The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “More than one,” remarked the wizard dryly, “and each contradicts the other. There’s nothing to fear from these two creatures. They’ve made voluntary bindings, and Maura and Leif have taken a solemn oath to protect the High Throne.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Urlion. “Very good!” He sank back on his pillows, his eyes bright. “Dragons!” he repeated. “I must see them! Think of what we can do with dragons! We’ll start by setting them to patrol our eastern shores. That will give the Helgrin curs something to chew on!”

  “My lord, with all respect, these dragons are no man’s to command, not even yours,” said Morgan. “They are beings of vast intelligence and fierce independence. Remember the lessons of Chaos! Unless we wish to alienate them once more, or worse, draw their wrath, we must leave them to their own devices. For now, it will have to be enough for Your Majesty to know of their existence, and that they’ve chosen to bind again.”

  Some of the light left Urlion’s eyes, and his years settled heavier upon him. “But you said my brother’s daughter and this elven lad have taken an oath to serve me. Surely that means their dragons must as well.”

  “I did not mean to mislead you, my lord. Maura and Leif have vowed to protect the one true king who succeeds you on the High Throne.”

  “Succeeds me?” cried the king. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d suspect treason!”

  “But you do know me, sire, and have all your life. Have I ever given you cause to doubt my loyalties?”

  Urlion continued to glower at him, but a note of grudging respect crept into his voice. “You are the most dangerous of all my subjects, Morgan,” he declared. “I see what you’ve done, and why. You wish to force my hand with regard to naming my heir.”

  A slight smile flickered on the wizard’s lips. “Your Majesty, I would never dream of trying to force you to do anything.”

  The king grunted. “Do you say? Well, if I can’t have the dragons, I would have their dragonfast. You will bring them to court.”

  Morgan had anticipated this, but still his heart sank. “The young people are currently in the process of strengthening their bindings, sire. There’s much they must learn from their dragons, and the stronger their connections, the better they can serve you. And of course, Your Majesty realizes that for the security of the realm, the dragons’ return must remain a secret, at least for the time being. The common man may be inclined to view their reappearance in an inauspicious light, and this could lead to panic, or worse.”

  The king’s brows drew together. “I would meet this maid whom you claim is the offspring of my late beloved brother,” he protested. “I would have her here, and the dragonfast lad as well.”

  “It could be dangerous for them, sire.”

  “Balderdash! I’ll house them in the west wing, where my sister has her chambers. Asmara’s part of the castle is a virtual convent. No one will dare lift a finger against them, lest they suffer the righteous wrath of their king!”

  “At least allow Maura and Leif to remain in Mithralyn until after the Twyrn, my lord,” the wizard urged.

  Urlion scowled. Confined to his bed, idleness had made him petulant. “Am I to have no distractions until the tournament? Would you have me hibernate like the great bears of the north until the spring? When not with my council or administering my duties, I’m kept here in the dark, literally, with the curtains always closed against the light.” He shook his head. “I will not be gainsaid. I command their presence for the Twyrn!”

  His outburst had left him spent, and he lay back on his pillows. “Now tell me, master, this maid—”

  “Maura, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, Maura. Does she look like a Konigur? You said her mother is from the north, but who are her people? Is the lass presentable?” Clearly being dragonfast had made his young niece infinitely more interesting.

  “Maura was raised in Branley Tor, sire. Her stepfather is a well-to-do merchant farmer, who holds Your Majesty’s commission for lapin wool. The girl possesses social graces, and she is a beauty. I would say she favors both her parents.” Morgan had no intention, at least for the time being, of informing the High King that his niece was half å Livåri.

  A sudden bout of coughing left the king weak and wheezing. When he was able to speak again, he said, “I’ll rest now, old friend. You’ve given me much to ponder. Let my man Rork know where you’re lodging, and he’ll arrange for us to meet again when I’m feeling more myself.” He reached out a trembling hand.

  Morgan bent to press his lips to the king’s ring, the flesh beneath his fingers clammy. “Shall I send for Master Tergin, my lord?”

