The Sons of Hull (32 page)

“Do you realize he’s planning on murdering all the Cylini?”

“Of course. He is Obsidian’s Advocate; do you really think he’s squeamish about genocide?”

Lors could have suggested that perhaps it was
they
who should be squeamish about genocide. Instead, he said curtly, “His intentions don’t surprise me. It’s your reaction to him that I’m worried about. Do you honestly believe that after he returns, he’ll help you with the Cylini, and then go off to fight his little war somewhere else? He means to use us, Farlone. And then dispose of us. I really don’t think that—”

He was cut off by Farlone’s sharp look. Amarian’s second, the mute called Corfe, was approaching, accompanied by a Sentry. The young man looked even more haggard then usual. Nevertheless, he gave a shallow bow as he drew near, then held out a sheet of parchment. Farlone seemed reluctant to have any contact with him, so Lors received it with a polite nod and read it aloud: “Majesties, it is my great regret that I cannot vocally deliver my salutations. This brief note will have to suffice. As you know, Commander Hull has left me in charge of his forces, a command in which my effectiveness extends only so far. I have consequently appointed the chief Sentry, Tarl,” (the Sentry nodded at the mention of his name) “as operating commander. Should you need to discuss anything, you should speak with him. All decisions must meet my approval.”

Lors tucked the parchment into his vest. The man before him was a committed enemy of Kynell, and the creature beside him the spawn of Obsidian, yet he felt some pity for them. They, too, were caught in Amarian’s web.

“Thank you for the courtesy, Corfe. The Commander had informed us of your post, but unfortunately, we have not had the pleasure of your company. Would you—both of you—care to dine with us tonight?”

Farlone stiffened. Lors ignored him while Corfe watched them both with feverish intensity. It was Tarl who spoke, his rough voice raking over the polite words. “Your generosity is much appreciated. But a Sentry would be a poor dinner guest. My master…” He paused and waited for a cue from his superior. Corfe bowed slightly. “…would be honored to attend you at dinner, although he fears he does not have much to say.”

Lors was so surprised at the creature’s eloquence and humor that he laughed. Tarl continued, disregarding the interruption.

“My master will join you at orbset. Then, tomorrow morning all the generals will meet to discuss our plan for the commander’s absence; please inform General Tengar and the others.”

Farlone finally decided to speak, if only briefly. “We look forward to your visit, Corfe. Until this evening.”

They nodded and turned away, although Lors noted that Corfe stayed in Tarl’s company no more than a few yards before abruptly veering off to the left. Funny how evil could not stand its own presence.

__________

Corfe headed straight for his tent. He was at his desk before it occurred to him to check on Gair, unceremoniously bound several paces away and kept under close surveillance by a Mholi. The Sentry saluted as he approached. Awakened by the movement, the prisoner stirred from his uncomfortable afternoon nap.

“Corfe.” His voice was barely audible, so weakened and dehydrated he had become.

Corfe nodded, stepped over the chains, then crouched down and looked closely at the unfortunate figure. This man had gained nothing by his treachery, but then, few men do. Corfe was no idealist, of course; he was not bothered by the betrayal itself, rather the stupidity of it. What could motivate this man to not only stay alive, but maintain his loyalty to the Prysm? Amarian had told him of the Gair’s affection for Verial—perhaps that was it. Certainly the sight of that woman was enough to drive any man to reckless behavior. But she had been gone for several fortnights now. If Gair had been bewitched by her beauty, he had had plenty of time, separation, and painful distractions to recover from the spell.

No, the look in Gair’s eyes suggested that he was hoping for something more than a woman, even more than personal deliverance. Corfe wanted desperately to ask him what he was hoping for, but he couldn’t bring himself to write such a question down. So he stalked off again, but not before motioning for the Sentry to get Gair some more water.

