The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  Amarian did not fail to notice the general’s coolness, nor had he forgotten his brief encounter with the man in Lascombe. “You seem less than elated over yesterday’s victory, General Chiyo. Tell me, why is that?”

  Chiyo’s response was logical and formulaic, a strategy he had learned quickly after the arrival of Obsidian. Any disdain or antagonism would be quickly recognized and he did not want to provoke a confrontation. . .yet. He still had some services to render, so he would aid Kynell by just staying alive for the moment.

  “The policy of Keroul is always victory without bloodshed, if it is possible, Commander. Sadly, in this instance it was not. It is still allowable, under the Ages—Second Folio, line three hundred and forty seven—for a general to grieve within reason for any loss of life, even that of his enemy.”

  Gutsy, quoting the Ages to Obsidian’s Advocate. But this was a non-controversial piece of evidence and Relgaré would stand by him on it.

  The king was watching with amusement. “He’s right, Commander. If General Chiyo is a little soft of heart, he is still a fine soldier. Let him have his grief.”

  Amarian nodded. “Of course, Sire. Perhaps we should proclaim a day of mourning for the lost Cylini.”

  Relgaré laughed, taking the Amarian’s comment as barbed sarcasm and enjoying it. “Indeed, Commander, indeed! But I think I’d rather feast than fast! I’m sure the Cylini won’t mind that. Chiyo, stop this sober nonsense and call all the generals. I want a meeting in my tent by noon.”

  Chiyo saluted, grateful to be sent away from Amarian’s presence. “Of course, my liege. We will be there.” With a nod to both men and a smart turn, he rode off to fulfill his orders. As he left, he muttered a quiet prayer for patience.

  Amarian did not hear his supplication, but he suspected it nevertheless. That one, he had long since decided, would be a problem.

  “General Chiyo is a faithful soldier, I can tell,” he commented casually.

  Relgaré agreed. “He is my best. Chiyo’s service is more distinguished than any other man’s under my banner.”

  “Have you ever had any trouble with him?”

  The king was not so taken in by the Commander’s aid as to not be suspicious of his words. “Just what are you implying?”

  Affecting surprise at Relgaré’s tone, Amarian shook his head. “Nothing, Sire. I want only to be more informed about my fellow commanders. These days, a completely faithful man without ambitions of his own is a rarity. But it is obvious that General Chiyo is an exception, or else you would not place so much confidence in him. Forgive me if I have offended you.”

  Relgaré was not appeased by his fluid words. “You’ve offended one of my own, so you offend me. I trust that this will not be common practice between your men and mine?”

  Amarian had to fight to keep his calm and appear subservient. With a respectful bow, he apologized. Relgaré accepted it gruffly, riding away without another word. The distasteful conversation soon disappeared from his mind as he prepared for the move south, but the shadow of misgiving remained.

  __________

  Verial despised hiverra and it was becoming obvious that it despised her. She and Gair were well into Keroulian lands by now, and the reports of the Sentries had directed them toward the Duvarian Range instead of Lascombe. When she heard the news, she was incredulous. How did Amarian expect her to play the seductress in a blizzard? Their journey had already taken them through the southern leg of the Trmak desert and now were camped in the woodlands south of the Eyestone Glade. If it wasn’t for the hiverran weather, the remaining portion of the trip would have been easy going. As it was, every day was a battle against cold and ice. And now they had nothing to look forward to at the end of their journey but more cold and ice. What beautiful symbolism for her life, Verial commented inwardly. Hiverra upon hiverra, as far as the mind could see.

  Gair was breaking camp; a few more days and they would be at the Range. Then he would probably leave her. She would miss his company. The Sentries had taken their bait of night scouting so seriously that they now had every evening to talk as they willed. She was truly amazed by his optimism and energy. It seemed that the further away they journeyed from the fortress of Donech, the more he was inclined to share about his love of Kynell, as well as his affection for home and family (including his father, who was fully involved in Amarian’s service). He even discussed how he hoped to fall in love one day with some village girl. These were all amusing topics for Verial and all were just as far beyond her scope of understanding. Lust, maybe. Curiosity, often. But love? She did not care to know it.