  Urlion’s eyes had drifted closed, but he gave a slight shake of his head. “I wish to rest now.”

  “Your Majesty,” murmured Morgan, and he rose to go.

  It was only when he reached the door that the king spoke once more.

  “The dragons,” Urlion muttered. “Don’t tell them about the dragons.”

  “You have my word, sire.”

  And then the wizard passed into the antechamber to face the High King’s most trusted advisors, from whom he had just sworn to conceal this knowledge.

  Chapter 39

  Back in the Tribus’s private hall, Morgan had the king’s counselors marked attention as he reported on the state of the realm. But regarding the plight of the Lurkers, their proposal for responding to it revealed their vastly differing biases.

  “Perhaps we should set up some sort of sanctuary for the poor souls during these lean times,” suggested Audric. He leaned back and surveyed his companions gathered around the dark, burnished table. “Someplace where we can provide them with protection and sustenance.”

  Selka sniffed disdainfully. “I would say we’re the ones in need of protection, and have been ever since these people crossed the Erolin Sea!”

  “To whom do you refer when you say ‘we,’ my lady?” Morgan asked, with polite interest.

  “The lords of the kingdoms,” declared the sorceress hotly, “from whose forests these scoundrels poach! The hard-working farmers, whose henhouses they raid! The unsuspecting travelers who fall prey to crennin-crazed violence!”

  “Ah, I see,” said the wizard. “And have you personally suffered wrongdoing at the hands of one of ‘these people’? Have you actually ever met one of the å Livåri?”

  The sorceress stiffened. “I’ve seen and heard enough about their parasitic lifestyle. I have no wish to encounter a Lurker.”

  “But of course you wouldn’t want them, or any other denizens of the realm, to suffer needlessly during this time of scarcity,” said Audric placatingly. He turned to the elven princess. “What are your thoughts on this matter, my lady?”

  Celaidra bent her amber gaze on Morgan. “You say the å Livåri are being rounded up? Where are they being held?”

  “I haven’t been able to discover this. But they’re not in the prisons of Palmador or Langmerdor; this much I have confirmed.”

  “Perhaps your informants are mistaken?” Audric suggested.

  “They’ve not been wrong before, master. I don’t think they’d report anything of which they weren’t certain, particularly as many of them are å Livåri themselves.” Morgan ignored Selka’s scornful expression. “I believe it bears closer investigation. The king has left it to you to decide the best course of action, and I’ll assist in any way I can.”

  “We shall consider it. Let us move on.” Selka tapped her long fingers impatiently on the table, and her jeweled rings glittered in the light. “Tell us more about the potential heirs. Do any of them strike you as fit to rule?”

  Morgan raised his bushy brows. “All three of them are still on the verge of maturity, my lady. The lord of Cardenstowe and Lady Halla are well-educated—indeed, highly educated in the case of young Whit. And although Mistress Maura was not raised in a noble house, she is the child of a wealthy mer
chant, and has received schooling. She is more than socially presentable. But none of them are worldly. Still, when it comes to fitness to rule, there are various measures one might choose to employ.”

  “We won’t place any of them on the High Throne unless a more likely successor fails to emerge,” Master Audric assured him.

  Morgan’s brows rose higher. “I believe, master, it is the High King’s preference that takes precedence.”

  Master Audric flushed. “Yes, of course. I only meant that Urlion has yet to give any indication as to whom he has in mind to succeed him.” He shook his head ruefully. “He’s most stubborn when the topic is raised, to the point where we have exhausted his good will regarding the matter. But his condition worsens, Mortimer—we’ve all observed it—so we must consider the possibility that our lord may depart the Known World without performing his final duty. If that is the case, it will fall to the three of us do it in his stead.” The old wizard sighed heavily. “So yes, I have given this solemn charge some thought. It seems Roth of Nelvorboth has potential, and Grindasa claims he’s Urlion’s.”

  “Then should he not join the others in Mithralyn?” said Celaidra, her lovely brow creased with concern.

