The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

Cortenus smiled. “As one of the privileged, it’s important to be gracious to those less fortunate than yourself.”

  “Yes, but this was a game,” Whit complained. “No one was forcing them to play.”

  “All life is a game of sorts. But some of us are given better odds, and we mustn’t disregard this.”

  Whit shrugged. “I can’t help the opportunity of my birth.”

  “No, and neither can they. But when you’re in a position to be magnanimous, it’s your responsibility to act so, don’t you agree?”

  “Not really,” said Whit, “but I’ve done as you asked.” He rose to his feet. “I’m going to turn in. That is, if that lot don’t keep us all awake.”

  He stalked off in search of a quieter corner, but once he’d found it, sleep eluded him. As he tossed and turned, echoes of his father’s frequent disappointment in him invaded his thoughts. When he was younger, Whit’s response to Lord Jaxe’s disdain had always been to throw himself more deeply into his studies, and with the introduction of magic into his life, he hoped to prove his worth—indeed, his superiority— through this art. The fact that his father would have strongly disapproved of this choice of vocation only fueled Whit’s zeal. “Nothing I did was ever going to please him,” he muttered to himself. It had been years since he’d shed his last tear over the old tyrant, and he had none to spare now. He was free to please himself.

  A ripple of laughter from the dice players tempted him to rejoin the game. But he reminded himself that he was going to be a great wizard, and had no time to waste on frivolity. “I need sleep, not idle gaming,” he muttered, and he rolled on his side and pulled his blanket over his head.

  * * *

  It seemed he’d only just fallen asleep when someone nudged him awake.

  “We’ve arrived,” said Cortenus, “and Master Morgan would have us disembarked and clear of Fairporth before first light.”

  Whit groaned and levered himself into a sitting position. The altered creak and sway of the cog confirmed they’d come to dock in the darkened harbor. He saw that Halla was already up and busy removing feedbags from the horses’ muzzles.

  “Where’s Master Morgan?” he asked.

  “Waiting for us on the wharf. We’re to lead the horses off as soon as we’ve packed up our bedding.”

  Shortly thereafter, they were trotting along the outer walls of the sleeping town and onto the inland road. Although it was wide enough for four to ride abreast, patches of dried grass sprouted between the old wagon ruts, making it clear it was not well traveled. When Whit commented on this, Master Morgan said, “The people of Fairendell cleave to the coastline. They believe the land inland to be enchanted and populated by all manner of monsters. They call where we’re headed the Mist Meadows, and they’re right on one of two counts. It is an enchanted place.”

  “But no monsters rove there?” Cortenus cast a furtive glance behind them. “I’ve heard tales of those who disappear in the strange haze, or return addled and unable to relate what has befallen them.”

  “It’s true some fools have ventured too close to Elvinor’s realm,” said Master Morgan. “However, since the elves contrived clearly discouraging barriers, I cannot feel very sorry for those who choose not to heed them.”

  “I assume we have permission to go there?” said Halla.

  “Indeed we do,” replied the wizard. “We are eagerly awaited.”

  Somehow this knowledge made Whit vaguely uncomfortable, as though the elves were already scrutinizing him from their hiding places. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the towers of Fairporth rising black against a pearling sky, while ahead the pale light stretched over broad fields to a hazy forest beyond.

  For the first time, Whit wondered if he’d been wise to agree to come to Mithralyn. He had been promised magical instruction, but more than once, the wizard had mentioned his security. What might be a threat to him was still unclear. Here, the very land emanated foreboding, the air chilling to the bone.

  Before long, thin wisps of white vapor drifted low over the meadowlands. “This is the ominous mist?” said Halla.

  The wizard chuckled. “As I said, we are expected. The elves don’t need to discourage us.”

  Hour after dreary hour passed as the road led them through winter-worn meadowland. Whit had nearly fallen asleep in his saddle when the wizard raised his hand to call a halt.

  “Behold!” Master Morgan said. “Ahead stands the Dwyrayn Stone.”

  Whit discerned a dark shape rising from the edge of the ashen fields. “What is its purpose?”

