The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Whit blinked. “Trillyon? The old hunting lodge? It’s not even the season!”

  “No, it isn’t. But hopefully Sir Alson arrived there today from Lorendale, where he was sent by your mother to escort your betrothed to Cardenstowe.”

  “My what?”

  “Your cousin,” amended the wizard. “According to your mother, it’s long been a plan to wed Lorendale to Cardenstowe.”

  Enlightenment dawned at last. “Halla?” Whit squawked. “Never in my plans—not for a moment!” He flung himself up into his saddle. “My parents arranged this without consulting me? Well, I won’t have it! I won’t wed that little—”

  “Mind how you speak of your kin before your vassals, Lord Whit,” cautioned the wizard. “In any event, any alteration in your matrimonial state will have to wait, now that you’re both going to the same destination.”

  “She’s going too?”

  Master Morgan fixed Whit with his storm-grey eyes. “We ride to meet Lady Halla at Trillyon, and yes, then she will join our party to… where we’re heading. Now, we’d best move on if we hope to make the lodge before midnight.”

  At his bidding, the pony leapt forward. The little roan was deceptively swift, and it was all Whit could do to keep up. This was perhaps just as well, considering the black thoughts he nursed as they flew through the dusky light, snow spiraling in their wake.

  The miles sailed past as the broad fields surrendered to forest, and the spindled branches arching above the trail were soon mantled with silently falling snow. A pale gibbous moon glided behind tattered clouds as they raced south, their breath streaming before them.

  Despite his furious astonishment regarding the plan to marry him off to Halla—Halla!—Whit found himself invigorated by the breathtaking pace the wizard was setting. By the time they’d neared Trillyon and slowed to a trot, his anger had dissipated, somewhat, in the bracing night air.

  Sensing he was the subject of the conversation between Master Morgan and Cortenus, Whit spurred his horse closer and his heart leapt when he heard his tutor say, “I’m certain the lad is a virtuos! I’ve nothing left to teach him in this regard—he needs a wizard for that. In all other pursuits, he’s a prodigy as well. He speaks five languages, and even taught himself Helgric, if you can believe it, in order to study their magical history. He’s mastered logic, rhetoric, and astronomy, and devours historical texts, although sadly, he has little interest in the arts.”

  The wizard nodded approvingly. “An extensive knowledge in history will prove essential if he’s to become a wizard of purpose.”

  Whit reined in his horse, his heart at a race. His tutor believed him to be a virtuos! It had long been Whit’s heart’s desire to train as a proper wizard, but to think he might be one of the rare breed of natural wizards… it was beyond his wildest dreams. Throughout history, there had only been a handful of virtuosi—wizards renowned for accumulating prodigious magical powers. Some of them had been infamous, like the Strigori brothers, Lazdac and Bedjel, who had turned to the dark arts. Born long ago in the Before, these wizards were once believed to have defeated death itself. But Bedjel had finally met his end at the hands of none other than Master Morgan, and Lazdac was assumed dead as well.

  Cortenus looked back and caught sight of him. “Ah, my lord! Is something amiss with Sinead?”

  Shaking his head, Whit urged the mare forward to ride with them.

  “Were your ears burning?” said his tutor. “We were just discussing your… academic prowess.”

  “Master Cortenus has been waxing poetic over your erudition,” said Master Morgan. “He believes you have the potential to be one of the great scholars of the Age.”

  It was clear they had no idea Whit had overheard what they were really talking about. “It’s true I learn quickly,” he said, “although I prefer science and cartography to history.”

  “Ah, but aren’t they all related?” said the wizard. “In the making and studying of maps, one must know where boundaries lie, and when they shift. These are matters of history.”

  “The young lord is more than proficient in his historical knowledge,” said Cortenus in his pupil’s defense. “It’s just that he’s more passionate about other subjects.”

  Master Morgan turned his intent gaze on Whit. “Yes, we’ll come to these in time,” he murmured cryptically. “But for now, what can you tell me about Drinnglennin’s kingdoms—about their history? Or their geography, if the former is outside your scope of knowledge?”

  Whit bristled, for he knew he excelled in all areas of his learning. If the wizard doubted this, he was happy to prove the old man wrong. Straightening his shoulders, he began to discourse.

