The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “Take note, Whit,” said Cortenus. “You’re not likely to see such a priceless collection of Eastern art again.”

  Maisie smiled at the compliment. “We’ve traveled a lot, and collect more than we know what to do with. As you can see, we’ve grown quite queer in our ways.”

  Her laugh was musical, and her gracious manner put Whit at ease. At the little woman’s bidding, he sank onto the plush cushions by the fire, accepted a goblet of excellent Langmerdor wine, and, shortly thereafter, another. He was so relaxed that he failed at first to notice when all conversation stopped. He looked around for the reason.

  An enchanting vision stood framed in the doorway, sheathed in a shimmering golden robe. It took Whit several thumping heartbeats to recognize his cousin Halla. For once, her unruly hair had been tamed, woven with ribbons in elaborate braids. Her skin was luminescent in the candlelight, her green eyes bright as jewels. He had to admit she looked lovely.

  Until she arched her brows at him and said, “Sinead’s thrown a shoe. Couldn’t you tell? The poor beast probably traveled miles in pain.”

  The charming illusion was shattered.

  Master Primwinkle—whom Whit had learned was the aforementioned Horace—materialized behind her. “No worries, lad,” he said. “My man’s seen to your horse. She’ll be right as robins by morning.”

  But Halla continued to glower at Whit as she took a seat between Cortenus and a very attentive Wren.

  Whit’s retort to his cousin was forestalled when Master Morgan settled beside him, an embossed box in his hand. “Alminand workmanship, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, holding it out for Whit to admire.

  “You’ve a fine eye, Mortimer,” said Maisie, leaning over to fill his goblet.

  Master Morgan accepted the wine and then turned back to Whit. “After dinner, I’d like a private word,” he said in a lowered voice. “Can you come to my chamber? Maisie always puts me in the last room on the left in the upper hall.”

  Intrigued, Whit felt his irritation melt away. The great wizard wanted to speak with him alone. Perhaps he wanted to discuss his coming apprenticeship. Whit eagerly nodded his assent.

  Master Morgan then raised his goblet to the little woman. “Maisie, this Langmerdor white is a superb vintage. You must reveal your source—unless he’s an old beau you’ve kept hidden from Horace?”

  She beamed. “Ah, away with you, Mortimer! You’ve as saucy a tongue in your head as ever.”

  Dinner at Port Taygh proved to be a merry affair. Horace, the unlikely chef, delighted them with a degustation of fig-stuffed scallops wrapped in smoked bacon, brined Nor’ Sea herring, and local oyster frittes; a delicate lobster bisque; an airy Belldom cheese soufflé; and wine-poached salmon with black truffles. Ginger featured in nearly every dish, for Horace considered it “the ultimate gift from the gods.” As they savored the delectable fare, their hostess regaled them with amusing anecdotes of her youth, in which Master Morgan, to Whit’s surprise, played a significant role. Apparently the two of them had grown up together, although precisely where was unclear. Maisie had a timeless sort of faded beauty, but Whit found it hard to imagine the wizard had ever been young.

  The supercilious Halla was surprisingly subdued throughout the meal, which made for a nice change. By the time the pear clafouti and port were served, Whit was almost comatose with pleasure.

  After all was cleared, they drew their cushions closer around the hearth and sampled Horace’s ginger mead. Only Halla abstained, quietly excusing herself to retire. Whit accepted the nightcap readily, although he was already feeling quite lightheaded—strong drink had been served sparingly at Cardenstowe, and he’d never consumed so much of it in one evening. Lulled by the scented fire and the heady wine, his eyes drifted closed. He was only half-listening when the talk turned to news from Drinnkastel.

  “My sources say Urlion’s taken a turn for the worse. He suffers a great lassitude, and doesn’t often leave his bed,” said Horace. “Still, he could linger on as he has done the past years.”

  “Your suspicions about the Nelvor are disturbing, Mortimer,” Maisie murmured, “but I don’t doubt they’re well-founded. Grindasa’s had her hungry eyes on the High Throne for her son for years.”

