The Sons of Hull Read online

  “You are twelve cycles. Your brother is five. The gods have chosen you. I have chosen you.”

  Amarian was scared in earnest now. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I can’t do whatever it is you’re asking. I don’t even know who you are.”

  The man did not release his grip. “I am Zyreio.”

  __________

  Relgaré whistled tunelessly, trying in vain to disengage an annoying hangnail. The man in front of him had been talking for the better part of the afternoon. The king was officially bored and hoped the long-winded priest would take the hint.

  “Telenar, we’ve been over this. Go, do what you need to do. Haven’t I given you my support?”

  “Your Majesty, the support you have so generously provided is not enough. There is too much ground to cover, too many people to investigate. This is a long-destined time. It will not come again. It is our duty to do all we can—”

  The king leaned forward, intent on ending the tiresome interview. “I’m aware of the importance, Patronius. But I’ve spared all the men I can. These past cycles have been difficult in the Marches. The Cylini are encroaching and the border must be maintained. Besides, even if I gave you all the men in my kingdom, do you really know what you’re looking for?”

  Telenar, Patronius en preparatorium for the mighty realm of Keroul, clenched his jaw in familiar frustration. Relgaré was right, of course. His entire life studying the Ages and he still did not know what signs would indicate the boy, except that the firstborn should be in his second decade by now. Yet the king need only know the necessity, not the remaining questions.

  “I shall know him when I see him.”

  “Of course.” Relgaré’s tone lacked confidence as he turned to a stack of waiting parchments. “Meanwhile, I have a kingdom to run. We must be diligent in all areas, lest this darkness you fear take advantage of us. That will be all for today, Patronius.”

  “Yes, my liege.” With a courteous bow, the priest exited.

  The two house guards paid him little attention as he swept angrily past them. These days, Telenar looked older than his cycles. He always seemed to be in a bitter mood and often chose to express it by storming down the chilly corridor, muttering to himself.

  “Why are they so blind? Am I the only one who has counted the cycles? My life—no, the universe itself—has been leading up to this time and our noble king—” Here, his tone lightened as he passed a servant, only to return to normal when the woman was out of range, “—is concerned about border wars! Now, even Patronius Supras does not listen to me.”

  He stopped before a massive portal. It was one of the largest doors in the palace, topped by a key stone inset with a pyramidal prism that reflected and transformed whatever light came through the corridor. The door itself was lined with pictographs, all of which represented the abstract ideas of honor, valor, and faith in one way or another. Telenar sighed. The tired old man would be within, devoted to his studies, but never understanding the urgency. How he was appointed Supras, Telenar would never know. Still, obedience and respect were required; the aging head of the fraternity was needed in this search. Besides, just because he didn’t like the Supras did not mean he had to be rude.

  His knock resounded down the hallway. On the other side of the door, he could hear the shuffling of feet. A breath later, an attendant’s face appeared.

  “Yes, Patronius Telenar?”

  “Michail, please inform the Patronius Supras that I arrive with word from the king.”

  “One moment.”

  The door closed as Michail consulted with his master, leaving Telenar to wait impatiently for an interview he knew would be pointless. Several moments past his liking, the door opened again and he was invited into the chamber.

  The patronage of the king had certainly benefited the Order. Clean rugs and rushes covered the floor, well-dressed servants hovered respectfully, and tinted windows illuminated everything in a kaleidoscope of color. Magnificent tapestries depicting legends of long, long ago guarded the room from chill. Here was Kynell planting the divine oastrada tree with his gilded hand. There was Zyreio burying his own tongue in the Plains of Jasimor, only to grow it back again and cause his buried part to infect all of Rhyvelad. Dragons warred with unseen enemies and gryphons flew with Destrariae to produce the mighty Ealatrophe—part glorious lion and eagle, part luminous cold-streak. All were great tales passed carefully through time to find their existence woven into the fabric of the Supras’ chamber.