  “Dwyrayn marks the eastern border of Mithralyn,” replied Master Morgan. “It’s one of three Great Stones guarding the elven kingdom. It was raised by Nimthar the Wise, first king of Mithralyn in the After Age, when his people sequestered themselves from mankind. It is said to be possessed of a formidable power.”

  As they drew closer to the great stone, Whit felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he noticed Halla’s sudden pallor.

  “Fear not,” murmured Master Morgan. “We will ride past this sentinel unmolested.”

  And so they did, although the dense silence rang deafeningly in Whit’s ears. Only when they neared the forest beyond the runestone did his hearing return.

  As they passed under the trees, the world seemed at once transformed. The flat, grim meadows gave way to a wood bathed in golden light and ringing with birdsong. It was as though they had suddenly left winter behind.

  They followed the trail past fern-filled glens and along a serpentine river the color of jade. Through the forest, Whit spied the towers and cupolas of the elven realm, its pale façade gleaming in the gilded light. The castle appeared to float majestically in the gossamer air.

  It was not long before they arrived at its resplendent gates. These stood wide, and there the denizens of Mithralyn, tall, comely folk, had gathered to await them. Their eyes burned with unworldly fire, and they possessed an ethereal beauty. They were clad in fine robes of argent and celadon, and bore gleaming arms studded with rare gems. Many were mounted upon rare skoglende elks, legendary for their massive antlers and burnished coats.

  Whit released a long tremulous breath, inspired by awe, and felt an uncommon humility in their presence.

  Among the stern assembly was a petite maiden, clearly not elven, with wistful, violet eyes. Whit wondered how she’d come to be in Mithralyn.

  A young elf at her side swung unceremoniously down from his elk and raced toward Master Morgan. The wizard dismounted just in time to prevent the elfling from cannoning into his mount.

  “Welcome back, master!” the youth cried, and flung his arms around the pony’s neck. “Hallo, Holly girl!” Spinning toward the wizard, he said, “Wait ’til you see what I learned while you were away, master! I can use a bow now, and Elvinor has given me a book about dra—” Here he faltered, looking uncertainly at Whit and Halla. “Do they…?”

  “No,” said Master Morgan firmly. “Now please allow me to greet your father properly and make introductions. And then, my dear boy, I should be delighted to observe your newly honed skill with the bow.”

  Grinning, the young elf took Holly’s reins.

  The wizard signaled them all to dismount, and Whit, his heart suddenly beating like a fledgling’s, slid from Sinead’s back to meet his very first Folk from the legendary tales of Before.

  Chapter 30

  Leif

  Thousands of tiny illuminated insects shimmered in the bowered gardens above the banquet laid to welcome Master Morgan and his companions to Mithralyn. The harps thrummed, and the tables were laden with the best of the forest’s fare.

  But Leif’s attention was on the new arrivals. The wizard had asked Leif to make Halla and Whit feel welcome, but neither invited an approach. Whit never seemed to smile and surveyed his surroundings with a haughty reserve, while the flame-haired Halla sat stiffly at hi
s side. They didn’t appear to be on friendly terms.

  Leif’s gaze drifted back to the sumptuous food. Deciding that his dinner would take precedence, he flitted to a table near the musicians, where he nibbled on wild cress drizzled with blueberry honey and listened to Hibiscus’s magnificent tale of the Battle of Toldarin, in which the dragonfast hero, Drak, had found glory. Leif imagined how amazed his new elven friends would be when they discovered another such individual among them. Of course, he was not quite dragonfast yet, as Master Morgan had vaguely mentioned more was required to complete his binding.

  When the tale was complete, he drifted from table to table. He savored delicate venison with wild plum puree as Frandelas related, to much laughter, how he’d convinced Vrillen there was a serpent in his boot. He moved on to the king’s table just as Elvinor began a recitation of “Klarinda the Fair,” and Leif was immediately caught up in the magic of the poem.

  Long lay the shadows

  On the white crested bluffs

  As Klarinda rode to the sea

  To seek Sian, the Lord of Mer

  Her one true love was he.

