The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “Let’s hope they don’t find it too close to home,” said the wizard gravely.

  “You think it could come to that? Civil war?”

  Morgan exhaled a long stream of blue smoke. “Do you?”

  Sir Gilbin rubbed the grey stubble on his chin. “If Urlion doesn’t declare an heir at the Twyrn, it’s possible Grindasa will set her hound Vetch loose, although most likely with a fleet bound for Helgrinia. Once the Nelvor have a victory under their belts against our perennial foes, that conniving bedswerver will have a stronger case for encouraging the king to name her son his successor.”

  Morgan leaned back and studied the ornate ceiling, upon which young nymphs cavorted beside a spilling pool. “So you don’t believe that Roth is Urlion’s son?”

  Sir Gilbin uttered a crude oath. “Even before our High King put the Princess Grindasa aside, her wares were being generously sampled at court. There’s no telling from whose seed the young lord sprang.”

  “But it is possible he could be Urlion’s,” the wizard persisted.

  The knight grunted. “I suppose. Although there’s nothing in the lad’s appearance to suggest Konigur blood runs through his veins, except perhaps his stature. He’s a likeable enough fellow, I’ll give him that. As different in nature to his mother as ice is to fire.”

  “Both can burn in their own ways,” Morgan murmured.

  Sir Gilbin’s eyes met his. “Too true,” he agreed. “Too bloody true.”

  They shared a moment of silent concern before the wizard spoke again. “On another subject,” he said, “does Regis Mercer still frequent your establishment?”

  Gilly frowned. “That swill bowl? All too often! And where he gets the coin to pay for his tipple is a mystery to me. He’s bousy by noon, and spends most of an evening with his head on the table, snoring like a blooded boar. What would you want with him?”

  “An hour’s time alone in one of your private rooms.”

  “With Roarin’ Regis? You’ll get no sense out of him—he’s naught but a pickled sot.”

  The wizard tapped the burned ash from his pipe. “What he is,” he corrected, “is a seasoned actor, Gilly. Master Mercer is a spy—my spy—and the information he’s gleaned while feigning intoxication has, on at least two occasions, saved the realm.”

  “Blearc’s bones!” cried the knight. “You’re not serious?”

  Morgan inclined his head. “I most certainly am. Now, can you arrange it?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Sir Gilbin, his eyes still wide with astonishment. “By the gods, he’s ruddy brilliant, if it’s truly all an act!”

  The wizard rose stiffly from his chair and reached for his staff. “Ah, I’m getting too old for these hard rides. By the way—I’m expecting a visitor, and perhaps more than one, in the coming hours.”

  “Of course you are,” said the knight. “Are they welcome callers?”

  “Oh yes. I expect they’ll find their way alone to my solar. I only mention it in the event you should come across strangers in the hallway. Don’t think to challenge them, and they’ll do no harm.”

  “You’ve always kept interesting company, Mortimer.” Gilly chuckled as he lifted a candle from the sideboard. “I take it you remember the way?”

  “Yes, thank you, Gilly. I’m off for my bed. Tomorrow may well be another long day.”

  “Mind you pace yourself, my friend. As you said, neither of us is getting any younger.”

  Morgan waved dismissively. “A few hours’ rest and I’ll be fit. We’ve got a bit of fight left in us yet.”

  “Aye,” growled Sir Gilbin. “I only hope it will be enough to see us through the coming storm.”

  Morgan laid a hand on his old friend’s arm. “My good man,” he replied solemnly, “so do I.”

  Chapter 40

  Only a wizard could have sensed the subtle shifting of shadow in the darkened room.

  Morgan rose from his bed and took up his staff. The embers in the hearth still glowed, signaling that only a few hours had passed since he’d closed his eyes, but his brief sleep had been deep, for the journey had taken its toll.

  “Pray be seated, my lady,” he murmured as he put a match to the candle and bent to toss a log on the fire. Only then did he turn to salute his visitor.

  Celaidra stretched out her hand for the wizard to kiss. When he released it, he saw a whisper of a half-forgotten sorrow flicker in her golden eyes.