  “Drinnglennin is an island situated to the west of Helgrinia, from which it’s separated by the Erolin Sea. To the north lies a frigid ocean and the fabled isle of Belestar, bound in ice. To the west stretches the infinite Vast Sea, and to the south, the Middle Sea, beyond which lie the Lost Lands.”

  He glanced sideways to ensure his audience was attending. Satisfied, he continued.

  “Drinnglennin is made up of twelve lesser kingdoms, which are essentially independent states, although all owe fealty to the High King. These are Morlendell, Valeland, Branley Tor, Fairendell, Tyrrencaster, Nelvorboth, Cardenstowe, Lorendale, Karan-Rhad, Glornadoor, Palmador, and Langmerdor. Urlion reigns from Drinnkastel, the seat of the High Throne, on the Tor of Brenhinoedd, and all the kingdoms have representatives at his court. The fortress city of Drinnkastel and its surrounding villages, although smallest in area, has the largest population. The second most populous is Nelvorboth. Branley Tor has the fewest inhabitants, most likely due to its mountainous terrain.”

  “And what do you know of the current state of affairs in Drinnglennin, with regard to its political stability?” Master Morgan asked.

  Whit considered the question. “Urlion, the High King, has ruled for over half a century. He has suffered from a wasting sickness for the past decade. It’s rumored he’s been close to the Leap several times over the past year. He has yet to name his heir, and has produced no proven offspring, legitimate or baseborn. Nor did his brother, Prince Storn, who has already made the Leap. Their sister, Princess Asmara, has never married. She took vows to serve the gods, and withdrew from the world many years ago to live a cloistered life in Drinnkastel Palace. If the High King chooses, he may name a successor who’s not of his blood, pending the approval of the Tribus. In the event that he fails to do so before his demise, it falls to them to select an heir from the nobility of the other realms.”

  “Your mother and her sister, Lady Inis, are directly related to the High King,” said Master Morgan. “This puts your people in the line of succession.”

  Whit waved a dismissive hand. “Well, yes, but as I just said, the High King isn’t bound by blood succession, not since 333 AA. That was when King Bradyn ratified the Charter of Ascendancy so that he could name Sir Gundel, his chief vassal, as his heir, bypassing his only son, Hernen, who was addlebrained. Two other High Kings have evoked this charter over the past half millennia: King Raflis and King Hendle, both of whose legitimate offspring were passed over in favor of unrelated preferences.

  “In any event, Urlion has little contact with Cardenstowe and Lorendale these days. He apparently cut his ties with my mother around the time of my birth. For what reason, I’ve never learned, nor did it ever seem of import to my family. He has many favored lords at Drinnkastel; I suppose one of them will succeed him.”

  The wizard nodded his approval. “Let me ask you this: why do you suppose Urlion hasn’t named his heir?”

  “Perhaps to avoid contention among the lesser realms?” suggested Whit. He looked at his tutor. “Cortenus says the Nelvorbothians are aggressively promoting Princess Grindasa’s son, Roth, whom Urlion has yet to acknowledge as his, but it’s unlikely the Tribus would agree to allow an illegitimate son born to a foreign mother to
ascend to the High Throne. Princess Grindasa is an Albrenian by birth; it was her late husband, Nandor Nelvor, who brought her the power of the vast Nelvorboth’s holdings. In any event, Roth was sent to squire for his uncle in Albrenia some years ago, which indicates he never found favor with his supposed natural father.”

  “So it would seem,” said Master Morgan. “However, an opportunity for him to do so has presented itself with the upcoming Twyrn. Roth has recently returned from abroad, and will surely be a representative of Nelvorboth in the tournaments. He’s said to be quite the swordsman.”

  Whit shrugged. “I’ve no interest in competitive games, except for chatraj. I’ve adequate skill with my bow to hunt efficiently, and that’s enough for me.”

  Master Morgan didn’t comment, but Whit noted a slight smile playing on the old man’s lips.

  “Not everyone has to be a warrior-at-arms,” Whit said defensively. “I’d prefer to wield magic.”

