CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gair watched his jailer with less malice than one might expect, given his weak and humiliating situation. With hands bound to a tent pole and another set of bruises marking his face and body, he hardly looked the swaggering hero who had once tried to protect Verial. If pressed, he would admit that his current condition was entirely his fault; as soon as Amarian had left to take Ovna on a hunt the day before, he had attempted to escape into the Keroulian troops. His attempt had been brought to a discouraging end, thanks to the arrival of Amarian’s human servant, Corfe, who bore a note from Commander Hull himself that granted him authority in the place of the absent commander. Unfortunately, he had been in the process of showing this document to General Tengar when Gair had attempted to crawl from Hull’s tent. Corfe, undoubtedly informed by his master of Gair’s treachery, recognized him immediately. But whether the sound beating he had received was a result of his escape attempt or Corfe’s predetermined hostility toward him, Gair couldn’t tell.
Now this strange mute was pacing the carpets like a caged fennel. From what Gair had gleaned from Tengar’s conversation, the young man had arrived from east of the Ergana, bringing with him information about some people who had escaped Lascombe many fortnights ago. Now he was in charge of the army, although he couldn’t have been older than Gair himself. Gair wondered if the poor fellow was up to the task.
“They say that it was Amarian who took away your power to speak. Is that true?”
Corfe ignored him, pausing to look over some maps.
“They also say that you tried to impersonate an Advocate. One of the men remembers seeing you at the Capital.”
Again, no response.
“That means you’ve met the priest, Telenar. Is it true that he’s a bitter old man? I wonder if he still is, now that he’s left Lasc—”
His chatter was cut off by a blow to the mouth. He cried out in pain, but Corfe only put a finger to his own lips in gesture of silence before walking back to the maps. Trying not to make a sound, Gair squeezed his eyes closed and bowed his head. He was being rash, he knew. Why would Kynell protect someone who kept looking for trouble? He needed to keep his mouth shut. The truth was, he was beginning to give up hope. Here he was in the midst of good Keroulians and he was trapped with yet another monster. Had Kynell even heard his prayers? Pain he could handle, but what good was he doing tied to a post? He had to get out, had to find a place to heal, had to—
To his surprise, he felt a wet cloth on his mouth. Corfe was back again, dabbing away the blood he had just caused to flow. When he had finished his nursing, he patted Gair condescendingly on the cheek, and left the tent. Gair stared after him in astonishment; perhaps enforced silence had driven his captor insane.
Corfe, for his part, was beginning to feel a little insane as he stepped outside to wander around the vast military base. He had placed his tent in the camp of men, ostensibly to keep an eye on the wretched villains, but more so because he didn’t want to sleep with the Sentries. Not that he had received any welcome from either group: as Amarian’s servant he was hated by all and feared by few. Even that miserable little Gair had felt safe taunting him, although Gair had learned his lesson. Or had he? Corfe shook his head, recalling his brief ministration. What had come over him? He should have left the prisoner to bleed, not mothered him. Such foreign impulses had been stealing over him during the past few days and he was losing the power to resist them.
He paused, watching the movements around him. Camp was always a constant bustle of activity, though little was actually being done. The generals rightly believed that the ground troops needed activity to keep them from mutiny. But surely even Keroulian soldiers would realize that polishing the sharp ends of wooden stakes was a colossal waste of time, even if the points did gleam prettily in the orblight.
Corfe turned his attention to the clear sky. Amarian had said he would return the next day, although he would only stay long enough to welcome Farlone and ensure the prince’s loyalty. The time of the Dedication was drawing near. Soon he would be flying west, to Jasimor. Despite the warm day, Corfe drew his jacket tightly around him; he shuddered to think of his master’s return from the Plains. They said the Advocate became possessed after Dedication, and what he had read in the Ages only confirmed the rumors: the first thing Grens had done after his return was brutally execute his second-in-command. Given his current position, the story was very much on Corfe’s mind, nor had he found any reasoning behind Grens’ action, despite frantic searching. The man had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Although Corfe was determined not to repeat the poor fellow's mistake, he had no idea how to avoid it. His only hope, and a slim one indeed, was that Zyreio would value Amarian’s characteristic restraint and see fit to maintain it. Besides, they were all dead men anyway. When Amarian defeated Vancien, the whole of Rhyvelad would be plunged into a reign of terror; if any man survived the initial carnage, he would be living only to die another day.
