The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  But Vancien had never been his servant. Vancien was merely his brother, neither his servant nor his master. It had been so long that Amarian had been pinioned between the two that the idea struck him hard. Vancien was not dependent on him to follow or to lead; he was simply there, separate from Amarian’s world but indispensable to it.

  He knelt down, irrationally grasping the wrist of the corpse to check for a pulse. There was none there: most of the blood had long since been drained out through the wound and washed away by the marsh waters. Still, he pressed his thumb harder against the tendons, pretending that the possibility of life still existed.

  As he did, the image of Zyreio next to the fireplace sprang up in front of him so sharply that he rocked backward. He could see Zyreio looking at him, judging him. Then, the house—his father’s house—was up in flames. Hull was trapped inside, bellowing for help. Vancien, too, was trapped; his boyish cries could be heard clearly above the roar of the fire. The crisis was so real that Amarian shouted out, attempting to put out the flames with his bare hands. But it was no use; soon the house and all who were in it were reduced to cinders.

  Amarian collapsed to the platform, sweating. There was no hope. Obsidian’s Advocate could never bring something good into the world: Zyreio wouldn’t allow it. The god had the power to destroy everything Amarian loved, not just once, but several times over. If he used a Grace to bring Vancien back from the dead (as he was now sorely tempted to do), Zyreio would simply destroy the boy again, and then where would he be? More alone than ever before.

  The violence of the vision had caused him to disturb the body again. Now Amarian could see something bulky strapped to its back: no wonder it had been laying in such an odd position. It was large and rectangular, like a book. Curious, Amarian rolled the body gently onto its side to cut loose the bindings that held the object on.

  It was the Ages. They were bloody and soaked, but still, there they were. He flipped them open to a familiar passage: “The day of the advocates always comes...Ten thousand score of mornings and of evenings, then Rhyvelad will tremble again. The brothers will fight as enemies and one will die.” That last line he knew well: it had been burned into his brain since the day he left home. But he had never bothered to read the next line. He looked closer, gently wiping away the mud that threatened to smear the ink.

  “But the love of Kynell is eternal; it overlooks the crimes of brothers and enemies. It waits for repentance.”

  He read it again, certain that he was mistaken. Kynell didn’t overlook crimes; he judged them and executed punishment, when he had the power. Still, there it was: .” . .overlooks the crimes of brothers and enemies. It waits for repentance.”

  He didn’t understand. It looked like this passage was holding something out to him—something like hope—but it went against everything else he knew about Kynell and Zyreio. Unconsciously, he moved his hand again to Vancien’s wrist. If you could just come back for a second, Vance, he thought to himself, you could help me understand this.

  The body stirred, but Amarian was too busy looking at the Ages to notice. Only when it propped itself up on its elbow and gave its head a shake did Amarian see what was going on. When he did, he dropped the book with a cry of terror.

  “Vancien?”

  Vancien shook his head again; it felt like he’d never get the water out of his ears.

  “Amarian, what are you doing here?” He looked around, taking in the moist, insect-laden swamp. “What am I doing here? I was in the most amazing place.” He frowned, trying to recall the memory.

  Amarian, meanwhile, had recovered the Ages with a trembling hand. “I, uh, was hoping for your help.” Then he remembered his hasty wish. “Do we have much time?”

  Vancien rubbed his neck, which had begun to itch. “Time for what?”

  It was an innocent movement, but it caused the full truth to dawn upon Amarian. The fatal wound was gone. Vancien looked healthy, as if the battle had never happened. He had done it. What would Zyreio say?

  He must have muttered the question out loud, because Vancien’s head snapped up.

  “Zyreio? What’s he got to do with anything?”

  Amarian had a hard time finding his tongue. “He, uh, well, since I brought you back, I thought that maybe he—”

  “You didn’t bring me back. Last thing I remember, you were plunging a sword into my throat.” He stopped to scratch again at his neck. “But now I’m here again. Like N’vonne, you must have claimed your Grace.” He looked sharply at Amarian. “Why? Why did you bring me back?”

  Amarian was still flustered, but he did not take kindly to Vancien’s tone. “I said, I wanted your help. There’s a passage here. ” He pointed to the open Ages. “I don’t understand it.”

  Vancien stopped rubbing his neck long enough to look at the page in question. When he finally realized what line it was that was bothering Amarian, his attitude changed considerably.

  “You want forgiveness?”

  “Forgiveness? No. What do I need forgiveness for?”

  “Killing me, for start.”

  Amarian flushed in anger. Here was the old self-righteous Vancien, back in full force. “For doing what I was born to do? I could have let you go with Zyreio, you know.”

  Vancien nodded. He had long suspected Amarian’s motivations on that day. Amarian’s words, though harsh, spoke of a great sacrifice.

  “I know. And I’m grateful, believe me. You gave me the freedom to serve the Prysm. Kynell knows it well. But then you gave yourself over to evil. You persecuted and murdered Kynell’s servants and killed his Advocate. He should strike you down, but instead he offers you himself—again. What will you say?”

