The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  He had approached her quietly, boots silent upon the moss. She felt him before she saw him. And when he spoke her name, she didn’t start or run. It was as if her heart had beat fifteen cycles for this moment only.

  “Little Verial,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  She swallowed, forcing herself to look at him. He was handsome, but that was not what drew her. If he had been wearing a butcher’s apron, he still would have exuded an extraordinary, magnetic confidence. Dressed as he was in Zyreio’s sable uniform, the young girl had had no defense.

  If Verial had known how much she yielded to him that day, she might have resisted—even now, though, she doubted if she would have succeeded. Of everything else that happened during that first encounter, one painful, completely unnecessary memory stood out to her: she remembered Grens pulling her gently to her feet and running his fingers through her hair.

  “I’ve always loved blondes,” he whispered.

  She had followed his eyes, glancing down at the strand of hair he held between his fingers. With a cry, she realized that it was blond—all of her thick, warm locks had turned to silvery blond. Only then did it begin to dawn on her that she had made a terrible mistake. He must have known what was going through her mind, for he had comforted her, even made a pretense of watching out for her. But in the end he had forced her away from her parents, from her village, even from poor Narta. And he had changed her in ways much more horrible than the color of her hair.

  These and other sober thoughts carried her through the rest of the day. The next time Gair spoke to her was when they broke for camp.

  “We’ll be safe here, Lady. I am armed and the Sentries have circled us by now.”

  The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Do the Sentries make you feel safe, young man?”

  His surprised look contained a hint of warning. Earlier words regretted or forgotten, Gair was now highly concerned that they should be reported. “The Sentries are my lord’s mightiest servants, lady. Nothing,” his eyes gave the word emphasis, “can escape them.”

  There their conversation should have ended, for the Sentries could hear every word not whispered, and whispering would look suspicious indeed. But she could not help herself. Only a handful of times had she been away from the presence of darkness. During his lifetime, she was at Obsidian’s side constantly, while all cycles between an era’s completion, Zyreio submerged her into a troubled sleep. To be out under the night sky, with a figure of pleasant company by her side, was an experience to be explored, if not embraced. She wondered what tribe of Sentry her lord had sent and if they could be manipulated.

  “Tell me, boy, have the Neptim all been sent for the battle’s preparation?” She tried to keep her voice calm, but the path on which she was treading was unfamiliar. Never had she thought to deal other than obediently with her lord. Four lives she had led and she valued every one of them—except this one. Something in the air or the company incited her to take a chance tonight, though she had no idea what she was hoping to accomplish.

  Gair was disconcerted by her sudden insistence on conversation. “All but a few, Lady.” Then he began to grasp what she was saying. “I believe we are accompanied by a Neptim and two Urabi. They should be very useful on our journey.”

  “You’re right. But I wonder that they are still here. My lord would be most offended if they neglected their mission.”

  The cold shiver down her spine informed her that the Sentries were falling for the ruse. Two shadows flanked one grotesque figure as they stood just beyond the firelight.

  “Lady Verial,” the Neptim rasped as he bowed. “There is something you should tell us?”

  She trembled as she spoke the words. “Darkeness has provided me with further directions for you.”

  It was a unique sight to see a Sentry puzzled. “Lady?”

  “Your assignment is to protect my person and my mission. But how can you do such a thing if you don’t know what lies ahead?”

  “But our lord has scouts.”

  “Our lord puts little faith in the fennels.” Good, she thought. Stroke their vanity. “In order to preserve unity, he did not inform you of this in front of them. And so I am telling you now. You are required to scout ahead at least five leagues. Do not return until daybreak.”

  The Neptim shook his head. “Darkness would never leave his lady unprotected.”

  She allowed herself a trace of indignation. “Darkness knows whom he serves. And the one he serves offers me more protection than a battalion of you.”

