The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “’Twas but a girlish fancy of Cormac Trok’s daughter,” she said aloud. The person she was now had no time for a maiden’s romantic dreams. She was Maura, with one good name. Maura of the dragonfast.

  As sunlight spilled into her chamber, she opened herself to the presence of something ancient and wise. Make of this gift all you will, it whispered.

  Maura held out her arms toward the light, as though to embrace the thought. “Oh, indeed,” she vowed. “I shall.”

  Chapter 38

  Morgan

  Morgan intended to make the arduous ride to Drinnkastel within the span of two days. Racing along Fairendell’s rough thoroughfare, he gave the stout-hearted Holly her head, and the little mare did not disappoint him.

  Having secured the allegiance of the dragonfast, the wizard felt obligated to report their existence, and that of their dragons, to the High King. He would not mention that Halla had also sworn an oath, since Whit had declined to do so. The wizard had faith that the lad would come around, and in the meantime it would be of no service to Cardenstowe if Urlion learned of his refusal.

  It was well after dark when Morgan stopped for the night, and still pitch black when he continued onward after a brief rest. The hours flew past, and by the time the pony trotted up the serpentine road leading to the Gates of Havard, night approached once more, only a whisper of daylight remaining over the Tor of Brenhinoedd.

  At the gatehouse, he shook his head over the tattered banners bearing the standard of the House of Konigur—a white alphyn on a red field—and the moat that had nearly run dry. Moss had taken root in the cracks running through the stonework, and the keep was in need of major repairs. King Urlion’s court had once been hailed as the most learned and lively in the Known World, but over the past decade, its bright reputation had faded along with its facade. In recent years, the High King reserved his strength for the business of ruling, which largely involved meeting with his nobles at council, and hearing petitioners to administer justice. He no longer rode out to the hunt, nor made progressions throughout the realm. He even eschewed the court’s diversions, usually taking to his bed after an early evening meal and leaving his courtiers to their own devices. His jester had died the previous winter, and the royal acrobats and jugglers had been released from their duties. Only the musicians remained, to play at the annual ball for the benefit of the season’s highborn maidens who had come of marriageable age. The Twyrn, which had not been held since Urlion fell ill, would offer a much-needed lift to Drinnkastel’s spirits.

  Inside the city walls, the wizard made his way past Bradwyr Tower, which housed prisoners awaiting trial for alleged crimes against the realm. Morgan wasn’t aware of any current occupants, but in the past the tower had lodged a number of notorious offenders, including Gelfin Nelvor, the great-great-grandfather of Nandor. He had led a failed coup to seize the High Throne little more than a century ago, and had lost his head for his treason. The Nelvor had long been an ambitious clan.

  Of course, these days, Princess Grindasa and her knights vehemently professed their loyalty to the Konigurs. Still, it was hard to ignore that the Nelvor maintained an armada and standing army whose combined might surpassed that of the royal forces. When Morgan ventured to express his concern regarding this to the High King, he was sternly reminded that it was the Nelvor fleet that had held off the raiding Helgrins over the past decade, preventing the marauders from gaining a foothold on the island as they had in Gral, where there were now numerous Helgrin colonies. It was a fair point, but as Morgan rode up the High Street, he couldn’t help but notice the black and silver livery of Nelvorboth was even more prominent than when he’d last visited the capital.

  On his humble pony, he attracted little attention, but he pulled his hood low over his brow all the same. There were those who would find his presence in Drinnkastel of interest, and he didn’t want to run the risk of being detained to answer any probing questions—or worse. His business was with the High King.

  After a brief stop to arrange his lodgings, he proceeded to the castle. It never failed to impress him with its sweeping red tiled roofs and tall windows commanding a spectacular view of the city and the tor beyond. The west and east wings were lined with wide wooden balconies to invite the breeze off the plateau. The main structure included the High King’s private quarters, the Grand Hall, and the royal suites and fine apartments for notable guests. On the ground level were the kitchens and barracks for housing the king’s guard, and the lower ward provided land for grazing, stables, and the tourney grounds.

