The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  A frisson of dread crept into Fynn’s mind and settled there like a coiled snake, waiting to strike.

  Chapter 4

  Morgan

  The skies opened as Morgan arrived at Wellmont, and he approached the forbidding castle in an unmitigated downpour. Perched on the Brink of Terfyn, the ancient structure appeared even less welcoming than usual thanks to the low, grey clouds that hovered over it. Wellmont had once served as a fortress for the northern Morlendellians—back in the Before—but at the dawn of the new age, the ancient castle had been converted into a monastery for monters who had taken vows to serve the Elementa through contemplation.

  Its new incarnation had made it no less menacing.

  After gaining grudging admission through the castle gates, Morgan was taken to the chief monter. He was quite a young man for so august a position, but the spiritual leader of Wellmont nevertheless appeared wizened and frail. He went by the name of Brother Clawp, which translated rather unfortunately from the Old Tongue as “bludgeon,” and after a short time in the monter’s ponderous company, Morgan began to wish he had such an instrument to hand. Still, he maintained his patience through a wasted hour of communal silent meditation, after which, at long last, he was permitted to put forward his query.

  “Vestor Santiman?” Brother Clawp repeated. He clasped his bony hands in his narrow lap and studied the frescoed ceiling. “Never heard of him.”

  “It could be he served here before your time. Perhaps another, more senior of your brethren might recall him?”

  The monter narrowed his red-rimmed eyes. “There is no one more senior here than me.”

  Morgan struggled to suppress his growing frustration. “I meant in years, Brother Clawp.”

  “Oh.” Brother Clawp chewed on his peeling lower lip. “Well, there’s Hill, my steward. He’s been at Wellmont longer than anyone else.” He unfolded himself from his straight-backed chair. “I’ll send him to you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have the gods’ work to do.”

  It took yet another hour before Clawp’s steward found his way to the austere chamber where Morgan had been left to await him. Apparently no action at Wellmont was performed with anything resembling haste.

  Hill was impressively tall. Though already stooped with age, he had to duck further to clear the doorframe.

  “How may I be of service?” the steward inquired politely.

  “I’m looking for a man called Vestor Santiman,” replied Morgan. “He may have been here some time ago.”

  “Santiman?” Hill nodded, though his face remained expressionless. “Yes, I know him—we fought together in the Long War. I found him a place here after… when he retired from the High King’s service. He worked in the stables, since the monters don’t keep hounds. He had a way with the horses too, Vestor did. But he left the Brink quite a few years back.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  A furrow creased Hill’s sloping brow. “May I ask why you’re seeking him?”

  “I’d like to talk with him about his time in service to the High King.”

  The furrow deepened. “He’ll have nothing to say to you.”

  Master Morgan kept his expression neutral. “And why is that?”

  Hill clasped his hands before him and rocked back on his heels. “Some here would tell you, master, that Vestor was a few crumbs short of a crumpet. I don’t agree with this view, but when he came to Wellmont, he was not the same man I’d served with years before.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Vestor was always a man of few words, but here at Wellmont, he barely spoke. And regarding the king, well, Vestor was a king’s man through and through in the old days, but something must have happened to put bad blood between them, because if anyone happened to mention Urlion in his hearing, he’d bristle like a boar and stomp away. I remember well how that vile Gresler used to take pleasure in getting Vestor worked up…”

  The steward’s mouth twisted with distaste. “A cruel badger, Gresler was. He enjoyed seeing the poor man go all purple in the face and fuming.” He shook his head. “That may be why Vestor left—he’d had enough of Gresler and his antics. Or so is my guess. All he said was he was heading south, back to Karan-Rhad.”

  Hill set his lips, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal so much.

  Morgan returned the steward’s gaze levelly. “You needn’t fear I mean Master Santiman harm. I merely hoped he might be able to tell me something about King Urlion’s last progression. I see now that’s unlikely.” He rose and gave Hill a courteous nod. “I thank you for your time.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” The big man turned to leave, then looked back with the hint of a smug smile. “If you do find Santiman, could you give him a message for me? Tell him Gresler fell down the well and drowned last spring.”