Corfe frowned as he watched a young soldier struggle to patch his tent before the Keroulian prince’s arrival. The boy stopped and saluted as he walked by. While Corfe returned his salute, he couldn’t help but think that he and that young man would be sharing the same dark fate. How much would he give right now to be back at The Shattered Lantern, teasing old Bokran? But those days would never return. He had chosen poorly that night on the cliff: death would surely have been preferable to watching the world go down in flames. Still, he mused as he kicked at the dirt, it was better than being on the losing side. With that comforting thought, he turned back to check on Gair, the one man more pitiful than himself.
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Vancien and Bren were the first two to clear the trees of the marsh and step out into the bright orblight. With a whoop, they urged their voyoté into a run and tore across the grasslands. The beginnings of the western plains stretched out in front of them like the sea, with stretches of prairie grass beating upon the trunks of isolated trees, just like the waves of the Osai crash against its lonely islands. It was a beautiful sight, welcome to everyone who saw it. Even the Cylini were relieved to feel dry, firm land under them once again. That night, they camped out in the open, soaking in the lunos light and swapping stories as much as cultural barriers would allow. Verial sat silently among them, guarded by Cylini warriors not because they feared she might slip away, but because Telenar had no desire for her to be around Keroulian speakers.
Her guards watched her diligently for a time, but soon one excused himself for nature’s call and the other’s attention wandered over to the campfires and the laughter. Verial did not notice his lack of attention, of course, since she was still blindfolded. But she did notice was the thump of something large hitting the ground, then a touch on her arm.
“Vancien?” As soon as she said it she knew she must be mistaken. Why would Vancien sneak up in the dark and take out one of his own men?
Her suspicions were confirmed as the grip on her arm tightened. So Amarian had come again to check on her. Without a sound, she rose and followed as he guided her away from the sounds of merriment and into the quiet darkness. Only when they had walked for several minutes did he stop to take off her blindfold. Still, she chose not to look at him.
“Why have you come, lord?”
Amarian said nothing as he brushed the hair away from her face. Her fear, which was poorly concealed under a veneer of indifference, made her all the more enticing. He looked back toward the camp.
“Have you tired of their company?”
“They are provincials—even the priest. And Vancien is,” she hesitated, unsure of how to describe him, “very young.”
He grunted, still watching the camp. “He is indeed. Yet he outshines every one of those dogs.”
“My lord?” It was odd to hear him speak with warmth about anybody, let alone his brother.
He looked abruptly at her. “We two have been in poor company these past fortnights. You with rustics and I with stuffy, self
-righteous generals.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But we are used to dealing with inferior beings, aren’t we? We should never bother to look for equals; our equal always turns out to be our enemy.”
What was he talking about? “I am neither your equal nor your enemy, lord.”
“Neither are you a servant. Or a friend.”
“I am whoever my lord wishes me to be.”
“And who were you to Grens?”
So that was why he had come. To remind her of who she was. “I was young.” And foolish, she thought.
He leaned forward, softly kissing her first on the forehead, then on the mouth. “Yes, you were. But you are mine now. Not Grens’. Not Vancien’s. Mine.” He twisted his hand cruelly on her arm. “And I don’t want you to forget it.” Then he released her and stepped aside, confident that his little reminder would keep her in line. The more unsettled she was, the better.
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The lunos were high in the sky before Vancien decided to check on Verial. He felt somewhat guilty for isolating her, but Telenar was right: she was a grave liability. Still, she must be famished, so he spooned her up a bowl of stew and headed toward her campsite. A few moments later, incensed and afraid, he was back at Telenar’s fire.