  “Indeed.” The wizard’s expression did not change. “In any case, you’ll be absent while the Twyrn is held. I’m happy to learn you won’t be sorry to miss it. What about the rest of the world?”

  It took a moment for Whit to realize he was being further quizzed. “You mean the continent? It’s a tangled web of intrigue, anarchy, and barbarity. The Helgrins of the north best exemplify the latter—they’re a brutal race from a vast, cold land who love only war and rapine, and are our most reviled enemies. Gral, to the south of Helgrinia, is on the verge of collapse, overrun by renegade knights, and ruled, if one may call its lax governance such, by King Crelan, most notable for his profligate spending on extravagant processions through his ravaged land. Still, Gral is Drinnglennin’s historical ally, as opposed to our on-again, off-again agreements with Albrenia. Their sovereign, King Jorgev—”

  The old man held up a hand and scented the air. “A rider comes,” he said. “Sir Wren and Sir Olin, can you follow from within the trees, in the event we require the element of surprise?”

  Then the wizard spoke to his mare, and she surged ahead.

  Whit and Cortenus spurred their mounts to follow. “Did you see that?” hissed Whit. “He smelled someone coming!” I will learn to do this as well, he decided, still aglow at the thought that he might truly be a virtuos.

  At his side, Cortenus nodded. “Master Morgan is perhaps the last great natural wizard. You’re most fortunate to have this opportunity to learn from him.”

  The trail narrowed, and the tutor fell back. Ahead, Whit could see the wizard and his pony waiting in the shadow of the trees. He drew his steed alongside the old man’s just as a single rider burst into sight, barreling headlong toward them.

  Chapter 26

  The horse she rode was magnificent. Whit assumed she had taken it without leave from her late father’s stables. As she wheeled the destrier to avoid crashing into them, her face was lit briefly by the moon’s light, revealing an expression more determined than frightened.

  He had forgotten her emerald eyes—perhaps because he’d always headed in the opposite direction whenever she’d crossed his path. But the imperious voice, edged with disdain—this he recognized. It was his detestable cousin, Halla.

  He watched in silence as Master Morgan slid from his pony to speak with her, and then came forward when bidden to reassure the arrogant girl they meant her no harm. After that, Whit ignored her, and the company continued on the trail to Trillyon.

  Arriving at the lodge, they found Sir Alson in the courtyard preparing to ride out. His visible relief at the sight of the young lady of Lorendale was followed by an expression of surprise when he recognized his liege lord among her escorts.

  He leapt from his horse and fell to one knee. Unbuckling his sword belt, he laid his weapon on the snow before him, and said the formal, age-old words. “My Lord Whit, I pledge, by all the gods, my faithful and lifelong fealty to thee, to serve thee and thy realm, in war and in peace.”

  Whit dismounted and offered the kneeling man his hand. “Sir Alson, I accept thy fealty to Cardenstowe. In return, I pledge to ever protect your holdings and the people of Camstead. Now rise.”

  The knight obeyed. “I hope my lord can forgive my lack of diligence in safeguarding Lady Halla,” he said. “I only learned of her disappearance when I went to check on our horses before retiring—”

  Halla interrupted him. “Please, Sir Alson. I owe you an apology.” She turned to Whit but directed her gaze past his shoulder. “I left Trillyon without anyone knowing,” she said stiffly. “I gave a sleeping draught to the maid attending me and took her keys. Sir Alson was in no way remiss in his care of me.”

  Whit widened his eyes in mock surprise. “You hear that, Alson? My cousin has confessed to drugging and robbing a serving girl. I don’t think anyone could have anticipated such unscrupulous behavior!”

  “I think,” said Master Morgan, offering his arm to Halla, “we could all do with something warm to drink, and then a good night’s sleep.”

  * * *

  A fire was crackling in the main hall. Mistress Ella, Trillyon’s short, plump chatelaine, was briskly supervising several serving girls as they laid out a late-night supper for his lordship and his guests, but she turned at the sound of footsteps to drop Whit a deep curtsey.

  “Welcome to Trillyon, my lord,” she said, her lively brown eyes lit with pleasure. After offering her condolences on behalf of the manor staff, she ushered Whit and the others to the table, where the best jeweled goblets had been set out. “Spiced wine, my lord?”

