She was staring ruefully at the remains of the fire. “That didn’t go as I had planned.”
He waved a bit of smoke away from her face. “It’s all right. I like a smoky atmosphere.”
“How did the meeting go?”
His answer was a sigh. “I don’t know, N’vonne. It’s hard to tell. The good news is that the Cylini have offered us some more of their warriors. Since the border wars have stopped, they have little to fear from Keroul at the moment. And besides, they tend to view us more as followers of Kynell than Keroulians.”
“So I guess that makes us Kynellians? That’s not so bad, is it?”
“Not at all. But the bad news is that Amarian is still insisting on finding the fennels. The fact that he wants anything to do with those duplicitous felines worries me. I know Vancien has faith in the man, but the thought of sending him out on his own to recruit his former allies concerns me a little. Is that so bad?”
She said nothing.
“And then there’s Verial…” he continued. “She’s always sulking around. She has no interest in us, no interest in Kynell, and not even any interest in Vancien! The woman’s a catastrophe waiting to happen.”
N’vonne had been running her fingers through his brown hair, speckled with gray. She stopped, as he finished his speech. “Verial exasperates me as much as anyone, dear, but we should try to remember what she’s been through. Don’t you think a little confusion and irritation is natural?”
He did not answer, so she continued. “Besides, Vancien feels strongly about her. Protecting her, I mean. He would be furious if we turned her loose. Maybe we should trust his judgment. He
is
the Advocate, after all.”
If she had wanted to cause her husband more unease, she could not have chosen better words. He became despondent. “That’s the thing, N’vonne. What does the Advocacy mean anymore? When Amarian brought Vancien back to life, he changed history and stepped outside the pattern set by the Ages.
Anything
could happen now. The rules Rhyvelad has lived by are entirely meaningless.”
She didn’t have anything to say to this. Everything he said was true, but still she did not share his fears. After all, there was always Kynell. In an effort to allay his anxiety, she shook out the blanket, wrapped it around them both, and changed the subject.
“How is Chiyo doing? Do you think he’ll be back soon? I still wish Vance hadn’t gone with him.”
It worked. Telenar began to relax. “I think he’s actually enjoying himself. As a general, he never had a chance to try his hand at spying. When he and Vancien left for Lascombe, he looked as excited as I’d ever seen him.”
Now it was N’vonne’s turn to become moody. “I still don’t see why Vance had to go.” As his former instructor, she had known Vancien from an early age and considered herself something of a mother to him. The thought of him heading into danger was very upsetting.
Telenar slid closer to her. He could appreciate her concern: he didn’t relish Vancien’s absence either, but the Prysm Advocate was no longer a child. Plus, he sympathized with his wanderlust; they had been cooped up in this camp ever since Vancien and Amarian had returned in late autore. Nine fortnights in makeshift huts was enough to drive anyone crazy.
“Besides, N’vonne, you’re forgetting that they took Thelámos.” He allowed himself a short laugh. “The sight of Chiyo bundled up against that Destrariae blood is one I won’t soon forget. I still can’t believe that beast let him on.”
N’vonne’s smile returned as she remembered their departure. Thelámos was an Ealatrophe, part gryphon and part Destrariae, which were cold, ethereal, nearly invisible creatures whose blood was called
klathonus
. They lived in the Eyestone Glade and their cold was so intense that few could stand it for longer than a few moments. An Ealatrophe was perhaps the most beautiful, proudest beast in all Rhyvelad. It was an honor to ride one, though the experience was painful.
Having run out of conversation, they were both content to sit in silence until someone knocked at their rickety door. It was young Bren, Chiyo’s aid.
“You wanted me to tell you when Amarian left, sir. He’s just gone.”
“Good. Did he take a voyoté with him?”
“No, sir. He went on foot.”
Telenar nodded. That was smart. If Amarian was going to hunt fennels, taking another type of
galthis
would be a bad diplomatic move. All three types of
galthis
had been created by Kynell to be humankind’s helpers. The canine voyoté, as well as the munkke-trophe (for the most part), had stayed committed to that task. But the fennels had developed an independent streak that caused them to look on the other two
galthis
as self-righteous and insufferable.