  The Sentry looked at his companions, weighing her words. If she was incorrect—the thought of deception from the lord’s mistress never crossed his mind—and they left, harm might come to her, and then a painful death would await them. Yet if these orders were truly from the Darkness, they risked their lives with disobedience.

  Verial held her breath, waiting for them to question her further.

  The Neptim faced her again. “Perhaps if one of us stayed.”

  “That would be one direction unchecked. Perhaps you doubt me.”

  The accusation hit its mark and all three bowed in submission. “As you wish and our lord desires, Lady Verial.” Without another word, they vanished into the blackness to begin their search.

  She turned to an astounded Gair. After a breath to assure they were far enough away, she spoke again. “We are free to converse.”

  “You are certain they will obey?”

  Four lifetimes of experience served as her assurance. “I am certain.”

  But Gair was still on shaky ground. “Lady Verial, I—”

  “I cannot promise I’ll be pleasant,” she interrupted archly. “But I desire to speak with you. And if you don’t answer honestly, I will know it.”

  “It seems I have no choice.”

  “You do not.”

  With a sudden smile, he sat down next to the fire, relieved of the duty he was commanded to disobey. “Then ask, Lady Verial. I will answer as I can.”

  She sat less confidently, unsure how to proceed now that she had her opportunity. “I have not spoken freely for many cycles. But we don’t have much time. You asked me earlier what it was like to live as I do.”

  “Yes, Lady. I did.”

  She traced a finger in the dirt, pondering the question. “There is a home for those who fail Zyreio. It is called the Chasm. Everyone has heard of it. All know that its inhabitants suffer endless torment for their disobedience or ignorance. Old wounds are opened, new wounds are made, and sleep is forbidden. They are never allowed to forget past indulgences, past mistakes.” She stopped, not wanting to sound melodramatic, but wanting to speak the truth in this rare interval. “That is what my life is like, except that I can sleep. But that is no rest, for when I dream, I dream of the Chasm.”

  Gair whistled softly, sobered by her disclosure. “I am sorry, Lady. I did not know.”

  “How could you?”

  “Can—” he hesitated, but her questioning gaze reassured him. “Can you tell me how it is that you are in this position?”

  She broke eye contact again. “I made a decision when I was young. And I did not regret it quickly enough.”

  “Have you never thought of escape?”

  “And have his henchmen find me? And then a living death in the Chasm? No. At least here I have the chance of a little warmth, occasionally found in the kindness of a brave servant. More often in the simple glow of the fire.”

  He bowed his head, not knowing how to respond.

  She changed topics, not willing to dwell on her hopeless existence. “But what of you, young Gair? How is it that you are so foolhardy?”

  He shrugged, but his smile was back. “I have a little hope.”

  “Hope for what? Advancement in the service of our lord? A word from me, and you may have it.”

  He shook his head. “No, my lady. No hope in that, although Father would like to see me do so. But my mother was not like my father. She taught me the ways of�
��” he caught his breath, still fearful of saying too much.

  “Go on. I can incriminate you with or without your words. You might as well speak.”

  “My mother was a follower of Kynell.”

  She started to hear the name. Visions of rescue attempts flashed before her: smiling but dying heroes whose love was completely ineffective.

  “As am I,” he finished, watching her carefully.

  She knew he was nervous, but she could think of nothing to say. All she had known of Kynell were misdirected efforts and unfulfilled hopes. Tryun had tried to win her for the Prysm, but she had not wanted to be won. Even when Heptar, with his innocence, battled his way to her side, Varrin had been too strong for him. His violent fate had proved that he was no match for Obsidian. She heard once that Erst had tried to find her, but by then Zyreio’s sleep had descended, and she was lost to him. Why would someone choose to serve a god of such little power? If Kynell had been strong enough and had wanted her that much, surely she would not be with Amarian now. But she could not bring herself to shoot down this young man’s faith. Indeed, she would rather be sent to the Chasm than bring an end to his smile.

