The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  Fortunately, Telenar kept the distractions coming fast and furious. If Vancien had loved books before, that love was tested under Telenar’s tutorship. Every day, it seemed, he was in the study chamber, reading histories and pouring over charts of information he never knew existed. Surely, he thought, there was more to being an Advocate than reading. A Chronicle of Kynell’s Interventions he could understand, but Eighteen Ways To Cross the Trmak Desert? If Telenar had his way, he would have to read every scroll in the scriptorium. Thank Kynell for Chiyo.

  The general had insisted that an Advocate be skilled in warfare. Consequently, after his early studies, Vancien spent his mornings in the ring, learning to thrust, parry, duck, and dodge, both on foot and on a voyoté. Exhausted, he would then stumble in for a noon meal, then back to the scriptorium with an armload of Rolin’s Commentaries on the Rhyveladian Past: From the Planting to the Third Era. His new instructor would often meet him with penetrating, irritatingly repetitive, questions.

  Today was no different.

  “Good afternoon, Vance!” he hailed as Vancien entered. Vancien’s left arm was dangling limply at his side—a parting gift from Chiyo. With a grunt, he dropped into a chair. “How are you, Telenar?”

  “Fine. Chiyo driving you hard, is he?”

  Vancien eyed him sitting smugly across the table. The man must surely enjoy seeing him suffer. If Telenar had not been a priest, and if he didn’t wear spectacles, he would have considered inviting him into the ring for some lessons in empathy. “Hard, but not unbearable. What do you have for me today?”

  Telenar leaned forward, eager to test his new pupil. “We’ll start easy. Give me a brief synopsis of the three eras, with dates and names.”

  Vancien opted for the bare minimum. After all, Telenar was not N’vonne—he deserved no special obligation. “Lost: Tryun and Grens. The first cycle. Lost: Varrin and Heptar, cycle 540. Won: Nejona and Erst, cycle 1080. Won: Vancien and Amarian, cycle 1620.”

  Telenar let him have his joke, then shook his head. “Overconfidence can kill. So can sarcasm. Try again.”

  Vance obediently began a second time, though he kept his monotone. “One cycle after Zyreio corrupted Rhyvelad, Kynell decided upon the boundaries for this new evil, which he nevertheless did not destroy. So he established a timetable, wherein the power of one would reign for ten thousand score mornings and evenings, or 540 cycles. Brothers were chosen to fight this battle, for only in fighting his brother could a man’s faith truly be tested. The power of Advocacy was therefore never sought and often reluctantly accepted.

  “Tryun and Grens were the first of combat. Tryun was the eldest and chose to serve Kynell. He did so faithfully, but Grens was evil from birth and Zyreio poured all of his might into him. Rhyvelad’s first era was dark indeed. The darkness deepened with Varrin and Heptar, for Varrin slew Heptar the morning after Dedication. At the end of the second era, the fates of Nejona and Erst were kept secret from them. They both led quiet, uneventful lives before the Dedication, though those who knew Nejona knew he could not be trusted. He chose the path of evil for himself. The opposite was true for Erst. Their Dedications were separate, and neither brother knew his enemy until Nejona was slain in a duel he instigated. The truth was not revealed to Erst until afterwards, and despite this, he took up the reins of power well. This ushered in an era of light, which produced great monarchs, such as Ruponi, Natanya, and our own Relgaré.”

  “And Verial?”

  “She was a captive of the first battle. Zyreio admired her beauty, so he preserved her youth and stole her freedom. It is said that she has been the unwilling mistress of every Dark Lord since.” Vancien allowed himself a laugh. “Every Prysm Advocate has made it his duty to rescue her; Erst came close, but Zyreio retreated before he could succeed.”

  Telenar raised an eyebrow. “I take it from your manner that you have your doubts about Verial?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought. And if Tryun couldn’t save her with his power, I don’t have a chance. My focus should be Kynell, not some girl.”

  “You are right in that, although I wouldn’t underestimate this ‘girl’. Perhaps if Tryun and Heptar had focused more on the mission, they would have succeeded. So let’s move on.”