  “And it’s a fine line Urlion must walk with Nelvorboth,” said Olin. “The Helgrins have surely caught wind of our uneasy state of affairs. Reports are they’ve been harrying the fleet off the coast of Langmerdor. We’ll need the might of the Nelvor armada to keep an invasion at bay if they should raid us now.” He lowered his voice and added, “Do you think it truly wise, Master Morgan, to take our young lord just now to wherever you’re taking him, in these uncertain times?”

  Whit was suddenly alert, but he kept his eyes closed, fearing the conversation would end if they thought he was listening.

  “It’s imperative that I do,” said Master Morgan gravely. “We require the young lord of Cardenstowe to survive to assume his duties. Rest assured, I will do all in my power to safeguard him against the dangers ahead. Besides, he’ll be learning much of value to your realm over the coming months.”

  Survive? thought Whit. What hadn’t the wizard told him?

  When the conversation turned, Whit made a show of blinking away sleep and stretching. He saw Horace had risen to stand in the doorway, where he conferred with a servant. After a brief exchange, the big man dropped back down onto his cushion with surprising grace. “I’m afraid there’s no trace of the renegades who beset you, Mortimer. Could have been a band of Lurkers. It’s rumored they’re preying on unsuspecting travelers throughout the land.” He turned to Whit and held up a twist of metal. “My man did find your horse’s shoe though.”

  So Sinead hadn’t been long without it. Whit wished Halla had stayed to see him vindicated.

  Master Morgan sat back. “I didn’t expect your men would find our assailants, but it was necessary to investigate all the same. However, I can assure you they weren’t å Livåri.” He drew from his sleeve the suede pouch Wren had found. Handing the sheaf of parchment across to Maisie, he said, “What do you make of this, my friend?”

  The petite woman took the papers closer to the fire’s light. After studying them for a moment, she said, “Well, the writing is clearly runic, but of course you knew that. What’s interesting is the styling of so many of the characters, along with the accents. It’s in some sort of code… a combination of forms. One of them is definitely Helgrin. The others…”

  Her eyes met the wizard’s, and something unspoken passed between them.

  “Yes, I feared as much.” Master Morgan’s mouth formed a grim line.

  “If you can leave these with me,” said Maisie, “I should be able to work out their message.”

  “We would be forever in your debt,” said the wizard. “It’s a time-consuming task, and your expertise is unsurpassed.”

  The mistress of Port Taygh cocked her head at him. “There you go again with that silver tongue, Mortimer. I daresay it’s paved many rough roads for you, but don’t think it’ll get you an extra slice of cheese from me!” All the same, she tucked the parchment away with a pleased smile. “I’ll send word once it’s done,” she promised. “Now. It’s been a long day, and we should all go to our beds.” Her tone brooked no dissent.

  They rose with soft words of praise for Horace’s feast. Maisie handed each of them a candle as they filed out of the room.

  At the foot of the stairs, Whit whispered to the wizard, “Shall I come with you now?”

  But the old man waved his hand in weary dismissal. “It’s late. We can speak in the morning.” He patted Whit’s shoulder and continued up the stairs. “Sleep well.”

  Disappointed, Whit trudged up to his own room. He dropped onto the low feather bed and almost at once fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He never heard the click of the lock as his door was secured from the outside, or the footste
ps of several people going back downstairs to continue a very solemn conversation.

  Chapter 29

  The ride to Stonehoven the next morning was uneventful, with the exception that the sun showed itself for the first time in weeks. Whit winced in the bright light; grey skies would have better complemented the heavy pounding in his head. He caught Halla smirking at him, but felt too ill to do more than avoid her knowing gaze.

  The cawing of a crow reminded him of Cardenstowe, and of the strange turn of events the last time he’d seen his father. He cringed inwardly when he thought of what Lord Jaxe would have had to say about his present, sorry condition. He wondered if he would ever escape the man’s stern judgment. Deepening his sense of filial failure, he remembered that he’d never told his mother about the sin-eater’s premature departure, which had left his father unshriven.