  Winter’s mantle lay on the land

  On hill, o’er dale and hollow

  Untrodden yet by beast nor man

  The fields below long fallow…

  Leif felt a surge of pride as he listened to his father’s melodious voice. He found it hard to believe that he shared the same blood as the elven king, and he was still shy in Elvinor’s presence. He recalled how tongue-tied he’d been in his first private audience with the elf.

  The king had been most gracious to him. “I would be happy if you would call me Elvinor,” he said. “I don’t presume you can feel a kinship toward me that I’ve done nothing to foster. It’s seldom those of our kind ever come to know their offspring born of man. I certainly had not thought to sire one. Not,” he added, “that I regret doing so. Your mother is precious in my memory.”

  “I never knew her,” said Leif, “but my grandparents often spoke of her with great love and pride. They missed her after she… after I was born.”

  “I was sorry to learn she has made the Leap,” said Elvinor. “I would have come for you at once had I known. But Master Morgan tells me your mother’s people have been good to you?”

  “Yes,” said Leif emphatically. “Very good to me.”

  Leif felt a growing warmth toward the king as Elvinor patiently answered his many questions. It seemed that here in Mithralyn, curiosity was a trait to be admired. Although he couldn’t yet claim to feel close to his natural father, he was grateful for his genuine interest in learning more about him, and for encouraging him to speak of his grandparents. It helped to ease the homesickness he still suffered. It also helped that, for the first time in his young life, he had a clear sense of purpose, for Elvinor assured him he would play an important role in future elvish and human relations. “You have a foot in both worlds, as it were,” the elven king reminded him. “As one of the dragonfast, this will put you in a position of influence.”

  But Leif knew he’d have to complete his binding before he could hope to contribute anything of note to the world. And that meant coming face to face again with his dragon, a prospect he didn’t look forward to in the least.

  He shivered at the thought and turned his attention back to Elvinor’s sonorous voice. He had missed some of the poem in his reverie, but Aenissa, his cousin, would help him learn it later. The elven princess had made him feel welcome, in the little time she had available to spare for him. Like Elvinor, she was immersed in preserving elven lore, and often Leif saw her only during the long evenings, dancing and singing among the gentle folk.

  When the king concluded his oration, Queen Ystira took up her lute. Leif clapped his hands with delight, for the elven queen was by far the most gifted musician of Mithralyn, and her voice was as true as the nightingales that trilled in the golden forest. The song she’d selected to honor their guests was “The Lay of Lindora,” and Leif leaned back with a sigh as she struck the opening chords.

  And then he immediately straightened. Across the wide gazebo, Frandelas was leading Maura in a dance. Leif watched jealously as the tall handsome elf swayed with Maura in his arms. They moved through the graceful turns and steps of the leandera while Ystira sang the timeless song of tragic love.

  Since Maura’s arrival, Leif had rarely left her side. And it wasn’t just because she too would soon be dragonfast. She was patient and kind, and encouraged him to tell her all about his life back in Tonis Vale. When he missed his gran, or worried about her, she comforted him, reminding him that Gran had many old friends who could help her with the chores Leif used to do. And they didn’t even have to speak to enjoy each other’s company; sometimes they would just sit in a quiet part of the forest. He admired her way with creatures, and loved to watch as she gentled a passing doe or wild lapin. More than all the others, it was Maura upon whom Leif had come to depend, and to care for.

  And now that rascal Frandelas was trying to steal her away.

  Leif didn’t care at all for the light in the artful fellow’s eyes. Blast that scoundrel—he’s turning on all his elvish charm! Maura will have no defense against it! He was determined to wrest her from Frandelas’s arms—but how? One couldn’t interrupt something as important as a dance here in Mithralyn.

  Thinking to provide a distraction, he eyed the groaning banquet tables, but he couldn’t bring himself to wreak havoc on that delectable feast. He would have to find another way. Queen Ystira was only on the third verse of her lay, and there were twenty-seven yet to come.

