The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “Maura,” Borne replied tersely, his brow already dripping from exertion.

  Cole sat back on his heels and let out a low whistle. “The lapin burgher’s daughter you’ve been panting after? Now these are harsh tidings indeed.”

  Borne offered Cole his left foot impatiently, clenching his teeth against the vertigo that threatened him.

  “What is it you hope to accomplish?” Cole asked as he wrestled with Borne’s other boot. “You’re in no condition to go mountain climbing. The lass has been missing for days, leaving no trace. I heard the family has given up the search for the…” His voice trailed off.

  “Corpse?” Borne offered bluntly. “I tell you, she was with me after the attack. I didn’t dream it! If we go to Bergsehn’s high pasture, perhaps we’ll find some way to trace her from there.”

  They spent that day searching, but returned to Windend that evening none the wiser. The pasture had been trampled with the hoofprints of coilhorns and horses, but there was no evidence suggesting that Maura had ever been there. “Who was riding here then?” he wondered aloud. Cole had no answer.

  That night, Borne had to be supported to his bed. He submitted without protest to Master Zanus’s scolding ministrations before falling into a dreamless, drug-induced sleep.

  The next day, again ignoring the doctor’s objections, Borne took a wagon over the pass to Dorf. He was met at Fernsehn by the lady of the manor, and his heart twisted as he glimpsed an echo of her daughter’s beauty in her face. But Mistress Daera gave him a cool reception, and did not invite him inside.

  Undeterred, Borne stood his ground on the doorstep. “I believe your daughter was last seen on the other side of the Bren Pass,” he explained. “I think it was she who saved my life.”

  Daera regarded him carefully, taking in the sling supporting his arm and the traces of convalescence on his face. “I see,” she said, a bit of the ice receding from her voice, “that you are recovering from an accident. May I ask how you come to know Maura?”

  Borne related the story of the lace, leaving out only the subsequent visit to Sir Heptorious’s town garden. He recounted the Lurker attack, and how he’d opened his eyes afterward to see Maura leaning over him before he lost consciousness again.

  Daera listened gravely. “Perhaps you only imagined Maura was there in the meadow with you? You said yourself that you were brought to Windend by two unidentified knights.”

  “I…” Borne faltered. “She was there,” he said. “I know she was.”

  The woman’s dark eyes softened. “I see that you were fond of our daughter. We are all saddened by her… loss.” Then she raised her chin and added firmly, “But she’s gone, and it does no good to stir up unfounded hopes.” She paused as though deliberating, then opened the door behind her, directing Borne’s gaze into the kitchen. A man sat hunched by the hearth, staring unseeing into the fire.

  Borne took a step forward, but Daera laid a restraining hand on his arm and gently pulled the door behind her closed again. “My husband is sick with grief,” she said, wrapping her fine lapin shawl close against the frigid air. “I can help him heal, but only when he’s come to terms with the fact that Maura, like Dal, has been taken from us forever. In time, his sorrow will pass. Please, leave us to mourn in peace. I’m sorry if your journey here has been for naught, but there’s nothing more you can offer. Maura is gone, and you’d do yourself a service in accepting this.”

  The woman darted forward then, and he wasn’t sure if her swift embrace or the rising life in her belly rounded against him surprised him more.

  “Farewell,” she murmured, “and thank you.” And then she slipped back into the manor, leaving him standing on the doorstep, staring at the door.

  * * *

  Despite what her mother had said, Borne didn’t give up his search for Maura. He continued to make enquiries regarding the identities of the two horsemen who’d brought him to Windend Castle. The guards who had relieved them of Borne appeared to be the only witnesses, and both claimed to have been preoccupied with getting him to the infirmary before he expired.

  “By the time we returned to our post,” Taylen insisted, “those knights were long gone.”

  Following two more weeks of fruitless searching, Borne received a summons to Sir Heptorious’s private chambers. After inviting him to be seated, the knight took his place carefully across from him. Borne noted with concern that the veteran soldier was suffering from another flare-up of the gout that had plagued him the last five years. The baron stretched his bandaged legs out before him and leaned back into the deep brocade chair, making a tent of his fingers against his lips. When at last he spoke, it was on a subject Borne had not expected.

