The Sons of Hull (34 page)

He shuddered and moved away from the grove, which continued to silently accuse him. Still praying for aid, he looked around for any possible relief. His weak grasp of reality was beginning to slip again: his earlier conclusions about Verial now seemed complete foolishness. Who was to say that she wasn’t some figment of his imagination? Alone in the plain, with no other soul in sight, the possibility seemed more than likely. Once again, the truth about reality overwhelmed him. How could anyone, looking out over these beautiful grasslands, believe in gods or prophecy? The plain truth was that this was all there is: ground and sky, himself and the throbbing soil underneath him. There was no Kynell who was watching him, no Zyreio who was chasing him. He, Vancien, was just a guy who had taken his childhood dreams too far.

He fell to his knees at the realization. Just a man, who, when he died, would disappear, as all other men did. While some men would have greeted this new awareness with relief (after all, the absence of deity could be considered rather liberating) Vancien wept. The truth of the matter was clear: he could no more dispute it than he could cease to breathe, although he would have gladly taken the latter option. He was left only with lamenting the loss of higher things, be they good or evil. In the course of his grief, he stretched himself out in the grass, allowing the sickening truth to flow fully over him. His surrender was almost complete, but before darkness claimed him, he asked Kynell—the Kynell that didn’t exist—for help one more time. He received no answer, nor did he expect one.

__________

Amarian had never felt so alive. Despite his thrashing from Ovna’s tail, which left him bruised and cut, he greeted the sight of the prairie with unconcealed enthusiasm. He had no doubt as to where he was. The Ages said that it was here Zyreio had planted his tongue and so infected all of Rhyvelad. Infected. Bemusedly, he rolled the word over in his mind. Here was life. Here was the one source of truth in all the world and they had the gall to call it an infection. Well, they had been given their just rewards, he had no doubt, and they deserved no more of his attention. Here, he was finally alone with his god. Here Zyreio would meet him, face to face, god to man. And here he would finally be consumed with Obsidian’s power. He saw again the chair that he had seen as a child—the chair from which he could see and control all things. He had finally made it, and all the Plains served as his throne. He smiled at the soft thrumming under his feet.

Quickening his step, he pushed deeper into the prairie, although where he was going, he could not say. Where does a man go when he is already at the center? But to stay still seemed like blasphemy. Better to explore all the corners of Zyreio’s fields. Who knew what surprises might turn up? If he walked over to that far grove, would new truths reveal themselves? Was Zyreio waiting for him further in? The energy coursing underground pushed him on, and as he went, he attempted to process all the knowledge that pulsed from this holy place. Unlike Vancien, he was not bombarded with doubts about the gods’ existence. Far from it: he was elated with the certainty that Zyreio was here with him and very soon they would both destroy the only one who stood in the way of their full consummation. Even Vancien was a distant concern. Distant, that is, until Amarian almost tripped over him.

He looked down in surprise, his pale features twisted in outrage: what other creature would dare to enter this sacred plain? It took a few moments for him to recognize his brother, whom he kicked lightly, more out of curiosity than malice. Vancien groaned and did not move. Unfortunately for him, his indolence offended Amarian, who kicked him again, harder and in the ribs. When Vancien still showed no inclination to move, Amarian, trembling with rage, drew his sword and pressed it against his throat.

“Get up,” he growled, digging in the point until it drew blood. Only then did Vancien stir, raising his head and shifting away from the source of his discomfort. This proved difficult to do, since now the discomfort was coming from two directions: the ground beneath him and the figure above him. At first he merely squirmed, then, recognizing Amarian’s silhouette in the orblight, started to his feet.

“It’s you!” he stammered.

“Find your sword,” Amarian said, ignoring his exclamation.

Vancien continued to stare. Then he knelt abruptly, pressing his ear to the ground. Amarian almost cut him at that point, but something stayed his hand. His young brother had always been dense, but now it seemed possible that he wasn’t even right in the head.

