The Sons of Hull

The Sons of Hull

Book One of the Advocate Trilogy

By Lindsey Scholl

Copyright © 2013 by Lindsey Scholl

Cover Copyright 2013 by Lindsey Scholl

Map of Rhyvelad created by Patrick O’Donnell

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (eLectio Publishing) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

eLectio Publishing wishes to thank the following people who helped make these publications possible through their generous contributions:

Chuck & Connie Greever

Jay Hartman

Darrel & Kimberly Hathcock

Tamera Jahnke

Amanda Lynch

Pamela Minnick

James & Andrea Norby

Gwendolyn Pitts

Margie Quillen

Other titles from eLectio Publishing:

Tales of the Taylor: Songs that Changed
the World by Ethan D. Bryan

Learning to Give in a Getting World
by Marcus R. Farnell, Jr. and Jesse S. Greever

At the Back of His Mind
by T. Marcus Christian

The Wall & Beyond
by Joanna Kurowska

Drunk Dialing the Divine
by Amber Koneval

The Advent of the Messiah: Finding Peace, Love, Joy, and Hope in a Modern World
by Tony Turner

More From Life: 99 Truths to Understand and Live By
by Christopher C. Dixon

Living to Give in a Getting World
by Marcus R. Farnell, Jr. and Jesse S. Greever

Anabel Unraveled
by Amanda Romine Lynch

www.eLectioPublishing.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are several people I would like to thank for helping with this book. First, Patrick and Laura O’Donnell (my mom and dad), who always said I could be a writer, and who had the patience to read all my efforts, good and bad. Dad, your artwork has helped me visualize my characters in a wonderful way; I have been gifted with a delightful family that is blessed with remarkable creativity. Dan Schaeffer, your friendship, experience, and enthusiasm for the book were a great help during my time in California. Lloyd Williams, you were my first young reader and I value your insights. Also, I’d like to thank Dave and Doreen Moore, friends whose knowledge about publishing and enthusiasm for this project were greatly needed at the time God provided them. To Rachel Carroll: your persistence and creativity with the cover art were invaluable. And to my husband, John: you have patiently supported my writing and given me time to pursue it. I love you.

My greatest thanks go to God and to His Son Jesus Christ, who is my life.

To Dad and Mom. You always believed in my writing.

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Amarian..............Uh-
mare
-ee-un

Anisllyr................
Ahn
-is-leer

Chasm.................
Ka
-zihm

Chiyo..................
Chee
-yo

Cylini...................Sih-
lee
-nee

Destrariae............Des-
trair
-ee-eye

Ealatrophe...........
Ee
-luh-troaf

Jasimor................
Jaz
-ih-more

Keroul.................Kuh-
rool

Kynell..................Kih-
nel

Lascombe............Las-
cohm

Munkke-trophe....
Muhn
-kee-troaf

N’vonne...............Nih-
von

Obsidian...............Uhb-
sih
-dee-uhn

Patroniite..............Pa-
troan
-ee-ite

Prysm...................
Prih
-zihm

Relgaré.................
Rel
-guh-ray

Rhyvelad..............
Rih
-vuh-lad

Telenar.................
Tel
-ih-nar

Vancien................
Van
-cee-in

Verial...................
Vehr
-ee-uhl

Voyoté.................Voy-
oh
-tay

Zyreio...................Zuh-
ray
-oh

PROLOGUE

“The day of the advocates always comes. Kynell will not sit silent in his house of Prysm. Zyreio will not keep peace in Obsidian. Ten thousand score of mornings and of evenings, then Rhyvelad will tremble again. Brothers will fight as enemies and one will die.”

Book of Ages, Seventh Folio, First Line

The town of Win, South of the Glade possessed a scenic little schoolhouse, situated at the edge of a gentle wood and fronted by a crisp, manicured lawn. On this particular school day, twenty boys and girls sat attentively at their rude and uncomfortable desks. The studious children were literally sandwiched between small planks of smooth wood attached by a metal bar to stiff chairs that inspired good posture but little else. As a further benefit, every time a child squirmed in her seat, the desk would emit a tell-tale creak that drew all eyes, including the instructor’s, toward the offender. The instructor, Mr. Ackburton, was a middle-aged man with wiry hair, sporting a shiny brass-framed monocle. He would grow irritable when one of these creaks interrupted his lecture. But in other respects he was an affable fellow with an impressive degree and a condescending willingness to enlighten these backwater students with his academic learning. He was currently lecturing them on religion, which happened to be his favorite topic. He loved to expound on the many exciting theories he had learned during his tenure in the city. The fact that his students failed to grasp even the basics of these theories bothered him not at all.