  “Your tutors generally sing your praises, you know, always telling me about your remarkable mind,” said his patron, “but recently it’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been neglecting your studies.”

  “With respect, sir,” replied Borne evenly, “I’ve been ill.”

  Sir Heptorious grunted as he poured them each a goblet of his excellent wine. “Not too ill to go ranging over hill and dale hunting for that poor lass who went missing,” he observed as he handed Borne his claret. His gaze was stern, although not unsympathetic. “Cole tells me he thinks you’re delusional.”

  Borne smiled. “Well if I am, I wouldn’t know, would I, sir?”

  Sir Heptorious let out a bark of laughter. “True enough, lad. But the fact remains, you need to let this folly go and move on. I’ve plans for Cole, and they involve you. I need you sane, sound, and focused.”

  “I’m listening, sir,” said Borne, setting his goblet down untouched.

  “A letter arrived from Drinnkastel today, informing me I’m to be made an earl—a bit belatedly if you ask me—for service to the High King. There’s no new land with the title, but that’s just as well, as I’m quite content to stay here at Windend.”

  The knight shifted his leg with a slight groan. “There’s other news, though, and it isn’t all encouraging. The High King hovers at the brink of the Leap, and his vassals, myself among them, are uneasy. Rumor has it our intriguing neighbors to the south have proposed that their young lord Roth, the son of Princess Grindasa Nelvor and, she claims, Urlion’s bastard, be named heir to the High Throne. It’s not known where the Tribus stand on this, but we are vehemently opposed—not because of Roth’s illegitimacy, but because his mother, whose hunger for power has grown alarmingly evident of late, is a foreigner, and close kin to the Albrenian king. Roth himself has been in Albrenia these past years, and after all this time, who can say where his true loyalties lie? For now, the Tribus hold the bridle of the realm should Urlion drop the reins, but if one of the Nelvor were to ascend to the High Throne, it’s rumored they’d dissolve this age-old council.”

  He shook his head, his expression grave. “This, my young friend, could signal that the Nelvorbothians mean to place themselves above the rest of us who now enjoy equal status and autonomous rule in our own kingdoms. If this happens, it will be the death knell of Drinnglennin and our delicate balance of power.”

  The knight paused to drink deeply from his goblet, leaving Borne feeling slightly dazed. Sir Heptorious had never spoken about matters of such importance with him before.

  “The Nelvor have greatly increased their influence and holdings over the past decade,” the old knight continued, “through shrewd marriage alliances with the Grathins of Fairendell and DuBleres of Tyrrin-on-Murr. Grindasa also employed her late lord’s impressive wealth to attract legions of mercenaries from Albrenia—though she claims they’re in Nelvorboth to train with Vetch’s troops.” His lips curled into a sneer of disbelief. “Since when has a Drinnglennin soldier needed training from bloody foreigners?”

  “What does the High King think of this?” Borne asked.

  “Urlion has remained irksomely untroubled by this,” Sir Heptorious growled, “but
perhaps he’s finally come to his senses. He’s proclaimed a Twyrn, which I’m sure you’ve read about, since you’ve always got your nose buried in a book.”

  Borne grinned. “It’s a tournament to which each kingdom sends a representative body of their own men-at-arms.”

  The baron nodded. “We, that is, the lords I’ve been corresponding with, believe he’s preparing, at last, to name his heir at the Twyrn’s end. And we can’t rule out the possibility that he may settle on Roth.”

  Sir Heptorious looked down with regret at his swaddled leggings. “My gout’s progressed to the point that it’s agony for me to sit a horse, so I’m to take a carriage, like an old woman, to the capital for my investiture.” He barked again, ruefully. “I would dearly love to show more than my brave face to that duplicitous clan of power mongers while I am there.” He slid the silver dagger at his side half out of its sheath, his expression suddenly forbidding, and for a moment Borne glimpsed the fearsome warrior the knight had once been. “These days, however, it’s wiser to deal cautiously with Grindasa’s henchmen.”

