But something has happened while Amarian is away. Kynell heals Corfe from his muteness, which had been inflicted by Amarian himself. Dazed and elated, Corfe comes to the surprising and misguided conclusion that he, the onetime servant of Obsidian,
is the true Prysm Advocate. With the zeal of a convert, he assumes control of both Amarian’s army and the Keroulian forces. When Amarian returns triumphant, carrying Vancien’s body, he finds his own soldiers turned against him. Despite his recent victory, he must flee into the marshes, where he convinces himself that Zyreio has abandoned him. Now isolated from both gods, Amarian despairs, but his despair leads him to a radical act. Calling on the Prysm for the first time in over fifteen cycles, he asks Kynell to restore Vancien to him. Kynell graciously responds, allowing Vancien to return from the land of the dead.
Rhyvelad now faces an unprecedented situation: both
Advocates are alive, both serve Kynell, and both face the threat of a heretical believer in control of the world’s largest armies. Yet the brothers themselves are in a unique position. Amarian’s newfound loyalty to Kynell is untested while Vancien, the true Prysm Advocate, must decide to fight yet another battle, this time against a well-intentioned imposter.
Despite these difficulties,
The Sons of Hull
ends on a celebratory note: the wedding of the priest Telenar to N’vonne. Vancien attends, as does the subdued Amarian. Rhyvelad has reached a temporary peace while standing on the threshold of a turbulent post-prophetic age. In
Obsidian
, that peace will be shattered in a way that shakes Rhyvelad to its very core, tearing from the heroes that which they treasure most.
PROLOGUE
The Realm of the Eastern Lands was desolate. Cold rain pelted down upon uncultivated fields and shut-up houses, trickling through un-mended roofs and splashing into waiting pools. Any housekeeper worth her salt would have been horrified at the state of disrepair. To add to the melancholy scene, a chill wind raced across the landscape, although there was no one for it to abuse. All living things had abandoned the area, even the plants. Yet it was a short cycle ago that the inhabitants of the region had been alive, industrious, and very, very excited: Amarian pa Hull, Obsidian’s Advocate and Darkness personified, had ridden out to claim victory over the lands of Rhyvelad. It was only a matter of time before he became master of the world. The Easterners could already taste his triumph, as well as the rewards they would enjoy for loyal service. So they waited, patching their homes, feeding their livestock, and sharpening their blades as they counted the days until their master’s return.
Amarian had told the few warriors he left behind that he would send for them when the time for battle had come. But the summons never came. Fortnight after fortnight passed, leaving the strong men with nothing to do but argue among themselves. Several of the thoughtless brutes claimed that Amarian would never return and declared themselves kings of the East. Those who were more thoughtful remained loyal. They resisted the usurpation, but were soon murdered for their constancy. After that first blood, arguments easily turned into armed brawls and brawls into battles. Old men, women, and children fled to safer lands but the mighty warriors remained, destroying each other and the land itself in their callous search for power. The fields that had once supplied an army now supplied food only for the crows. The trees that had once provided shelter were razed in an effort to expose enemy clans. And the fortress of Donech, once the seat of Amarian’s power, housed nothing but cobwebs and dead bodies.
Yet on this day, there was movement. It was in the great hall, under the dusty remains of a massive, cracked table, where at one time tribes of Sentries, fennels, and humans had sat under a vaulted roof. A tiny crack in the stone floor was showing activity by beginning to widen of its own accord. From within its meager depths, so small that a mouse could not have taken refuge in them, issued an eerie sound: the tiny screech of voices in pain. As the crack widened, moment by moment, so did the little cacophony. Soon its cries echoed off the walls. Voices of rage, agony, despair, and frustration all rushed through the abandoned corridors as if eager to share their story with any living thing they encountered. In doing so, they brushed past the decayed bodies of the warriors. Cold, grey fingers twitched. Eyes blinked. Skin grew warm and soft. A moment more and the flesh took on sound. The halls of Donech soon began to resonate with voices of condemned souls returning to their bodies and the boom of long-dead warriors clamoring to their feet. The Chasm was open.