  The Supras himself was less impressive. Reclining lazily on his sumptuous Oragione cushions—a collection envied throughout Keroul—Patronius Supras Ganiedor had allowed old age and luxury to claim him. His clothes were coarse in obedience to the Patroniite Rule, but his skeletal fingers shimmered with glistening jewels and precious metals. Complacent eyes peered out from under shaggy brows at the newcomer. His voice was raspy.

  “Telenar. Back so soon? How is the king?”

  In response, Telenar knelt, covering his face with his hands.

  “Arise, my child. What do you have to say to me?”

  “The king is very busy these days, Supras.”

  Ganiedor’s laugh was hollow. “The king is always busy, young Prepor. He knows little of these matters and cares even less. Do not worry about him.”

  “We must worry about him. It would be nice to have his men help search out the Advocate. Unless, of course, you have men to spare, Supras.”

  “Hm. You are straightforward, Telenar. But I think you are mistaken. The time may not yet be upon us. The interpretation of Kynell’s timetable is a great concern for many of the patronii; some scholars put the coming of the Advocate many cycles hence. To search for a champion who does not exist is a waste of resources that could be better used educating our country of Kynellian Lore.”

  Telenar could not hide his disgust, nor did he try. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

  Ganiedor stiffened, allowing the speckled light from the windows to crown him with authority. “It is an appropriate designation. The Square has discussed. . .” He broke off with a dignified grunt. “It’s not important. All you need to know is that we cannot spare the men. This urgency that plagues you, Prepor, is not shared by others. There are many in power who find your calculations incorrect.” He tapped one of his jeweled fingers as if that decided the matter.

  “And do you, Supras?”

  The sunken old man averted his eyes to the tapestries. There his gaze lingered until Telenar understood his answer.

  “Very well. I shall find the Advocate on my own. I trust I have the Fraternity’s permission to do that, at least.”

  “Oh, come now, Telenar,” Ganeidor remonstrated, pretending to be wounded. “You accept defeat so poorly. You can peek in to every little house in Rhyvelad, for all I care. Just don't make a spectacle.”

  “Of course, Supras. I shall not be a burden.”

  “Oh, and if you think you find this young Advocate, the Fraternity entrusts you with his guidance.”

  The meaning was clear: Patronius Telenar could expect no help from his brothers. He would be a lone priest whose search was recognized by neither king nor faith. Adventurous as that may sound, it had no appeal to Telenar. But perhaps Kynell would protect him, if the god of the Prysm could spare the time.

  Covering his face and kneeling again, he bade farewell to the Supras in order to make his way to the Record Hollow to check the Ages once more. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he was interpreting the text too literally. Perhaps he was taking the words of Kynell too seriously. Here he forced a smile and ran a hand through his thin brown hair. Let the others question and procrastinate. He, Telenar pa Saauli, knew the truth.

  __________

  The boy trembled at the stranger’s announcement. He didn’t seem like some of the crazy people Amarian had seen in Win’s few dark alleys. But a person would have to be insane to think that he was a god. He studied the man, who obligingly leaned forward, meeting his gaze.

  If looks could k
ill, this one came close: the stranger’s eyes were like two dark wells, threatening to pull him in. Through them he saw shadows, flames, and general scenes of destruction. But then there appeared a chair perched high on a cliff, unassailable from any angle but the sky. He, Amarian, was sitting in it, looking over all of Rhyvelad. He could see his house, with his father and brother working outside. And he could see horrible Mr. Ackburton, taking out his trash. They all looked so small; they were far away from him, but Amarian knew that he could make them do exactly what he wanted, if he chose to. Underneath him the stone was cool but strong. It was made of Obsidian. At that point, he noticed that he also held a mighty sword in his hand; inexplicably, he started bashing at the chair with it, but it made no dent. The shiny black rock was invincible.

  Then he was home again, next to the fireplace, talking to the strange man who was also Zyreio. Limbs shaking, he collapsed onto a stool. This was Zyreio. It had to be. He felt like he should bow or something, but his legs were so wobbly he couldn’t even stand. Plus he suspected that his father wouldn’t want him to.

