The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  Sirin stopped in front of a tavern. “I am positively parched. We will stop here for the night.”

  Vancien eyed the place with suspicion. It was flat up against the west wall, squeezed between an tin-repair shop and another inn. Its windows were shut up tight against the coming cold with dingy pieces of wood. The paint on its exterior walls was peeling and the front door hung limply open, giving the travelers a glimpse of a dark interior.

  “It doesn’t appear very safe.”

  “Bah! It’s perfectly safe, boy. A few drinks in you and all Rhyvelad will seem safe.”

  There was no help for it; the old creature was already maneuvering his cane up the squeaky steps. With a sigh, Vancien followed him.

  If the travelers had been fortunate enough to arrive at Child’s Pass in early autore, they would have found The Open Mouth filled to the brim with boisterous patrons and loud servers. As it was, they stepped inside to find only a snoring man in the corner and a barman too busy to help customers. All around were signs of boarding up against the coming snow. Tables were pushed into a corner with chairs stacked atop, crates of liquor awaited their journey south to warmer regions and even the fire was banked low to preserve fuel for the trip. As a result, the entire room was cast in shadows.

  This did not affect Sirin. Intent on his drink, he strode as well as he could up to the bar and climbed onto a stool. “Greetings, barman!”

  Positioned at the opposite end of the bar, the barman did not look up. “Bad timing you’ve got, Sirin. I’m plumb out of drink.”

  “You old fool, you’re never out of drink! Come now, a splash of fine vintage for me and, uh, a jug of barley wine for the lad.”

  Vancien shook his head. “Water, if you have it.”

  The barman finally finished packing a case of glasses and walked resignedly over to the pair. Behind him, wooden shelves stood empty, bereft of their seasonal weight. A bottle of Lascombe Pure here and a jug of afore-mentioned barley wine there was all that consisted of the tavern’s available store.

  “I think I can handle the water, boy. And Pure’s all we’ve got, Sirin.”

  The munkke-trophe sighed. “I suppose that will do, Stankley. And what of dinner? And a room?” He looked skeptically at Vancien. “Two, preferably.”

  Stankley’s eyebrows drew together, making it obvious that he not pleased at this intrusion. He was a hefty fellow, with bristly hair and hairy arms. Vancien figured he didn’t take his displeasure lightly, and prepared himself to be thrown out any minute.

  But Stankley decided on a small dose of hospitality. “We’ve got some eggs we can cook and some bits of poultry. The rolls are cold, but they’ll do.”

  “And a room?”

  “You’re lucky everybody’s leaving town. Seven athas each for the rooms, ten total for the dinner and drinks.”

  “Ten for dinner and drinks! That’s ludicrous! Why, when I was here last, I could get two full meals and better vintage than Pure for eight athas!”

  Stankley shrugged his burly shoulders. “I’ve got to pay for my journey back, primate. You know that.” He clunked two glasses on the bar, slopping the liquid over his hands. “Have a seat, boy. It’ll be a while, as I’ll cook it myself.” Without another word, he disappeared through a back door into what Vancien presumed to be the galley.

  “Are they this friendly all through the Pass?”

  Sirin sipped his drink. “Well, it’s the beginning of breach and tempers are sharp. But there’s only a bit of town left, then Middle Pass. Not many people to annoy on the way, I fear.”

  “Middle Pass?”

  “You’re a useless bratling. All you know of Lore and nothing of geography. Do you think there’s a comfortable tavern all the way through the Pass to comfort your weary hide? You’ll soon learn that not everybody’s out to pamper you. There are two autore settlements on the southern and northern mouths of the Pass, but between those is one path, surrounded by fearful woods. Many travel there and survive—at least, if they journey through the day. During the night,” his voice dropped to an ominous whisper, “mysterious things have happened. Dreadful things.”

  Vancien rolled his eyes. “Spare me the melodrama. What have you got against me?”

  “Three things: you’re a human, you’re young, and you’re stupid.”

  “Then perhaps I’d be better off without you.” It was a surly suggestion, born of irritation, grief, and fatigue.

  Sirin set his drink down. “I’m positive you’d be better off without me. I’m a nasty old primate.” He leaned forward, widening his beady red eyes dramatically. “Leave.”

  Despite his dark mood, Vancien could not help but laugh. “I can’t. I have to eat first.”

  Sirin hunched his furry shoulders, hiding his pleasure at the boy’s response. “So be it.”

  Just then the back door banged open and in trundled Stankley with two steaming plates full of eggs and meat. Conversation ceased as the two travelers eyed their food.

  “I had a second to heat up your rolls,” the barman began gruffly. “No extra charge, but no complaints, neither.”

  Vancien thanked him profusely as Sirin inhaled a fistful of egg. Then the boy, too, eagerly began his first warm meal in days.

  The rooms were small and sparsely furnished. Glimpses of rough-hewn wooden beams could easily be seen through threadbare rugs and scatterings of rushes. The pallets, supported a few handbreadths above the floor by scratchy timber frames, consisted of piles of straw bunched into thick woolen cases. There were no pillows, and each chamber was illuminated by a swinging candle-and-mirror, hanging dismally from the ceiling. When Sirin protested this crude lodging, their host gave a by-now characteristic shrug and mumbled something about preparing for his journey.

