The Sons of Hull (31 page)

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 shot 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.

“Well, my friend, it seems you have kidnapped me.”

The Ealatrophe only stared at him with its bright eyes.

For lack of anything better to do, Vancien began to pace and start a one-sided conversation. “Yes, sir—I’m going to assume you’re a ‘sir’—correct me if I’m wrong. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere, far away from any humans, and me without a thing to eat. I don’t suppose you would let me go back and get my things, would you?”

His companion had no answer, but its resolute gaze followed him as he strolled back and forth.

“Don’t suppose you have a name?” He stopped to ponder the idea. What would be an appropriate name for such a magnificent creature? All the animal names that came to mind seemed childish and demeaning. After a little more musing, his lessons with Telenar began to tug at his memory. Heptar had been the only Prysm Advocate known to ride an Ealatrophe, but he had been killed by Varrin immediately after the Dedication—an untimely murder that had caused all Rhyvelad to slide into a second era of darkness. Maybe the beasts weren’t such a gift, after all. Looking at his new mount, he could hardly believe this to be true. Heptar had been caught unawares; the Ealatrophe had had nothing to do with it. It had been
thelámos
—Kynell’s inscrutable will.

Vancien snapped his fingers at the old Patroniite
word. That was it. The coming of the Ealatrophe, his inability to return to his friends, even the entire drama about to unfold between himself and Amarian: all of these events were
thelámos
. And in getting back on this wild but holy creature, wouldn’t he be fully submitting himself to Kynell’s will?

He allowed himself one more splash of water in order to buy time and build courage. Then he approached his ride. “All right, Thelámos. Where are we going?”

Thelámos flapped his wings, bowed his head, and made no reply.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The time was drawing close. Amarian could feel the power well up within him as he flew Ovna over the camp. Some of the soldiers looked up at his approach, but most went about their business. Far from feeling slighted at such indifference, Obsidian’s Advocate was well-pleased. Only a few fortnights ago, any good Keroulian man would have grabbed the nearest bow for a shot at a dragon. Now, they were so dulled to the presence of Zyreio’s forces that nothing shocked or appalled them. Besides, they had other things on their mind. Today was the arrival of that fledgling prince, Farlone. The thought of obsequiously greeting the boy was not pleasant, but as much as he’d like to root out all of Relgaré’s brood, he had to admit that they might still serve a function. Farlone would be no different than his father.

Trumpets blared as Ovna landed, but not for him. The prince had just arrived. The captains, as brightly polished as the stakes that surrounded the camp, lined the main thoroughfare with fierce rigidity, and the figure that rode before them was just as rigid. It was Farlone, second son of Relgaré, heir to the noblest blood in Rhyvelad, and the fighting hand of the House of Anisllyr. He was riding astride the largest voyoté north of the Range, which put him several feet higher than even the mounted officers. The height gave him confidence, a quality he rarely lacked.

On the day of his arrival, he had every reason to be self-assured. Though his elder brother, Relgaren, was now king, his father had left Farlone a campaign that was all but won and an ally with unprecedented strength. Plus, the soldiers revered him. He had spent most of his young career in the military; riding, fighting, and bleeding with the men now standing at attention had given him a unique caché among them. Though he had not been in the fray the night Relgaré died (he had been called to Lascombe on state business), none held it against him. To a man, the Keroulians were simply glad to see a representative of Anisllyr’s house among them again. And if the prince also accomplished the expulsion of Commander Hull and his hordes, so much the better.

Amarian knew their thoughts but was not troubled by them. Instead, he dismounted and watched as the entourage approached the generals, who stood as tall as they could, particularly since the prince remained mounted while addressing them. Much to their embarrassment, however, Farlone soon excused himself and rode boldly up to Ovna’s snout. General Tengar, although officially dismissed, walked beside him to perform the introductions.

“Commander Hull,” he barked, determined to maintain his authority. “Our lord prince has arrived.”

Amarian stepped out from behind Ovna’s wing, where he had been casually inspecting a harness strap. “I see that, General. And I daresay the prince needs no introduction.” He allowed himself a gracious bow.

Farlone nodded in response, then signaled to a man in his party dressed in Patroniite
robes. The young man, whose face was still full of freckles, came forward to scrutinize Amarian, much to the Advocate’s annoyance. The Patroniite
then
dismissed Tengar and asked Farlone to dismount. Soon, only the three figures stood under the shadow of Ovna’s bulk. The priest was the first to speak.

“Look, brother, how he stares us down. Perhaps he thinks to brainwash us as he did our father. Does he think the House of Anisllyr so weak?”

Amarian’s smile was cold. Who did these two pups think they were? “I assure you, your holiness, I did no such thing. Your father’s will was his own.”