  For several moments, Amarian did not respond. History was replaying itself, except this time there was no young child for whom he had to answer. Two paths still stood before him, and this time if he chose against Kynell, it would be for his own reasons. He shivered at the thought of crawling back to Obsidian, of living completely alone, of serving a god who must despise him. Yet his pride balked at taking Kynell’s offer. Did he dare trust the same one who had abandoned him that day next to the fireplace? He glanced again at Vancien, who was sitting patiently. Kynell’s love waits for repentance, the Ages said. One thing Vancien had said was right: he certainly had a great deal to repent of since that day, if Kynell cared to hear him.

  “He is still waiting for you, Amarian. He’s still asking you to serve him.”

  Amarian bowed his head. How could he refuse Kynell a second time?

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Telenar and the others were still a few days away from the Keroulian camp when the Ealatrophe startled them all by screeching and gnawing at its bandages. It was early morning; most people were still asleep in makeshift tents, heads resting uncomfortably on their packs. Before anybody could offer groggy intervention, the beast had torn off its restraints and launched itself lopsidedly into the air. Telenar alone did not wonder much at its behavior, having assumed it to be completely wild now that Vancien was gone. Bren, however, had appointed himself its primary caretaker and was very upset. In just a few minutes, he had organized a search party, including Chiyo.

  Telenar grabbed his friend by the arm.

  “Chiyo, this is foolishness. The creature has a mind of its own. Let it go.”

  Chiyo shook his head. “Tell that to Bren. He’d be off on his own if we didn’t go with him. Besides, that thing could turn out to be useful.”

  “Not if it keeps behaving like that. Let Bren go and send some men with him. But you should stay here.”

  Chiyo, whose heart wasn’t in the task anyway, nodded and hurried off to make arrangements. Telenar, meanwhile, went to find N’vonne and inform her of the new development. She would not be happy. Ever since the news of Vancien’s death, she, too, had acquired an attachment to the creature. It was, after all, the last one of them to have seen Vancien alive. Now even that small comfort had disappeared. Telenar shook his head, still at a loss. How cou
ld Kynell have let this happen? Was the fate of Rhyvelad really just a gamble? How could a man have faith in a god who would allow—or worse, couldn’t stop—the death of his own Advocate?

  These and other dark thoughts hounded him as he made his way through the little encampment, the soberness of which mirrored his own grief. The Cylini warriors, usually given to song, were now huddled miserably around fires, staring at the embers in the cool morning light. The remnant of Chiyo’s soldiers were just as disconsolate; many of them had already slipped quietly away to rejoin the main force under Corfe. Except for these deserters and Bren’s little search party, the entire camp seemed numb.

  The search party was gone all day and into the next night. They returned torn and dirty the next morning, reporting that they had encountered no sign of the Ealatrophe. Telenar gathered his strength to offer them encouragement, but he was interrupted by one of them pointing abruptly to the sky. “Look, sir! Toward the south!”

  They all followed his gaze and sure enough, there was a dot above the tree line that was growing larger and larger. Telenar held his breath while Bren shouted that it was the Ealatrophe and that it was carrying somebody—two somebodies, in fact.

  It did not take long for Thelámos to draw near enough for them to see whom it was carrying. N’vonne was the first to recognize the rider.

  “Vancien!” She ran forward, nearly hysterical. “It’s Vancien!”

  Telenar stood rooted to his spot as everyone around him burst into cheers. Vancien himself was beaming like a proud parent. Everyone gathered around him as close as they dared; in their excitement it took a few moments for them to notice the shivering figure behind him.

  Amarian had drawn his jacket around him as much as he could, hiding his face in the depths of his hood. He hurriedly dismounted, stamping his feet to regain warmth and trying not to draw attention to himself. His entire body ached with cold. The crowd around him instinctively drew back, though few of them guessed his identity. Without a word of clarification to them, Vancien grabbed his brother’s arm and walked over to Telenar, who still had not moved.

  “Telenar, we need to talk.”

  It was difficult extracting themselves from the jubilant crowd, particularly N’vonne, who refused to let Vancien get out of arm’s reach. Finally, Vancien promised them all a party of celebration and explanation that evening, which at least gave them an avenue for expressing their joy. They all eagerly set about the preparations, with the exception of N’vonne, who would not be put off.

  Finally, the four of them were gathered in the tent, with Chiyo standing guard outside. Amarian sat quietly against the canvas wall, Vancien sat protectively just in front of him, with N’vonne immediately to his right. Telenar, meanwhile, had to pace—his delight over Vancien’s return was mingled with a high level of confusion.

  “You’re telling me that you were dead?”

  “Yes. Amarian killed me.”

  Telenar stared at the silent figure in the corner. The former Obsidian Advocate had not said a word since his arrival. Telenar resumed his pacing.