  “Pay me now, or pay me in the morning. Whichever you like.”

  The barman’s lantern scarcely lit the dark hallway as Vancien dug into a pouch and produced four coins. He handed them one by one into Stankley’s waiting palm.

  “There’s a twenty-piece and a ten. The extra six should cover the service, I think.”

  In the flickering light, he could see Stankley’s eyebrows rise in suspicion. He said nothing, however, except a short “good night” before he descended the creaking stairs.

  Munkke-trophe and man were left in the darkness. Munkke-trophe spoke first.

  “Trying to win my crusty heart, eh?”

  “It was just in appreciation of having me along. Don’t expect it to keep up.”

  “Oh, I won’t, I won’t. And don’t you expect it in return.”

  “I never dreamed.”

  “Right. Tomorrow morning, then. If you sleep late, I leave without you.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  After this pleasant parley, Sirin disappeared into his room. Vancien, too, stepped inside, locking the door behind him. With distaste, he stripped off his dirty, blood-stained shirt. Had it really only been that morning that he had left N’vonne and Naffinar’s graves? Only last night his friends had been alive. Last night, he had known where he was going, what he was doing. Last night, he had believed Kynell favored him. Now here he was in this horrible tavern, the dependent companion of a belligerent munkke-trophe. Could things get any worse?

  He sighed. Logic compelled him to admit that yes, things could get worse. He could be dead. He could be broke. He could be without shelter and a fresh change of clothes. He eyed his pack, dumped gracelessly next to the bed. Nothing fancy, of course; Naffinar had promised to buy him a new wardrobe when they arrived in Lascombe. Naffinar. . .N’vonne. . .he bit his lip against his tears. What a stupid journey. What a colossal mistake. It must be a sign, or something. Some sort of vast tragedy to show him that he was meant to stay in little Win all of his life. Great dreams and great cities were not for him.

  Collapsing on the bed, he let his thoughts wander freely. Why was he continuing on to Lascombe? Surely he should have turned back and found some employment at home. But the thought of passing through the Eyestone Gla
de again made him shudder. Even worse was the mental picture of creeping back into town, blood and failure on his hands, desperate for work. He shook his head to dispel the image. He was determined to continue to the capital city, to find this friend of his uncle’s. What was his name again? He seemed to remember Naffinar telling it to N’vonne. It started with an “m.” No, an “s.”

  He was still pondering this when sleep claimed him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “And when I was fourteen cycles, I was apprenticed to the Patroniite School of Thought Over Fantasy, where I proceeded to gain the highest marks in my class—”

  Telenar stopped the discourse with an impatient flick of his hand. “Enough. Your marks do not concern me, nor do your accomplishments. But you are a bright young man, I can see.”

  The youth nodded at the compliment. He had traveled far to meet with this priest and he was determined not to waste the trip. Yet the man was not easily impressed.

  “What would you like to know, Patronius?”

  Telenar shook his head. Cycles of searching and he still did not know what questions to ask. For seasons, he had assumed he would just know. Now he was not so sure.

  “Tell me about your home life. What was your mother like? Your father? Did you get along well with your brothers and sisters?”

  The candidate concentrated hard, as if describing his family were just another lesson to plow through. “My mother was a wonderful woman. It was she who taught me all of the great stories of Kynell and Zyreio. My father was a tanner. He worked most of the day. I am an only child.”

  Telenar groaned. “No brothers?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  All of these cycles of searching, and he was finally beginning to get a sense of humor about it. “I suppose you haven’t asked your mother?”

  The boy did not catch the joke. “I assume she would have told me.”

  Telenar leaned back, assured that this lad, at least, was not the one. “Owahn, I’m sorry. The Ages are very clear that the Advocates are a pair of brothers.”

  Owahn’s heart sank. Now all that was left to him was an assistant instructorship south of the Range. His mother had told him about it, assuring him that it was a good way to start in life.

  Telenar could not help but notice his disappointment. “Listen, I happen to know that one of the king’s advisors needs an acolyte. It’s only a run-and-carry job, but it will keep you at court, if that’s what you want.”

  The boy brightened immediately. “Really? Oh, that would be wonderful, Patronius. But I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “Nonsense.” He stood and rounded his desk. Opening the door, he called for a servant.

  “Kerprack, take this young man to Advisor Naffinar’s chambers. The Councilor is not due back yet, I believe, but see that Owahn is boarded and prepared as an acolyte for his return.”

  “Of course, Patronius.”

  Telenar turned to his candidate and smiled. “See? Naffinar’s a friend of mine. Drop me a message sometime and let me know how he treats you.”