  “Are you a spy, then, in my lord’s service?” she asked teasingly.

  He was beyond retreat now. “I suppose I am. And only Kynell knows why I’m telling you all of this. You hold my life in your hands.”

  Her heart leapt with this strange power. Before her was a spy of Kynell who was trusting her completely. Here sat a knife aimed at Amarian’s heart. Could this young man be a thorn in his side? She wondered at the thought of giving the Advocate pain. Was it even possible? The idea fascinated her.

  Gair was eying her closely, so she hastened to reassure him. “You were wise to bring me into your confidence, Gair. I will not betray you.”

  His grin spoke volumes. “I knew you would not, Lady Verial. But come on, we should get some sleep before the Sentries return. It wouldn’t do for them to suspect us of chatting.”

  __________

  Breach season finished with a frustrated barrage of snow and ice: a suitable prelude to the harsh realities of a northern Rhyveladian hiverra. In Lascombe, Vancien studied with even greater diligence, while Chiyo’s lessons were confined to strategy and armaments. The battle to come could take place on a random footpath, with two combatants only, or on the great plains to the West, with thousands of men and other creatures. Vancien must be prepared for either event and hundreds besides. Telenar continued to supplicate Kynell for a revelatory disclosure of the Dedication site, all the while studiously avoiding N’vonne, speaking to her kindly, but only when necessary, and berating himself for his ill-timed interest. N’vonne received these odd or absent attentions with grace and attempted to make herself as useful as possible. Vancien, at least, greatly enjoyed her company, so she satisfied herself with reminding him of more basic lessons on the mundane and natural world of Rhyvelad. These, she assured herself, would be helpful in the coming days.

  Amarian prepared for war. His legions were strong, faithful, and growing every day. Discontent was inevitable at the end of a Prysm era. Evil, so long pushed into the corners of society, demanded a more prominent place, feeding its subjects with hopes of power, pleasure, and revenge. Dissolute men and bloodthirsty creatures flocked to the Obsidian banner, causing the very sky above Amarian’s stronghold to be stained with the campfires of the degenerate.

  Above, beside, beneath, and throughout were Kynell and Zyreio, by whose power these movements were executed. They watched with occasional pleasure, occasional pain, and constant interest. Both knew the taste of conflict; they had experienced it without ceasing since the planting of Zyreio’s tongue. Neither did they shrink from the climax that approached, for their confidence in their Advocates was complete.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Another snow-laden day. When it was not blocking the roads to make them impassible, it was melting, making everything a dreadful mess. The officers in charge of transportation and pathways shook their fists at the gray sky, but to Vancien it was enticingly beautiful. The hiveran paths seemed to summon him out beyond the palace grounds, beyond Lascombe itself, and into the magnificent Duvarian Range.

  Several fortnights had passed when he decided to embark on his adventure. Not surprisingly, Telenar did not approve.

  “You’re insane. You can’t go into the mountains in the middle of hiverra by yourself!”

  “But I wouldn’t be alone! You and N’vonne are welcome to come.”

  The priest shook his head, annoyed at the boy’s carelessness. His office was stacked high with scrolls and letters in preparation for the Dedication. Each ceremony in the past had been different, so there was little information to rely upon, but the searching gave Telenar satisfaction. He would be prepared for everything within his power; he believed this approach to be the practical side of faith. Vancien agreed, but the palace was stuffier than ever, especially since he was confined by the snow and Relgaré’s orders to stay out of sight. Even Chiyo was off on an expedition to the Marches. The young man felt that if he studied another folio of the Ages, he would go mad.

  “Telenar, I’ve got to get away. I haven’t been outside for any length of time since Chiyo left. The snow’s not expected to fall for another week and it’s surprisingly warm outside. A three-day expedition. Tops.”

  “No.” Telenar said, then changed the subject. “Did you know the king has denied us an army?”

  Vancien nodded. From Relgaré’s treatment of him, he was not surprised. “I figured as much. He’s got it in for me, doesn’t he?”