  Scanning the bower for inspiration, Leif’s gaze fell upon Halla, sitting silently beside Whit. She looked very pretty, with her flowing sunny locks only slightly tamed by a slim silver circlet at her brow. Before his courage deserted him, Leif scurried across the bower to wriggle between her and the glum Lord Whit.

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked, his voice ringing out much more loudly than he’d intended.

  Halla looked startled, and Leif could see she was seeking a way to politely refuse. But then Whit laughed derisively. After a fractional pause, she offered her hand, a steely light blazing in her green eyes. “I’d be delighted,” she said.

  She rose from her seat, and he tried not to mind that he had to look up at her. Out on the dance floor, he steered her near to Maura and Frandelas, stumbling a bit in their path to make sure he had the elf’s attention. Then he began spinning and leaping with wild abandon, and Halla’s amused expression turned to one of faint alarm.

  “Oh, fiddle!” Leif announced loudly. “I’ve forgotten the steps. And I promised to teach you this dance.” Before Halla could dispute this, Leif turned toward the elf beside him. “Frandelas,” he cried, “you’re the lord of the dance! Perhaps you would be so kind as to partner our guest? That is, if Maura doesn’t mind dancing with me?”

  “I don’t mind,” said Maura cheerfully.

  Frandelas courteously released Maura and took up Halla’s hand to lead her through the first steps.

  Leif drew Maura across the floor, noting happily that although she was several years older than him, he was the taller of the two. When he whirled into the complicated steps of the leandera, her violet eyes widened.

  “Why, Leif,” she observed dryly, “I do believe you’ve recovered your memory.”

  Leif tried, and failed, not to grin. “You’re not sorry to have me as a partner, are you?”

  “No, but I’d prefer just to watch, if that’s all right with you. Dancing after such a feast makes me feel queasy.”

  Obligingly, he drew her over to a low wall upon which they could perch. “I can’t stop wondering,” Leif said, “when we’ll learn more about becoming… you know.”

  Maura shivered. “We’ll find out soon. I must confess I’m not looking forward to it.”

  Leif knew she too was dwel
ling on what Master Morgan had told them before he’d gone to collect Whit and Halla.

  “You will have to survive a trial of the dragons’ choosing before you will truly be dragonfast,” the wizard had revealed.

  “Survive?” Maura had echoed. “You mean if we don’t perform to our dragons’ satisfaction…”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” said Master Morgan. “You must never forget that a dragon is a wild and magical creature, and it will follow its nature. They may be the wisest of all living beings, but that doesn’t mean dragons are compassionate or kind. Far from it! And it is these qualities you must foster in your dragons, just as they will seek to train your intellect and influence your nature to more easily meld their minds with yours. Only when this is accomplished will your binding be complete. I don’t deny the process will be extremely challenging, and I feel bound to tell you that it has proven fatal to some.

  “But the good news,” he’d hastened to add, “is that your dragon, Maura, has had bindings in the past. And dragons, like all of us, are shaped by their experiences throughout their lives. Ilyria’s last bond was to Malavais, the Lady of Trabezond, in the Age of Before.”

  It was clear the name meant nothing to Maura, but Leif knew it from his grandda’s tales. “Malavais was the princess of Palmador who helped rout the Jagar, those once-dreaded warriors of the Lost Lands, during the invasion in 143 AB,” he explained. “But in the last battle, she was slain by Ordac, their vaar. Legend has it that he feigned his death and cut her down from behind.”

  “How horrible!” said Maura.

  “Indeed,” the wizard agreed, “but Ilyria avenged the princess by driving Ordac into the sea and setting his fleet alight. Ordac’s empire fell, and its surviving people dispersed. And from that time forward, where they dwell has been known as the Lost Lands. Ilyria long mourned Malavais, for with her, she knew a true binding of the heart.”

  “What about Rhiandra?” Leif asked.

  “Rhiandra was born of a later clutch,” said Master Morgan, “the last that I know of, and so you’re her first binding. That means she’s likely to be much more volatile than Ilyria. There’s much you’ll need to teach her.”