The Sons of Hull (36 page)

Amarian would have viewed the bloodshed with satisfaction, except the archers kept firing and the ballistae were now operational. Besides, it took little military acumen to ascertain that the battle was already going against him: the Sentries who had obeyed his command were few and surrounded, while the men of Obsidian appeared to either disinterested or on the side of the traitor. Where had the fennels gone? Barking a retreat for the few soldiers who still stood by him, he impulsively scanned the chaos for the one who must be the cause of all this trouble. He found Corfe mounted on a voyoté, sword in hand, slashing at the attacking Sentries. Snarling, he ordered Ovna into a dive. The beast cleared her way with a jet of flame, igniting attackers and defenders alike, and before Corfe could escape, she was upon him. He managed to dodge the flame a second time, only to find his way into her claws, which she closed forcefully. She had barely pulled up above the fray, however, when she screeched, dropped her load, and whirled her great head around to look at her underbelly. There was lodged a ballista bolt, fired at close range and digging itself deeper into her stomach as she frantically flapped her wings. But the shot was lethal. After a defeaning roar, she plummeted to the ground, striking hard and pushing the bolt directly into her heart.

Corfe landed with a thud, unharmed. Amarian, too, was intact, feverishly unstrapping Vancien’s body before Corfe could regain his feet and attack. Hampered by the corpse, he could only flee toward his loyal Sentries, who immediately formed a protective circle around him and began the tortuous process of retreat. By sheer desperation the small group eventually managed to extract itself, rushing into the marshes. Tarl shouted for pursuit. Corfe would have seconded his command, but for a regiment to pursue the small band into the swamp was simply not feasible. He had to settle for sending a small battalion after them, although he had little hope of their success. Who knew how powerful Amarian had become after this Dedication of his? This first attack had caught him off guard, but the next battle would not be so easy.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

After sending a few Sentries off to deal with the pursuit party, Amarian could only slog through the swamp water, wondering at the last few moments. The power he had felt coursing through him was fading, as was his awareness of Obsidian inside of him. What in the Chasm had just happened? How had his triumphant return turned into a rout? Why hadn’t Zyreio struck down the turncoats? He shifted Vancien’s body, which was becoming intolerably heavy. Motioning for a Sentry to come relieve him of it, he tried to keep a wary eye on the creature to make sure it didn’t eat his prize while he figured out his next move.

In truth, he had not felt so confused since that day so long ago, when that wild-haired instructor had tried to pawn off his lies of figurative Advocates and two gods who were really one. As Amarian remembered it, he had been so confused by the lesson that when Zyreio came to claim him, he had gone willingly with him, just for the gift of knowing that Zyreio wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

At least on that day he had been presented with a clear course of action, however unpleasant. Now, he had nothing and nobody. Even Zyreio had left him. No, that was impossible. How could Obsidian abandon its own Advocate after Kynell had been so roundly defeated? Why would it? There must be another answer. Perhaps he was being tested. Perhaps Zyreio remembered the truth about that day. Amarian shook his head. What
was
the truth about that day? He suspected that there was something important he had forgotten about it, something that would give him a clue what to do next.

He looked over at the dead body of his brother bouncing gently on the reptile’s back. Suddenly everything seemed so complicated—more complicated than it had been since, well, since that day again. Why did it always come back to that?

The corpse was beginning to smell, so he inhaled its fragrance like a perfume. There was still his victory at the Plains. No one could deny that. He had defeated his brother with ease; little Vancien was no longer around to trouble him. He was gone.

Amarian slumped against a tree, uncaring about the water, uncaring whether he was still being pursued. He had murdered his little brother. Disgust swelled within him, bringing with it fragments of his past: visions of Vancien as a child, learning how to fish; a thunderstorm, a rain-soaked shirt, and making fire for a stranger; Vance with straw in his hair, attempting to buck a bale of hay; the stranger by the fireplace, making Amarian shiver.