Relgaré’s original fortification had shifted closer to the marshes ever since their great victory over the Cylini. Now Keroulian soldiers guarded the bridge, though they did not bother going deeper into the swamp; no one had any desire to discover its mysteries. It did not take long, therefore, before Corfe was alone with the damp undergrowth and foul orbmoss. His delirium deepened as the trees grew thicker. What was he doing out here? What had he ever been doing, other than trying to get by on his crimes? Why, in all those cycles since his mother had died, before he met Amarian, had he not considered becoming an honest worker? When had he decided to become a scoundrel? Was it when his father had abandoned them during his sixth cycle? Or when Kynell wrongfully took his mother from him a few cycles later? But where had any of his schemes got him?

He thought back on the night that Amarian had offered him the choice between bondage and death. Why didn’t he choose to throw himself over the cliff into the sea? Surely that would have saved him a great deal of suffering. But when a man is offered life, he takes it, even if it means a life of silence. Now that silence weighed heavily on him; his dark mood thickened until all he wanted to do was shake his fist at both Obsidian and the Prysm. But what good would that do?

The orbs were setting by the time weariness overtook his frustration. He needed to return to camp, an impulse that became even more urgent when he remembered he had a meeting with the two princes. Why hadn’t a Sentry been sent to remind him? Surely Tarl had sent a scout to keep an eye on him. No matter. He would issue a half-hearted apology to the young royals and then be on his way.

When night had fully descended, he still had a good distance to go. Yet to his dismay and surprise, his knees began to buckle with fatigue. His hips and arms soon followed; he began to feel as if his entire body was filled with lead. Before he knew it, he was forced into an unnaturally prostrate position on the swampy ground. Only with great effort was he able to lift his face up out of the mud so he could breathe.

He had no idea how long he lay in this uncomfortable position, but it seemed like an eternity before he felt a presence nearby. He suppressed a groan. Had Zyreio come to deliver punishment for his unfaithfulness? Fear gripped him, causing his breath to come in short gasps. Why didn’t it—whatever it was—say something?

After a while, he could sense it moving. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and strained to look in the direction of the sound. His gaze fell on a swamp marmet, with greasy fur plastered against its small body and big eyes peering thoughtfully back at him. It was standing in the one spot accessible to the lunos-light. The entire situation appeared so ridiculous that Corfe couldn’t hold back a chuckle. The creature blinked, then added some staccato squeaks to his laughter.

“It has been a long time since you laughed, Corfe.”

Though its lips did not move, the tiny creature’s voice echoed through his head. It was a little more than a squeaky whisper, but it an air of authority. Had it really just spoken to him? How did it know his name? And why couldn’t he move his arms?

It continued. “I know much about you, young man. I know you have fled me many times, and even now you continue to make poor choices. I know that you keep your silence voluntarily.”

Corfe shook his head, perplexed at the last statement, but unable to ask about it. The marmet nodded jerkily in response. “Why do you not speak?”

Corfe’s patience with the little creature began to wear thin. “You know very well that I cannot spea—”

The creature peered at him eagerly. Suddenly free to move, he clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Cannot what? Say again, young man.”

Now on his knees, Corfe slowly removed his hand. “I can’t speak. I’m mute. Amarian silenced me . .” His hand flew to his throat, searching for some sort of change, but found nothing except the urge to laugh. He jumped to his feet and shouted at the marmet.

“I’m healed! I can speak! Who are you? How did you do it? I owe you my life, little marmet.”

The creature quickly became as solemn as its furry face would allow. “Be careful what you pledge, Corfe. In the end, you will be called upon to give it.”

Sobered, Corfe splashed back down on his knees. “Who are you? Why have you come to me? You cannot be a servant of Zyerio.”

“Ha! Zyerio could not contain me. But you will find out soon enough who I am. For now, go. The princes will be wondering at your absence.”

Confused but obedient, Corfe rose and performed an awkward bow. Then the marmet was gone, leaving him to joyfully stagger his way back into the camp.