  * * *

  The same grey skies greeted Morgan in Chelmsdale-on-Erolin a fortnight later, and he was in a mood to match them. His journey to the Brink had not been fruitless—he had a lead on the former Master of Hounds—but the time spent away from his young charges in Mithralyn weighed heavily upon him.

  His disposition was not improved by the correspondence awaiting him in Port Taygh. Among the pile of letters Horace had handed him was one from Gilly, in which a stern instruction from Urlion had been enclosed.

  Morgan was to bring his niece to Drinnkastel.

  It seemed that despite the Tribus’s urging that Leif and Maura remain in Mithralyn, Urlion was insistent that the two young dragonfast be present for the Twyrn. Thus he had charged Morgan with delivering them forthwith. The wizard had no choice but to acquiesce to his lord’s demands, though it would delay his search for Santiman. He consoled himself with the hope that at long last, the High King would use the gathering of his nobles to name his successor.

  In addition to his correspondence, Maisie and Horace had their own tidings to relate.

  “A mutual friend sailed into port yesterday,” said Horace heavily, handing Morgan a mug of ginger tea. “It seems there’s been a flurry of envoys passing between southern Helgrinia and the Albrenian court.”

  Morgan looked up sharply. “What’s Aksel up to?”

  Horace grunted. “Aksel’s been tugging against the reins of his uncle Aetheor for some time now. Seems they’re of differing opinions as to who should reap the benefits accrued from the Gralian colonies. At present, Aksel provides about a third of the men holding the towns and receives a third of the tithes collected.”

  “Surely that’s fair, since Aetheor and his men were the ones who subdued the Gralian towns to begin with. And aren’t they administered by northern Helgrins?”

  “Aye,” replied Horace, “but now Aksel has suggested that since Gral borders southern Helgrinia, the tithes are rightly his. All of them. And of course, he’s graciously offered to take over the governance of the colonies.”

  Morgan took a thoughtful draw on his pipe. “And since Aetheor would be a fool to agree to this, Aksel is considering enlisting the aid of Albrenia to wrest them from his uncle forcibly—an alliance that could result in an unforeseen outcome.”

  “Perhaps to Drinnglennin’s benefit,” mused Maisie, bending to replace a guttering candle. “If uncle and nephew go to war against one another, it might give the Nelvorbothians the advantage they need to quell the Helgrins once and for all.”

  “While Albrenia launches a land campaign north into southern Gral,” said the wizard.

  Horace sat up. “Is this confirmed?”

  “No.” Morgan tossed one of his missives on the table for his host to read. “But my sources tell me several legions of foot soldiers have massed in the Prallesa Valley in northern Albrenia, purportedly to conduct field exercises.”

  Maisie straightened. “Does Urlion know?”

  “I don’t believe so. But you can be certain that Princess Grindas
a and her henchman, Vetch, are aware of these maneuvers. Under Vetch’s command, Grindasa’s troops maintain a heavy presence in the capital. Now it seems she’s also meddling abroad.”

  “Drinnglennin has treaties with both Albrenia and Gral,” said Horace. “If they fall at one another’s throats, we’ll be forced to choose between them.”

  “Or do nothing,” said Maisie. “Surely this is what the Tribus would advise. The wars of the continent are not ours to fight.”

  Morgan tapped the ash from his pipe. “They’ll become ours to fight should Aksel defeat his uncle and join forces with King Jorgev. And if the Albrenian king should call on his cousin for reinforcements…”

  Maisie paled. “Surely Grindasa wouldn’t use her armada to act independently of the realm? It would be tantamount to treason!”