  Telenar did not look up as he perused the responses of the various sub-kingdoms. Chiyo’s homeland would help, but their forces were few and highly specialized, plus they wanted to meet Vancien first. The provinces north of Keroul were too caught up in their own petty arguments to help and their men were weakened by two decades of battle. He had even (Relgaré would have his head if he knew this) dispatched a secret envoy to the Cylini, since this was a struggle beyond territorial disputes. A response had not come, but he was expecting it soon. It was a few moments before he replied to the question.

  “He doesn’t have it in for you, my boy. He just doesn’t believe you. He’s bought in to the figurative cycle theory, so he thinks he has more time than we’re giving him. To the king, you’re just a young man living off the palace’s expenses and getting a free education.”

  “But hasn’t he been watching Amarian? A giant army lurking past the Trmak Desert would be cause for alarm, I should think. Doesn’t he—”

  A knock at the door prevented him from completing his question. At Telenar’s abrupt command, a servant stepped in and handed him a small, sealed piece of parchment. “For you, Patronius.”

  Telenar took the letter, thanked the man, and sent him away. As soon as they were alone again, he cautiously broke the seal and surveyed the contents.

  “What is it?” Vancien demanded as Telenar’s face fell.

  “It’s from Chiyo. It seems our king is well aware of the existence of Obsidian’s army. Indeed, he’s funding it.”

  “What?” Vancien took the letter and scanned its incredible contents. At Telenar’s urging, he read it aloud. “Greetings to you, Telenar, from the Cylini front. I am afraid I cannot send you any news that would bring you joy. The army the king has prepared to face the Cylini is not what I expected. I know you have no interest in border wars, but I believe you should know this: there are two companies of Sentries here, one brigade of fennels, and many more men who have not been trained under Relgaré’s banner. That these are mercenaries from Amarian’s camp, I have no doubt. The king, I have recently been informed, has signed an agreement with Obsidian’s general, who calls himself Hull in a half-hearted attempt to disguise his identity. Should we have victory, Amarian’s reward for this aid is control of Keroulian forces for himself, and land and freedom for the troops (many of whom have been convicted of multiple crimes). I risk my life in telling you this. As a friend, I warn you
to be careful. Escape. The jaws are closing more quickly than you think.”

  The two stood in silence, Vancien in shock as the news sank in and Telenar in wonder at the foolish monarch.

  “We’ve been betrayed,” Vancien finally said.

  Telenar shook his head as he retrieved the letter from his pupil’s limp hand. “No. He was never with us. The king thinks of nothing but the Cylini.”

  “But what did he mean by escape? Surely the king wouldn’t arrest us.”

  “He could do the equivalent: send you to the front and send me in the opposite direction. Then Zyreio would have you right where he wants you. When the time comes, Amarian could accuse you of treason, and this great, climactic battle would be nothing more than a public execution. Your fight could be over before it begins.”

  “What about Chiyo?”

  Telenar rolled his shoulders. It suddenly felt as if the weight of the world were pressing down upon him. “General Chiyo has taken an oath to serve the king and he does not take that lightly. Perhaps he would step in, but more than likely, Amarian would make sure he was out of the way. This,” he held up the letter, “is all the help he can give.” He threw it into the fire. “Go get N’vonne. Perhaps we’ll take a vacation into the mountains after all.”

  __________

  N’vonne was relieved to get out of the palace, but she was less certain about spending that much time with Telenar. When Vancien came to her with the news of their journey, her reaction was mixed.

  “The mountains, Vance? But the Pass cannot be traveled at this time of the cycle.”

  “We won’t be taking the Pass, N’vonne. Telenar has heard of another way.”

  “Has heard? He’s never been?”

  Vancien shook his head. “We can’t go east. Amarian’s army is beyond the desert. West, we go right into Relgaré’s men. Nobody would follow us into the mountains.”