  “You were expecting me,” she remarked, taking in his attire. “But of course, you know me so well. Sometimes, I think, better than I know myself.” She drew off the coif she had donned to conceal her shining hair. “On the rare occasions I go abroad,” she explained, “I must dress so. I’m too tall not to attract attention otherwise.”

  Clad in a man’s tunic and hose, Celaidra still managed to look every inch a princess. “It’s not only your height that draws admiring glances, my lady.”

  Celaidra smiled. “There was ever only one man whose admiration I desired.”

  “And that man is now old and grey, while you are still in the bloom of youth,” said the wizard gently.

  “It would not have mattered, Mortimer.”

  “It mattered very much to me, my dear lady. You are an elven princess, and I the son of a simple farrier.” He poured some mead and held it out to her. “Now you serve Drinnglennin in the highest office. This was always to be your destiny.”

  Celaidra accepted the goblet with a sigh. “It is not the one I would have chosen, had I known it would be without you. And you are unjust to belittle yourself. You were the greatest wizard the realm has ever known, and perhaps all of the Known World as well. If only—”

  Morgan held out a forestalling hand. “All that is in the past, my lady. Let us not bare old wounds. Master Audric has served well in my stead. He’s a wizard of prodigious power.”

  Celaidra took a small sip of the honeyed drink. “I don’t deny Master Audric’s abilities. He’s wise, fair-minded, and compassionate. I only wish Selka shared more of these qualities.”

  “Surely Mistress Selka acts in the best interests of the throne?”

  “Yes, of course,” conceded the princess, setting her goblet aside. “But ever since King Urlion became ill, she’s become bitter and prone to fits of temper. I suppose we all suffer regrets regarding our isolated existence, but at times I question whether Selka experiences anything other than resentment. It’s wearisome to be so much in her company. But as she and Audric are my only options for companionship here in the capital, I must bear it. I wish you could grace us more often with your presence.”

  Morgan rested his hand gently on hers. “I see you carry the burden of your office heavily, my lady. Once you deemed it a great honor. What’s happened to change this?”

  Celaidra shook her head as if to clear it. “Forgive me, Mortimer. I didn’t intend to court sympathy. Perhaps it’s this dreary season that has lowered my spirits. In Mithralyn, the gilded leaves brighten the winter months, and the sun is ever warming. It must be almost spring there.” Her eyes shone with remembered pleasure. Then she sobered. “But something is afflicting Selka, which in turn affects us all.”

  “I wish I could help you uncover what is amiss with her, but it’s highly unlikely that Mistress Selka would confide in me.”

  Wry amusement flickered in Celaidra’s eyes. “I fear you’re right on that score, my friend.”

  “Well then, my lady,” said the wizard. “What has brought you to this old man’s solar before the sun’s rise?”

  Celaidra drew a piece of folded parchment from her sleeve. “It’s with regard to this.”

  “Elvinor’s letter?” The wizard nodded. “Ah, I see. He’s told you about the dragons.”

  The paper slipped to her lap. “You read it?”

  “No, my lady, but I know your cousin’s heart. This isn’t news he would keep from
you. I gave my word to Urlion I wouldn’t speak of the dragons to the Tribus, but I’m not sorry you’ve learned of their existence from another source.”

  Celaidra gazed wonderingly into the flickering fire. “The last prophecy of the Drinnglennin Chronicles is coming to pass.” Her voice was low as she began to recite:

  When dragons return to Drinnglennin’s skies,

  her darkest mage again shall rise

  and thus unleash the wings of dread

  ’til all the Known World’s tears are shed.

  Blood of worm and blood of kings

  shall fuel the fires around us ringed

  by those unnatural enemies

  before whom all are forced to flee.

  The final outcome of the fray

  not even dragons’ might can sway.

  The Einhorn Throne to him shall fall—

  A bitter foe to rule us all.

  A falling log sent a bright spray of sparks up the chimney when she finished.

  “I would ask,” said the wizard quietly, “that you not repeat that within our High King’s hearing.”