A splash soaked his left side. The Sentry that was carrying Vancien’s body had let it fall into the marsh: the pursuit party had caught up with them and was now attacking with the zeal of converts. The scuffle was extremely violent, but fortunately the attackers were too engaged with their fellow Sentries to keep track of Amarian or the body. Silently, and without fully examining his motives, Amarian crept over to the spot where Vance had disappeared. Feeling for the cold dead arm, he grasped it and began to pull it slowly through the water until the battle was several paces away. Even then he dared not allow it to surface, but rather submerged himself up to his neck, moving swiftly until all he could hear were distant sounds of the skirmish, muffled by the water lapping against his ears. Only then did he rise, lifting Vancien up out of the sludge as he did. He had to find some high ground where he could dry off.

Not too far away was an old, abandoned Cylini platform. Its wood was almost rotted through, but all he needed was a patch large enough for himself and his burden. He hauled himself up, but Vancien, now completely water-logged, was a little more difficult to manage. Only after a great deal of grunting and effort did they both make it onto the dry surface.

Now that they were situated, Amarian took his chance to glare at the body. His little brother, murdered. By his own hand. What would Vance say? Though Amarian would never admit it, Vance had been the only thing close to a moral compass in his life. Now that he was gone, Amarian half wished that he was back again, if only to talk about these new developments. What would he advise? Probably something laughable, like praying to Kynell.

The name of the god made him growl low in his throat. Kynell. He
was the reason for this whole mess. If Kynell had been a little stronger, Amarian would have been dead on the battlefield, not Vancien. Then all would have been right. Rhyvelad would have been a happy place once again with Vancien in charge, Keroul would be as mighty as ever, and only one person would ever be the wiser. Only one person would know of the horrible choice forced upon a twelve-cycle old boy. Only one person sacrificed on the Plains of Jasimor. That was what should have happened.

But it had not happened. Kynell was the weaker, Zyreio the stronger, and Amarian, who had once made a choice to protect his brother, had now killed him in cold blood. Amarian shook his head: a sad story with a sad ending.

He stood up, not quite sure what he was going to do but determined to do it anyway. He might as well leave the body here, slumped gracelessly on the rotting wood. Graceless, like Amarian’s own life. The word stuck in his throat. Would there ever been any grace for him? Probably not. Self-pity? Absolutely. Fear? In boat loads. But grace was reserved for the Prysm and the Prysm did not traffic with Zyreio’s Advocate. The only grace for him was a dangerous one—one that brought the dead to life. Amarian did not trust it. He liked to think of himself as one of the most careful of Obsidian’s Advocates, so he certainly knew enough not to bring back one of his servants—not even Tsare—from the grave. Imagine what that would have done to his ego! No servant should think himself indispensable to his master. That’s why they’re called servants: to serve and be disposed of.

But Vancien had never been his servant. Vancien was merely his brother, neither his servant nor his master. It had been so long that Amarian had been pinioned between the two that the idea struck him hard. Vancien was not dependent on him to follow or to lead; he was simply there, separate from Amarian’s world but indispensable to it.

He knelt down, irrationally grasping the wrist of the corpse to check for a pulse. There was none there: most of the blood had long since been drained out through the wound and washed away by the marsh waters. Still, he pressed his thumb harder against the tendons, pretending that the possibility of life still existed.

As he did, the image of Zyreio next to the fireplace sprang up in front of him so sharply that he rocked backward. He could see Zyreio looking at him, judging him. Then, the house—his father’s house—was up in flames. Hull was trapped inside, bellowing for help. Vancien, too, was trapped; his boyish cries could be heard clearly above the roar of the fire. The crisis was so real that Amarian shouted out, attempting to put out the flames with his bare hands. But it was no use; soon the house and all who were in it were reduced to cinders.