  “How is this possible? There’s nothing like this in the Ages. I—I don’t even know where to begin.”

  He sat down with a heavy sigh and looked at Vancien helplessly. What in the world was Kynell up to?

  N’vonne, however, had no such confusion. “How can you be upset at a time like this? Vancien is alive! What more could we want? And we should be grateful that Amarian has come home too. Welcome back, sons of Hull!”

  __________

  The return of Amarian pa Hull to the faith was welcomed by very few. Only Vancien and N’vonne were personally delighted with his deliverance; the rest were impressed merely from a theological viewpoint. Kynell’s mercy was great indeed, but what were they to do with this sulking convert?

  Their reception of Vancien, on the other hand, was little short of ecstatic. Not only had their champion returned from the grave, but the shadow that was descending over Rhyvelad had dissipated. What remained, however, were some unusual problems.

  Corfe was still entrenched as a high priest of both men and Sentries. Although he might have welcomed Vancien as a religious oddity, Vancien would not allow Amarian near his old camp, since Corfe would consider it his duty as the Prysm Advocate to have Amarian killed on sight. Their only option was to return to the marshes for the moment, where the Cylini could offer some protection until they decided on their next move.

  Besides, far greater concerns were battling for their attention. What had happened to the armies of the undead? Had they been summoned? If so, where were they? How would Amarian’s actions affect the cycle of ten score thousand cycles? And what was Rhyvelad going to do with two Advocates?

  Verial, meanwhile, hid like a frightened child after Amarian’s arrival. The morning the recovering Ealatrophe had disappeared, she had rejoiced, only to be dismayed at its return and horrified at its passenger. Even sick with cold, Amarian terrified her. Now, although they all assured her (Amarian with a little less enthusiasm than the others) that he no longer posed a threat, she avoided his presence at all costs, even when he had told her the good news that Gair was still alive, though much damaged. After that point, it was only her fear of him that kept her from deserting the camp and running to Gair’s side.

  Vancien himself was unsure how to proceed; he felt no need to challenge Corfe, although he knew that was what Amarian expected of him. In his own mind, the work of the Advocate was completed. Zyreio had been defeated, albeit by somewhat unorthodox means, and was somewhere in the cosmos licking his wounds. The chaos that had threatened Rhyvelad never came to be. Relgaren, Relgaré’s eldest, had succeeded the Keroulian throne. Farlone and Lors were still backing Corfe, but what was that to him? If Corfe wanted to claim Advocacy, let him; he would find out soon enough that he was lacking a worthy opponent. For the moment, Vancien was content to live with the Cylini.

  Such peace was not granted to Amarian. His surrender to Kynell was, he knew, the greatest moment of his life. He lived in daily amazement at the Prysm god’s mercy, while trying to absorb as much of his brother’s tranquility as he could. But his cycles with Obsidian were not so easily forgotten; he had been closer to Zyreio than any mortal on Rhyvelad and that intimacy had left its mark. Fear had become his constant companion. Would Zyreio come after him? Would he be condemned to the Chasm for his betrayal? The knowledge of the Sentries’ infidelity did little to ease his mind: they were his fellow deserters. Surely Zyreio would not let such a massive defection rest. Although he shared these thoughts with no one, not even Vancien, they took a visible toll on him. Vancien watched with concern as his brother grew paler. Such unease was permitted by Kynell, Vancien had to remind himself, and it would pass in time. They were all readjusting.

  Fortunately, a celebration distracted them from their concerns: Telenar and N’vonne were getting married. The Cylini graciously offered one of their priests to conduct the ceremony. It was a glorious celebration, held in the orblit plains just west of the marshes. N’vonne was breathtaking: surrounded by late autore prairie grass and dressed in a brilliant white robe (another present from the Cylini), she seemed like a gift from Kynell himself. Even Telenar cut a striking figure, dressed in the finest Cylini tunic his new allies could provide. And for once, he was completely happy. Guided by the priest, the two proclaimed their commitment to each other, and in so doing, seemed to herald a brighter age than the one that had gone before.

  END OF BOOK ONE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LINDSEY SCHOLL is the youngest of the family—the fifth child—and youngest children like to think they have the most sensitive souls. When one of her older brothers introduced her to the fantasy genre, she was hooked, and has enjoyed it ever since. It was her love of a full, mysterious, majestic world that led her to get an MA in Medieval Welsh history and then a PhD in Ancient History.

  During her academic career she has written and presented several scholarly papers, but her heart has always been with cr
eative writing: C.S. Lewis is her literary hero because he had a gift of helping readers understand and enjoy the most complex ideas.

  Her website, www.lindseyscholl.com, is dedicated to exploring truth in a colorful and sometimes humorous way. She is married to Dr. John Scholl, a fellow historian. Together they have eleven nieces and nephews, who provide wonderful inspiration for her stories.

  You can find more information about The Advocate Trilogy at www.theadvocatetrilogy.com.