  Morgan made his way without challenge through a series of guarded posts, for he still carried the parchment with the Konigur seal that Urlion had given him years ago for this purpose. When he reached the doors of the High King’s private chambers, he hoped to be ushered directly into his sovereign’s presence, but the herald outside directed him to a familiar private hall adjacent them instead.

  He was not surprised to find it occupied by the members of the Tribus.

  Traditionally, these counselors were never seen by any but the High King, but since Morgan had once been one of them, an exception was made in his case. Still, the wizard’s encounters with the Tribus had been few.

  Audric, his one-time mentor, tottered forward to greet him. The aging wizard’s years sat heavily upon him. “Mortimer, my old friend,” he said, clasping Morgan’s hands in his. “I had not expected to see you back with us so soon. Do you bear good tidings?”

  “In part, yes, master,” said Morgan. “How fares our High King?”

  Celaidra glided over to join them, and offered her hand to be kissed. The elven princess’s loveliness was unmarked by time. “I fear he’s much the same as when you last met with him,” she said. “Indeed, tonight he seems to have taken a turn for the worse, and will admit only his physiker.” Her tone was carefully neutral. “What news from Mithralyn, master? How is my cousin Elvinor?”

  Morgan noted the wistfulness in her voice. It had been many years since she had been among her own kind for longer than a brief visit. “He is well, my lady, as are all your folk.” He drew a sealed missive from his sleeve and placed it in her hands. “Elvinor sent this, along with his loving greetings.”

  Selka remained at a distance. He was struck, as always, by the sorceress’s cold beauty. Her long dark hair was still lustrous; her magical arts had kept the years at bay, her skin unlined, except around her eyes, which were narrowed at him. “We would have your report on those you have sequestered in Mithralyn, master,” she commanded.

  “I will gladly share with you all you desire to know, once I’ve seen the king,” said the wizard.

  Before the sorceress could reply, there was a scratch at the door. “The High King requests your presence, Master Morgan,” called a muffled voice from without.

  With a parting bow to the Tribus, Morgan left them.

  He followed the waiting herald to the High King’s chambers, where he found Urlion propped up in his massive bed, with Master Tergin, the long-serving royal physiker, hovering at His Majesty’s side. Urlion certainly looked in need of care. In his prime, the Konigur king had been leonine, possessed of an athletic grace and regal bearing that had earned him much admiration. But of late, his once muscular physique had thickened. While he retained remnants of his legendary good looks, and his black hair had only slightly silvered at the temples, his beard was grizzled, and his pallid skin attested to his prolonged ill health.

  Urlion waved his physiker away, and with a slight nod to Morgan, the doctor left them alone.

  Morgan dropped to one knee. “Your Majesty.”

  “No need to stand on ceremony here in my chambers, master,” said Urlion heartily. “Especially from you, a man who has always proved a true friend to the Konigurs. Come, sit here by my bed. I’m in dire need of decent company, and it’s been far too long since I’ve enjoyed yours!”

  “Your Majesty is well?” sa
id the wizard, taking the indicated chair.

  Urlion’s smile was sly. “Well enough. I called in the leech because I’m sick of all the haranguing I have to endure from that lot. To listen to my Tribus, you’d think I was tottering on the brink.”

  His gruff laugh evolved into a bout of harsh coughing, and Morgan hastened to pour him a goblet of water. “With Your Majesty’s permission?” he asked, drawing a vial from the pocket of his cloak. “I have a potion here that will help you to breath more easily.”

  With a nod from Urlion, Morgan emptied the potion into the goblet, and held it to his sovereign’s cracked lips. After a few sips, the coughing fit subsided.

  “I should keep you here by me,” croaked the king, “instead of that useless Tergin.”

  “I’m sure Master Tergin’s medical skills far surpass mine, sire, and you know your Tribus have charged me with a different service to you.”

  “So they have, although I see no reason for it,” Urlion grumbled, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth.

  “I agree there would be none if you would but name your successor, my lord.”