  “It’s not treason if she can convince Urlion that it’s in Drinnglennin’s best interests to align with Albrenia. Gral has been reeling toward chaos for years. King Crenel is unable to control his wayward knights, and the common people are destitute. The kingdom is ripe for the plucking.”

  “Surely you don’t advocate this course of action?” said Horace.

  “No,” replied the wizard, “I do not. I believe we need to remind Jorgev of Albrenia that he is sworn to peace with Crenel.” He looked up at the first stars twinkling in the violet sky. “What Gral needs is a leader, if not a new king. Someone who can bring the brigands under control and administer justice, and who can oversee a fair allotment of the harvest, however meager it may be. There have been rumors that such a man has already risen among Crenel’s nobles. This marechal has begun recruiting mercenaries to bring order back to their realm—with the king’s blessing—and once he’s achieved this, it’s logical to assume he hopes to persuade Crenel to launch a massive strike on the Helgrin-held parts of Gral.”

  “Who is this man?” asked Maisie.

  “He’s called Latour.” Morgan set down his glass. “I’m sure we’ll be hearing more of him. For the present though, I’ve other news to discuss.”

  “I thought as much,” said Maisie.

  Morgan ran a hand over his face. “Am I so transparent?” With a rueful smile, he drew a small packet from his pocket. “I’ve had a letter from Al-Gahzi.”

  Horace leaned forward. “That Olquarian fellow you knew in the east?”

  “The soldier-scholar,” said Morgan, “who was the right hand of the late Imperial and Supreme Majesty, Radan Basileus of Olquaria. He expresses grave concern regarding the Lost Lands. It seems there’s been a massing of the Jagar tribes, not far from Olquaria’s western border, with foreigners sighted among them. He wants to know if they could be Drinnglennians.”

  “And could they be?” said Horace.

  “I don’t know.”

  Maisie shook her head in disbelief. “The Lost Lands are sere and barren. There’s no water to support an army there. And the Jagar fight with the scimitars of their forefathers; they have no access to modern weaponry. The territory is without resources, and none will trade there.”

  “Until now, apparently,” said Morgan. “Someone is providing the Jagar with weapons and ships.”

  “Ships?” Horace looked skeptical. “They’re landsmen, and surely know nothing of the sea. In any case, trade with the Jagar is forbidden by the mutual agreement of our allies, and even the Helgrins don’t sail to the Lost Lands. Who would dare?”

  “That’s not been determined, but I suspect King Jorgev may have his finger stirring this cauldron. Al-Gahzi claims proof that Albrenian merchants are also selling slaves to the Jagar.”

  “Slaves are costly,” said Maisie. “Arms and ships even more so. So with what are these barbarians paying? And for what do they need armaments? In all our travels, the only Jagars we came across had been reduced to living a nomadic life of no means.”

  “They have a new vaar,” said Morgan.

  Maisie’s eyes widened. “The one referred to in that message you asked me to decode?”

  “The very same. Lazdac.”

  “But he’s not even of their people!”

  Horace uttered a curse beneath his breath. “He is Strigori, and thus able to bend others to his will.”

  “He will bear watching.” Morgan spoke softly, but all felt the dangerous charge that had entered the conversation.

  “Lazdac will need more than watching,” said Maisie. She laid a hand on his sleeve. “Be careful, my friend. You must be on your guard.”

  Morgan gave a little laugh. “I think for the present, Lazdac won’t trouble with me. He’s focusing on consolidating his power and positioning himself in order to wield it. At least we know where he is.”

  “The question is,” said Horace, his expression grim, “how long will he stay there?”

  * * *

  The fire had burned low by the time Morgan rose to depart, and a steady rain was falling when he stepped outside. Though he had spoken with his friends about many things, he had been careful not to say a word about the High King’s enchantment. He couldn’t risk his knowledge of this treachery coming to the attention of the spellcaster, should he or she trace him to Port Taygh after he was gone.

  “Are you sure you won’t take a few hours’ rest?” said Horace.