  The young Advocate held up his hand to stop him. “Before we do, I have a question for you.”

  “Of course, Vance. What is it?”

  But Vancien had turned nervous. He held his tongue, fingering a scroll in front of him, requiring Telenar to ask again what it was that he wanted. Only then did Vancien blurt out, “I was just reading Rolin’s Commentaries, and he has an index of Advocacy powers.” He paused for a sheepish smile. “Listen to me. I sound like I’m citing livestock accounts.”

  “You’re also avoiding the issue. What did Rolin say?”

  “He said that through all three eras, Kynell’s Advocate has been given three gifts: the gift of a protected life until the battle, the gift of the Destrariae, and Grace.”

  The young man stopped again and Telenar had to urge him forward. “Yes?”

  “Can—can you explain again to me what a Grace is?”

  Telenar took off his spectacles and began to clean them. This was an easy question. “It is nothing short of resurrection, Vance. At the final battle, the souls who served Kynell rise up and fight with the Advocate—the same, of course, is true for Zyreio’s servant. But to protect those who would help the Advocate until the Dedication, both Kynell and Zyreio have appointed their servants a Grace. If one of your comrades has fallen, he can be raised up before the battle to aid and comfort you. Obsidian’s Advocates rarely use this gift; it’s not often that they value their servants highly. But it’s different for the Prysm, and I must tell you, Graces have been used very unwisely in the past. I believe it was Heptar who raised up his father, who then turned against him. One must be very careful with this gift; people rarely die without reason.”

  Vancien glared, annoyed at his instructor’s brutal honesty. “And sometimes they just die.”

  Telenar’s tone immediately softened as he recalled the Sentry encounter. “You’re right, Vance. Sometimes they just die.”

  An awkward moment followed as Vancien considered how to voice his thoughts and Telenar considered how to change the subject. They both spoke at once.

  “I want N’vonne back.”

  “Have you begun your next read—what did you say?”

  Vancien stiffened, ready for a fight. “I want N’vonne back.”

  Telenar tried hard to be understanding. “I know you miss her. But a Grace is very important. One must not be used unwisely or during intense grief. Your friends are at peace now, but I can see their memory still haunts you.”

  “N’vonne is the only mother I’ve ever had. Not only that, she is brave and wise. If I’m really going to be an Advocate, I need her help.”

  “No. It’s too early and you don’t know what will happen down the road. Once they are brought back, there is no guarantee that they will survive until the battle. I know it’s hard, but we should wait.”

  With a scrape of his chair, Vancien rose abruptly. “You can wait. I’m bringing her back.” He strode to the door before adding, “I know you think I’m being foolish, but I need your help. If I’m going to do it, I want to do it right.”

  “Vance—”

  “Please, Telenar. Trust me on this.”

  Hands up in defeat, the priest rose as well. “Then follow me to the chapel. We will need to seek Kynell’s wisdom.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Inasmuch as he was capable, Amarian loved a late breach season night. The cold winds and the bitter air seemed to vent frustrations for him. Those who offended him on a late breach season night were fortunate compared to those in autore: the howling gales slaked his thirst for vengeance and softened his bite.

  This dark night, he prayed to Zyreio for a stronger storm than the one that raged inside. How could he have been so stupid? What kind of a child’s trick was it to slam doors and
tell lies to boys? To the Chasm with Telenar, that meddling priest. He should have executed both him and the soldier; then, at least, Vancien would be alone. Now the boy was under a Patroniite’s leadership and growing stronger by the day. He sighed. All was not lost. Zyreio had warned him not to make a move before Dedication. Now that he had done so and failed, he would merely have to settle for preparation of the battle to come.