“She’s gone! One of the guards is missing and the other unconscious. Quick, we have to go find her!”
N’vonne jumped to her feet, as did Bren and Chiyo. To Vancien’s exasperation, only Telenar stayed seated. His expression, however, was not without concern.
“It’s all right, Vance. Sit down. I’m sure she’s in good hands.”
“Good hands? You mean Amarian’s hands? He’s a monster! What if he kidnaps her with that ghastly dragon of his?”
By now, the others were confused as to what was the appropriate response. N’vonne sat back down by Telenar, but as long as Chiyo remained standing, Bren stood uncertainly behind him.
Telenar eyed them all coolly. “Vance, sit down. You’re causing a scene. I didn’t mean Amarian’s hands. I meant Kynell’s. Besides, she’s run off before, hasn’t she?”
Vancien began to pace. “And left a fallen guard behind her? Do you suppose she managed to knock him out while she was blindfolded? You stay here if you want. I’m going after her.” With that announcement, he turned on his heel and marched back into the darkness.
“Vancien!” N’vonne started again to her feet, and she and Bren were almost gone before Telenar managed to stop them. In truth, he could not explain why he felt so detached from this new turn of events. He knew as well as Vancien that Obisidian’s servant lurked beyond the firelight, and he was even more certain that Vancien would soon be out of his hands. His only concern now was to keep his small band together. And with the look N’vonne was giving him, that would be no easy task.
“Let me go! You’re going to let him go after her alone? What’s the matter with you?”
Trying to be as gentle as he could, he steered her back toward the fire. “N’vonne, listen to me. He’s out of our hands now. Kynell won’t let anything happen to him. He’s—ow!”
Her well-placed heel against his metatarsal caused him to loosen his grip. Before he or Chiyo could stop her, she was gone in Vancien’s direction.
The general watched in some amusement as Telenar hopped around on one foot. “Does your fiancé always treat you like this? Should we go after her?”
Telenar spat, swore, and did a few other un-Prysm-like things before he answered. “We don’t have much of a choice do we? Bren, grab a torch. These women will be the death of us.”
__________
When Amarian left, Verial was more confused than she had ever been. In a daze, she started to wander back toward the camp. Her arm stung, but that was not what was upsetting her. She could still feel his lips upon hers, and to her dismay, she had liked it. Could she actually feel warmth for Amarian? She had thought herself completely beyond such an emotion—especially for him. Had she betrayed Gair? What about Vancien? Such was her disorientation that when she first beheld the flash of light and felt the biting cold, she thought it was only a trick of her disturbed mind.
But the vision before her was no illusion. It stood only a few steps away, dull fur and feathers barely hiding hints of brilliance underneath, and a large fennel body that looked braced for a fight. Its beaked head was lowered menacingly. She had never read the Ages, but she had heard enough legends to know that this was a mythical creature—as mythical as Amarian’s dragon, at any rate. It was an Ealatrophe: part gryphon, part Destrariae, and entirely offended by her presence.
With a shriek that split her ears, it lunged at her and would have torn her to shreds had not Vancien shouted, stopping its attack.
“Verial! Where are you? We need you back at the— By the Plains, what is that?”
He stopped several yards away, instinctively clutching his chest. Visions of the Eyestone Glade and Telenar’s office flashed unwelcome through his mind.
“Verial!” he shouted again, trying to avoid the creature’s brilliant gold eyes. “Are you all right? What are you doing with this thing?”
Unwilling to draw the Ealatrophe’s attention again, but eager to make herself known, she managed a small “I’m here.”
He nodded, unable to go to her because of the beast but relieved to hear her voice. The Ealatrophe, however, had an obvious distaste for her. With one eye on Vancien, it screeched its protest and batted at her hopefully with a hind paw.
Vancien returned its gaze, wondering if the creature would listen to him. “Verial, give him a wide berth. Back up, walk far to my right, and go back to camp.”
Verial nodded and gladly obeyed. The frostiest of welcomes from the priest and N’vonne would be preferable to staying around this dreadful new arrival.
