The Sons of Hull (33 page)

“I don’t know much about the Ages. My life in Amarian’s camp prevented me from studying them like I should.” He laughed grimly. “The only reason I know they used to be standard issue was from going through the pack of a captured Keroulian. But I do know that Kynell can do anything—even, somehow, overlook the offenses of Zyreio’s servants, if they should ask him to do so. And it looks like he’s done the same with you.”

“Except I didn’t ask him to.”

“But you’re feeling the full weight of those crimes now, aren’t you? Even the crimes you committed before you met Amarian? Trust me, several cycles ago I was in the same position, and I learned that Kynell honors a confession. Beyond that, I don’t know what he has in store.”

Some of Corfe’s confusion lightened at Gair’s words, but his smile was still weak. “I guess I’d better start with confession, then. This could take a while.”

Gair looked at the light beginning to stream in under the canvas walls. “I’m sure Kynell will take the abbreviated version. It’s almost dawn. The princes will be wondering what happened to you.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Chiyo watched Telenar pace nervously, running his fingers through disheveled hair and angrily cleaning his spectacles.

“I just don’t know what we’re supposed to do now,” Telenar complained for the fourth time that morning. Finally seating himself next to the general, he began to pick at the grass.

Chiyo was not unsympathetic. “I don’t know that we’re supposed to
do
anything, my friend. Isn’t best to wait for Vancien’s return? Besides, I told you that I’ve already sent runners back to the princes’ camp. Since King Relgaren is in Lascombe, he should be spared Obsidian’s influence. The two young princes, however, will be firmly under Amarian’s thumb by now; hopefully, my scouts can tell us how the rest of the troops fare. If Vancien has gone to the Dedication, then it’s likely Amarian has gone, as well, meaning his men are on their own. Perhaps we can retake the army before it becomes entirely the property of Obsidian.”

Telenar nodded grumpily. “When are the scouts likely to be back?”

“In the next few days. In the meantime, we must be careful not to let our impatience affect our men.”

“Spoken like a true soldier. But you’re right.” He jumped again to his feet. “Besides, my focus needs to be on Kynell, not Vancien. Maybe I can consider this a forced spiritual retreat.”

Despite his momentary stoicism, Telenar found it difficult to stay still, to wait, or to pray. Even his conversations with N’vonne, usually the highlight of both of their days, were short and stilted, involving repeated glances in the direction whence Vancien had disappeared. What he hoped to see on the horizon, he had no idea. But it had been half a week since Vancien had slipped out of his care. Who knew what could have happened in that time? The Dedication could have happened, the battle could have been fought, Vancien could be dead. How would he know? These worries gnawed continually at him as he stalked the camp, sending up half-hearted prayers for patience and looking for something to distract him.

The distraction finally came in the form of Chiyo’s scout, who returned a few days later than expected, right when Chiyo was considering relocating and Telenar was considering going mad. But the news he bore was certainly worth waiting for: Amarian’s second-in-command, the young mute named Corfe, had miraculously had his speech restored. Now he was asking the Keroulians to back him not just as a servant of Kynell, but as the Prysm Advocate. And the Keroulians, according to the scout’s report, were listening.

Telenar nearly fell over at the news. Had the boy lost his head? How could he possibly think himself to be the Advocate? Worse still, how could the Keroulians believe him? His mind tried to reconcile the image of that scared young man in his office so long ago with the reports he was now hearing. Was it some trick of Amarian’s to rob Vancien of his glory? But why would Amarian allow his own army to change allegiance from Obsidian to a Prysm pretender? No, it was unlikely that Amarian was behind this—unlikely that Amarian even
knew
about this. Something else must be going on.

Chiyo spoke first. “We have to return. Somebody must knock some sense into him.” He turned back to the scout. “How have Amarian’s forces dealt with the change?”

The scout—a scraggly wisp of a man—gave a raspy laugh. “They don’t know what to do. They were told to obey Corfe, and until they hear otherwise from Amarian, I think they’ll do just that. It seems that some of Amarian’s men are quite taken with the idea. The Sentries and fennels are, of course, very suspicious.”

“And Relgaré’s sons?”