  It was their last evening before entering the Duvarian foothills when Amarian met them. Riding in quietly, he dismissed the Sentries (fortunately for Verial, they had not disappeared for the night) and ordered Gair to make his camp somewhere else. Gair hesitated, unwilling to leave the lady alone with such a beast, but he was given no choice.

  “What, young man? You do not trust the lady with her master?” Amarian snapped, sensing his reluctance.

  Gair quickly recovered. “No, lord. It is not that. I just wondered if I could be of further service to you before I left.”

  “You may not. Now go.”

  Gair saluted and departed. Kynell would have to protect his lady, for he could not.

  Verial was not surprised at Amarian’s arrival, only curious that he took so long. “My lord, welcome to our camp. Have you dined?”

  He let out a bark of laughter. “Have I dined? That’s a strange question from a lady who has gone so long without seeing her master. But perhaps,” he paused, so she could get the full impact of his meaning, “I’ll dine later on tonight.”

  The words were not lost upon her, but she thought it an empty threat. He would not go this long without touching her only to start now, so close to the Dedication. She watched as he made himself comfortable around the fire and beckoned for her to sit next to him. When she had obliged, he leaned toward her, his arm gentle upon her shoulder.

  “So, how goes the journey? I hear you are closing in on your mark.”

  She nodded, adopting the submissive manner to which he was accustomed. “It goes well, my lord. I am sure you know they are in the mountains.”

  “Yes, Ranti keeps us all well-informed.”

  “Then you know too that there are three of them.”

  He raised his eyebrow. “This concerns you?”

  Staring steadfastly at the fire, she shook her head. “Of course not, my lord. I have no doubt your plans will succeed. I only wonder that they might suspect me. Telenar—”

  “What do you know of Telenar?”

  “Only what the Sentries tell me. That he is very suspicious.”

  “Suspicious but human, my dear. I am sure your performance will convince them all.”

  She did not respond, but the thought struck her that even if Vancien fell for her, what good would it do? After the Dedication, he would be barely human. How could she hold the attention of a man bordering on the divine.

  As if reading her thoughts, he answered. “It is possible. He will still be fallible and your powers have been honed over generations. You might even convince yourself that you’re in love with him.”

  That was something she did not expect. “You expect me to betray you?”

  “You are beyond love and hate, and you are beyond the ability to betray me. If you fall in love with him, he will undoubtedly do the same with you. And that is all the better. The last Advocate who loved when he fought was Heptar; his fate is well known. But I will not be a fool like Varrin. I’ll bide my time and live long enough to see my success.” He stopped, picturing the love-sick Heptar struggling desperately to save the lady sitting next to him. The Dedication notwithstanding, the hero had found a higher cause than Kynell, and thus abandoned, the protection of the Prysm abandoned him. Oh, what a sweet day that would be, if only he could recreate it!

  The woman beside him was silent, as always. It was obvious that she gave no thought toward his visi
on; he wondered if she gave any thought at all. Four lifetimes of physical and mental oppression could certainly dull the senses. Still, there might be enough of a spark left in her to resist, so he added, “If you decide to thwart my purpose by appearing hateful to him, he will care for you all the more, as a shepherd does for a lost, rebellious lamb. By the Plains of Jasimor,” he leaned back, kicking a stick into the blaze, “that’s a sickening picture. But that too will be the end of him: he’ll sacrifice the care of many for the coddling of one.”

  She did not trust herself to look at him. “And if I do not make it into his presence?”

  He did not miss a beat. “Then I’ll assume your escort failed in his duty and have him thrown into the Chasm. Alive.”