Meanwhile, Vancien’s expression turned triumphant. Jumping again to his feet, he looked on Amarian as a lover might look at the sudden appearance of his beloved.

“You’re real.”

“Of course I’m real, you fool! Did you think I would simply disappear, leaving all of Rhyvelad to you?”

But Vancien wasn’t listening. With growing confidence, he picked up his sword and wiped it on his tunic. “You’re still real, ‘Ian. I can’t get rid of you. I don’t want to get rid of you. I love you. But,” his smile vanished, “you must be delivered from the lies that surround you.”

Amarian opened his mouth then shut it as Vancien continued. “Do you remember when Zyreio came to you? You did not want to go with him, but you chose to anyway. I knew then, as I know now, why you made that choice. But you have forgotten. Obsidian has stolen your heart.”

Like Vancien’s speech, Amarian’s response was not his own. “You seek to confuse my servant, but it is too late. He is mine and has been mine since the day he chose me. He cannot hear you any longer; now you speak only to me and I will never listen.”

“Then I shall cut you out of him.”

With that promise, Vancien lunged, Amarian parried, and the fight began. To any casual observer, it would have appeared quite ordinary, perhaps boring. There were no dramatic leaps or twists; the sound of clanging metal was flat as it echoed over the prairie grass. At one point, Amarian tripped over a spot of uneven ground, but Vancien could not follow up the advantage because he had become momentarily tangled in a knotted section of grass. By the time their swords met again, both had shown themselves to be less than graceful, but so consumed with their desire to kill each other that they wasted no time on theatrics or even threats. Except for the clash of the blades and the grunts of exertion, the Plains were silent.

Finally, after an eternity of combat, one fell. Vancien, the weaker and less trained, lost his footing. Then Amarian struck the blade out of his hand with such force that the blow sent him staggering backwards. In less than a breath, Amarian was over him, with the sword again pressed to his throat.

“To the Chasm,” he said, pushing down.

__________

Several leagues away, in the middle of his trek to stop Corfe, Telenar crouched down. His voyoté had bruised his paw on a rock and some quick bandaging was necessary to stop the beast’s whimpering. While he was kneeling, pleading with Lansing to hold still, he heard somebody come up behind him. He greeted N’vonne without shifting his position, but to his surprise, she did not answer. He turned to see Verial, blindfolded, standing with her hand resting on N’vonne’s shoulder.

“Telenar, I think something has happened.”

Though it was N’vonne who spoke, Telenar did not hear her. He was gazing instead at Verial. Her skin was ashen.

“Take off her blindfold.”

When N’vonne removed the cloth, Verial blinked rapidly, then looked down at Telenar. For a moment, she did not say anything. It seemed then to Telenar that all the cycles of her bondage dropped from her, leaving exposed a terrified young lady.

“Oh Telenar,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Telenar jumped to his feet. “Sorry for what? What do you know?”

The color had drained even from her lips. But Obsidian would not let her keep silent.

“Vancien is dead.”

__________

His form lay lifeless, a pool of blood staining the ground. Amarian took a moment to savor the sight. If only Rhyvelad knew the significance of this quiet scene, it would already be trembling. But Rhyvelad did not know yet; it would not know until he came riding back in triumph. Even then, some of the stupid ones would not guess until a Sentry sat on the throne of Keroul and the Patroniite
order was expelled to the far reaches of the Chasm. Then, maybe, some of them would realize that a new age was coming upon them. And if they did not, what harm would it do? They could stay in ignorance for all eternity; it was no matter to him.

He puzzled a moment longer over what to do with the body. Should he leave it to gather flies? Carry it back in triumph? Bury it? He laughed at that third option. No, he’d best haul it back to camp. The protests of any die-hard Prysmites would be stilled by the vision of their decaying champion. With a sigh, he shouldered his brother’s heavy bulk and set off to find Ovna. Despite his new burden, each step grew more energetic until he reached her, still suffering from her wounds. He watched her without sympathy. Healing her was an inconvenience, but he could hardly walk back to Cylini territory.