  “Is it so? Are the dragons plotting a deadly assault against us?” the princess asked.

  “It is a prophecy, not a promise,” said Morgan evenly.

  “But one made by the Chronicles. In all its great history, there has never been a time when its portents have not come true.”

  “The very nature of a prophecy lends itself to numerous interpretations,” said Morgan. “It’s prudent not to jump to any conclusions. As yet, dragons are not soaring over Drinnkastel. Two are in sanctuary in Mithralyn, and alas, neither has revealed what their kin may or may not be plotting.”

  Celaidra’s amber eyes darkened with concern. “Surely you cannot take this turn of events as lightly as you seem to.”

  “My lady, I didn’t mean to give you that impression. I regard the reappearance of dragons with all seriousness. I can’t say I know what it portends. You may rest assured I’ll be on guard against any threat to the realm from them, but I think we have nothing to fear from the newly bound.”

  The crease in her lovely brow disappeared. “I am glad to hear it. I do hope you will share with me anything you might learn of their intentions.”

  Morgan laid his hand over his heart. “Those who so steadfastly serve the High King,” he vowed, “shall always be the first to know.”

  * * *

  The wizard’s second caller, following close on the heels of Celaidra’s departure, didn’t waste any time in stating the purpose of his visit.

  “Urlion’s mind is failing!” Audric said, as he stood warming his gnarled hands before the fire. “His persistent refusal to name an heir, for which he offers no reason, is not the action of a sane ruler.” He turned and looked imploringly at his former apprentice. “He listens to you, Mortimer. Can you not compel him to see how irresponsible he’s being?”

  “I did hint at it, but I was sternly rebuffed. If Urlion won’t heed his Tribus’s counsel, I doubt he’ll give any more authority to mine,” said Morgan.

  “Say you will try,” insisted Audric, gazing dolefully into the flames. “My coin with Urlion has lost its value. He no longer wants my advice, although I’ve been his faithful servant through the years. These days it seems he trusts no one, except perhaps you.” He shook his head and sighed. “I’ve loved this king as my son as well as my sovereign. I’m sorely grieved by this turn of events, Mortimer, but we cannot delay. If Urlion will not agree to name his heir at the Twyrn, we will be forced to proclaim him incompetent, and to choose one in his stead.”

  Morgan shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean, you will be ‘forced’ to proclaim our High King incompetent? Who will force you? And by your use of ‘we,’ do you claim that all three members of the Tribus are in agreement with you on this course?”

  The wizards faced each other for a tense moment before Master Audric ran his hand over his lined face. “Forgive me, Mortimer. I’m weary to the bone, as I’m sure are you. It saddens me beyond measure that I’ve lost Urlion’s confidence. But surely you must agree that by naming one of these young people you’ve secured, or perhaps Roth of Nelvorboth, as the heir apparent, it would reassure the people, nobles and commoners alike, that the realm will remain strong and united.”

  “That may be so,” replied Morgan, “but this state of affairs has been the status quo for many years now. Why the sudden urgency?”

  The older wizard studied his gnarled hands. “As I said, I fear Urlion is not in his right mind. He’s even taken to muttering about his wife, dead now over forty years, and has fits of inconsolable weeping. He complains continuously about not remembering, but what it is he can’t recall is a mystery, and no doubt a figment of his malady.”

  “I witnessed a glimpse of this today,” Morgan conceded. “What do Princess Celaidra and Mistress Selka make of it?”

  Audric shrugged his thin shoulders. “Celaidra believes it’s a repercussion of his wasting sickness. As for Selka, she goes white with anger if I try to discuss our king’s ravings with her. The last time he had such a spell, she fled the room.” The old wizard’s pale eyes were pleading. “I am old, Mortimer, so very old and tired. I’ve dedicated the past fifty years of my life to guiding Urlion. I had hoped to see him out, but now I’m not sure I have that much time. Please, my friend, will you try again to speak to him?”

  Morgan released a long breath. “I doubt it will make any difference. But yes, I shall try.”