  “Yes, please, Mistress Ella,” said Whit. He hadn’t been to the lodge in years, but he remembered the chatelaine well. She’d been a rare childhood ally, and one of his earliest memories was of her gently ruffling his hair when Cook indignantly reported him for nipping tarts from the larder. As long as Whit could recall, Mistress Ella had taken a special interest in the bored boy he had been, left alone for hours while his father and friends rode out after deer and boar. She’d entertained him with her intriguing tales of his Cardenstowe ancestors, and encouraged him to explore the nooks and crannies of the old manor. It was Mistress Ella who’d shown him the little-used library on the third floor, where he’d discovered a beautifully illustrated atlas. He’d spent hours poring over its pages, kindling his love of cartography and fueling a fierce desire to travel the world.

  As they took their seats, Mistress Ella dropped beside Whit’s chair. “It just so happens, my lord,” she murmured, “that Cook baked today in honor of Lady Halla’s visit.” She inclined her head toward a tray of apple tarts on the sideboard. Whit grinned, pleased she also remembered the incident that had first brought them together.

  Looking down the table, he met the inscrutable gaze of his cousin. He stared coolly back at her, recalling all of the characteristics he found most objectionable in her. To begin with, she was an insufferable know-it-all with regard to the mundane field of estate management. She was also possessed of a scathing tongue. She preferred whacking away mindlessly in the training yard to comporting herself as befitted a lady, and judging by the unruly cloud of hair haloing her head, she hadn’t refined her personal grooming habits since they’d last met.

  That had been two years ago, when Whit’s mother dragged him over to Lorendale during the Harvest Festival. Although he’d been just past his fifteenth birthday at the time, he’d been forced to join Halla and her unruly brothers at the children’s table. He remembered sitting rigid with resentment, and threatening to cuff Pearce if the boy kept jostling against him. He recalled Nolan had to restrain Halla to keep her from leaping at him.

  She’d always had an extravagant temper, which was most unattractive in a maid. There’d been one time a few years before when Halla actually pushed him into the lake at Cardenstowe—just because he’d dared to tug on her braid! To think his mother imagined he would ever marry her.

  Well, Whit thought smugly, now that I’m lord of Cardenstowe, I can ch
oose for myself whom and when I shall wed. I suppose I shall have to, one day, to secure the line, but when the time comes, it most definitely won’t be to this vixen.

  He sat back and smiled pleasantly at Halla, whose brows drew warily together. Then, deeming her unworthy of any more of his attention, he reached over to the sideboard and cheerfully selected a warm apple tart.

  Chapter 27

  Sir Alson and his men left for Cardenstowe at dawn the next morning, charged with relaying the news that Lady Halla was now in Master Morgan’s care. They were then to ride to Lorendale, to inform Lady Inis that her daughter’s formal betrothal must be delayed, and further, that Halla was on a journey of undefined duration—properly chaperoned, of course, with her husband-to-be.

  “I shouldn’t like to think what Lady Inis will say to that,” murmured Sir Olin to Sir Wren, after the other knights had departed. Olin’s face colored when he saw that Whit had overheard him.

  Unfortunately, so had Halla. “I doubt my mother considers my whereabouts her concern any longer,” she said bitterly. Whit almost felt sorry for her, until she cast him a scathing look.

  The remaining party was to travel onward. Whit’s vassals knew only that they would escort their lord and his party to the coast before returning to Cardenstowe. Whit wondered what they thought of this; if he hadn’t known their destination, he too would have found this strange.

  Before mounting their horses, Master Morgan gave them each a simple trader’s robe to cloak their fine clothes and weapons. Whit eyed his distastefully, for it was not of a fashionable cut.

  “We must agree to dispense with noble titles when addressing one another from now on,” the wizard cautioned. “The forests through which we will pass harbor those who make their living by ransoming wealthy travelers, and we don’t want to attract any unnecessary attention.”

  As they trotted out over the crusted snow, Master Morgan outlined their route. “We’re heading first to the port of Stonehoven at Lorendale’s northeastern point. Perhaps you’ve been there, Halla?”