The Sons of Hull (17 page)

“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 vision; 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!

Respect for Telenar kept N’vonne’s mouth shut. Were it any other man, she would have torn him apart for demeaning her student. But Telenar was as close to a father as Vancien had at the moment and they would have to work it out themselves. Nevertheless, the incident hung like a cloud over them for the rest of the day.

By late afternoon, they had journeyed past the most dangerous regions. The blizzard that had assaulted them the day before was nowhere to be found. Their greatest difficulty now was pushing through the waist-deep snow. If Corfe was behind them, he did not show himself, and by evening’s fall, Vancien was beginning to think Telenar had been mistaken.

They were almost to another small campsite when N’vonne’s voyoté stopped and began to whimper. Vancien and Telenar were a few paces ahead, lost in their frosty silence. N’vonne had to call to them twice before they turned.

“What is it?” Telenar replied, alarmed.

“It’s Cetla. She won’t move forward and she’s whimpering.”

Both men dismounted and started to come to her when Cetla began to bark and snarl at them.

“What the—?”

“Shh, Vance,” Telenar hissed, stopping immediately. “She’s telling us to stay back.”

Indeed, both Lansing and Nagab were eying their comrade with concern but still keeping well away. N’vonne’s pallor matched the snow as she watched her friends watch her.

“What should I do?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” Telenar responded. “Just stay on her and wait. She feels something around or underneath her. Don’t worry, she’ll know the best way to make it out.”

His words did little to comfort her as she listened to the voyoté’s whine. Cetla seemed as unsure as her rider. After a few seconds, she slowly allowed one paw to push forward through the snow, then another.

Telenar watched anxiously. “It’s sheetrock,” he whispered. “See how she’s moving? There’s sheetrock under that snow and it could give at any moment.”

Vancien held his breath and prayed as he watched the pair inch slowly forward. They could now hear the groaning of the ground beneath them. Then the groaning turned to a muted roar as the mountain began to open up. Snow rushed past Cetla’s hind end as she slipped into the cavity, N’vonne with her.

“Grab her!” Telenar yelled, springing forward and landing on his chest, arms clutching the panicked voyoté’s neck. Vancien slid past them to the edge of the crevice, furiously groping for N’vonne. Thankfully, she was still there, clutching Cetla’s waist. Below her there was nothing but empty air a hundred paces down.

“Vance!” she cried, legs swinging in vain for something to support her.

“Hold still! There’s nothing around you to stand on, and if you swing, you’ll drag Cetla down.”

Obediently, she hung limply. “I can’t hold on too long, Vance. My shoulder’s hurt, and—”

“Shh! It’s okay. We’ll get you.”

“Vance!” Telenar shouted from the animal’s head, his voice muffled and terrified. “Is she there?”