason, young man. If you are late tomorrow, I will have no choice but to give you demerits. Oh, and do try to attend class completely dry.”

  “Yes, sir.” Another round of giggles.

  “Now, then, where were we? Ah yes,” he picked up his pointer again, “we were suggesting that there was only one god and that even he is probably better represented as an idea, rather than a personality. The Ages, we were saying,
are flexible on this point, as we can see in the eighth line of the Fourth Folio, where it begins. . .”

  As Mr. Ackburton droned on, subjecting line after line of the ancient book to his literary analysis, the boy named Amarian forgot his embarrassment and faithfully scribbled down notes on his slate. When the lecture was over, he was the first to raise his hand.

  “Yes, Amarian?”

  “Sir, if there’s only one god and he’s just an idea—” Amarian paused to work out his thoughts. “—then what happens to the Advocates?”

  Mr. Ackburton laughed tolerantly. He was, after all, a kind-hearted man. “The point is, Amarian, that there never were any Advocates. This whole idea of the gods choosing a champion every five hundred and forty cycles is a metaphor. That means,” he gestured to the class to take notes, “that it’s not meant to be taken literally. The Advocates represent the idea of good struggling against evil and of course, this process is cyclical.”

  Amarian was silent before the man’s great learning, although something in what he said didn’t feel right. When class was dismissed later that afternoon, he clamored out of his desk and walked thoughtfully outside with the others, who did not give the impression of being troubled by the day's lesson. Amarian couldn’t help but envy their lightheartedness; everything Mr. Ackburton had told them had probably gone right over their heads.

  To avoid further company and allow more time for thinking, he walked home through the woods instead of through town. His father surely wouldn’t need him back immediately. He looked glumly down at his slate; normally, he would take the notes home and copy them onto the thin pieces of bark his father kept stored for that purpose. But today, he was repulsed by what he had written. One god? That’s not what the Ages said, as he understood them. And what did “the idea of a god” mean? He scratched his head, trying to come up with an idea of something that didn’t actually exist, but the best he could come up with was a rat with seven legs and a bushy tail. And even that was made up of things that did exist.

  He scratched his head again and sat down on a tree stump, hopelessly confused by the instructor’s lecture. His face was so puckered up in thought that he did not notice how the wind changed.

  If the Advocates didn’t actually exist, he reasoned, why did his papa keep telling him that they did? And why did he say that the time was coming when they’d be chosen again? And if it was all figurative about good and evil, how could the Advocates be brothers, born seven cycles apart as the Ages said? He thought about his own brother, Vancien, who was five cycles. He definitely did exist; his papa always said what a help he was, even at a young age. Even Amarian had to admit that, of the two brothers, Vancien was certainly better behaved. Such an admission was not as difficult for him to imagine as one might think: Amarian was an honest sort of boy and he knew his weaknesses. One of them was not minding as well as he should.

  His mind wandered down the path that included his brother, taking him further away from Mr. Ackburton, the woods, and the wind. Vancien was the reason that he had been late that day and also the past two days. He had insisted that Amarian follow him up to the stream to go fishing. Since Vancien hadn’t started formal lessons yet, he had no concept of Amarian’s need to be at the schoolhouse, nor did Amarian feel the need to tell him. Besides, Amarian considered teaching his brother how to hook a worm a much more profitable experience than sitting in a stiff desk all day.

  The trees were beginning to shudder from the wind now, but Amarian was too absorbed in his wandering thoughts to pay them any attention.

  And what about all the other stuff the Ages said that the instructor hadn’t mentioned? What about the brothers killing one another? What about the more than five hundred cycles when the victorious god would reign over the whole world? What about the stories he had heard of long periods of darkness over Rhyvelad? And even now, hadn’t the world enjoyed five hundred cycles of peace?

  The storm gathered strength around the boy, who only wrapped his thin jacket around himself tighter and thought harder. He remained in this position for a long time, brow furrowed as the wind stuck his hair up in short, dark tufts. He thought of Vancien again; how could he explain to him that Kynell was just an idea? How could an idea make worms—real, live worms that are meant to feed fish? And why did Papa insist that they both say their evening prayers to the god of the Prysm if Kynell didn’t actually hear them?

  Only when large drops of rain smacked against his head did he notice that the bright afternoon had turned dark; the sky through the trees was almost black. He jumped to his feet and started home. His papa would be certainly worried if he stayed out any longer. In fact, he was probably worried already. The thought made him break into a run, his feet pounding through the soggy fallen leaves. He almost fell twice, but his reflexes had always been quick and he was able to stop himself and his slate from tumbling into the mud. When he arrived home, however, neither his papa nor his brother were there. Hopefully, they weren’t out looking for him.