“So the question is,” Mr. Ackburton proclaimed, tapping his blunted pointer on a board covered with chalk writing, “why does Rhyvelad
need
two
gods? Why isn’t one god enough?”

The boys and girls stared back at him. Some of them shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, but none of them responded. He eyed them hungrily, excited by the vistas he was about to unfold. Finally, one student nervously raised his hand.

“But, sir, the Ages. . .”

Mr. Ackburton shook his head vigorously, as if an annoying insect had crawled into his ear. His tussled dark hair shot out in every direction and his monocle nearly fell off of its perch.

“Come now, let’s think about this. What are the Ages anyway? Let’s review.”

Just then, a boy burst in through the rustic, creaky door and hurried to his seat. He was about twelve cycles, with short hair as dark as Ackburton’s. Tall for his age and keenly aware of his offense, he clumsily found his desk and commenced staring at his hands. The cuffs of his sleeves were damp.

“Amarian,” Mr. Ackburton began, only half-concealing his exasperation, “this is the third day you are late. Do you have an explanation for your tardiness?”

The poor child looked around at his colleagues, who stared back at him with curiosity. “Yes, sir.”

“And? What could possibly detain you for three days in a row?”

The boy flushed a deep red and shrugged. Water, or perhaps sweat, dripped from his brow.

The class burst out in giggles, causing the boy to blush even harder. Mr. Ackburton was not impressed. “
Shrugging
is not a reason, young man. If you are late tomorrow, I will have no choice but to give you demerits. Oh, and do try to attend class completely dry.”

“Yes, sir.” Another round of giggles.

“Now, then, where were we? Ah yes,” he picked up his pointer again, “we were suggesting that there was only
one
god and that even he is probably better represented as an idea, rather than a personality. The Ages, we were saying, are flexible on this point, as we can see in the eighth line of the Fourth Folio, where it begins. . .”

As Mr. Ackburton droned on, subjecting line after line of the ancient book to his literary analysis, the boy named Amarian forgot his embarrassment and faithfully scribbled down notes on his slate. When the lecture was over, he was the first to raise his hand.

“Yes, Amarian?”

“Sir, if there’s only one god and he’s just an idea—” Amarian paused to work out his thoughts. “—then what happens to the Advocates?”

Mr. Ackburton laughed tolerantly. He was, after all, a kind-hearted man. “The point is, Amarian, that there never
were
any Advocates. This whole idea of the gods choosing a champion every five hundred and forty cycles is a metaphor. That means,” he gestured to the class to take notes, “that it’s not meant to be taken literally. The Advocates represent the idea of good struggling against evil and of course, this process is cyclical.”

Amarian was silent before the man’s great learning, although something in what he said didn’t feel right. When class was dismissed later that afternoon, he clamored out of his desk and walked thoughtfully outside with the others, who did not give the impression of being troubled by the day's lesson. Amarian couldn’t help but envy their lightheartedness; everything Mr. Ackburton had told them had probably gone right over their heads.

To avoid further company and allow more time for thinking, he walked home through the woods instead of through town. His father surely wouldn’t need him back immediately. He looked glumly down at his slate; normally, he would take the notes home and copy them onto the thin pieces of bark his father kept stored for that purpose. But today, he was repulsed by what he had written. One god? That’s not what the Ages said, as he understood them. And what did “the idea of a god” mean? He scratched his head, trying to come up with an idea of something that didn’t actually exist, but the best he could come up with was a rat with seven legs and a bushy tail. And even that was made up of things that
did
exist.

He scratched his head again and sat down on a tree stump, hopelessly confused by the instructor’s lecture. His face was so puckered up in thought that he did not notice how the wind changed.

If the Advocates didn’t actually exist, he reasoned, why did his papa keep telling him that they did? And why did he say that the time was coming when they’d be chosen again? And if it was all figurative about good and evil, how could the Advocates be brothers, born seven cycles apart as the Ages said? He thought about his own brother, Vancien, who was five cycles. He definitely
did
exist; his papa always said what a help he was, even at a young age. Even Amarian had to admit that, of the two brothers, Vancien was certainly better behaved. Such an admission was not as difficult for him to imagine as one might think: Amarian was an honest sort of boy and he knew his weaknesses. One of them was not minding as well as he should.