“That’s the strangest thing, sir. One of the princes—the boy priest, Lors—is backing Corfe’s claim, waving around the Ages like he’s some sort of great prophet. So from the looks of it, Corfe has the full support of the House of Anisllyr.”

Telenar shook his head, instinctively grabbing N’vonne’s hand to steady himself. “This is insane. A Patroniite
should know better.” Then he thought back to his meeting with the Supras so very long ago. The man had been completely unwilling to listen to reason. “Or perhaps not. Chiyo’s right. We’re not doing anyone any good here; Corfe must be stopped before he turns the world upside down.”

_____

Vancien awoke with a start, having yet again fallen asleep between Thelámos’ moving wings. The great beast flew relentlessly west, leaving Vancien with no doubt as to their destination. By his sketchy calculations, they were very close to Jasimor. He yawned, rubbed his bleary eyes, and surveyed the landscapes passing below. They were above Chiyo’s territory now, flying south of the region’s capital—he could just make out the spires of the trading post turned metropolis. Ktai was certainly a destination in its own right, and for half a moment, Vancien wished his Dedication would take place there, where he could at least get a good night’s rest beforehand.

A squawk from Thelámos distracted him from his self-pity, bringing his attention to a small flock of gryphons directly below them. He admired their grace, watching one of them look up to screech welcome to the Ealatrophe, who responded in kind. Just as the lead gryphon was about to respond again, a dark form appeared, streaking straight toward the beast. Thelámos cried out a warning, but it was too late: the dragon barreled into the gryphon, scattering the flock and clutching its leader with fatal intensity. With an outraged shriek, Thelámos dove to its aid.

“Thelámos, wait!”

The wind whipped his words away, so as the wind whistled past him, he tried to get a closer look at the malicious beast. To his surprise, he saw that the dragon had a rider. To his horror, he saw that the rider was Amarian.

“Pull back, Thelámos! Back!”

But Thelámos was not listening. Vancien was just able to make out Amarian’s expression before the two creatures crashed into each other, jostling the lead gryphon free, but entangling the Ealatrophe in a fury of talons and claws. Ovna’s roar competed with the cries of Thelámos as the two clawed at each other; their riders could do little more than hold on for dear life through the jets of flame mingled with flashes of stabbing cold. Vancien stayed buried deeply as possible in feathers, avoiding what he could of Ovna’s rage and wondering why in the Chasm Amarian had provoked such a premature attack. Surely he knew an early success was impossible. Or maybe his strategy was simply to separate him from Thelámos.

Despite the intentions of all combatants, the beasts were straying closer and closer to the ground, until Ovna caught her wingtip on a tree branch, which briefly spun her away from the Ealatrophe, exposing her back. Thelámos took advantage of the opening and lunged for the killing stroke. But Amarian was ready. Cursing to ward off the blast of cold he knew was coming, he prepared to plunge his sword into Thelámos’ heart. Thelámos saw the attack and slipped enough to the side to avoid the fatal blow. But Amarian’s blade still bit deeply into his wing. Shrieking, the Ealatrophe rolled steeply to his right, colliding with the ground and sending his rider rocketing out of his seat.

Obsidian had not escaped unharmed. Thelámos had managed not only to propel Ovna further into a small cluster of trees, but had gashed her belly in the process of his own escape. Now she thrashed among the tree trunks shattered by the weight of her body, roaring in fury and almost crushing Amarian, who had also been ejected from his perch. At the moment, he was busily trying to avoid her thundering tail.

Vancien was not conscious enough to take note of his brother’s difficulties. The last he remembered was skidding across an open field and colliding with something hard. Then his world went black.

When he awoke, neither Thelámos nor Ovna were anywhere to be seen, although the evidence for their landings was abundant: blood-stained, broken tree trunks creaked where once, Vancien imagined, there had been a small grove of peaceful trees, while a streak of flattened prairie grass marked where Thelámos had crashed to the ground. To Vancien’s surprise, there was no trace of blood in the open field. He wondered through his hazy consciousness if an Ealatrophe does not bleed like men and dragons. Or else Amarian had not wounded Thelámos as badly as he thought.

