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  Obsidian

  Book Two of the Advocate Trilogy

  By Lindsey Scholl

  Copyright © 2013 by Lindsey Scholl

  Cover Design by ThisDogJumps

  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 Lindsey Scholl:

  The Sons of Hull: Book One of the Advocate Trilogy by Lindsey Scholl

  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

  Never Prosper 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

  Absolute Positivity: An Inspirational Story of Positivity, Prayer, and People by Karl B. Sanger

  Hunger by R. H. Welcker

  Striking Out ALS: A Hero’s Tale by Ethan D. Bryan

  Soulmates by Mindy Kincade

  The Woven Thread by Todd Oliver Stewart

  www.eLectioPublishing.com

  To John, my great support. You are better than I deserve.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many of the same people who were such a help in the writing of The Sons of Hull have continued to be a great support through the writing of Obsidian. First of all, I want to thank my husband, John. When I began writing The Sons of Hull, I had not met him yet. But he has been with me through the entirety of Obsidian and has weathered many questions, offered several helpful suggestions, and endured too many complaints about not having enough time to write. I am so grateful for his patience and his support. My parents, Patrick and Laura O’Donnell, have encouraged and assisted me in multiple ways. Dad has used his artistic skills to provide me with a map of Rhyvelad and sketches of several characters. Mom has read through drafts, offered advice, and encouraged me to write even when I was over-busy (“Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote at three a.m. with a bit of coal” or something to that effect). There are many other readers of drafts I’d like to thank: Lloyd Williams, whose advice changed the introduction; Doreen Moore, whose thoughts on Kynell were invaluable; Sharon and Keith Ridgeway, whose advice changed the introduction yet again; and Dougal Cameron, who approved the final draft and whose favorite character is Verial. To Clover and Rachel Carroll, thanks for your enthusiasm. And to Shane O’Donnell and This Dog Jumps, thanks for providing such foreboding cover art.

  If there is any lasting good in this work, gloria soli Deo.

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  AmarianUh-mare-ee-un

  AnisllyrAhn-is-leer

  ChasmKa-zihm

  ChiyoChee-yo

  CyliniSih-lee-nee

  DestrariaeDes-trair-ee-eye

  EalatropheEe-luh-troaf

  JasimorJaz-ih-more

  KeroulKuh-rool

  KynellKih-nel

  LascombeLas-cohm

  Munkke-tropheMuhn-kee-troaf

  N’vonneNih-von

  ObsidianUhb-sih-dee-uhn

  PatroniitePa-troan-ee-ite

  PrysmPrih-zihm

  RelgaréRel-guh-ray

  RhyveladRih-vuh-lad

  TelenarTel-ih-nar

  VancienVan-cee-in

  VerialVehr-ee-uhl

  VoyotéVoy-oh-tay

  ZyreioZuh-ray-oh

  SYNOPSIS OF THE SONS OF HULL,

  BOOK ONE OF THE ADVOCATE TRILOGY

  Every world must engage in its own battle between good and evil. A world that fails to do this is either a perfect world, or wholly depraved. Rhyvelad is neither. It has recognized the good and labeled it the Prysm, which at its weakest is just a hope for better things, but at its best is an unstoppable force. The Prysm is nothing less than the spirit of truth, a fiery commitment to purity and mercy imparted from the god of the Prysm, Kynell. The Prysm has priests whose purpose is to preserve truths about Kynell, about humanity, and about Rhyvelad.

  In opposition to Kynell and his Prysm stands the towering figure of Zyreio, the father of all things evil. The history of Zyreio is murky, even for learned Rhyveladians. Is he created by Kynell? Is he co-equal with him? The answers to those questions vary, and often depends greatly on the answerer’s proximity to the Prysm. Scholars mostly agree that there is something derivative about Zyreio, in the same way that mold, while its own substance, has to grow out of something. Naturally, no man who is serious about Zyreio, or who clings to his banner of Obsidian, can agree with those scholars. For that man, Zyreio is a raging, primal deity in his own right; he derives nothing from Kynell. But as with so many worlds, those who best serve the cause of evil are not serious about it. They care little about scholars or gods or service. They care mostly for their own ends, an attitude that serves Obsidian quite well. For this reason and others, there are no priests of Obsidian. Zyreio is not interested in guarding anything. He is interested only in destruction. In that cause, unfortunately, many have become his allies.

  Despite divine involvement, or possibly because of it, the actions of human individuals continue to carry great significance. Rhyvelad is no exception, therefore The Sons of Hull begins with an individual: twelve-cycle-old Amarian, who has come home from school to find a stranger alone in his house. The time of the Advocates has come, the man announces, and Amarian must make a decision. Will he choose to serve Kynell, to whom his heart is drawn? If he does, he would be consigning his younger brother to the service of Obsidian. Such is the cruel system of the Advocates, in which a pair of brothers must embody the war between the Prysm and Obsidian. It is a conflict that takes place every five hundred and forty cycles. This time, it has descended on Amarian and Vancien.