When Vancien was sure she was out of harm’s way, he approached the animal, talking softly as he did so. The creature stared at him, interested but unmoving.
“So you’re an Ealatrophe,” Vancien murmured, “and the legends are true, after all. What are you doing here? Are you here for me? If you are, then maybe you can warm up your Destrariae blood for just a little bit. How can I come near you if I can’t breathe?”
In truth, Vancien was almost paralyzed by the cold. But he was now an arm’s length from the creature, who showed no trace of the hostility it had so recently exhibited against Verial. Instead, as Vancien tentatively reached out his hand, it bowed its great head and knelt.
Vancien stopped, weighing his options. Surely it would be foolishness to ride the beast, although that appeared to be what it was inviting him to do. But could he just leave it? That was out of the question; Ealatrophe don’t just drop from the sky for nothing. Still, more out of curiosity than intent, Vancien took a step back, as if to return to camp.
The Ealatrophe’s response was immediate. Screeching, it jumped to its feet, took a few steps toward him, stopped, and bowed again. Clearly Vancien had not followed the appropriate protocol; the creature’s strange blend of grace, confusion, and determination made him smile. With a protective hand over his chest, he slowly assumed a seat on its back, just behind the drab feathered wings. To his surprise and delight, the icy burst he was expecting did not come. Instead, the cold began to warm until it felt like pure, rushing energy, uniting beast and rider into one unit. Trembling, Vancien leaned forward and whispered for the Ealatrophe to fly.
__________
Verial had just come into N’vonne’s sight when both women saw the brilliant flash. N’vonne blinked as Verial grabbed her arm.
“What was that?”
Verial shook her head. “It’s an Ea—Eela—”
“An Ealatrophe.” Telenar’s voice sounded just behind them, giving the ladies another start. “And I bet Vancien’s on it.” He shrugged, trying to hide his distress in the torchlight. “That’s the last we’ll be seeing of him for a while.”
__________
Vancien had never felt so alive in his life. The Ealatrophe s
hot through the night sky like an arrow, reducing the campsite to a bright spot on the dark surface of Rhyvelad. He let the creature take its lead for a long time, since it obviously knew where it was going. As dawn approached, though, he began to worry at the length of his absence. Telenar and N’vonne would not have slept a wink all night, he was certain, and besides, the haste and hostility with which he had departed weighed heavily upon him. He should go back and apologize.
Reluctant to bring this glorious night to an end, he nudged his the creature with his right knee and leaned to the left. An Ealatrophe was not a voyoté, but surely it would take the hint. In response, it cocked its head, curious at the interruption, and continued flying straight. Vancien tried again with more force and received the same response, this time accompanied by an annoyed squawk. Trying to fight down a swell of panic, he tried a third time. By now thoroughly displeased, the Ealatrophe folded up its wings and entered a dive; it was all Vancien could do to hold on as they rocketed toward the ground. Just as it seemed they would crash into open grass, it pulled up, fanned its great wings, and landed gently on the turf.
With a prayer of gratitude, Vancien tumbled off, lurched a few paces, and was sick. It took him a few minutes to recover and a few minutes more to find a stream where he could wash out his mouth and attempt to wake himself up from this dream he was having. Surely he hadn’t just spent several hours exploring the skies, thoughtlessly abandoning his only friends in the world and leaving them in the presence of Obsidian’s Advocate. Telenar and N’vonne must be beside themselves by now. And Verial. What if she hadn’t found her way back to N’vonne and Telenar, but to Amarian’s arms? He sucked in his breath. There was no hope for it; he had to go back.
Getting stiffly to his feet, he swung around only to collide with the sturdy shoulder of the Ealatrophe. It had crept silently up behind him. Strange, only the night before, he had felt its burning klathonus cold several paces away. Now, either the flame had expelled itself or he had been devoured by it—if the latter, perhaps it would be better for him to stay away from human contact for a while. Rubbing his sore forehead, he eyed the beast with a mixture of chagrin and amusement.
The Sons of Hull Page 23