The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

Telenar froze in disbelief. “That’s impossible.”

  Chiyo shifted his feet, as uncertain of his king’s reasoning as Telenar. “He says there are a number of good men out there. It would be a good place for your search.”

  “He just wants me out of the city. He has never liked me, and I think in these past cycles he has grown even more uncomfortable with my presence. Well then, I’ll go to his Marches. My fortnight will be up in one more week, and I suppose Marcher wars are as good a place as any to find an Advocate.”

  “You might have to leave a little earlier than that. A train of troops goes out in three days and he wants you to go with them.”

  Telenar shook as head as they continued walking. “No good. I can’t leave before the fortnight is up. I’ll go alone.”

  “I think the king sees it differently, my friend.”

  Telenar hissed under his breath and pleaded with Kynell for patience. The king was obsessed with these pointless Marcher wars. To go before the appointed time was ludicrous. What if the boy appeared while he was on his way to the borderlands? No, this order he would fight. The schedule must be kept. Consistency was the only way Telenar operated.

  They soon reached the East Wall. More than merely a wall, the imposing edifice housed a number of residences, administrative offices, and even one grand kitchen. The king could often be found climbing the many steps of its grand central turret to gaze over his beloved city. Below him, his subjects danced and sang merrily, conscious of but not cowed by his presence. They knew he loved them, and had always treated them with the greatest kindness, so they sang his praises in everything from plays to tapestries to bed-time stories. He was past his prime, of course, but faithful Quinia had provided him with three strong sons and one marriageable daughter to follow in his footsteps. The House of Anisllyr would continue for another generation.

  Relgaré wondered where his wife was at the moment: warning the young serving girls against vice in the lower chambers, perhaps, or strolling through the water garden north of the palace with their beautiful daughter. A smile crept over his weathered face as he pictured both headstrong women discussing anything from his latest politics to what an early hiverra could do to the redcup blossoms. His sons were probably out hunting or waiting to torment the same young serving girls. They were energetic, certainly, but not a rambunctious lot. Relgaren, his eldest, would soon reach his twenty-first cycle and was already well accomplished in the art of kingship. Farlone, his middle boy, would be a fine warrior and was anxious to depart with this next batch of troops. It had taken all of the king’s persuasive powers to convince him to stay for one more round of training. Then there was Lors, his youngest. Relgaré frowned and ran a hand through his thick but graying red hair. Barely fourteen cycles and he was already going his own way. Still, the king thought he would make a fine Patronius and intended to broach the topic with him that evening. His bright mood returned at this, and his mind soon wandered back to the image of his wife.

  It was these straying thoughts that the arrival of Telenar and Chiyo interrupted.

  “Your Majesty.” Telenar bowed low.

  “Ah, Telenar! Chiyo was timely with his errand.” The king nodded at his general. Without another glance at his friend, Chiyo gave a sharp salute and departed.

  “Well, Telenar,” the king began, sweeping an arm over the magnificent view of the city. “What a marvelous day! It began with good news and I hope it will end with the same.”

  Telenar took note of the hint, but chose to delay the topic for the moment. “What good news met you this morning, Sire?”

  “Do you remember young Huran from the Ulanese kingdom?”

  “Of course. A very likable young man from a noble realm. He was here last Lighting, I believe.”

  Relgaré stroked his beard. “Has it been almost a cycle already? I guess it has. Well, this Huran is his father’s son: a strong ally, as well as a good leader. You know I have favored him for Dorylen?”

  “I have heard so from the Supras. Does she favor him in return?”

  The king could not contain his pleasure. “That’s just it, Telenar! Dorylen confided in Quinia last night. She has been secretly communicating letters of affection to Huran for the past two seasons!”

  “She has been communicating with another without your permission?”

  “You know this is different, Telenar. I would much rather have it this way than have the girl protest. She is already intelligent for her age, but I also want her to be happy.”

  Telenar could not hide a wry smile. “So the princess shall be betrothed to the man she loves. What a pleasant scenario.”