  The old knight’s years shadowed his face once more as he refilled his goblet. “Now,” he said, once he was settled back against the cushions, “let’s get to that which concerns you.”

  Borne straightened in his chair.

  “Cole is my only son,” said the knight, “come late in life to his mother and me, gods rest her soul. He’s a good lad, with a promising sword arm, if a bit feckless with regard to his studies, but then you know all this.” He pinned Borne with an earnest gaze. “The point of the matter is, I’ll have to bring him with me to Drinnkastel and most likely leave him there. Loyal lords are required to send their heirs to the High Court until after the Twyrn. So Cole must go. And I want you there with him.”

  Borne felt more than a prick of interest. “In what capacity would I serve him?”

  “I want you with him, not serving him,” said Sir Heptorious. “On the training grounds, in the dining hall, at court entertainments. You will participate in the Twyrn as a member of my household. A nephew, say. It’s close enough to the truth, since as my ward, you’ve grown up as much at Windend as on your family’s farm. You’re more than presentable for court—educated, trained in arms—and you have a level head on your shoulders, at least most of the time.” The older man rested his hands on his swollen knees. “What say you to my proposal, lad?”

  In his wildest fantasies, Borne had never thought to visit Drinnkastel, and to go as part of Cole’s entourage would offer him an opportunity to see it in high style. Still, he felt a bit uneasy about feigning kinship with Sir Heptorious’s house.

  “What if I’m found out, sir?”

  The question brought a smile to his benefactor’s lips. “There’s many a knight who’ve sent ‘nephews’ to the High King’s court, boy. Most of them are sons born on the other side of the blanket, if you catch my meaning. No one will raise an eyebrow.” Sensing Borne’s uncertainty, he added, “And who knows? You might find out something that’ll solve the mystery of your missing lass. For, as the saying goes, no whisper escapes the ears of Drinnkastel.”

  Borne’s pulse quickened as he considered all that this adventure could entail. He would visit the capital, and take part in the Twyrn! As for Maura, perhaps the baron was right, and he would discover her whereabouts on the rumor-riddled Tor of Brenhinoedd.

  He reached for his goblet. “Sir,” he said, raising it high in salute, “I would be honored to accept.”

  Chapter 22

  Whit

  The coins the monters had put on Lord Jaxe’s eyes proved insufficiently heavy to seal them in eternal rest. When Whit led the sin-eater into the alcove where his father lay, the dead knight’s wide stare startled them both, the pennies glinting like bright fool’s dots on the corpse’s sunken cheeks.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the chapel, making the scene all the more macabre. The fifth season, they were calling it—a spate of storms such as Cardenstowe hadn’t experienced in recorded times. Torrential downpours had inundated the surrounding villages, and swollen rivers raged against their eroding banks.

  The drumming rain on the slate roof excluded the possibility of conversation between the young lord and the sin-eater, for which Whit was grateful. The doughy man had been provided with a clean tunic, but he still exuded a dank, fetid smell, and Whit was eager to be on his way. Even in the best of times, he found the stark walls and cold drafts of the prayer hall unpleasant.

  The sin-eater ogled the board laid for him across the dead lord’s chest: roast venison and boar, crusty bread, a slab of fine cheese, and a large flagon of ale. It would be a feast he wouldn’t likely forget. He dragged the low stool set before the corpse around to face the door before settling heavily upon it, his pale eyes shining in gluttonous anticipation.

  Whit raised his hand in silent farewell, but as he turned to go, the sin-eater shook his head and beckoned to him. Reluctantly, Whit went to his side, avoiding his father’s lifeless eyes.

  Clutching Whit’s sleeve, the man shouted over the pounding rain. “Yer ’is heir, ain’t ye? Ye must stay ’til I’ve said the words!”

  “Very well,” Whit yelled back. “Say them!”

  The sin-eater shook his head. He pointed to the food. “First the sins, then the words.”

  Resignedly, Whit retreated to the wall to wait.