  Owahn was still thanking him as Kerprack directed the boy down the corridor into the Advisor’s block, and Telenar smiled graciously until they disappeared. Once out of eyesight, however, he leaned wearily against the door-jamb. If time was short before, it was almost nonexistent now. The chosen one would have to show up on his doorstep within the next week for them to have time to prepare for the Dedication. Less than one cycle—that was all that was left. Surely, Zyreio’s Advocate had been discovered and was in full training by now. Of course he was! The Ages were very definite about this: one brother was seven cycles the elder. Not the fairest of arrangements, but who can question Kynell? Indeed, Telenar already had a suspicion of the Obsidian servant’s identity. That boy Corfe had been sent by him, of this he was certain. The presence of evil had stuck to the young candidate like a disease. As soon as he had entered, Telenar could sense it. Compassion for the pawn had overwhelmed him, but so had fear. If the enemy was so operational as to send a decoy, how could Telenar and Kynell’s young Advocate hope to defeat him?

  He heard his name called. It was the king’s man, Chiyo.

  “Telenar! I’m so glad I could find you.”

  Telenar was genuinely relieved to see the tall, lithe soldier. Chiyo was not native to Keroul. He had come from a land far west to serve what he styled “the only nobility in Rhyvelad.” His loyalty was as unswerving as his manners and Telenar had soon found in him an understanding friend and confidante. Yet for all his poise, Chiyo was a fearsome warrior and had soaked his blade in a fair share of Cylini blood.

  The man’s pale, delicate features assumed an air of concern as he neared the priest. He stopped and crossed his arms. “You do not look so well.”

  Telenar slouched. He could be honest with his friend. “Time is running out, Chiyo. I still haven’t found him.”

  “Ah. You mean he hasn’t found you.”

  “Whichever way, we haven’t connected. The Dedication is next breach season at the latest. It could even be in late autore. That gives me less than a cycle to find him, train him, and locate the site. Zyreio’s Advocate is already active. And all the king cares about are those blighted Cylini! Doesn’t he care about the next ten thousand score? If Zyreio wins, the next five hundred and forty cycles will be seasons of despair and war, with nothing to stop it.” He paused for a breath, then added quietly. “I’m beginning to think that all he cares about is war.”

  Although Telenar spoke of his livelihood, Chiyo took no offense. The people of the West were known for their stoic manners. “War is an increasingly necessary evil, my friend. The king knows that. Perhaps that is all he cares to know at the moment. But come,” he insisted, brightening. “The very same man wishes to see you on the East Wall. He asked that I come and fetch you.”

  “You’re a good man, Chiyo,” the priest responded, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “The king does well by you.”

  “The king does well by you, Telenar. More than he knows.”

  Chiyo waited as Telenar gathered his cloak, then the two began the short march from the palace to the East Wall. It was late afternoon and the pristine capital city pulsed with activity; the white-washed walls caught the light of the setting orbs and made the entire city shine golden as vendors put away their wares for the night. Entertainers were already beginning to stream onto makeshift stages and music wagons. Orbset was one of Telenar’s favorite times: the air was filled with music and majestic rhetoric from Keroul’s greatest creative minds. Plays from ten thousand score of mornings and evenings ago were performed with dramatic precision. Music from the age of Ruponi the Great drifted toward the heavens. The arts came alive during a Lascombe night, and this awakening was one of the few things that buoyed Telenar’s spirits.

  Behind them, the capital spire towered over the city. Not only did Lascombe house the finest of creative souls, but also the keenest of bureaucratic spirits. The Capitol School of Administrative Government was renowned from east to west, with many distant kings sending their best and brightest to study there. Under the great spire sat the Keroulian Square, with its four sides symbolic of the four different directions. Members of the Square were august men and women over forty cycles and wise in many areas. The elections for these five hundred and one positions—one hundred and twenty-five for each quarter of the country, then one capital-quarter representative—were highly competitive. The Square dealt mostly with quarterly issues and answered directly to the king, by way of bi-cycle reports. Though they had little say if the king did not agree with their suggestions, they could conduct a constituency-based vote of contention: this advised Relgaré that his subjects were displeased with a decision and were, perhaps, on the verge of massive revolt. If a vote of contention resulted in an overwhelming majority of disgruntlement, the king was advised to take serious pacifying action.

  Telenar had observed this form of government all of his life and found it to be relatively successful. But his co
ncern was not bureaucracy; it was the salvation of future generations. On this his thoughts settled as he and Chiyo wound their way through the city streets. Heads turned and bowed low as they passed. The rogue priest—the townspeople knew he was no longer involved in the regime of the Fraternity—and the king’s great warrior were not rare sights to the public. Common though the vision was, the two of them walking together was an inspiring sight. Telenar was respected as a wise, if somewhat odd, man, while the tales of Chiyo’s deeds in battle wove the materials of the greatest ballads. Two living legends they were, and the people of Lascombe revered them.

  Chiyo pulled his cloak tightly around him. “It’s getting colder. I can almost see my breath.”

  His friend nodded agreement. “How are the Marches doing?”

  Chiyo stopped, surprised at the Telenar’s insight. “Who told you?”

  It took a few paces for Telenar to realize his companion was not beside him. “Told me what?”

  “That’s why the king wishes to speak with you. He is going to send you to the Marches.”