The Sons of Hull (2 page)

His mind wandered down the path that included his brother, taking him further away from Mr. Ackburton, the woods, and the wind. Vancien was the reason that he had been late that day and also the past two days. He had insisted that Amarian follow him up to the stream to go fishing. Since Vancien hadn’t started formal lessons yet, he had no concept of Amarian’s need to be at the schoolhouse, nor did Amarian feel the need to tell him. Besides, Amarian considered teaching his brother how to hook a worm a much more profitable experience than sitting in a stiff desk all day.

The trees were beginning to shudder from the wind now, but Amarian was too absorbed in his wandering thoughts to pay them any attention.

And what about all the other stuff the Ages said that the instructor hadn’t mentioned? What about the brothers killing one another? What about the more than five hundred cycles when the victorious god would reign over the whole world? What about the stories he had heard of long periods of darkness over Rhyvelad? And even now, hadn’t the world enjoyed five hundred cycles of peace?

The storm gathered strength around the boy, who only wrapped his thin jacket around himself tighter and thought harder. He remained in this position for a long time, brow furrowed as the wind stuck his hair up in short, dark tufts. He thought of Vancien again; how could he explain to him that Kynell was just an idea? How could an idea make worms—real, live worms that are meant to feed fish? And why did Papa insist that they both say their evening prayers to the god of the Prysm if Kynell didn’t actually hear them?

Only when large drops of rain smacked against his head did he notice that the bright afternoon had turned dark; the sky through the trees was almost black. He jumped to his feet and started home. His papa would be certainly worried if he stayed out any longer. In fact, he was probably worried already. The thought made him break into a run, his feet pounding through the soggy fallen leaves. He almost fell twice, but his reflexes had always been quick and he was able to stop himself and his slate from tumbling into the mud. When he arrived home, however, neither his papa nor his brother were there. Hopefully, they weren’t out looking for him.

Wet, cold, and tired, he fought back the shivers as he dumped his slate on the only table in the room and began to prepare a fire. It looked like the wood needed replenishing; he had no desire to go outside again, but all the other dry logs were out in the barn. Besides, he had to make sure the gate was properly shut. It wouldn’t do for the milking cow to get out; fennels sometimes lurked in the woods and, despite the rain, Rita would make a tempting target for the over-sized, predatory cats.

So with a great sigh, he jerked his jacket up over his head and ran into the rain. The gate was already locked (Vancien’s doing, no doubt) and the wood was in easy reach. Half a minute after he stepped out into the storm he was back again, ready to get dry and start the fire. He stopped, however, as he stepped across the threshold. The room was no longer empty. There was a stranger inside, sitting by a fire he must have started himself. He was dressed like a traveler, with his pants tucked into his boots, his hat dripping water in the corner, and a special cloak treated to keep off the rain.

Amarian started, dropping his logs, but the newcomer only looked at him, not nearly as surprised as he was. It seemed as if he was sizing him up. Amarian shifted nervously under his scrutiny, but when the man finally spoke, he sounded cheerful enough.

“Amarian, I’m glad you’re here.”

As the boy had no response and, indeed, had not moved, the stranger leaned back in his chair by the fire and made himself comfortable. He didn’t feel any need to continue the conversation.

Amarian coughed to get his voice working again. “Uh, my father and brother will be back soon. If you have any business, you can wait where you are, by the fire.”

The man leaned forward and stared into the flames. He did not look terribly old, but he certainly was not a young man. Amarian thought he had an unpleasant mouth. “I have waited, ‘Ian. May I call you that? For a long time, I’ve waited. But it’s not your father I want to talk to—it’s you.”

Amarian’s back was getting wet from the pelting rain. The man did not seem interested in harming him, so he came all the way inside and shut the door behind him. “I don’t have any business, sir. And how do you know my name?”

The man ignored the question and patted the seat of the chair across from him. “Please have a seat. I have a proposition to discuss with you.”

Amarian took the seat, grateful to be by the fire but still suspicious. He didn’t know what “proposition” meant, but he thought it might have something to do with chores. “I don’t do work outside of the farm, sir. Don’t have the time.”

The man chuckled. “You’re a funny boy, ‘Ian. Did you think I needed your help for farm work?”

Amarian shrugged. “Don’t know why you’d need my help for anything, sir. What did you say your name was?”

The man ignored that question, too. “You just came from class, didn’t you? How was the lecture today?”

Amarian finally started to relax a little, happy to get his frustrations off his chest. “It was pretty confusing. The instructor thinks that god isn’t a real person—he’s just an idea. And that there aren’t two gods, anyway, but only one. Then he said the Ages were a metaphor, or that the Advocates were—I can’t remember which.” He looked glumly into the fire, sour about the whole experience.

To his surprise, the man nodded knowingly. “Yes, I’ve heard that about Mr. Ackburton. But sometimes instructors can be wrong, you know.”

“That’s what I thought! My papa taught me that there were two
gods and that they’re real, as real as you or me. Papa says the time of the Advocates is coming soon. And he ought to know! He reads the Ages every night.”

The man was still agreeable. “Yes, he ought to. I guess he reads to you and your brother, as well?”

“Yes, sir. Every night. Vancien listens better than I do, but I like hearing about Kynell.”

The man’s smile was inscrutable. “You do, do you? Why him?”

“Oh, he’s so powerful. He knows
everything
. And he’s good, you know? He loves people.”

“And Zyreio? What sort of god is he?”

Amarian poked a stick into the fire, warming to his subject. “He’s not any of those things. He doesn’t love anybody and Papa says he’s probably not as strong as Kynell.”

“Your father is wrong there.”

“How do you know?” Amarian asked, startled at such a definite opinion.

“Just because Zyreio does not use his strength in the same way the god of the Prysm does, doesn’t mean he’s not strong. He’s just smarter.”

Amarian frowned, wishing that his papa would come back.

“But what if I told you there was a way to see for yourself?” the man continued. “What if I told you that your father was right, that the time of the Advocates has come?” He paused. “What if
you
were an Advocate?”

Amarian looked at him, as bewildered as he’d been all day. “Me, an Advocate? I’m sorry, sir, but I—I’ve got to get back to my chores.” He made to get up but the man grabbed him by the arm. His voice was hoarse with urgency.

“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.”