  The man shifted impatiently. “Do you know what I am offering you, Amarian? I am offering you a life of power. You could make anybody do anything you wanted.” He gestured at the shabby room and then at Amarian’s own tattered and wet jacket. “On top of that, you could help your papa and your brother. Wouldn’t you like to give them a better life than this?”

  The vision was fading; the chair on the cliff seemed a long, long way away. He did not want to go with Zyreio. From the toes of his feet to the top of his head, he did not want to go. But if he didn’t go, what would happen to Vancien? The Advocates were always brothers. He knew that much, at least. If he and Vancien really were the Advocates, then they would have to kill each other some day. He shivered at the thought. As angry as he often got at his little brother, he could never hurt him—not intentionally, anyway. Slowly the refreshing image of Vancien struggling to impale a worm on a hook began to erase the chair completely.

  “Are you sure it doesn’t hurt them?” Vancien often struggled with his r’s; “hurt” sounded much more like “hut.”

  “They’re fine, Vance. Kynell made them to be bait for the fish.”

  Vancien wiped a grimy hand across his forehead and frowned in concentration. “They’re too slippery.”

  “You’re just not patient enough. Here.”

  Amarian took the hook and the worm, squelching the creature over the sharp point. Meanwhile, Vancien watched, his light hair flopping into his eyes. He brushed it away with great annoyance.

  Fingers wrapped impatiently, jarring Amarian out of the memory. “Well?”

  “What if I said ‘no’? Would you find somebody else?”

  Zyreio placed another log in the fire as the storm continued to howl outside. “I would make a visit to your brother. I’m sure he could be persuaded.”

  The thought of Vancien being confronted with this horrible man made Amarian break out in a cold sweat. That would never happen, not if he could prevent it. The poor kid couldn’t even put a worm on a hook; how could he fight off Zyreio? The sight of Vancien so vulnerable gave him a surprising amount of courage.

  “Stay away from my brother.” His brave words sounded tinny to his own ears, and they must have sounded ludicrous to Zyreio, who had reached the end of his patience. He rose, looking more menacing than before.

  “You do not tell me what I can and cannot do. What is your answer?”

  Amarian looked around at his poor but cozy home. The rough table, the bunk beds against the wall, even the dirt in the corner all stood out to him with amazing clarity. He wished once again with all his heart that his papa would come home. Why wasn’t he home? But maybe it was better. Zyreio could no doubt kill his papa or anybody else without much effort. But what would his papa do if he went away? How would Vancien ever learn to fish? He swallowed back tears, knowing that Zyreio was still waiting for his decision. To Amarian, it seemed like he was left with no decision at all.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe Zyreio wasn’t lying when he said he could help out his family, maybe that chair was more comfortable than it looked. And maybe rats ran around with seven legs and bushy tails.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The air was surprisingly crisp for the late part of autore, Keroul’s warm season. Usually the three orbs continued blistering the citizens until they literally smoldered in anticipation of cooler weather. But today offered a delightful respite from the heat. While thin smears of clouds drifted lazily across a blue sky, people basked in the orblight or else shivered in the shade. It was a happy day for the good people of Win, South of the Glade. All fifteen of the town’s senior students had completed their exams and their formal education. The whole town had turned out to celebrate.

  A woman with bright auburn hair was standing just in front of the old schoolhouse. Her clothes were homespun and ragged around the edges, but the vest she wore over the top of her frock was bright green. It looked like it was from the city and set off her eyes nicely. She was beautiful, although her beauty was not so much in her figure, which was about average. Nor was it in her hair, although it blazed red in the autore orblight. It was more in the laugh-lines around her eyes and her generous smile. At that moment, she was eating an uncooperative citrus fruit, which managed to explode every time she bit into it. Rather than get frustrated at the splotches forming on her green vest, she wiped them off with good humor and bent sharply at the waist, so that her next bite would send drops of citrus cascading to the ground instead of down her front.