CHAPTER ONE
“No, you can’t go. That’s final.” The pale child of twelve cycles planted his fists on his hips and dug his heels into the dirt. “It’s only for boys.”
“Lucio, don’t be such a
narfat
. I’m quicker and older than you are. Besides, you’re taking Trint, and he’s just four cycles.”
The boy named Lucio narrowed his eyes. His hair would have been a remarkable shade of blond were it not for the layer of dirt that caked it. His clothes were what one might expect of a street urchin: a mismatch of materials, torn at the elbows and knees, too tight in some areas and too baggy in others. Since hiverra had descended in full upon the land of Keroul, he had been wrapped in a bulky, oversized cloak to ward off the cold. The end result was a little comical, with the added bonus that he constantly got himself tangled in its folds. Still, he tried to lend his wardrobe as much authority as he could manage.
“Sorry, Teehma, but no. You
are
quicker, but you’re too pretty. You’ll attract too much attention.”
Teehma gave a snort and folded her arms, which were dark even through the cold months. “Funny coming from you. Who told you I was pretty? Gorvy?”
Lucio blushed but held his ground. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter. Gorvy said it’s only him, me, and Trint. You an’ Ester have to stay here and watch the fort.”
The “fort” was just a deep alcove in the thick walls of Lascombe, Keroul’s radiant capital city. She was Kynell’s city, and a great deal of care had been tastefully poured into her over the cycles. Several of her streets were wide thoroughfares and all of her walls were high and whitewashed, giving them a glow in the lunos light. Poetic travelers used to say that they when they saw Lascombe from afar at night, it was as if the triple lunos had bedded down on Rhyvelad for the evening. And when they saw her again at daybreak, she had transformed herself into a burning orb.
But in recent cycles, Lascombe had inspired more grief than poetry. Thanks to King Relgaré’s neglect and death, the city had experienced a dramatic rise in crime and poverty. Pickpockets and other thieves roamed along the wide thoroughfares while children without parents found their home in the streets, often shepherded by black-hearted “patrons.”
Gorvy was just such a man.
As Lucio and little Trint disappeared into the street, Teehma gave a sigh. “Don’t you hate being a girl, Ester?”
Ester did not answer. Almost completely blind because of a childhood illness, she often kept to herself. Since a blind pickpocket was not of much use, Gorvy had only taken her in because she had insisted that she would beg and otherwise take care of domestic duties, both of which she did with quiet resignation.
So resigned was she that Teehma often found her annoying. When she received a shrug in answer to her comment, she had to clench her fist to keep from hitting the girl. But her parents—dead these many cycles—would disapprove of punching a blind person.
She looked again past the thick curtain into the night. As much as she hated to admit it, Lucio was right. She was in her fifteenth cycle and Ester was entering into her eleventh. With all the mean
narfats
out there, it was too likely that they’d be stolen away for the slave market. She sighed again. Before they had died, her parents had told her that Lascombe used to be a wonderful place where children were safe and nobody had to steal to eat. She didn’t believe them anymore, of course. Gorvy had taught her that the world had
always
been cruel. And when she heard Ester crying at night, she believed him.
It was almost dawn when the boys returned. Gorvy was with them, black eyes darting about the place as if the children were hiding some great treasure under their straw beds. His hair was slicked back with a foul-smelling grease and each one of his multiple layers of clothing seemed to have its own, sticky smell. He had to crouch almost double to enter the fort, but Teehma figured he was used to crouching. The man had probably never stood upright in his life. He came in quietly, sitting down on one of the pallets and digging into a sack filled with clanking metal.
“The boys did well tonight,” he said. “Trint is developing a knack for slipping into small places—just like you used to do, Teehma.”
Teehma nodded at the compliment.
“Here you go, my little rats,” Gorvy continued, tossing out a dented silver goblet. “See what you can get for this an’ feed yourselves. The rest I’ll pawn an’ give you five percent.”