  As his booted feet sounded upon the castle’s entry, the Sentries snapped to attention. Ignoring them, he made his way through the narrow corridor and into the great hall. Keroul was not the only country in Rhyvelad to be a seat of power. The Eastern Lands were Obsidian’s stronghold, protected on the west by the Trmak Desert and shielded in the east by the sea. They had become a refuge for Zyreio’s followers, driven out of Keroul over the past five hundred cycles. As was his right, Amarian had occupied Donech, the capital city of the Eastern Lands, although in truth it was really no more than a formidable castle. The “people” of Donech were no more than the troops Amarian kept, along with their clinging families, if they had any. The Eastern Lands were not like Keroul, nor like the territory of the West. They had no major cities, no hubs of commerce. Amarian preferred it that way; in the past several cycles, he had even made it a policy to raise the taxes insufferably should any town begin to rise above its neighbors. Better to keep all Eastern settlements looking to Donech for protection and wealth. For all that, the lands themselves were quite beautiful. Except for a blustery breach season, the weather was temperate, if very windy, and the soil was so rich in minerals that cultivation was easy. It did not serve Amarian’s purpose for his people to starve. He required a high level of tribute, certainly, but saw to it that his subjects were comfortable—indeed, he desired them to be so proud of their quality of life that they saw little need for improvement. Dissatisfaction only made them less accessible to him.

  Two Sentries opened the massive door, announcing his entrance. They were all there: clan chieftains, prideheads, and the five Sentry princes. Pounding their spear butts, swords, and mauls, they stood to greet him with a barbaric mix of fear and devotion. The chamber walls, burdened with dark tapestries and freakish statues, provided a haunting frame for this grisly company.

  The chieftains sat at the far end of the tables, as they were the weakest and most prone to failure. Like all humans, they had a propensity toward evil and these few with their clans had followed it with abandon. Still, their skin was penetrable and their minds not always sharp. They were useful, and most importantly, expendable.

  The fennel prideheads came next. Of all the three galthis, they alone had chosen to serve Obsidian, mostly because of their desperate need to feel rebellious. So Amarian was not surprised to see that, as they rose, they glared at him. Only half as large as a voyoté, their size was not remarkable, yet Amarian knew that little else on Rhyvelad matched their feline intelligence and agility. Theirs, too, was another gift: they could withstand the Destrariae.

  At the head of the table sat his most effective servants. They also surrounded the room, standing faithfully by each door to watch for treachery. Sentries: five tribes of competent, vicious, powerful reptilian beasts all committed to serving him. The Mholi were the most numerous; their strengths consisted simply of terrific physical stamina. The Urabi were night creatures and their ability to sink into any shadow (or make shadows sink into them) made them useful for gathering intelligence. The Aknat and Iu worked well together in battle: an Aknat could disappear for several breaths at a time while an Iu’s speed dispatched the bewildered enemy. Often they patrolled in pairs, one disappearing while the other attacked, or one attacking and disappearing while the other distracted the prey. Finally came the smallest and most efficient tribe, the Neptim. It was a Neptim that Amarian had sent to capture Vancien, for he trusted their intelligence and endurance. Tsare had been one of the best. Unfortunately, the attack of the Destariae was unexpected, although Amarian should have guessed that they would venture outside the Glade to protect an Advocate. If he had wanted to send a Sentry to die, he would have sent a Mholi.

  All of the Sentries were armed with leathery skin, ridges of impenetrable scales, the infamous claws that tapped seconds before their attack and, most importantly, steadfast loyalty. Occasionally a human or a fennel would take it into his head to rebel and the Sentries could always be counted on to set them straight. As might be expected, such lessons were very painful.

  He eyed them all with disdain until his gaze fell upon the woman sitting by his throne. She was beautiful, that one. Zyreio had certainly chosen well. Amarian had insisted that she wear a white gown for this evening’s meeting—he enjoyed the disparity. What was life without contrast? he reflected, then laughed inwardly. Contrast. That was why he was here.

  She was watching him. Her blue eyes sparkled at his presence, he knew. Why wouldn’t they? He was the first Obsidian Advocate not to force himself on her. The others were fools to make her their captive; her hostility only made her a knife poised at their back. Besides, meddling in the flesh was not his concern right now.

  By the time he ascended the dais and took his seat, the welcoming clamor had been replaced by an expectant hush. Even the humans, normally chatty, maintained their silence. None knew the specific instances of his failed ambush, but all knew that questions about the recent past were best left unasked.