Amarian collapsed to the platform, sweating. There was no hope. Obsidian’s Advocate could never bring something good into the world: Zyreio wouldn’t allow it. The god had the power to destroy everything Amarian loved, not just once, but several times over. If he used a Grace to bring Vancien back from the dead (as he was now sorely tempted to do), Zyreio would simply destroy the boy again, and then where would he be? More alone than ever before.

The violence of the vision had caused him to disturb the body again. Now Amarian could see something bulky strapped to its back: no wonder it had been laying in such an odd position. It was large and rectangular, like a book. Curious, Amarian rolled the body gently onto its side to cut loose the bindings that held the object on.

It was the Ages. They were bloody and soaked, but still, there they were. He flipped them open to a familiar passage: “The day of the advocates always comes...Ten thousand score of mornings and of evenings, then Rhyvelad will tremble again. The brothers will fight as enemies and one will die.”
That last line he knew well: it had been burned into his brain since the day he left home. But he had never bothered to read the next line. He looked closer, gently wiping away the mud that threatened to smear the ink.

“But the love of Kynell is eternal; it overlooks the crimes of brothers and enemies. It waits for repentance.”

He read it again, certain that he was mistaken. Kynell didn’t overlook crimes; he judged them and executed punishment, when he had the power. Still, there it was: .” . .overlooks the crimes of brothers and enemies. It waits for repentance.”

He didn’t understand. It looked like this passage was holding something out to him—something like hope—but it went against everything else he knew about Kynell and Zyreio. Unconsciously, he moved his hand again to Vancien’s wrist.
If you could just come back for a second,
Vance
, he thought to himself,
you could help me understand this.

The body stirred, but Amarian was too busy looking at the Ages to notice. Only when it propped itself up on its elbow and gave its head a shake did Amarian see what was going on. When he did, he dropped the book with a cry of terror.

“Vancien?”

Vancien shook his head again; it felt like he’d never get the water out of his ears.

“Amarian, what are you doing here?” He looked around, taking in the moist, insect-laden swamp. “What am
I
doing here? I was in the most amazing place.” He frowned, trying to recall the memory.

Amarian, meanwhile, had recovered the Ages with a trembling hand. “I, uh, was hoping for your help.” Then he remembered his hasty wish. “Do we have much time?”

Vancien rubbed his neck, which had begun to itch. “Time for what?”

It was an innocent movement, but it caused the full truth to dawn upon Amarian. The fatal wound was gone. Vancien looked healthy, as if the battle had never happened. He had done it. What would Zyreio say?

He must have muttered the question out loud, because Vancien’s head snapped up.

“Zyreio? What’s he got to do with anything?”

Amarian had a hard time finding his tongue. “He, uh, well, since I brought you back, I thought that maybe he—”

“
You
didn’t bring me back. Last thing I remember, you were plunging a sword into my throat.” He stopped to scratch again at his neck. “But now I’m here again. Like N’vonne, you must have claimed your Grace.” He looked sharply at Amarian. “Why? Why did you bring me back?”

Amarian was still flustered, but he did not take kindly to Vancien’s tone. “I said, I wanted your help. There’s a passage here. ” He pointed to the open Ages. “I don’t understand it.”

Vancien stopped rubbing his neck long enough to look at the page in question. When he finally realized what line it was that was bothering Amarian, his attitude changed considerably.

“You want forgiveness?”

“Forgiveness? No. What do I need forgiveness for?”

“Killing me, for start.”

Amarian flushed in anger. Here was the old self-righteous Vancien, back in full force. “For doing what I was born to do? I could have let
you
go with Zyreio, you know.”

Vancien nodded. He had long suspected Amarian’s motivations on that day. Amarian’s words, though harsh, spoke of a great sacrifice.

“I know. And I’m grateful, believe me. You gave me the freedom to serve the Prysm. Kynell knows it well. But then you gave yourself over to evil. You persecuted and murdered Kynell’s servants and killed his Advocate. He should strike you down, but instead he offers you himself—again. What will you say?”