Later that night, after everyone had enjoyed a communal dinner in the mess hall, Telenar and N’vonne were sitting at the fire again, enjoying some lazy conversation before drifting off to sleep. Again, someone knocked at the door. Telenar, less than charitably, called for them to come in. It was Bren again, more agitated than before.
“What is it this time?”
“It’s Verial, sir. She’s run away.”
CHAPTER
THREE
Amarian’s mission was a short one and not nearly as glamorous as Vancien and Chiyo’s expedition to Lascombe. Not that he would have traded places with his brother for any price; Lascombe was the last place he wanted to be. Though no longer Obsidian’s Advocate, he still shook with rage when he thought of Corfe’s betrayal. Seeing the face of that traitor would most likely cause him to do something dangerous, possibly murderous. By all accounts, it was a temptation best avoided.
Yet life at the little camp was suffocating, although that was not the camp’s fault. He was a man without pleasures now. The things that used to please him now repulsed him, and the things that should please him—wholesome things, like an orbset or children’s laughter—only bored him. His soul felt like an empty shell, vacated of great evil, but not yet inhabited by the good.
What was wrong with him? When he had first accepted Kynell’s pardon for his crimes, he had felt great release. For a few days, it hadn’t mattered that everyone except Vancien still looked at him in suspicion and fear, nor had he been concerned by the uncertain future. He was perpetually back in that room, where as a child he had been given a choice to serve the Prysm or Obsidian, only this time the choice was not his; Kynell had made it for him and the Prysm god had chosen him
and
Vancien. He no longer had to protect his little brother from evil by becoming evil himself. The thought, as always, brought a relieved smile to his face. But that smile quickly vanished as he remembered how quiet, how aimless the world seemed now. Back when he was Darkness personified, he had had a goal: rule the world in the name of Zyreio. Now he was no one, just another of Kynell’s followers, with no rank and no purpose.
What little pleasure he did have came from his frequent conversations with Vancien. The two often sat and talked about their old village of Win, South of the Glade, their father or even Vancien’s youth after Amarian had left. They never spoke of Amarian’s own history. For Amarian, their conversations were a means of erasing the past, if only for a few moments. They reminded him of life before Zyreio, as well as life without the need for luxury and power. They made becoming human again seem almost desirable.
But then Vancien had left for Lascombe, leaving Amarian to his own thoughts and the suspicious gazes of others. No one, not even the priest Telenar, liked him. At the very least, they tolerated him, watching in grave silence as if waiting for him to crack under the strain of imposed virtue. No one believed that he was no longer Obsidian, nor could he blame them. At times, he wondered about it himself.
He had to get out, if only to do something to redeem himself in the eyes of his new allies. And so he suggested his little mission to the council. He had reason to believe that fennels were in the woodlands to the south. Though they had served him in the barren, wind-swept Eastern Lands, the big cats were much more at home in temperate climates, with trees to climb and enough warmth to keep their joints nimble. When Corfe had dismissed them from service to Obsidian, they would have taken the opportunity to return to their native dwelling. It was Amarian’s hope that he could make some sort of peace with them; after all, if there ever came a time of conflict between his little group and Corfe’s army, they would need all the allies they could get.
He left as soon as the council approved his mission, walking so quickly that it took him just two days to get deep into the woodlands. He was heading southeast, away from the marshes but also away from the Plains of Jasimor, which lay almost parallel across the grasslands from their encampment. He doubted that the fennels would go anywhere near that place. More importantly, he knew himself to be too vulnerable to go near it. It was the one place in Rhyvelad where Zyreio’s influence was physically tangible. To return there would be tantamount to suicide—or a return to Obsidian’s service, which would be worse.
