The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  * * *

  Had it not been for the elf king’s library, Whit might have left Mithralyn as soon as the wizard did. But he couldn’t resist the allure of Elvinor’s priceless collection, which included many works thought lost to the Known World. In the days that followed his unpleasant encounter with the wizard, Whit read all twelve volumes written by the ancient Olquarian wizard Al-din-Barah, a treatise on how Verlon the Wise assisted Lord Grogin in the First Helgrin Wars, the magical reflections of the legendary wizard Herni de la Farge of Gral, and, for a change of pace, Raul Cortezon’s riveting account of the history of Albrenian-Jagar relations and the near annihilation of the latter more than a century before. He also sent a good bit of time with Baldric Baines’s Runic Revelations. He was approaching fluency in elvish runes, and it would be unthinkable to leave before he’d mastered them.

  He even came across a slim, dusty journal written by a wizard by the name of Audric Atherton. Whit was surprised to discover a mention of Master Morgan in it, and to learn that the great wizard had come from humble beginnings, having spent his childhood in a small village in Valeland. When stories of Morgan’s magical gifts reached Master Audric’s ears, the wizard sought out young Mortimer and took him under his wing as his apprentice. But there the journal ended, and Whit could find no further volumes. He wondered what had become of Master Audric, and why he had never heard of such a great wizard. Could it be because Audric now sat on the secretive Tribus?

  His enthusiasm for Elvinor’s book collection was apparently pleasing to the elven king, and to Whit’s delight, Elvinor offered to show Whit a rare book on elven magic, never before shared outside the elven realm.

  In preparation for their rendezvous in the library, Whit perused his wardrobe for appropriate attire to mark the occasion. He decided on a pale blue tunic, fawn hose, a belt with a finely wrought boar’s-head buckle of Gralian silver, and a satin ribbon to bind his hair. Admiring himself in the mirror, he decided that he looked more than presentable to accept the honor of viewing this tome.

  His bright mood darkened, however, when he arrived at the bowered hall for breakfast and found Halla there. She was dressed for training at arms, her impossible red hair gathered in an untidy knot atop her head, and she was tucking into her porridge with a most unladylike relish.

  Halla clearly didn’t share his dismay at having been abandoned by Master Morgan. She was forever on the training ground, happily surrounded by elves who vied to spar her. She had little interest in improving her mind, and even Master Morgan seemed unconcerned by this. Indeed, he made a point of emphasizing his belief that there were many ways to gain an education. “The important thing is to make the most of this time,” the wizard had urged both of them before departing. “It’s an opportunity to gain invaluable knowledge to aid you in your future challenges, for which you will be grateful one day.”

  Whit supposed he had a point, although he also was confident that pursuit of knowledge and mastering magic made for the wiser path. After all, he hadn’t taken any oath to defend the successor to the Einhorn Throne once Urlion made the Leap, and he didn’t plan on ever involving himself in actual combat. Not if he could help it.

  As he seated himself across from his cousin, he made a show of settling his napkin carefully on his lap before spooning his porridge politely away from his mouth. He and Halla ate in a chilly silence until Frandelas sauntered in.

  “Greetings, fair lady,” he said, bowing low to Halla. He bestowed upon her a dazzling smile before turning politely to Whit. “Our king is pleased to receive you both now, if you’ve finished with your breakfast.”

  Both? Surely Halla wasn’t joining in his session with Elvinor!

  Whit grimaced as Halla stuffed a hunk of buttered bread into her mouth and rose from the table. He pointedly brought his napkin to his lips.

  “You missed a spot,” Halla said. She touched the tip of her nose. “You’ve got jam just here.”

  Whit’s hand flew to his nose before he recalled he hadn’t even eaten any jam. He narrowed his eyes at her, but Halla had already turned to accompany Frandelas down the corridor.

  As he followed them down the wide stairs, he contented himself by imagining her slipping and bouncing down them, all the way to the bottom.

  * * *

  They entered Elvinor’s quarters to find the king studying a chart laid before him. “Ah,” he said with a pleased smile. “Welcome, my young friends. I’m afraid I’ve just learned of a disturbance on our borders that demands my immediate attention. I have, however, made arrangements for the two of you, from which you’ll both greatly benefit. You’ll need to pack a few belongings, for you’ll be traveling deep into our realm.”

  Whit’s disappointment must have been apparent, for Elvinor hastened to add, “I shall be sending you to study with Egydd, the last of the elven mages. He is, undoubtedly, the Known World’s greatest herbologist.”

  “Egydd?” said Whit. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  Elvinor looked amused. “I’m sure you haven’t. Egydd has never sought to gain influence in the wider world. Not every wizard desires celebrity.”

  Whit glanced over at Halla, who wasn’t looking particularly pleased either. He thought she might protest, but even she had sufficient breeding to know that one didn’t argue with one’s host, particularly when that host was an elven king.