  “Lord,” the prince of the Neptim began, rising humbly to his feet. “We are all gathered here as requested.”

  “Thank you, Tarl.” He gestured for everyone to be seated, then leaned over to Verial. “You look radiant.”

  She nodded. “As you commanded, lord.”

  “Have the humans been troubling you?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “I will kill any who do.”

  “So you’ve said and done.”

  This quiet parley was made without eye contact and none but the two heard it. The rest of the hall waited patiently while host and hostess examined the food placed before them.

  “I saw my brother.”

  “I guessed as much, lord.”

  “I failed to bring him under my control.”

  Verial wisely kept silent as he continued. “But Corfe and an Urabi are watching them now. Ranti’s not pleasant company. I wonder if Corfe will be of any use by the time they come back.”

  He watched for the quick blink of her eye and was not disappointed. More than 1,600 cycles of watching death’s handiwork and she still occasionally felt pain for others. Amazing.

  The company was trying its best not to fidget hungrily, so he made them wait a few moments more. Then with a nod, he ordered the food to be brought in. He was always careful to finish his meal before they began theirs. Watching the Sentries and fennels eat was an unpleasant experience, even for him.

  When all had finished and the humans were scraping the last of their plates, Amarian rose. “Edgar!” he commanded, causing the eldest chieftain to stand. “What is your count of armed men and women?”

  “Twenty-two thousand, lord. With another seventeen hundred ready by Dedication.”

  “That is good news. And the fennels? Where is Ssarb?” he looked down the table for the familiar gray face. Another feline had risen in his place.

  “Ssarb was killed today, lord,” it began, only to be cut short.

  “Killed? By whom?”

  Its yellow eyes narrowed as only a fennel’s could. “A gryphon, lord.”

  Amarian grunted. Ssarb was not easily replaced. “And who are you?”

  The creature nodded its head respectfully. “Koeb, Darkness. His firstborn.”

  “You are brave, Koeb, to tell me such news as this.”

  The fennel’s hackles raised imperceptibly, but his tone was even. “I am brave, lord. You are wise to have such a servant.”

  Wretched felines. He would kill it for its arrogance, only the prides were growing slim, thanks to the gryphons. Every creature was needed for battle. Judgment for insolence could be given later.
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br />   “Your count, pridehead?”

  “Seven hundred, Darkness. Another forty will be ready by Dedication.”

  “Then that leaves you, Tarl.”

  The Sentry’s voice was raspy at any time, but compared with the silk of the fennel’s, it was almost unbearable. “We have lost none since our last meeting, lord. Except one.”

  Amarian gritted his teeth; he didn’t need the reminder. “You should all know that the Prysm Advocate has joined with the priest from Lascombe. Telenar is a threat. He knows much. Corfe and Ranti are with them now. The rest of you will continue in drills and patrols. Our time to move is not upon us. We must wait in patience until then.”

  A few more commands, then Amarian gave control of the meeting to Tarl and left with Verial. Soon, they were in the quiet of his chamber and he could feel her trembling. Holding her by the hand, he leaned close. “I have a special assignment for you, my dear.”

  She did not speak.

  “Go to Vancien.”

  Surprised, she stepped back and looked at him. Her locks shone golden in the candlelight, making the sight of her so beautiful he almost recalled his words. But dalliances would get him nowhere.

  “Go to Vancien, beauty, and steal his heart. If there is anything that can distract a young man, it is you.”

  “You are joking, lord.”

  He admired her courage, but she was wasting time. “Have you ever known me to joke? You leave tonight. Edgar’s son, Gair, will escort you. Once you are in Lascombe, Ranti will watch you to make sure you perform well.” He began to pace as he plotted the strategy. “You will appear to Vancien as a lady-in-waiting, a seamstress, or some such lowly thing. He will, of course, instantly fall in love with you. Or lust, which would be better. But tread carefully, my dear. He will not be easily distracted from Kynell. Once his attentions are yours, you may do with him as you please. I have no doubt an innocent young fellow will provide a nice change for you.”