The hiverran rains showed no mercy as he journeyed. Yet it did not take long for the trees to grow thick enough that they broke up the downpour. It was warmer here than near the marshlands. Amarian had soon stripped off his cloak, then his over-shirt. He was down to a soaked tunic and rolled-up trousers when the first fennel spotted him. The large, dark cat recognized Darkness immediately and, to his embarrassment, his tail bushed out in fear and anger before he could stop it. But rather than attack the intruder as he was inclined to do, he slipped unnoticed into the underbrush and disappeared.
Amarian continued forward, unaware of his observer and wondering how he would find the fennels at all—they were only seen when they wanted to be. Theoretically, he could be wandering around in the trees for days, hoping to bump into one or for one to “bump” into him. He didn’t know if he had the patience for that sort of activity; the warm rain was more suffocating than refreshing and his wet clothes were already beginning to chafe.
His will would not be put to the test. As he rounded yet another blind corner in the path, he saw one of the proud animals waiting for him. It was sitting at a distance, its mottled gray fur damp from the rain. It did not move when Amarian appeared, except for an annoyed flick of the tail. Fennels despised the rain. Amarian stopped.
“Darkness.”
Amarian shook his head. “I’m just Amarian now, Koeb.”
Koeb growled low in his throat. “So it is true? I had heard, but could not believe.”
“It is true. My brother and I have made peace. I am no longer Zyreio’s Advocate.”
“Then you have not come to take revenge on us?”
Amarian noted that several other fennels had crept out of the undergrowth and were watching him intently. “No. I do not seek revenge.”
“Then what do you seek?”
“I seek peace. There may come a time when we will have to battle against that pretender, Corfe. We do not want you to fight against us.”
Koeb shook his head, creating a brief halo of water. “The human Corfe freed us to return here, Darkness. That is something you did not do.”
Amarian had expected this objection, nor was he certain his response was adequate. “You are right, Koeb. I kept you and your kind in servitude. But I have changed. I no longer serve Zyreio. I am a follower of the Prysm now, and Kynell does not keep slaves.”
The rain stopped, so Koeb took a moment to shake, stretch, and settle himself into a comfortable crouching position. He had clearly retained authority over his pack and was in no mood to return to his earlier subservience.
“I thought the human Corfe was also a follower of the Prysm. If you have both become creatures of Kynell, why would you fight?”
“I hope we will not fight. But Corfe thinks I am still Zyreio’s servant. He will not believe that I have changed.”
Koeb yawned. “And have you changed?”
Amarian bristled. “Enough questions, Koeb. If I had not changed, would I suffer this interview? Would I seek your help with pleas while Zyreio burned in my chest?”
Koeb blinked, unperturbed. “Does not the Prysm god burn in your chest? Is he so weak that he needs the help of the fennels?”
It was almost more than he could bear. In earlier days, those would have been the last words Koeb spoke. But Amarian was not the same man he was. And besides, he didn’t have a sword. So he gritted his teeth. “I am done here. Do you have an answer? Yes or no?”
Koeb stood, his eyes almost level with Amarian’s. “We are not interested in gods. Nor have we been released from bondage only to return to it again. When Corfe calls, we will not answer. When you call, we will not answer. Let Kynell himself call us. We will not answer.”
Amarian raised his eyebrows. Koeb surprised him. He knew that fennels were arrogant creatures, but he had never guessed the depths of their conceit—or at least, of Koeb’s conceit. “So be it. When you call on Kynell, perhaps he will not answer either.”
But Koeb was already walking away, followed by the others, their proud feline heads held high.
Amarian swore under his breath. All Rhyvelad could be turned upside down and the fennels could care less. But that fact did not sting him so much as the blow to his pride. He had failed in this, the tiniest of missions. So much for redeeming himself in the eyes of those Prysmites. He found himself hoping that someday Koeb would call on Kynell, only to have the Prysm god throw his arrogance back in his face. He shook his head to dispel the thought, knowing that Vancien would disapprove. Besides, hadn’t he himself been arrogant once? Wasn’t he arrogant still? If Kynell had found room for Obsidian’s Advocate, surely he had patience for Koeb.