  Selka gave a harsh laugh. “Grindasa would never agree to that. Now that he’s returned from the continent, she wants her spawn under the High King’s nose at court.”

  “Where Lord Roth is gathering quite a number of followers, I’ve been told,” observed Morgan. “But apparently, Mistress Selka, you are not among them?”

  The sorceress chose to ignore his question.

  In the silence, Audric refilled his goblet, and Morgan noted the slight tremor in his hand. It was clear he was under some strain. How old is he now? Well into his third century, Morgan reckoned.

  “Roth’s a natural leader,” said Audric. “He has grace, a regal bearing—and yet he’s a humble and devout young man. And even if he isn’t Urlion’s offspring, royal blood runs through his veins from his mother’s side.”

  “But if he isn’t Urlion’s, he could be anyone’s by-blow!” Selka protested. “His father might even be a foreigner, like Grindasa. If this were true, then we could well end up with an Albrenian at Drinnglennin’s helm!”

  “Come now,” said Audric. “Grindasa was Urlion’s mistress for several years before he tired of her, and it was during this time young Roth was born.”

  “You know nothing of Princess Grindasa if you think she wouldn’t pass off another man’s bastard as the king’s own,” Selka retorted. “Once it became clear that our lord had no inclination to marry her, she conceived. I’ve never believed Roth was Urlion’s son.”

  “Which is why you advised the king to send him to the Albrenian court,” said Celaidra reproachfully, “against Audric’s and my counsel.”

  Selka glared at them all. “It pleased my lord king to follow this advice. I make no apology for it.”

  Master Audric held up his hands. “It serves no purpose to revisit this difference. Master Morgan shouldn’t have to suffer our discord.”

  Celaidra laid a slender hand on Morgan’s arm. “I would hear more about young Leif. Has he adjusted well to life in Mithralyn?”

  “Indeed he has, my lady,” said the wizard. “He favors Elvinor in many ways, not least in his passion for elven lore. He’s a bright young fellow, and I believe one day ballads may well be sung about him.”

  “Indeed?” The princess brightened. “Then I hope I may cross paths with him.”

  “You will have the opportunity to observe him sooner than you think. He’s to come to court, along with Mistress Maura, for the Twyrn.”

  “Is this wise?” Selka said. “We’ve only just succeeded in securing them in Mithralyn.”

  “Wise or not, our king commands it,” Morgan replied. “It was all I could do to convince him they shouldn’t come at once.”

  Audric sighed. “We know well the challenge of trying to turn our sovereign from his determined course. Still, I’m inclined to agree with Mistress Selka. It would be better if they remained in Mithralyn until Urlion declares his successor, out of potential harm’s way. We shall try to persuade the king to see the wisdom in this.” He rose stiffly. “For now, I fear we’ve been inconsiderate. You must be weary after your long ride, Mortimer. The night grows old, and we have the Accounting tomorrow. Let us continue this discussion at another time.” He clapped his former apprentice on the shoulder. “I will accompany you to the chamber I’ve had prepared.”

  “You’re most kind, Master Audric, but I’ve taken a room in the city with an old friend.” The wizard made a deep bow that included Celaidra and Selka. “Princess, Mistress, I bid you goodnight.”

  “But surely—” protested Master Audric.

  “I’ll find my own way out.” Morgan was already donning his cloak. “If you would, please inform Master Rork I’m lodging at the Tilted Kilt on Holder’s Lane, when the king wishes to receive me again.”

  In the outer courtyard, the wizard pulled his cloak close against the wind’s bluster, and crossed briskly to the gates in the certainty that he would see at least one of them again in the very near future.

  * * *

  The Tilted Kilt had seen better days. Its taproom smelled of tallow, stale beer, and mice, and spilled into a warren of dimly lit alcoves cluttered with rough tables and benches. Still, it drew a packed house every night, for its owner was a shrewd businessman, and his barmaids were legendary in the capital for their voluptuous beauty and saucy charms.