  Relgaré looked out over the city, contemplating the idea. “Yes, it is. It will make things much easier for me. But what of you, Patronius?” He turned abruptly and fixed the priest with a probing look. “What of your search? I assume you have still not found the Advocate?”

  “I would have told you immediately, Sire.”

  “I know of a place where you can continue your search.”

  Telenar kept Chiyo’s information to himself and raised his eyebrows to encourage conversation. “And where is that?”

  “There are a number of young men fighting in the Marches. Perhaps your lad can be found there.”

  There was no need to belabor the topic. A suggestion from the king was as good as an order. “When do I leave?”

  “Three days from now.”

  Telenar eyed the king warily. What was his mood? How far would negotiation take him? “With Your Majesty’s permission, I cannot leave so soon.”

  “That’s when the troops depart. You will be spiritual advisor to Farlone.”

  “To do so would be an honor, Sire, but my fortnight does not end for another week. I cannot leave before the time, lest the Advocate appear.”

  Relgaré rolled his eyes. “Telenar, you have been looking for this Advocate for more than fifteen cycles. Do you really think a week will make a difference?”

  Telenar modestly bowed his head. “This constancy is all I have, my liege. To abandon it would be too dangerous. Besides, I have traveled all over Keroul on my own. There is no need to fear for my safety. Indeed, I should like to journey there alone, lest I hold up the troops with a sudden discovery.”

  “Ha! Perhaps this Advocate will be sitting on the side of the road, whittling wood and singing praises to the Prysm god!”

  Telenar wisely took no offense in the king’s manner. “Whatever Kynell desires. As it is, I plead Your Majesty’s permission to complete the fortnight.”

  The older man began to scratch his wrist—an unconscious habit that often surfaced when he was frustrated. There really was no reason to send the priest on immediately with the troops; he might indeed hold them up with his “discovery.” It would be no surprise to find that Telenar had opted to stay behind once on the road, anyway, since his apathy toward the Marcher wars had always been apparent. Still, for some reason the presence of the priest rankled him now more than ever. The sooner he was gone, the sooner Relgaré could forget his existence and his “urgent” mission.

  “You shall stay.”

  Telenar breathed a quiet sigh of relief, hardly able to believe he had so easily persuaded the king.

  Relgaré drew himself up. “Yes, you shall stay. But after this fortnight, your search has ended. We will need a spiritual advisor on the field, and you have wasted enough of my resources on this frivolous endeavor.”

  Appalled, Telenar struggled to find his voice. End the search? Impossible! It was his life’s work, chosen for him by Kynell. Of that he was certain. And resources! The only resources Telenar had used were his own money-pouch and the chambers regularly granted to a Patronius of his station.

  “But Your Majesty—”

  Relgaré turned toward the stairs, intent on finding his wife and perhaps a bit of dinner. “You heard what I said, Patronius,” he called back over his shoulder. “One week. Then the Marches.”

  _________

  The desert wind billowed h
is cloak as Amarian gazed, unspeaking, at the scene: three shallow graves and no sign of his Sentry.

  Obviously, the attack had failed. Amarian had guessed this when Tsare had not reported back to him. Two days had gone by, and then the Advocate decided to see the results for himself. Accompanied only by Corfe, he had ridden hard through the Eyestone Glade, cursing its light and resting only when his voyoté faltered. Now the beasts and the servant waited nervously as their master kicked the piles of sand and swore.

  “It is what I feared. The boy’s not even wounded.”

  Corfe, too, studied the graves. They were pointing north to south—a sign of reverence for Kynell—and certainly there was nothing left of the Sentry, though what could have eliminated such a fearful creature with no trace of a struggle, he only wondered. For a moment, the possibility that one of Vancien’s companions survived to perform the burial presented itself, but he quickly shook his head. No Sentry would mistakenly kill Kynell’s chosen. The very idea was impossible; the appointed time had not come. The fact that Tsare was gone was proof that Vancien lived. Corfe shivered. Whatever it was that slew the Sentry and saved the boy did not come until after the attacker had done considerable damage. Though the Advocate may have been spared, his companions had suffered violent deaths.