  King Urlion pulled a sour face. “Not you too, Morgan.” He gestured toward a silver flagon. “Pour us both some wine, my friend, and I’ll hear no more about who will warm my throne after me. Tell me instead what news you bear of the realm.”

  When Morgan handed him the second goblet, the king drank deeply, then eyed him expectantly.

  “I wish the news were better, my lord,” said the wizard. “In the north, the people were prepared for the harsh winter, but harvests in the Midlands suffered from flooding and high winds, and there’s been famine in the south as a result of this extreme weather. Most of the lower kingdoms have had to husband their resources to see that all under their protection survive.”

  “We’ve seen such years in the past,” said the king with a dismissive wave of his veined hand.

  “So we have, sire, but not to this extreme. There are many more who are landless these days.”

  Urlion shifted irritably on his pillows. “Do you speak of the Lurkers? What new trouble are they stirring up?”

  “None that can be proven, but they’re being blamed all the same. There are reports of å Livåri persecution in Palmador and Langmerdor. It’s rumored many of them have been rounded up, and yet never brought to trial.”

  “This is something to take up with the Tribus,” said the king indifferently.

  “The å Livåri have ever revered the Konigurs, sire, and they are legal citizens of the realm.”

  Urlion scowled. “Because of the sanctuary granted them by my grandfather. But what service have they ever offered me in return?”

  “There are those among the å Livåri who are your eyes and ears throughout Drinnglennin, my lord. They report back to me much that is of value. It’s how I learned of a supposed Helgrin attack in Cardenstowe.”

  Urlion straightened, suddenly alert. “What’s this? Helgrins in Cardenstowe?” he growled. “When? Why was it not brought to our attention?”

  “Calm yourself, I beg you, sire,” said Morgan. “There was no Helgrin attack, only an attempt to make it look like one. I believe the Nelvor are behind it, and that they wish to use this as an excuse to launch a war across the sea.”

  The king’s expression darkened. “Have you proof of this?”

  “Lord Vetch must have knowledge of it, since he is calling most loudly for revenge. How would he have learned of the raid, unless he orchestrated it himself?”

  Urlion pulled a cloth from his sleeve and blew his nose loudly. “Gossip runs before the wind,” he grumbled. “Anyone could have spread this tale abroad, and the Nelvor have always been envied for their wealth. In any case, I wouldn’t refuse permission to raid the Helgrins. Let Grindasa use her own ships and treasury to keep those wolves from our shores!” He raised his goblet and drained it.

  “The law of the land clearly states that no single kingdom may launch an attack on a sovereign state, even Helgrinia,” the wizard reminded him. “The force must be made up of troops from every region. Do you not find it concerning that the Nelvors’ private navy is manned not only by their own knights, but also augmented by Albrenian mercenaries?”

  “No, I do not!” snapped the king, upon whose cheeks an angry flush had risen. “I have Princess Grindasa’s assurances that the fleet is ever mine to command.”

  “The armada sails under the Nelvorbothian flag, my lord, not Drinnglennin’s,” the wizard said evenly. “Here in the capital, the Nelvors’ presence is overwhelmingly in evidence as well. On the short ride from the Havard Gate, the silver and black outnumbered knights from other kingdoms by nearly three to one.”

  “The Nelvor are loyal to the High Throne,” Urlion insisted. “Princess Grindasa was here only last week with Vetch. He’s taken over her land forces, as sea action is wanting. I watched him put the men through their paces—very impressive!”

  “Many of these men are Albrenians, my lord, who’ve provoked numerous confrontations with our own soldiers. Would it not be better to require the princess to withdraw them to her own lands, and minimize her forces on your doorstep?”

  The king’s eyes flashed. “When I want your counsel regarding how I manage my vassals, master, I’ll ask for it! As it is, I’ve endured enough harassment from Mistress Selka on this score!”

  Morgan bowed his head. “My lord, I meant no disrespect.”

  The king grunted, and held out his goblet to be refilled. “Come, my old friend, we’ll say no more of it. Have you no good news to share?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” said Morgan. “Shall I tell you about those I left in Mithralyn?”