  The sin-eater picked up the haunch of venison and gnawed at it with gusto. Then he ripped a hunk from the loaf, dispatched it with relish, and washed it all down with a long quaff of ale. A thin brown drizzle ran down the sin-eater’s sparsely bearded chin, and Whit looked away, thinking of the distaste his father would have felt for this unkempt wretch.

  To say the late Lord Jaxe had been an austere man would be an understatement. Communion with his gods had taken the lion’s share of Whit’s father’s attention. Lord Jaxe would break his fast before attending early morning prayer, and wouldn’t eat again until just before evensleid at dusk. Hours spent on his knees on the frigid floor of their barren prayer hall, the rough under-vestment he wore even through the blaze of August chafing his skin, the meager, plain meals in which he partook—these had been the daily devotions of the earl.

  Of course, as lord of Cardenstowe, his father had given the required attention to the obligations of his estate. He’d fought valiantly in the Long War, where he’d been a warrior of some renown, his height and girth making him a formidable foe when wielding his double-bladed axe. And he’d employed his skill at arms when hunting his forests with his men to provision the castle household with game, but Whit had observed no pleasure in him for the chase. Providing meat was a duty, like serving the realm in time of war. His passion had been reserved for pious acts of penance.

  The late lord certainly hadn’t dedicated much time to his heir. An indifferent father, he barely veiled his disappointment when Whit proved to be neither drawn to worship nor interested in the art of war. His son’s love of booklore and the knowing of things didn’t recommend him as either the monter or the soldier Lord Jaxe had hoped to raise. And while Whit’s height was an asset when shooting his bow, he was too lean to ever be a champion in the lists.

  Whit shared a closer bond with his mother, although she, too, spent a great deal of time in prayer—a fact that always baffled Whit, since she lived a blameless life. Lady Rhea was seldom present in the Common Hall, preferring to stay cloistered with her women, and he only saw her at the appointed hours when she sent for him. It was rumored that she’d largely withdrawn from public life in mortification after Lord Jaxe confessed he found it hard to believe “this reedy runt”—meaning Whit, his only child—was descended from his loins. An unthinking chambermaid had filled Whit in on this crushing tidbit of gossip, which had plagued him ever since.

  But for whatever the reason, Lady Rhea spent her days in her chambers, often on her knees in supplication. She showed Whit loving affection in
her way, but it was clear that her priorities were her immortal soul and obedience to her husband.

  Thus, Whit’s practical care and upbringing had been entrusted first to his nursemaids, then to his tutors. He was a rapacious learner, excelling in languages, the natural sciences, numeracy, and oral history, and soon his local teachers were replaced by more accomplished instructors from throughout the realm.

  His current tutor was by far the best to date. Cortenus was a native of Sinarium, with a sharp wit and intelligence. Of more importance to Whit, his unconventional approach to the education of a young lordling included the “other” science—mystic lore. Whit suspected Lord Jaxe had been unaware of this, and he had been careful never to speak of it in his father’s hearing. Although Cortenus had failed to achieve his own staff, he was the nephew of Lulm Khabril, one of the great late wizards of the age, and had been bequeathed his uncle’s magical texts. “Unfortunately,” confessed Cortenus, “that was all I inherited. I’ve no wizardry in me. But you do, Whit. I knew it the moment we met.”

  Whit had been thrilled to learn this. It explained so much about himself he’d never understood before: the way fire seemed to bend to him, why he heard words in the burble of the brook. He wasn’t mildly mad, but in possession of a rare gift!

  Mystic lore immediately became Whit’s favorite field of study, and he was determined to learn all he could of these arts. He soon mastered the rudiments of kindling fire, diverting water, and shifting objects, and was currently taxing his tutor’s abilities to provide him with more challenging spells.

  But with his father’s passing, Whit’s time for study was certain to be curtailed. He was now lord of Cardenstowe, and had the business of the realm to oversee. Even though he’d prefer to leave the management of the vast estate to his late father’s reeve, there’d be no avoiding shouldering at least some of the duties.