  Still what was done was done. It was nothing to him.

  Amarian was already mounting his voyoté. “Quickly, slave. He has several days’ advantage of us. We must not let him reach Lascombe.”

  As his servant scrambled to obey, Amarian smiled in anticipation. After long cycles of waiting, the hunt was finally on, and now his quarry was alone. Before long, fate itself would be captive in his hand.

  __________

  By early morning, the merchants’ town was well behind them. Vancien had insisted that they depart before the break of dawn, and for once, Sirin had not argued. The thought of combating with surly vendors for path space was not a pleasant one and he, too, was anxious to reach the capital city.

  Above them, the trees of Middle Pass shimmered in the dark morning air. Despite what the munkke-trophe had told him the night before, Vancien found the forest enchanting, and was disappointed that they had no time to linger.

  “This is the only way?”

  Sirin nodded. “This is the only path, with the exception of some hunting tracks. Why? Are you complaining already?”

  Vancien ignored him, choosing instead to study his surroundings. The path they were on was indeed well traveled. Wide enough for two large carts, it cut through the woods as if it, not the trees, had always existed. The ground was so well packed that little dust was stirred, while on either side of the road small channels carried off excess water to prevent flooding. The King’s Road had been one of the great triumphs of Relgaré’s grandfather’s reign, and rulers from all over Rhyvelad had sent their civil engineers to study it before embarking on their own infrastructures. Vancien had remembered learning about the great project in school, but no mention had been made of the mysterious woods that surrounded it, or of the strange sounds that proceeded from them.

  “Birds,” Sirin had replied when Vancien asked him about the curious chirps and moans. “The birds are waking and the trees are creaking in the wind.”

  Vancien was not convinced, as there was not even a slight breeze in the morning stillness, but Sirin seemed to have abandoned his mystical attitude of the night before and there was no recalling it. Disgruntled, he fell silent.

  They traveled in this sullen manner for the better part of the day. Occasionally, distant sounds of laughter reached them from behind. The merchants had begun their journey. Up ahead, there was nothing but the diverse sounds of the forest. Vancien was vaguely disappointed. After the past few days, one would think he desired a rest from adventure, but just the opposite. Among these trees existed a mystery, he felt certain, and he was eager to learn of it.

  Sirin showed no such curiosity. “Keep up, bratling. Your peering stupidly into the trees is slowing us down.”

  “How long until the northern settlement?” Vancien asked as he obediently stepped up his pace.

  “Long enough. We’ll have to camp a night along the road. But we’ll reach it in good time if you don’t hold us up.”

  “Drop it, Sirin. Perhaps we should try to be civil.”

  “Why should I be civil to a tag-a-long? You’re still a child, bratling.”

  “Fine. You’re right, Sirin. I guess being blinded in Eyestone Glade and surviving two Destrariae attacks and the deaths of three—”

  Sirin swiftly pushed his cane against Vancien’s lips. The munkke-trophe’s eyes were wide in surprise.

  “Did you say Destrariae?”

  Vancien pushed the cane away and continued walking. “No. I don’t know. Did I?”

  “Wait, bratling, this is serious! No one encounters a Destrariae and survives.”

  “Whatever you say, Sirin. You’re the adult here.”

  Vancien had been prepared for any amount of sarcasm, but the primate’s sudden screech startled him. Turning so quickly he almost suffered from whiplash, he beheld his cynical friend down on his furry knees, cane discarded and paws upheld.

  “Great Kynell! Can it be true?”

  “What are you talking about? Get up, Sirin, you’re slowing us down.”

  The creature struggled to his feet and lurched toward him. “You said you survived not one, but two Destrariae attacks! Do you know what that means, bratling? Our great lord Ulras was slain by the mere chill of such creatures! Riponi’s son Meleazar was deafened for life when he heard their eerie howls. Even our own Relgaré fears them!”