  After she finished the fruit, she wiped her hands on the matronly apron that circled her waist and walked over to a table that had been set up in the manicured lawn. There she pulled a young man out of a crowd of students. Although almost a full head shorter than his classmates, he was a sturdy, confident fellow who was well liked by most everyone he met. The lady, whose name was N’vonne, was his instructor.

  While she cared for all of her students, Vancien was like a son to N’vonne. When she had first taken over the position of instructor from her predecessor, she had been young and nervous. Nor had her fear been helped by her predecessor’s warning to watch out for the “Hull kid.” Apparently, he was “as stubborn as his brother.” After politely receiving the advice, she had tossed it aside, determined to make her own judgments. And she was right to do so. Vancien was quick, intelligent, and attentive—everything she could ask for. At only eight cycles, he had already been well acquainted with Kynellian Lore, though he objected to that name, Keroulian history, and various Rhyveladian cultures. When N’vonne had asked him where he learned all this, he had introduced her to his father, Hull, who had obviously taught his son a great deal. Through Hull, she learned that Vancien’s mother had died in childbirth and the child had never known her. On top of that tragedy, when Vancien was five, his brother had been kidnapped, or else drowned. Nobody knew for sure what had happened: Hull was reluctant to talk about it. She had thought then that the boy had had his fill of sadness, but when Vancien was thirteen, his father was killed in a farming accident. The whole town had mourned the loss.

  But these thoughts were not in her head as she pulled Vancien away from the crowd. Today was no time for sad memories. Despite all of his personal tragedies, Vance had completed his education. His future could only be brighter than his past.

  “Lady N’vonne! Did you see Henke’s marks? The man’s a genius at cross-way algorithms.”

  “Yes, Vance, I saw them. I graded them, remember?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Oh, yeah. But still, Henke’s got to be the best mathematician in the class.”

  “He did score the highest marks in that area. But no one came close to your knowledge of the Ages and world cultures. Your parents would be very proud.”

  He blushed, kicking at the ground. His sandy hair matched the color of the dust he was disturbing. “Yeah, I just wish he had been here, you know?”

  “I’m sure he’s watching from somewhe
re.”

  “I know. But it’s not the same.”

  As they conversed, a short, portly man came trotting up. “Lady N’vonne! What a day! Hey, Vance! Congratulations!”

  Vancien gave a cry upon seeing him, then wrapped him in a huge hug. “Uncle Naffinar! I didn’t know you were here!”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Vance. Came all the way from the capital city.”

  N’vonne did not have to feign curiosity. “How are things in Lascombe? I hope the king is well.”

  “Aye. And the princes are as healthy as can be. Fine lot of heirs, he has. Say, Vance, can I have a word with the lady?”

  Vancien raised an eyebrow. His voice, though normally low with a hint of gravel, raised in suspicion. “You came all the way from Lascombe to speak with my instructor?”

  “And why not? You think you have the only claim on her?” He wagged a chubby finger at his nephew. “N’vonne and I have known each other for cycles. We go way back.”

  “Now gentlemen,” N’vonne admonished while trying not to blush over the exchange. “Vancien, go help clean up the tables. Make sure they’re folded and the leftovers are put away properly.”

  Vancien gave his uncle one more jealous look, then jogged off obediently. N’vonne waited until he was out of earshot to start the conversation. “This had better not be bad news.”

  Naffinar hurriedly assured her that it was not, then allowed her to direct him toward her small office in the back of the schoolhouse, where he asked about the Vancien’s grades, his activities, and how he was handling life without his father. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve been back. I know what Hull said, but I feel responsible for the boy. Did you get my gifts?”

  N’vonne pulled her hair back into a business-like bun. “They were the highlight of Vancien’s term. And you should not have worried: Mayer’s a good man. Though I don’t think they have ever bonded, he’s taken good care of Vancien and taught him his trade. Black-smithing is useful anywhere.” She stopped, knowing that neither she nor Naffinar would be satisfied if Vancien decided to remain a blacksmith. “Besides, Hull knew you were needed at the capital.”