Gair looked up in surprise when he entered. He knew it was Corfe, but the man was hardly recognizable, covered in mud as he was, with a mad look in his eye. He lunged at him and Gair figured he was done for. But Corfe was frantically tugging at his ropes, hissing under his breath until Gair was freed. He then sat back on his haunches, admiring his handiwork.

Gair sat in shock for a moment (he was too weak to move, anyway), then finally dared to speak. “What’s gotten into you?”

Corfe was glowing. “What do you notice different about me?”

“I don’t know. You look like you’ve been through—wait a minute. You’re talking.”

Delighted that someone now shared his secret, Corfe jumped to his feet and clapped his hands. “I’ve been healed! There I was, in the marsh, and I couldn’t move, in complete despair, then this marmet started talking to me, and I could taste the mud—”

Gair tried his best to follow the narrative, but he had a difficult time making out what despair had to do with a talking marmet. He pleaded for Corfe to slow down long enough to make some sense. When Corfe did, Gair couldn’t help but feel a little triumphant.

“Tell me again what the marmet said.”

“He told me to speak again. And again!”

“No, after that. When you mentioned Zyreio.”

Corfe winced at the name. “He said that Zyreio could not contain him. I don’t have any idea what that means, but I really don’t think that was Obsidian back there. It was something different, something much more—” He paused, finally slowing down to consider the implications of what had happened. .” . .intimidating.”

Gair leaned back, rubbing his chafed skin and smiling like a fool. “It was Kynell.”

He was surprised to see Corfe shake his head. “That’s not possible. Why would he heal me? I’m his enemy.”

“Not any longer, you’re not. Look at the change he’s caused in you after just a few minutes! You’re alive, you can speak. By the Chasm, you’re actually smiling!”

Corfe blushed. “I don’t know. I don’t know why he would heal me and I don’t know why Zyreio hasn’t struck me down yet. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you, my prisoner, or even why you’re talking to me, your captor.”

Gair eyed his own mangled flesh, which was slowly, painfully, and incompletely healing. “The ways of Kynell are mysterious. But he has obviously set his sights on you. Maybe the Ages say something about it.”

Corfe jumped, suddenly inspired. “That’s it! That’s why I’ve been healed! No, that’s not possible. At least I don’t think so.” He started pacing, trying to dredge up forgotten scraps of information. “There was some debate about the timing, and I’ve hardly been a servant of the Prysm. Unless—” He turned sharply toward Gair. “Where can I get a copy of the Ages?”

“A copy of the Ages? Well, you can go ask some of the Keroulian troops—abridged copies used to be standard issue to officers. I heard that good King Relgaré stopped that practice a few cycles ago. But I bet most officers still have theirs.”

Corfe did not stay to appreciate Gair’s political commentary. As soon as he heard the word “officers,” he rushed out of the tent. When he returned several minutes later, he was clutching a tattered copy of the Ages, hastily borrowed from Tengar. Like an eager child, he sat down cross-legged and flipped it open.

Gair watched him with interest, unable to hear what he was mumbling and suspecting that the excitement now overtaking him was something more than amazement at his recent healing. Corfe was obviously looking for something specific, though for the life of him Gair could not think what that might be.

The candles were burning low when Corfe, frustrated and exhausted, leaned back and looked at his friend. “Have you read the Ages?”

“Of course. My mother had a smuggled copy. Though I don’t know as much about them as I’d like. What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know, really. Maybe something about how Kynell treats his enemies.”

“Somewhere in Folio Seven it says that the Prysm will shatter those who oppose it. But then later there’s something about Kynell extending hand of mercy even for those who have cursed him. I’ve never quite made sense of the two. ”

Corfe stared thoughtfully at the open book. “For those who have cursed him. Guess I would fall into that category.” He looked gloomily at Gair’s scars. “And I’ve harmed his servants. What would he want with me?”

Gair’s heart went out to him—he had felt a similar desolation when he had first learned of Kynell. Why would a god taint himself by associating with his rebellious self?