  In this glum state of mind, he attempted to distract himself with his surroundings. He supposed the coastline they traveled was scenic; the quaint fishing villages clustered by the shore cast blue shadows on the snow, and dramatic cliffs towered above the pavonated sea. But the biting offshore breeze only heightened his misery, and the diamonds of light spangling the water nearly blinded him. He longed for the day to be over so that he could sleep again and obliviate his pain.

  When Wren drew his horse alongside Sinead, Whit eyed the vial he offered with suspicion.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Something that will help.”

  Whit accepted it with shaking fingers. As he removed the small cork sealing it, his stomach heaved at the strong smell of alcohol. “It’s spirits!” he protested, thrusting it back at the knight.

  “Yes, I know,” said Wren patiently. “Trust me, and Master Horace. He’s the one who thought you might need it.”

  Whit supposed he couldn’t feel worse. He gulped the burning liquid down, then gagged wretchedly. “I’ve been poisoned!” he managed to choke out.

  Wren grinned. “Give it a few moments. I had some before we left Port Taygh. It helps. Really.”

  “It tastes like… like snake piss!” Tears streamed down Whit’s face.

  “Yes,” agreed Wren. “Snake piss… with just a hint of ginger.”

  Whit glared at his vassal. For a moment their eyes locked, and then the young lord of Cardenstowe gave a feeble chuckle.

  Wren grinned, and for the first time Whit saw in the young knight a possible friend. He’d had little experience in cultivating close relationships. As an only child, he’d been alone much of the time, and his studies had been enough to occupy his time. Wren was close enough in age—he had perhaps half a dozen years on Whit, no more—and was a seasoned soldier.

  I imagine I could learn from him about the ways of the world…about women, for example. He blushed at the thought.

  “There, you see,” said Wren. “You’ve already gotten a bit of color back!”

  They rode along companionably after that, speaking of Cardenstowe. Whit was surprised to learn Wren knew of the hidden pool in the Garlsdon Wood where he regularly bathed in summer, and they agreed that Dame Dora’s bakeshop sold the best iumbolls in the realm.

  “Were you at the market the day Master Teabell’s piglets broke out of their pen and ran riot through the stalls?” Wren asked.

  “Were you there?” said Whit, gasping with laughter. “Did you see Mistress Hillary’s cheeses—”

  “Go tumbling into the tinker’s carts? I barely escaped being pinioned by Ballard’s entire collection of cutlery!”

  They both hooted with laughter.

  Whatever had been in Horace’s foul potion had worked magic, for soon Whit’s headache had nearly vanished. By the time they reached the bustling port town, he was feeling considerably better, and it was due as much to Wren as to the ginger shot. Whit felt he’d found a friend.

  After cautioning them to avoid attracting attention to themselves, Master Morgan went in search of the ship that would bear the onward travelers up the coast to Fairendell. Whit was content to sit with his companions outside a small wharf-side eatery, basking in the sunlight. Halla declined to join them, and wandered down to the beach to skim stones on the water. To Whit, it seemed an idle pastime.

  When the wizard returned, it was time to exchange farewells with the Cardenstowe knights. Whit felt a sudden regret as Wren clasped his hand.

  “You can rest assured we’ll have a care for all that concerns Cardenstowe, my lord,” the young knight said. “And we’ll meet again before long, either at home or in Drinnkastel for the Twyrn.”

  “I won’t be in the capital for the tourney,” said Whit. He clapped Wren on the shoulder. “I charge you with winning honor for Cardenstowe.” He glanced over at Halla. “And for the gods’ sake, don’t lose to Lorendale!”

  Wren laughed. “You have my word on it, my lord.”

  * * *

  The Sea Witch was a small sturdy cog with a square-rigged sail that billowed in the gusting northerlies streaming down the coastline. As they tacked in a zigzag parallel to the bluffs, Whit faced into the wind and felt the last of his crapulence blow away.

  His cousin, by contrast, looked decidedly unwell as she huddled middeck by the horse stalls. The cog didn’t pitch and roll excessively, but to see her face, one would be forgiven for thinking otherwise. She’d fretted when she discovered there were no slings to support her precious Rowlan and the other horses, but Whit figured since the wind was constant, the animals were in no real danger.