  Her knuckles were white as she struggled not to show a reaction. It was impossible to do that to Gair. A person thrown into the Chasm suffered the worst of fates: a body slowly eaten away by the Darkness and a spirit that felt every possibility of rescue ebb away. Any dead soul there deserved its punishment, as she would no doubt know someday. But a living servant of Kynell thrown in? Could Amarian even do such a thing? She was certain that he could and would. The image of Gair, alone, weeping for all the beauty he had known and never able to reach his god almost caused her to faint.

  “My lord has considered every possibility,” she whispered. “But I must assure you that I have had no thought of betraying you.”

  His fingers tightened on her shoulder even as his gaze softened. “Of course not, my dear. But as you say, I must consider every possibility. This is not a game I intend to lose.”

  “If there is anyone who can succeed in this, it is you, lord.”

  She tried not to stiffen as his hand moved slowly from her shoulder, across her back, and to her waist. “You would flatter me more, Verial, if you began to show some affection,” he whispered.

  Cycles of obedience took over as she moved to kiss him, but instead of a welcoming response she felt closed, cool lips.

  “Very good,” he whispered. “But see that you show Vancien more warmth.” Then he was on his feet and striding toward his voyoté. “I shall not speak to you again for a while,” he called back. “But you might tell Gair that the Sentries don’t need to go scouting at night. I have plenty of spies out for that.”

  Torn between indignation and relief, she watched him disappear. He had been the first—the first!—to decline her embrace. She had no power over him at all. And now she was forced to not only sacrifice herself to Zyreio, but all that was good in Rhyvelad as well. There was just enough humanity left within her to hesitate at this thought. Still, she would rather annihilate the faceless masses (including Vancien) than give up Gair’s warmth, which she was beginning to know so well.

  He found her the next morning, alone and shivering next to a dead fire. With a cry of alarm, he hastened to tear off his cloak and warm her. She submitted quietly to his ministrations, responding only when he hissed a question in her ear.

  “What?”

  He moved back enough to search her face and repeated his question. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Of course.”

  His sudden reaction startled her. With a face first pale, then red with rage, he jumped to his feet and unsheathed his sword. He was mounted before she could stop him.

  “Gair!” She grabbed his reins; it took all of her efforts to gain his attention. “Gair, get down! He’d kill you without a thought.”

  “I don’t care!” he shouted, loud enough for the entire forest, and certainly the Sentries, to hear. Then he bent down to her. “Any man who treats you like that should be punished.”

  Only then did she realize what exactly he was avenging, and how her unthinking answer had almost got him killed. “Gair, listen to me. He did not touch me. He—”

  He waited, impatient to stop the monster but relieved that he had not failed so drastically in his duty. “You said he hurt you.”

  “His very presence hurts me, Gair. It is the same with him as it has been with all of the Advocates.” Making sure she had his attention, she added, “Only he has not touched me.”

  He bit his lip, still frustrated at his own helplessness. “That—that is good news to hear.” Then he was down off the saddle and holding her close, much like a father would his scared baby girl. The move was the final of many surprises that long night and morning: her defenses failed, her eyes filled with unfamiliar moisture, and in detached wonder, she began to cry.

  __________

  The Sentries watched as the two stood there, freezing in the wind but unable to let go. In eager expectation of a feast, their grisly heads turned toward their master. His face was expressionless. With a flick of his wrist, he could destroy both of the traitors, but he did not. So the girl had finally found some comfort. Well, let her have it for a bit. Gair could do him no harm. Indeed, because of scenes like this, Verial would be sure to complete her mission.

  Noticing the hungry eyes of his servants, he shook his head. “Not yet, boys. But soon there will be a feast that even you will not be able to stomach.”

  He wasted not another thought on the couple. Instead, he urged his voyoté back through the hiverran forest. The great pines pierced the sky, their boughs laden with the unforgiving snow. He knew this area of the world well. In truth, he was only half a day’s ride from his home town of Win. The thought brought him no pleasure; he hated anything that reminded him of his childhood, anything that whispered in his ear of the true reason he had decided to serve Zyreio. Though he had not forgotten his brother, he had forgotten his brave, boyish desire to protect Vancien at all costs—an understandable oversight, since Zyreio had a vested interest in making him forget.