  At the moment, however, the last of custom had departed, and Morgan easily wove his way through to the back of the pub and up the spiraling stairs. In the darkness at the top landing, he lit a mirrored lamp that had been set out on a lacquered table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. His shadow leapt up the tapestry-lined walls, the solemn eyes of the knights of Morlendell following him as he trod the precious carpets. Ahead, golden light spilled through an arched doorway, along with the scent of dried sage.

  “What keeps you, old man?” called a booming voice from within. “Did you think to creep up on me like a stalking mouser?”

  Morgan stepped into a room resplendent with brocade-covered couches and gilded mirrors. “You’ve not lost your canny ways, Gilly,” he said to the mountain of a man rising from a plush chair by the hearth.

  “Nor will I,” retorted his host.

  Sir Gilbin, the proprietor of the Tilted Kilt, had acquired the premises after retiring from active service to the lord of Morlenstowe. Although he possessed a small estate of his own on the windswept moors of the north, he preferred life in the more temperate and lively capital. He’d initially purchased the tavern as an investment, and then had eventually been drawn into the day-to-day running of the business. As a noble, it would be considered by his peers unseemly for Sir Gilbin to enter the world of trade, so he operated under an alias. Hence he was known to all as Gilly, a common publican, who pulled pints in a filthy apron and traded ribald ripostes with the regular clientele, and who could as easily press an unruly customer back into his seat with his fierce glare as with his meaty fists.

  After hours, Sir Gilbin resumed a more privileged life in his sumptuous quarters above the pub. The wizard estimated his host’s sable robe alone would set an ordinary soldier back five years’ wages.

  The knight clapped him affectionately on his shoulders. “You look to be fair shattered, man. Here, set yourself down by the fire.” He pressed a finely wrought goblet into Morgan’s hands.

  “Ah,” said the wizard, after drinking deeply. “It’s good to be here. Thank you, my old friend.”

  Sir Gilbin busied himself at the sideboard, where an array of cold dishes had been laid out. “Shall I send someone to seek Nicu?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Morgan shook his head. “There’s no need to disturb your man’s slumber; our friend Nicu is not likely to be found unless he knows who’s looking. It
’s best if it’s me, on the morrow.” He gratefully accepted a plate of dried fruits and creamy cheeses, realizing he hadn’t eaten all day. “You still keep a fine style, Gilly, for a barkeep.”

  The old knight refilled their goblets. “I enjoy the comforts of my home.”

  “And of all the homes you looted in the Gralian Wars,” the wizard remarked dryly. “From which did you plunder that remarkable pedestal in the outer hall?”

  Sir Gilbin leaned back with a smug smile. “I believe that little gem came from the southwestern kingdom of Briminé, one of those chateaus close to the Albrenian border, before the peace accord of 483 AA.” He raised his eyebrows. “Surely, you don’t disapprove? After all, a soldier’s got to make his way in the world. Sadly, those days of ripe pickings are over. Drinnglennin’s been at peace for a damnable long time.”

  The wizard laughed and drew out his pipe. “You make that sound like an unhappy state of affairs. Would you have us suffer the same mayhem as Gral, our coastline colonized by Helgrins, our realm overrun with our own nobles turned brigand, dishonoring the order of knighthood with their rampant pillage and rape? You do know that many Gralian nobles actually have to pay those marauders to bypass their estates.”

  Gilly snorted with contempt. “With that foolish nithing Crenel on the throne, it’s no wonder mercenaries are rampaging across the land. He’s an empty flask, if you ask me. He’s alienated his lords by spending all his treasury’s coin on ostentatious processions, trooping about the land from one noble house to the next with his entire court in tow, and leaving his hosts beggared in his wake. He’s taxed his villeins into pauperdom, and it’s said this winter his peasants starved by the thousands because the rogue knights hadn’t left enough farmers alive to plant and harvest crops! And there’s no happy end in sight for the Gralians—I’ve heard the young Prince Emilien is just as much of a fopdoodle as his father.” He shook his head in disgust. “No, I’d not have us travel down that stony lane.” He lifted his goblet toward Morgan. “Having said that, a knight needs a purpose, and ours are itching for action.”