  Wet, cold, and tired, he fought back the shivers as he dumped his slate on the only table in the room and began to prepare a fire. It looked like the wood needed replenishing; he had no desire to go outside again, but all the other dry logs were out in the barn. Besides, he had to make sure the gate was properly shut. It wouldn’t do for the milking cow to get out; fennels sometimes lurked in the woods and, despite the rain, Rita would make a tempting target for the over-sized, predatory cats.

  So with a great sigh, he jerked his jacket up over his head and ran into the rain. The gate was already locked (Vancien’s doing, no doubt) and the wood was in easy reach. Half a minute after he stepped out into the storm he was back again, ready to get dry and start the fire. He stopped, however, as he stepped across the threshold. The room was no longer empty. There was a stranger inside, sitting by a fire he must have started himself. He was dressed like a traveler, with his pants tucked into his boots, his hat dripping water in the corner, and a special cloak treated to keep off the rain.

  Amarian started, dropping his logs, but the newcomer only looked at him, not nearly as surprised as he was. It seemed as if he was sizing him up. Amarian shifted nervously under his scrutiny, but when the man finally spoke, he sounded cheerful enough.

  “Amarian, I’m glad you’re here.”

  As the boy had no response and, indeed, had not moved, the stranger leaned back in his chair by the fire and made himself comfortable. He didn’t feel any need to continue the conversation.

  Amarian coughed to get his voice working again. “Uh, my father and brother will be back soon. If you have any business, you can wait where you are, by the fire.”

  The man leaned forward and stared into the flames. He did not look terribly old, but he certainly was not a young man. Amarian thought he had an unpleasant mouth. “I have waited, ‘Ian. May I call you that? For a long time, I’ve waited. But it’s not your father I want to talk to—it’s you.”

  Amarian’s back was getting wet from the pelting rain. The man did not seem interested in harming him, so he came all the way inside and shut the door behind him. “I don’t have any business, sir. And how do you know my name?”

  The man ignored the question and patted the seat of the chair across from him. “Please have a seat. I have a proposition to discuss with you.”

  Amarian took the seat, grateful to be by the fire but still suspicious. He didn’t know what “proposition” meant, but he thought it might have something to do with chores. “I don’t do work outside of the farm, sir. Don’t have the time.”

  The man chuckled. “You’re a funny boy, ‘Ian. Did you think I needed your help for farm work?”

  Amarian shrugged. “Don’t know why you’d need my help for anything, sir. What did you say your name was?”

  The man ignored that question, too. “You just came from class, didn’t you? How was the lecture today?”

  Amarian finally started to relax a little, happy to get his frustrations off his chest. “It was pretty confusing. The
instructor thinks that god isn’t a real person—he’s just an idea. And that there aren’t two gods, anyway, but only one. Then he said the Ages were a metaphor, or that the Advocates were—I can’t remember which.” He looked glumly into the fire, sour about the whole experience.

  To his surprise, the man nodded knowingly. “Yes, I’ve heard that about Mr. Ackburton. But sometimes instructors can be wrong, you know.”

  “That’s what I thought! My papa taught me that there were two gods and that they’re real, as real as you or me. Papa says the time of the Advocates is coming soon. And he ought to know! He reads the Ages every night.”

  The man was still agreeable. “Yes, he ought to. I guess he reads to you and your brother, as well?”

  “Yes, sir. Every night. Vancien listens better than I do, but I like hearing about Kynell.”

  The man’s smile was inscrutable. “You do, do you? Why him?”

  “Oh, he’s so powerful. He knows everything. And he’s good, you know? He loves people.”

  “And Zyreio? What sort of god is he?”

  Amarian poked a stick into the fire, warming to his subject. “He’s not any of those things. He doesn’t love anybody and Papa says he’s probably not as strong as Kynell.”

  “Your father is wrong there.”

  “How do you know?” Amarian asked, startled at such a definite opinion.

  “Just because Zyreio does not use his strength in the same way the god of the Prysm does, doesn’t mean he’s not strong. He’s just smarter.”

  Amarian frowned, wishing that his papa would come back.

  “But what if I told you there was a way to see for yourself?” the man continued. “What if I told you that your father was right, that the time of the Advocates has come?” He paused. “What if you were an Advocate?”

  Amarian looked at him, as bewildered as he’d been all day. “Me, an Advocate? I’m sorry, sir, but I—I’ve got to get back to my chores.” He made to get up but the man grabbed him by the arm. His voice was hoarse with urgency.