  * * *

  The winter wind had lost none of its bite when Morgan left the Tilted Kilt following his busy night. Low clouds were drifting in from the north, threatening snow before day’s end.

  Here in Drinnkastel, there was no evidence of the hardship or scarcity that plagued many of the other realms. Jostling crowds of citizens were out for shopping and gossip, that most exchanged and relished commodity on market days. Vendors with rolling carts cried their wares of apples, lamprey, and eels, and shops displayed a multitude of steaming pies, joints of meat, strings of garlic, bushels of onions, and wheels of cheese. Servants and matrons alike haggled with practiced effrontery over the price of a dozen eggs or a plump roaster before grudgingly counting out their coins. The scents of costly spices and local herbs mingled with the brine of the barrels brimming with crabs and lobsters. At various stalls, royal officers checked the accuracy of the weights and measures used by the merchants and inspected the freshness of their goods. Those who had tampered with their scales would be put in the stocks, and if their merchandise was found to be spoiled, a stinking cod or moldy slab of ham might be hung round the swindler’s neck.

  When Morgan arrived at the Grand Square, his gaze alit upon a rough stage set up on its southern corner. The performers had drawn a sizable crowd, which was roaring its approval of their antics. One actor was dressed as a trollop, one as a royal, and another had the head of an ass. The dame, dressed in the colors of the House of Nelvor, wrestled with the purple-robed king over a flimsy golden crown, and she kept tumbling over to reveal the soiled braies encasing her ridiculously padded bottom, while the ass pranced around them all, braying in dismay.

  As the wizard joined the spectators, he noted that not all of them were amused. Those wearing silver and black livery were scowling and buzzing like angry wasps, or stalking away to loiter menacingly across the square.

  When the play ended and the actors had swept up the coins tossed their way, the ass lifted his mask from his head. Morgan raised his staff to catch the tousle-haired man’s eye. Without acknowledging the wizard, the fellow bent to the ear of one of his troupe before donning his cloak and leaping lightly from the stage. It seemed he too had noticed the growing cluster of Nelvorbothians across the square, for he crouched as if to retrieve something he’d dropped, and was lost from sight.

  Morgan headed down Drinnsel Street, where he caught sight of a hooded fi
gure wearing familiar brown hose. He followed the man at a leisurely pace into a shop selling glassware, and out again through its back door. Here an alley diverged onto Frensin Lane, where the potters of Drinnkastel sold their stoneware. His quarry entered a narrow doorway, from which swung a crudely lettered sign simply proclaiming “Pots.” Before stepping over the threshold, the wizard paused to raise his staff and murmured under his breath.

  Inside the shop, a myriad of crocks and ewers stood on the floor and lined the shelves. Morgan navigated through them to a curtained arch. The man who’d played the ass was waiting for him behind it, surrounded by stacks of ceramic plates and tiles. His arms were folded across his chest, and his swarthy handsome face revealed none of the humor he’d displayed on stage. His hooded eyes were unblinking above his aquiline nose.

  “You realize we were followed,” he said tersely.

  “Yes,” replied the wizard, “but I did a bit of ‘misdirecting’ before entering the premises. We won’t be disturbed.”

  The man belatedly offered his hand. “I won’t waste time. Someone has instigated a new purge of the å Livåri. My folk are disappearing into thin air all over the south. Our bitter experience suggests it’s only a matter of time before it starts happening in the north as well. The law won’t stop it; we’ll have to take matters into our own hands.”

  “I’ve spoken to both the High King and the Tribus about this situation, Nicu,” Morgan assured him, “and I’ve urged them to act with all speed to protect your people.”

  Nicu’s lips curled derisively. “‘Urging’ isn’t enough. We’re being hunted down just like in the old days on the continent. At least there, our dead were left for us to tend to so that their spirits didn’t roam. Here, we’re vanishing without a trace. We must defend ourselves!”

  “You know it’s forbidden for any but a man of noble birth to bear weapons, Nicu, save with the express permission of his lord. If you take up arms, this will put you on the wrong side of the law, and give whoever is behind these disappearances a legal right to demand your arrest.”