  Amarian was now deep in the woods. As his voyoté plodded along, he was suddenly overtaken with the desire to be alone with his god. He needed clarity. He also needed comfort, to know that he was not alone. Only Zyreio could offer him those things and so much more besides. So after several paces, he allowed his voyoté to meander to a stop. Dismounting quietly, he picked his way through the dead underbrush until he found an area clear enough for him to kneel. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the wet snow, and pressed his face to the ground. Arrogance was required of him with all the inhabitants of Rhyvelad, but when he faced Zyreio, humility was all he could offer. All of his schemes and plots seemed to rush upon him, only to retreat with equal haste. What were his plans anyway? Chaff before a mighty god. His lord would have his own way, and none could say otherwise—even he, the most powerful man in the world, was only a pawn in Obsidian’s game.

  With a groan he sought out the Darkness for the power he needed. May Obsidian keep him in its palm and hold him through the coming trials. Power would come. Victory would come. And he would rule. But he would always be a servant. So be it. That was what he had chosen and that was how he would perish: a master of all and a slave to one.

  He lay there for most of the day, conscious only of Zyreio’s presence. When he finally rose, the orbs were setting and night was closing in. All the creatures of the woods were silenced, either by death or slumber; the only sound he could hear was his own labored breathing. His hands were white from exposure and his knees could hardly move. Stumbling to his sleeping voyoté, he shook it awake, welcoming the warmth of its fur.

  “Take me to the king’s camp,” he rasped, knowing that the direction of his hands, not his voice, would guide it. Still, it was of some comfort to speak with another living thing.

  The voyoté obeyed as he slumped onto its back, cold and exhausted. Instinct would guide it out of the forest, at least. After that, he would take control once more.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Telenar’s voice, husky with sleep and cold, woke them up for another day.

  “Get up, everyone. Quickly! We’ve lost a great deal of time.”

  With a rebellious groan, Vancien curled tighter into his blanket. “Go’way, Telenar. It’s not like we’ve got anywhere to go.”

  Telenar sat back on his haunches, glaring at
his pupil. His annoyance was magnified by the fact that while Vance was warm in bed, he had been saddling the voyoté and breaking camp. Consequently, the news he delivered was tinged with macabre satisfaction.

  “Of course, Vance. We’ve nowhere to go. I’ll just go tell Corfe that we’ll be in for a while.”

  Vancien’s reaction was even better than he could have anticipated. With a strangled yell, he sprung from his covers and began yanking on his boots.

  “What? Where? Who is it? How close is he?”

  “Shhh.” Telenar soothed, for N’vonne too had jumped up and was looking around frantically. “Look, you startled N’vonne.”

  She hastily shook her head. “I’m fine. Who is following us?”

  Vancien interrupted before Telenar could respond. With rumpled hair and tunic askew, he looked young and boyish to a fault. “There’s no one here. He was just messing with us to wake us up.”

  He was countered with a glare. “On the contrary, Vance. His name is Corfe and he’s just a couple hundred paces behind us.”

  There were times when Vancien’s Advocacy was not as apparent as his tutor could have hoped. Eyes wide in expectation, he ran to the edge of the cave and peered out. “I don’t see any signs of a camp.”

  Telenar jerked him roughly back. “Of course you don’t, fool! Get back in here before he sees us.”

  Such a flare of temper shattered the relative camaraderie of the morning. An awkward moment followed as Vancien struggled to regain his dignity while Telenar debated between berating him or apologizing for his outburst. Behind them, N’vonne quietly arose and began packing her bed.

  In the end, Telenar did neither. “Pack your bed,” he grunted. “He might be upon us soon.”

  Vancien clinched his teeth and nodded. But shame at the reprimand still burned as he silently went about his chores. Telenar had lost his temper before, but never so unapologetically and never in front of N’vonne. He felt like an ignorant schoolboy. Curse Telenar, for treating him like that, and curse his own stupidity!