He felt again the power of Zyreio course through him as he pressed a hand against her scales. If she had been in pain before, she screeched in agony now, writhing away from his touch as her torn skin pulled itself back over the wound: all the stretching, aching, and itching that accompany a slow convalescence concentrated into one excruciating moment. Then it was over. She lay there, scales glinting in the orblight, whimpering from shock and exhaustion. But Amarian, quickly refitting the harness and securing Vancien’s body, paid no attention to her discomfort. A soft tap and a threatening command encouraged her to take him airborne, clear of the Plains’ intoxicating presence and on his way to a triumphant return.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Telenar was going to be sick. How could this have happened? He was so sure, so
certain
that good would overcome evil, that Vancien would prove to be the stronger. Had Amarian resorted to foul play? Had Vancien simply made a mistake in an honest sword fight? He pressed Verial for more information, but her responses were terse and unhelpful. If she had made any progress at all during the past fortnights, she was now regressing—withdrawing into the shell of her former self. He and N’vonne tried to turn to each other for comfort, but even the most gentle of touches seemed pointless.

So the small army marched on in silence. Of course, the men had not been told what had happened, but they could sense the sobriety of their leaders; it did not take much intuition to know something was terribly wrong. But if they had known the depths of their commanders’ confusion and anguish, they might have considered retreating back into the cozy marshes.

“We could stay out here,” Chiyo suggested absently the night after they had heard the news. “Not much sense going back to camp, or to Lascombe.”

Telenar shook his head. News of the tragedy had wrought a dangerous change in his friend; Chiyo could no longer be thinking clearly if he was considering abandoning the House of Anisllyr to the enemy so quickly.

“What about the princes? They may put up a fight, since they think Corfe is the new Vancien.” N’vonne spoke bravely, though she choked as she pronounced Vancien’s name.

“I don’t understand it,” Chiyo continued, ignoring her. “What happened to the armies of the dead that were supposed to come to his aid? Weren’t all of us supposed to fight?” His head dropped. “I failed him. I should have killed Amarian when I had the chance.”

Telenar glanced irritably at his friend. “You would have failed, then he would have killed you.”

“Better dead than see us come to this.”

“Perhaps. But you’re not dead. And your men need you. I hadn’t figured you for a man to give up so easily, Chiyo.”

Chiyo would have gladly responded to this accusation, but his attention was diverted by a figure circling above them, its wings lopsidedly beating the air. Telenar saw it too and jumped to his feet, waving energetically.

“It must be Vancien’s Ealatrophe,” he cried, “and it’s wounded.”

Seeing that he had caught the humans’ attention, Thelámos screeched wearily, folded its wings, and executed a graceless landing. Both Chiyo’s men and the Cylini, with no little commotion, hastened to what most of them considered a safe distance. Not even Telenar dared approach; no one in their group was immune to its fatal cold. Still, the beast was obviously in pain. Whereas its left wing was folded tightly against its side, its right flexed erratically, as if the Ealatrophe desired to fold it in, but was unable to.

Telenar bit his lip as the Destrariae cold seeped into him. Did the creature’s arrival mean anything? Perhaps Vancien was still alive somewhere. As much as he longed to believe such a thing, he knew otherwise: Verial’s death-knell proclamation still echoed in his mind. With Vancien gone, Kynell’s cause was lost for another five hundred cycles. His heart was torn between grieving for his young friend and for all of Rhyvelad.

Yet here was Vancien’s Ealatrophe, watching him expectantly. All hope may be lost, but there were still some duties left to perform. He took a hesitant step forward, but the cold would let him go no further. N’vonne and Chiyo had tried to do the same with the same effect. Verial was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, at his elbow, he heard a boy’s voice.

“He’s wounded, sir,” Bren said.

“Yes, I can see that.”