  Still, the going was slow. “Why didn’t we just ride up the coast?” Whit asked Master Morgan, when the wizard came to stand beside him at the railing.

  Master Morgan drew out his pipe and managed to light it despite the buffeting wind. “That would have taken even longer. We’d have had to follow the Headland Road along Nelvorboth’s Cape Lentir. Either that or take the inland route across the Tor of Brenhinoedd. No, a less conspicuous passage was required.”

  He nodded toward the stern, where the captain, to whom no introductions had been made, manned the rudder. “Our good helmsman and his crew have been well paid for their discretion. We’ll disembark at Fairporth, and they’ll forget we ever existed.”

  Whit wondered if they were being pursued, or if the wizard was just being unnecessarily cautious. In any event, he found he was very much enjoying his first taste of the sea.

  * * *

  When night fell, they sailed under a bejeweled sky. Although Halla remained entrenched by the horses, Whit passed a most enjoyable evening. Cortenus seized the opportunity to test him on his knowledge of the constellations, and the wizard entertained them both by recounting tales of other sea voyages.

  “You’ve traveled the world and seen so much,” said Whit, his heart aflame with wanderlust. “One day, I will as well!”

  Master Morgan blew a few billowing smoke rings that lingered incongruously despite the wind for several moments before dissipating into the darkness. “Time will tell,” he said. “For some of us, our duty lies closer to home. I hadn’t planned to leave Drinnglennin those long years ago before I journeyed to distant lands.”

  “Well, I will travel,” Whit insisted.

  “No doubt,” Master Morgan replied mildly. He tapped out the ash from his pipe and tucked it into his robe. “At the moment, I’m traveling no further than my pillow, such as it is.” And without further ado, he lay back and drew his blanket close around him.

  Cortenus yawned and bade him goodnight in turn, leaving Whit to gaze alone at the star-filled sky. He fell to imagining all he might learn at Mithralyn, and at the many exotic destinations of Master Morgan’s tales. He promised himself he would visit them someday… perhaps as a great mage.

  Lying back, he let the wash of the parting sea speak to him as he dreamed under the indigo sky.

  * * *

  The next morning dawned clear and bright, and while the wizard and Cortenus p
ored over old maps with the captain, Whit joined the crew in routine chores. He was no stranger to physical labor; his austere father had made scrubbing the stone floor of the chapel his regular penance for any transgressions—which in Sir Jaxe’s stern judgment were plentiful. Whit far preferred scouring the deck of the Sea Witch in the brisk, salty air to kneeling on the bone-numbing marble in Cardenstowe’s vestry.

  To his surprise, Halla joined in the work as well. He would have thought it beneath her to get her hands dirty, but she mucked out and washed down the holding stalls, then curried the horses until their coats gleamed. The girl was obsessed with the creatures, and they with her. Cortenus’s chestnut mare, Brandy, had grown so attached that she snorted in distress when Halla strayed too far away.

  While Whit was helping one of the sailors retie some ropes that had worked their way loose in the riggings, he noticed the sailor’s impressive array of knots, and immediately had to learn them for himself. The man was happy to teach him, and soon Whit was engrossed in loops, bowlines, hitches, and bends.

  Before he thought it possible, the red sun was sinking below the horizon. The day of labor together had clearly created a camaraderie between him and the crew, as he was invited to join a dice game at which he quickly excelled.

  After he’d won several rounds, Cortenus pulled him aside. “You’ll need to start losing now,” he murmured.

  “Whyever for?” said Whit.

  “To keep the good will you earned today. By the look of it, you’ve won their month’s wages.”

  Whit frowned at the small pile of coins on the deck. “Surely not. Besides, they’re grown men. They should be able to decide for themselves if the stakes are too high.”

  But his tutor proved to be right, for after two more winning rounds, his fellow players fell silent, and one of them glared at him with outright malice. Reluctantly, Whit threw the next two hands, and then withdrew from the game with a reduced profit.

  He dropped down beside Cortenus as the play continued. “Are you satisfied?” he grumbled.