  “Well, I didn’t really enjoy it.” Sirin was beginning to scare him.

  “But you survived it, boy. That makes you—”

  “What? What does it make me?”

  But his companion’s mood had passed. “Never mind. Come on, step up the pace.”

  And the strange moment stood there, already almost forgotten. Sirin did not speak again until that night, and never again on that topic.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “They will be close to Lascombe by now.”

  Amarian was in one of his moods. Although silent for days at a time, occasionally life would descend upon him and he would talk as if his servant could reply.

  “The people fear me, Corfe,” he confided one evening, after they had passed through the southern settlement of Child’s Pass. “Did you see the looks in their eyes? I am a shadow to them. A ghost. Something with which to scare their children into obedience.”

  The night was cold and the wind howled eerily through the great crevice. They had found a site deep into the woods in Middle Pass. Corfe shivered, having never been so far north before, nor did he appreciate the eerie sounds echoing from the trees above them. But Amarian sat comfortably across the campfire, reclining casually to one side. With his dark clothes, only his face was easily visible—a somber canvas upon which the shadows of the flames danced. Though they had been traveling together many days and Amarian had not harmed him, Corfe was continuously intimidated by his presence. This was Zyreio’s Advocate: Obsidian’s chosen of all mankind, and one day he would rule Rhyvelad in a reign of intoxicating terror. The power seemed to vibrate from him.

  “I have spoken with him once, you know. Face to face. I had to choose, Corfe. Did you know that?”

  The young man shook his head as his master leaned toward him. “I chose evil. Do you know why? Because I hated the Prysm. I hate it still. One day my brother will feel the heat of my hatred, and he will burn beneath it.” He leaned back. “But the time has not come. When the Dedication is completed, then will I move against him.”

  Corfe wanted to ask why they were chasing after him if nothing could be done, and Amarian seemed to read his thoughts. “Your mind is simple, boy. Of course Kynell will protect him until the Dedication. The failure of Tsare taught me that. But if I can keep him away from the priest and contain him until that time, who knows? We might just cheat—what was that?�
��

  Corfe jumped at Amarian’s sharp question. He had heard nothing in his increasingly drowsy state. But whatever it was could leave them alone for half a night.

  “Get up, slave!” Amarian jerked him to his feet. “Pack up our things. We must move quickly.” But the wind was beginning to circle around them, sweeping the air into a cyclone of fallen leaves and dust. The fire died and only the central lunos illuminated the two men. From the woods could be heard a strange groaning as the cyclone directed them through the trees and toward a slight clearing. Then it was gone and all that could be heard was the labored breathing of a dying animal.

  It was a yemain—a lithe creature hunted for food and hide. Obviously, some hunter had declined to track down his prey, for here she was, wounded and alone. As the two watched, she struggled to rise, only to fall back upon down.

  Corfe reached for his knife to put her out of her misery, but Amarian stayed his hand. Quietly, he knelt beside the creature. At the movement, the yemain raised her head and looked at him. To Corfe’s amazement, it spoke.

  “You are Amarian?”

  “Yes.” The Advocate evinced no surprise at this strange situation.

  “You are called the Darkness of the World. Yet I die, and as I die, so shall your efforts to keep Kynell’s chosen from his fate. The brothers will fight as enemies and one will die.”

  Before he could respond, the yemain’s head fell back, and her breathing stopped. Hissing under his breath, Amarian rose and pointed to his servant. “Skin this creature. I want to eat its flesh and burn its hide. Then we leave. There will be no rest until we find Vancien.”

  __________

  Lascombe. Finally!

  The days of Sirin’s surly company were fast coming to an end and Vancien could not have been more thrilled. The munkke-trophe had his moments, but by and large he was a very disagreeable character. The young man planned to part ways with the creature at the city gates, but to his surprise, Sirin objected.

  “You are young and stupid. You will get lost in such a city. Why did you want to come here anyway?”