Teehma and Lucio exchanged looks but said nothing. They did not know what five percent meant, but Gorvy had been promising it to them for almost a cycle now.
He was up on his feet again, stamping his frosted boots. “Right. You rats keep this place clean—that’s your job too, Teehma. That an’ getting food. Careful that you do it right or I’ll come calling next time the slavers are in town.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be sure you watch out for them soldiers, too. They’ll throw you in the stocks just for bein’ seen.” He started to leave then stopped. “Oh, an’ one more thing.” He kicked at Trint, who shied away, wide-eyed. “Keep an eye on this one. I saw him up by the palace yesterday, eyeing the rich folk. He’s becoming a little too ambitious for his age.” With that final encouraging word, he left, and the four of them breathed a little easier.
Trint, cold, shaken, and exhausted by the night’s activities, crawled into Ester’s lap. Teehma had long ago noticed that the two had a special connection, although she had no idea where it came from. Since the day Lucio had brought him in from the gutter, Trint had taken to Ester like a fish to water. Teehma liked Trint all right, but Ester was more the motherly type, which was all right with her. Just the thought of being a mother was suffocating.
But she hated to think how Gorvy would react if he knew what Trint was doing up by the palace. She’d seen him at it a few times, putting himself in the way of the rich people, hoping that one of them would take him in. She couldn’t blame him for trying. They’d all done it at one point or another. But Gorvy would never forgive the boy if he got himself adopted.
She turned to Lucio, who was warming his hands by their small fire and coughing through the smoke it produced. “You didn’t happen to see him, did you?”
He shook his head. “Things ain’t the same since King Relgaré died. He used to walk around town all the time. But this Relgaren don’t ever come out. Don’t know why you’d want to see him anyways. He’s just another stuffed shirt with a head too small for his crown. An’ then there’s that friend of his—Corfe.” He rubbed his arms, almost choking on the name. “He gives me the shivers. That one don’t seem right in the head.”
Teehma kicked him lightly. “Ain’t none of us right in the head, you
narfat
. Guess you’d better sleep. Gorvy might come calling again tonight.”
Lucio groaned and collapsed in his pallet. “By the Prysm, I hope not. We must’ve broke into four different houses. There ain’t anything left to steal. Maybe soon we can go out when it’s daylight and do some honest pick-pocketing.”
__________
The dragon dove with terrifying speed. Corfe barely had time to duck out of the way as its flames engulfed the soldiers trying to protect him. The beast heaved its body back into the air for another dive, but not before Corfe caught a glimpse of her rider. It was Amarian. He looked furious, lunging with his sword as the dragon dove again. If anyone escaped her blast, they would be caught by his blade. Then, to Corfe’s terror, Amarian jumped down from his mount and walked toward him. His eyes glowed.
“Traitor!” he called.
“It’s not my fault!” Corfe shouted back, ducking away. “The Prysm god healed me! It’s not my fault!”
The bedchamber servants gathered nervously as their master tossed and turned on the bed. Despite the roar of battle in Corfe’s mind, the lunos-lit room was quiet. Corfe groaned, muttering to himself as his shaved head glistened with sweat. He battled the dream until the head attendant ventured to tap him on the shoulder.
He jerked awake at the touch, causing the onlookers to take a cautious step back. He looked at them for a moment before exhaling in relief. Then he noticed his twisted bedclothes.
“I’ve been at it again, haven’t I?”
“These dreams, master,” said the head attendant, gesturing for the others to leave. “They’re no good. Kynell knows you defeated the Dark Advocate at the dragon battle, so why do you still dream about him?”
Corfe chose not to answer the question directly. Instead, he swung his legs out of bed and began dressing for the day. “He’ll be back, Kiel. You don’t know him like I do. He’ll come back for his revenge.”
“But, sir, you killed that great nasty beast. Plus he’s got no men, while you have an entire army. What’s an Advocate without an army?”
Corfe stared out the window as Kiel stooped to lace up his boots. “He’s still Zyreio’s man. Obsidian’s Advocate will never rest until someone separates his head from his body, and maybe not even then.”