  The choice lies before the elder, who feels wholly unprepared. Will he choose to become the Advocate for darkness himself, or will he allow that fate to fall on Vancien? To Amarian, there is no choice: in order to spare his brother, he mournfully accepts Zyreio’s personal invitation and departs to serve the Obsidian god.

  Almost fifteen cycles later, Amarian has disappeared from civilized society and Vancien has turned into a likeable young man. No one in the secure kingdom of Keroul expects anything more dramatic than the king’s regular wars against border tribes. The priestly ord
er, whose function it is to keep track of the prophetic coming of the Advocates, has become complacent. Only one priest believes that the Advocate confrontation is coming soon. Telenar pa Saauli has devoted his life to finding the young Prysm Advocate in order to train him for the coming day of battle. He has no success until, through a painful journey that involves the loss of loved ones, the Prysm Advocate finds him.

  As Vancien learns to assume his role as Prysm Advocate, Amarian, now consumed by Obsidian’s malevolence, plots against him. Through the help of his mute assistant, Corfe, he launches an ambitious program: with an army of humans and dark creatures behind him, he offers to help the king of Keroul subdue the border tribes. In so doing, he gains possession of not only his own army but the Keroulian regiments, as well. When the time comes for battle, Vancien will have no forces to fight alongside him.

  Meanwhile, Vancien thrives under the tutelage of Telenar, who teaches him what he can about Kynell and the Ages, Kynell’s holy book. Vancien is also instructed by Telenar’s friend, General Chiyo of the West, who trains Vancien in the art of soldiery. As Vancien absorbs his duties and abilities as the Advocate, he learns that Kynell has given all his Advocates a Grace—the ability to restore life to one fallen comrade. Vancien does not hesitate. He wants to bring back N’vonne, the instructor of his youth, who had been a mother to him and had been killed on his journey to find Telenar. Telenar objects but Vancien will not be denied, so N’vonne’s body is recovered and her life restored. It is a miracle. Yet what may be even remarkable is that Telenar, a lifelong bachelor, finds the newly recovered woman lovelier than he could ever have imagined.

  According to the Ages, the fight between Advocates cannot begin until there is a consecrated time of Dedication. As the sacred moment draws near, Vancien, Telenar, Chiyo, and N’vonne set out from the capitol city of Lascombe to find the site of Dedication, as well as to avoid coming under the thumb of Keroul’s militant king Relgaré, who has foolishly joined forces with Amarian.

  Amarian does his best to keep track of Vancien, sending first his reptilian soldiers (the Sentries) and then trying a different tack by sending the beautiful Lady Verial to distract Vancien from his purpose. Verial is certainly a powerful weapon. Zyreio has bound her through time to be the mistress of each Obsidian Advocate, and many Prysm Advocates have wasted their resources trying to rescue her. Amarian hopes Vancien will do the same, and Vancien does almost fall for her, but Telenar and N’vonne’s opposition, as well as Kynell’s higher calling, prevents him from following his own conflicted desires.

  But something has happened while Amarian is away. Kynell heals Corfe from his muteness, which had been inflicted by Amarian himself. Dazed and elated, Corfe comes to the surprising and misguided conclusion that he, the onetime servant of Obsidian, is the true Prysm Advocate. With the zeal of a convert, he assumes control of both Amarian’s army and the Keroulian forces. When Amarian returns triumphant, carrying Vancien’s body, he finds his own soldiers turned against him. Despite his recent victory, he must flee into the marshes, where he convinces himself that Zyreio has abandoned him. Now isolated from both gods, Amarian despairs, but his despair leads him to a radical act. Calling on the Prysm for the first time in over fifteen cycles, he asks Kynell to restore Vancien to him. Kynell graciously responds, allowing Vancien to return from the land of the dead.

  Rhyvelad now faces an unprecedented situation: both Advocates are alive, both serve Kynell, and both face the threat of a heretical believer in control of the world’s largest armies. Yet the brothers themselves are in a unique position. Amarian’s newfound loyalty to Kynell is untested while Vancien, the true Prysm Advocate, must decide to fight yet another battle, this time against a well-intentioned imposter.

  Despite these difficulties, The Sons of Hull ends on a celebratory note: the wedding of the priest Telenar to N’vonne. Vancien attends, as does the subdued Amarian. Rhyvelad has reached a temporary peace while standing on the threshold of a turbulent post-prophetic age. In Obsidian, that peace will be shattered in a way that shakes Rhyvelad to its very core, tearing from the heroes that which they treasure most.

  PROLOGUE

  The Realm of the Eastern Lands was desolate. Cold rain pelted down upon uncultivated fields and shut-up houses, trickling through un-mended roofs and splashing into waiting pools. Any housekeeper worth her salt would have been horrified at the state of disrepair. To add to the melancholy scene, a chill wind raced across the landscape, although there was no one for it to abuse. All living things had abandoned the area, even the plants. Yet it was a short cycle ago that the inhabitants of the region had been alive, industrious, and very, very excited: Amarian pa Hull, Obsidian’s Advocate and Darkness personified, had ridden out to claim victory over the lands of Rhyvelad. It was only a matter of time before he became master of the world. The Easterners could already taste his triumph, as well as the rewards they would enjoy for loyal service. So they waited, patching their homes, feeding their livestock, and sharpening their blades as they counted the days until their master’s return.