Amarian. The name and its associations returned to him in full force as he staggered to his feet. Fortunately, his sword had skipped across the plains with him and was now laying only a few paces off. He picked it up, warily looking around for any trace of his antagonist, who had managed to disappear as completely as the two beasts. His blurry vision did manage to register the rest of his surroundings, however. The cluster of trees devastated by the dragon was an anomaly, just one of the few small groves scattered over the largest, most daunting stretch of prairie Vancien had ever seen. Indeed, except for those clusters, which huddled together as if alarmed by their surroundings, there were no distinguishing landmarks. Sky and prairie divided the entire world into two spheres of earth and sky, each one as dry and uncongenial as the other.

Where was Amarian? Perhaps he was hiding with the trees, or tucked down beneath the long straw-colored stalks. If so, Vancien suspected that he himself must look very foolish, standing out in the orblight, the only shape on the horizon. He quickly crouched down before contemplating his next move. His first step, of course, would be to figure out where he was. Peeking his head above the cover, he considered again his surroundings. In some ways, the prairie he found himself in was similar to the plains he had left behind. But the air here seemed more oppressive, as if he were not welcome here. Had he finally made it to the Plains of Jasimor? As soon as the idea occurred to him, he knew it to be true.

Feeling slightly nauseous, he broke off his search for Amarian. There was a faint throbbing beneath his boots that he had not noticed before: it felt like it was gently trying to take over his heartbeat. Against his better judgment, he pressed his ear to the soil to listen, just as he had done as a child when a large carriage passed through town.

He heard nothing except the rustling of the grass, but his heart reeled under a surge of hopelessness that swept over him like a cloud bank. Scrambling to his feet, he looking accusingly at the dirt. The despair was so palpable that it fogged his vision. From the moment his head touched the ground, the world had become a much darker place. His situation became unreal. What was he doing there, anyway? The purpose for his coming seemed unclear, or worse, ridiculous. Telenar, N’vonne, even Kynell seemed far off to him—so remote as to be irrelevant. His stomach started to tighten. Perhaps Kynell had abandoned him. No, that wasn’t it. Kynell did not exist in the first place. How could he, when all mankind ever saw was what he was seeing now: trees, stone, and air? And if Kynell did exist, why did he never show himself? Obviously because there was nothing to show.

Feebly, Vancien batted a hand to ward off such fatal truths, which were radiating up through his boots, into his gut, and taking up residence in his spirit. Kynell was just a figment of his imagination; he saw that now, as clear as day. Telenar had been seriously mistaken, N’vonne gullible, and Verial was—he took a deep breath, his feet glued to the ground, his mind still attempting some sort of free movement. Verial wasn’t a lie, was she? She
did
exist, and she was certainly in Amarian’s grasp. Amarian must therefore exist. If so, then surely he must be as Vancien had understood him to be: a servant of Zyreio. That left two possibilities: either Amarian was mad or Zyreio was real. Vancien knew enough, even in that field of deception, to know that Amarian had all of his wits about him. Zyreio must therefore be both real and active (he focused hard on the tenuous logic, ignoring the surges of denial that assaulted him). Consequently, he was the likeliest candidate as a cause of the evil that infected all of Rhyvelad, just as his buried tongue tainted the ground itself.

Vancien stared at the ground beneath his feet in awe, swaying from all the lies of Obsidian that raced under his feet. Was deceit really so tangible? His beleaguered mind assured him that it was, while warning him that he, too, would soon succumb to this constant onslaught. He had to get out of here, had to break contact with the tainted soil. Pathetically, he prayed for Thelámos to reappear. But the Ealatrophe was nowhere to be found. So Vancien staggered over to a tree in the hopes of climbing it for a moment’s respite. But as soon as he rested a hand against the trunk, he drew back in pain. The bark burned so intensely that it seared his palm. Was the tree on fire? He glanced up and down: it certainly looked like a regular tree. But when he looked at his hand he could not deny the singe marks. At the risk of more pain, he touched it again before pulling quickly back. The tree, which looked so innocent from a distance, was in truth burning furiously, angrily. Here in this horrible place, nature had bowed to Zyreio’s wrath, absorbed it, and now exuded it.