  “I regret that I cannot. I have to take ship for Fairendell to collect Maura and Leif.” He bent to receive Maisie’s kiss.

  “May you travel under Ursaline’s mantle,” she said.

  Horace clasped his arm firmly and drew him into his bear-like embrace. “May Blearc guard you, my friend.”

  The wizard smiled reassuringly as he drew his cloak close against the gusting wind. But he doubted even the combined might of the Elementa could shield any of them from the impending storm.

  Chapter 5

  Whit

  As Whit stretched lazily in the morning light, he was cheered to discover that, for once, his muscles hardly ached at all. The past weeks of daily training in shooting, swordplay, and wrestling had been grueling. He still found it odd that the elves took so much pleasure in this rough-and-tumble. He was less surprised to discover that Halla was as enthusiastic as they were.

  In the hall, he found Master Morgan seated at the breakfast table, spreading a large dollop of brambleberry jam onto his bread.

  “I thought I’d put you through some magical paces this morning,” the wizard said without preamble.

  The wizard had been gone for weeks, and as much as Whit wanted to express his disappointment at the fact, he was mollified by the promise of the long-awaited instruction. When he wasn’t training with the elves, Whit had spent every spare moment combing through the magical texts in Elvinor’s library, learning whatever he could on his own. He now knew how to transform small objects into other things, and he had started in on rain-making, which involved a tricky degree of concentration. So far, however, he could only slightly darken a small cloud. He couldn’t help but feel his education would be progressing much more quickly with an actual instructor.

  So he was delighted when Morgan began their session with an introduction to shade-shifting, a skill Whit was eager to master. His enthusiasm waned as the lesson progressed, however, for the wizard restricted his instruction to theory without demonstrations—which made him not terribly more useful than the books to which Whit had been been forced to turn.

  When Whit pointed this out, he was met with formidable silence.

  Annoyed by the old man’s obstinance, Whit proposed they move to a more advanced spell: raising the Shield of Taran. The Shield was the master spell of a master wizard, enabling one to deflect the most powerful and darkest of magic. When he’d first read about it in Greyford’s The Imperatives, the illustrations had made his scalp tingle, as if some of the Shield’s power were radiating out from the pages. The Shield stood four times as high as a man, and it was emblazoned with a runic poem from the Kvaljó, the most a
ncient of magical texts.

  Meád éy ber ó vodul Taran,

  Aó rílya til sigurs styrk

  Meó öl lu skulyó þér os

  meó krafti góðs og mög däar

  Mead I bear, oh mighty Taran,

  To toast victory in the fight

  Against all evil shield us

  So we may triumph through thy might

  Only a handful of wizards had ever mastered the Shield—which made Whit all the more impatient to add it to his repertoire.

  The wizard shook his head at his request. “You’re not ready.”

  Whit’s frustration boiled over. “Who are you to judge if I’m ready or not? Are you always this stubborn?” He knew he was being rude, but the man had pushed him beyond frustration.

  The wizard’s expression darkened. “I would ask the same of you,” he replied softly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I believe you never let down your emotional guard. It means, as a result, you’ve lived much of your life with a broken spirit. Your refusal to open yourself up to test the bounds of that spirit is the primary obstacle preventing you from taking your magic to the next level. And until you remove it, you’re not ready for the Shield.”

  Whit felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. His hands curled into fists. “What makes you think you know me so well?”

  “I don’t,” Master Morgan confessed. “But I see a lot of my former self in you.”

  Whit shook his head in disbelief, but before he could voice his vehement disagreement, Master Morgan added, “I’ll be returning to the capital tomorrow, and I’m taking Maura and Leif with me.”

  Whit’s jaw dropped. “What? But you’ve only just returned! You promised me you would teach me magic if I agreed to come here. You didn’t mention it would only be for a few stolen moments here and there, over months, at your whim!”

  The wizard fixed him with his stern gaze. “I promised you would learn magic. You shall continue your studies—just not with me.”