  Amarian had told the few warriors he left behind that he would send for them when the time for battle had come. But the summons never came. Fortnight after fortnight passed, leaving the strong men with nothing to do but argue among themselves. Several of the thoughtless brutes claimed that Amarian would never return and declared themselves kings of the East. Those who were more thoughtful remained loyal. They resisted the usurpation, but were soon murdered for their constancy. After that first blood, arguments easily turned into armed brawls and brawls into battles. Old men, women, and children fled to safer lands but the mighty warriors remained, destroying each other and the land itself in their callous search for power. The fields that had once supplied an army now supplied food only for the crows. The trees that had once provided shelter were razed in an effort to expose enemy clans. And the fortress of Donech, once the seat of Amarian’s power, housed nothing but cobwebs and dead bodies.

  Yet on this day, there was movement. It was in the great hall, under the dusty remains of a massive, cracked table, where at one time tribes of Sentries, fennels, and humans had sat under a vaulted roof. A tiny crack in the stone floor was showing activity by beginning to widen of its own accord. From within its meager depths, so small that a mouse could not have taken refuge in them, issued an eerie sound: the tiny screech of voices in pain. As the crack widened, moment by moment, so did the little cacophony. Soon its cries echoed off the walls. Voices of rage, agony, despair, and frustration all rushed through the abandoned corridors as if eager to share their story with any living thing they encountered. In doing so, they brushed past the decayed bodies of the warriors. Cold, grey fingers twitched. Eyes blinked. Skin grew warm and soft. A moment more and the flesh took on sound. The halls of Donech soon began to resonate with voices of condemned souls returning to their bodies and the boom of long-dead warriors clamoring to their feet. The Chasm was open.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “No, you can’t go. That’s final.” The pale child of twelve cycles planted his fists on his hips and dug his heels into the dirt. “It’s only for boys.”

  “Lucio, don’t be such a narfat. I’m quicker and older than you are. Besides, you’re taking Trint, and he’s just four cycles.”

  The boy named Lucio narrowed his eyes. His hair would have been a remarkable shade of blond were it not for the layer of dirt that caked it. His clothes were what one might expect of a street urchin: a mismatch of materials, torn at the elbows and knees, too tight in some areas and too baggy in others. Since hiverra had descended in full upon the land of Keroul, he had been wrapped in a bulky, oversized cloak to ward off the cold. The end result was a little comical, with the added bonus that he constantly got himself tangled in its folds. Still, he tried to lend his wardrobe as much authority as he could manage.

  “Sorry, Teehma, but no. You are quicker, but you’re too pretty. You’ll attract too much attention.”

  Teehma gave a snort and folded
her arms, which were dark even through the cold months. “Funny coming from you. Who told you I was pretty? Gorvy?”

  Lucio blushed but held his ground. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter. Gorvy said it’s only him, me, and Trint. You an’ Ester have to stay here and watch the fort.”

  The “fort” was just a deep alcove in the thick walls of Lascombe, Keroul’s radiant capital city. She was Kynell’s city, and a great deal of care had been tastefully poured into her over the cycles. Several of her streets were wide thoroughfares and all of her walls were high and whitewashed, giving them a glow in the lunos light. Poetic travelers used to say that they when they saw Lascombe from afar at night, it was as if the triple lunos had bedded down on Rhyvelad for the evening. And when they saw her again at daybreak, she had transformed herself into a burning orb.

  But in recent cycles, Lascombe had inspired more grief than poetry. Thanks to King Relgaré’s neglect and death, the city had experienced a dramatic rise in crime and poverty. Pickpockets and other thieves roamed along the wide thoroughfares while children without parents found their home in the streets, often shepherded by black-hearted “patrons.”

  Gorvy was just such a man.

  As Lucio and little Trint disappeared into the street, Teehma gave a sigh. “Don’t you hate being a girl, Ester?”

  Ester did not answer. Almost completely blind because of a childhood illness, she often kept to herself. Since a blind pickpocket was not of much use, Gorvy had only taken her in because she had insisted that she would beg and otherwise take care of domestic duties, both of which she did with quiet resignation.

  So resigned was she that Teehma often found her annoying. When she received a shrug in answer to her comment, she had to clench her fist to keep from hitting the girl. But her parents—dead these many cycles—would disapprove of punching a blind person.

  She looked again past the thick curtain into the night. As much as she hated to admit it, Lucio was right. She was in her fifteenth cycle and Ester was entering into her eleventh. With all the mean narfats out there, it was too likely that they’d be stolen away for the slave market. She sighed again. Before they had died, her parents had told her that Lascombe used to be a wonderful place where children were safe and nobody had to steal to eat. She didn’t believe them anymore, of course. Gorvy had taught her that the world had always been cruel. And when she heard Ester crying at night, she believed him.