  “I suppose,” replied the king without enthusiasm. “Though I hardly think these can be cheerful tidings. With both of my cousins’ husbands coming to an untimely end within a week of one another, the new lord of Cardenstowe and the daughter of the late Valen of Lorendale cannot be feeling blessed by the gods.”

  “That’s true, my lord,” said the wizard. “Even the noblest among us are subject to the whim of fate.” Urlion shot him a steely look, which he chose to ignore. “Still, I believe these young people to be worthy of your interest, sire. Lord Whit and Lady Halla are a credit to their houses. And to yours.”

  “So say you,” Urlion muttered, plucking dully at his bedcovers. “As a matter of fact, I’ve received a request from their mothers to grant a dispensation for them to wed. It seems a good idea.”

  “The two young people are not inclined to agree, my lord. There is some… animosity between them. And if their bond of kinship is closer than that of first cousins…”

  “Ho ho!” laughed the king. “So you’ve heard the old rumor that I bedded my cousin Simone’s daughters! I myself instigated that bit of tattle when Storn was still alive.” A bittersweet smile of remembrance curved his lips. “We competed in every way, my brother and I, especially when it came to the ladies. Each of us claimed there wasn’t a kingdom in which we hadn’t bedded a noble wench. So when I learned that the ladies of Lorendale and Cardenstowe had each conceived shortly after my visits… I let Storn believe what he might. Unfortunately, news of this got back to Inis and Rhea, and Inis had the audacity to censure me for it. I haven’t received either of them at court since.” Urlion was no longer smiling. “Inis didn’t even carry her babe to term, as I recall, and Rhea tried to blame me for causing her sister distress with my ‘heedless falsehood.’” He snorted. “It didn’t stop Inis from bearing Lorendale three sons after that.”

  “A daughter and three sons. Halla is the first-born—”

  “What I would give to have a son!” Urlion muttered, as if Morgan hadn’t spoken. He took another long drink, and set the goblet down heavily. “In any event, regarding this daughter, I can tell you there’s no muddied grounds upon which to deny a dispensation for her to marry her cousin from Cardenstowe. Nor does their
reluctance to wed sway me. At least they’re known to one another. Why, I’d never laid eyes on Leficia until a few days before we married, and we managed well enough.” He paused in the act of reaching for his goblet. “We married,” he repeated softly, and to the wizard’s surprise, sudden tears welled in the king’s eyes. Urlion had never expressed any deep feelings for his late queen, who had been dead for nearly two score years.

  “Sire, perhaps my visit is overtaxing—”

  The king’s expression grew strained. “The dream…” he muttered. “If I could only…”

  Morgan felt a thrill of alarm. “Sire?”

  “We married,” Urlion whispered, staring unseeing past the wizard. And then he blinked. “What were you saying?”

  Morgan did his best to mask his concern. “Are you having troubled sleep, my lord?”

  “No, no.” The king waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need fussing over! Tell me more about these young people.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” said Morgan. “You will recall that along with your cousins, your late brother’s daughter is also in Mithralyn.”

  The king frowned. “Storn never claimed her, nor was there ever proof that he sired any bastards. I have only your word that she’s his.”

  “I have your brother’s word, my lord. Storn spoke of Maura before we rode together into what would prove to be his last battle. Since she was baseborn, I didn’t see the need to mention it to you, or to meddle in her life. But that was before she was made dragonfast.”

  The king stared at Morgan for a long moment before releasing a bark of laughter. “Oh ho, Master Wizard! For a moment you had me believing you!”

  Morgan placed a hand over his heart. “My lord, this is no jest. Her dragon is sheltering in Mithralyn, along with another who has bound itself with the half-elf son of Elvinor. I have seen them with my own eyes.”

  Urlion sat up and gripped the wizard’s arm. “Can it be true? Are they really back?” he cried in wonder. Then he sobered. “What does this portend? Isn’t there a prophecy about the return of the dragons?”