Farlone’s hand rested lightly upon his fancy sword hilt. “Lors thinks differently, Commander Hull. And though he is young, he is very wise. Tell us again why we shouldn’t send you and your hordes back to the Chasm from which you came.”

Amarian ignored the bait and repeated his bow. “My princes, you have misjudged me and you have slandered my soldiers. We did not start this war of yours, only come to help you finish it.” He stopped. Perhaps he should call their bluff? “If you desire, we will pack up and leave at first light.”

Lors began to nod enthusiastically at the plan, but was stayed by Farlone.

“There’s no need for such a drastic withdrawal. Keroul appreciates the sacrifices that your. . .” He searched for the right word and came up with the wrong one. .” . .
men
have given in our fight against the Cylini. Please stay and finish the struggle.”

Amarian nodded, not a little mystified at the man’s indecision. But before he could reply, Farlone continued.

“But we are not ignorant of your true identity and we will not be allied to Obsidian any longer than necessary. My young brother would gladly break all ties and declare you our mortal enemy, but then, what can you expect from a Patroniite?”

Lors was openly offended at Farlone’s speech, but held his tongue as his brother finished.

“You and I are men of the world, Amarian, and we know there’s little room for idealism. Our paths are joined for the time being.
Redayo et lo redayo sun lon heiro.
‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ So we shall be friends under those pretenses and none other. Agreed?”

Amarian was so pleased by this pompous speech that he allowed himself a third bow. “Agreed, my prince.” He then turned quickly toward his tent, trying to hide his pleasure. The princes watched him go, Farlone trying not to show his annoyance at his departure and Lors staring in open exasperation at his brother. Neither said anything as they remounted and followed Tengar to their accommodation.

__________

Corfe did not take note of prince’s arrival, nor did he dread the appearance of his master, mostly because he was pre-occupied by a crushing realization: he was going mad. He turned the events of the preceding day over in his mind and found that insanity was the only explanation for them. The incident with the prisoner had not been his only moment of weakness. Later that day, he had remitted an execution sentence of a treasonous Keroulian. Even this morning, he had spared a fennel—a fennel!—the punishment it had deserved for insolence. What was happening to him? He shook his head, nervously pacing from one end of his tent to the other, stopping only when a shadow fell across his path.

He turned and bowed.

Amarian seated himself at Corfe’s camp desk, gazed at his servant for a moment, then spoke.

“You were not present to greet the princes.”

Corfe smirked. The lordlings were of no interest to him.

Amarian seem pleased by the response. “It is just as well. The only thing you missed was a show of bravado. Farlone will be no trouble. Like his father, he thinks only of the Cylini. But his brother will bear watching.”

Corfe nodded at the assignment, well aware of what a useful spy he made. After all, if he were caught, what amount of torture could overcome his disability?

Amarian continued. “I leave tomorrow for the Plains. Only Obsidian knows when or if I’ll be back, so you must keep the army in readiness.”

Again Corfe nodded, but the gesture was not unaccompanied by surprise. Was it possible that Amarian did not know of his recent behavior? He must not have taken time to talk with the Keroulians: after yesterday’s reprieve a whole battalion had set about rejoicing in their good luck. Corfe had to send Sentries to quell the demonstrations.

Amarian rose, calling an end to the one-sided conversation. “Tell me, Corfe, are you afraid of my return from the Plains?”

Yesterday, Corfe would have nodded reflexively at the question. But the change that was working in him prevented him from giving an immediate response. In truth, fearing the Dark Advocate was becoming secondary to fearing himself and what he might be becoming. His confusion was so distracting that he forgot to answer the question.

Amarian took note of his hesitation. “I did not expect such indecision. Perhaps you have found someone else to fear?”

Finally gathering his senses, Corfe hastily shook his head and, for good measure, bowed obsequiously. Whether Amarian was mollified by this response he could not tell, but he left without another word. Corfe watched him go, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that, yet again, he had not done himself any favors. The sooner Amarian departed for the Plains, the better. Besides, there was always the small hope that Obsidian’s greatest servant would fail to return. He cringed at his audacity. No one was ever sure if the Advocate could read minds, but if telepathy truly had been a gift of Zyreio’s, Corfe was certain that his master would have returned to kill him immediately for his treason. Yet he remained alone in the tent; perhaps Amarian’s powers were more limited than he had suspected. This curious thought attended him throughout the day and into the night. By the time Amarian took his leave the next morning, though he could give it no logical explanation, Corfe felt as if he were breathing freely for the first time.

The farewell assembly was brief and cheerless. Amarian mounted Ovna, bade farewell to the generals and the princes, and promised he would return soon with reinforcements enough to wipe out every last man, woman, and child of the Cylini. The generals were pleased with his little speech, as was Farlone, but Lors only glared. After waiting for dragon and rider to disappear over the horizon, he pulled his brother aside.