  Elvinor reached for his cloak; it appeared he was leaving Mithralyn at once. “Cressida will guide you to Egydd’s abode,” he said. “She’s waiting for you by the dragonfly fountain now.”

  * * *

  Whit arrived at the fountain—his pack, his bow, and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulders—to find a tall maiden waiting there. He drew in a sudden breath at her appearance, for her hair, spilling past her long waist, was bright silver, her complexion as pale as milk, and her eyes entirely black.

  Whit realized he was staring, but her gaze was strangely hypnotic. “Are you… a sylth?” he asked.

  “Such manners,” she replied coolly. “I am Cressida. And yes, I am.”

  Whit grinned. “The willowy spirits who live in the hearts of trees? I thought they were the stuff of children’s tales!” The maiden’s expression darkened, and Whit felt his cheeks flush. “I mean—I beg your pardon… it’s just that I’ve never… I didn’t think…”

  “That we really exist?” The tilt of Cressida’s chin eloquently expressed her disdain. “As you can see, we do. Though there’s no reason for you to know that, or to know anything at all about us, since we’ve chosen to avoid the human world.”

  She sniffed as though Whit were a bad odor, and he had the distinct impression that she wasn’t happy to have been assigned as their guide.

  Great, he thought glumly. Bloody marvelous. I’ll be traveling with two disagreeable females.

  “Er… how long will it take us to get to where we’re going?”

  “Too long, at this rate,” Cressida replied unhelpfully. “I was told there would be two of you. Where is the other?”

  “I’ll—I’ll go and get her,” Whit offered, eager to escape this creature’s forbidding presence .

  * * *

  Cressida frowned when, a few minutes later, Whit returned alone. “Where is the other?”

  “My cousin is… delayed.”

  The truth was, Whit had found Halla in her rooms, dressed in the worn green tunic and leggings from her Lurker friend, packing slowly and refusing to be rushed.

  “She suggested we start without her and that I should mark a trail for her to follow.” He bent to gather a handful of stones.

  Shrugging her indifference, the sylth turned on her heel and headed briskly toward the river. Whit quickly placed one stone atop another and laid a third before them to indicate their direction, then hurried after.

  She led him across the bridge and down a path through the forest. Whenever she turned at a fork, W
hit paused to put down more rocks to signpost their route, feeling ever more irritated with Halla for making him do this extra work.

  After an hour’s travel, at yet another branching of the path, Cressida veered to the left, and Whit once more bent to lay his stones. In his haste, he dropped the last one on the wrong side of his little cairn, so that it pointed to the right. And as he reached down to correct it, he hesitated.

  Suppose…

  Before he could change his mind, he straightened up and scrambled after the sylth. When he caught up with her, the pounding of his heart had less to do with exertion than the guilty thrill of what he’d just done.

  Cressida cast a curious glance at him, and he realized he was grinning. Quickly composing his features, he asked, “So, how far are we walking today?”

  “We’ll make camp at twilight.”

  “And when will we arrive at Egydd’s home?”

  “If we don’t linger needlessly on the trail, we should be there at midday tomorrow.”

  Whit didn’t care for the idea of spending the night in the forest alone with this unfriendly creature. He almost wished Halla were with them after all. On the other hand, his cousin would have been an unwelcome distraction once they arrived at the mage’s abode.

  If the sylth noticed he was no longer laying markers, she made no comment. Freed from the chore, he had time now to look about and enjoy the flocks of golden wrens and blackcaps flitting through the leafing trees, and the mossy scent perfuming the air. A rabble of scarlet butterflies floated across his path, making him catch his breath.

  Cressida slowed her grueling pace in order to pause beside several old trees along the path. Each time she stopped, she would rest her alabaster cheek against the tree’s bark in an oddly tender way. Whit found it unsettling, and when she tarried for several long moments by an ancient oak, he could no longer contain his curiosity.

  “What is it that you’re doing with the trees?”

  Cressida flashed him a silencing look before returning to her communion, and the disquieting sadness in her dark eyes forced him to hold his tongue.

  As they continued on, he began to have second thoughts about his deliberate misdirection of Halla. He wondered how far she’d traveled before realizing they hadn’t taken the trail to the right. She couldn’t really have wanted to come anyway, he reassured himself. She was probably happily slashing away on the training ground at that very moment with a bevy of her elven admirers.

  “They’re welcome to her,” he grumbled.

  Cressida turned. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” He gave her what he hoped was an innocent smile. “That is, I was just thinking that my cousin must have decided not to come after all.”

  “So it would appear.” The sylth sniffed in a way that made it clear it was none of her concern.

  They were deep in the forest now. The trees to either side of their path formed a leafy arc overhead, like a natural cathedral ceilinged by the pinking clouds high above, and as the verdant boughs swayed, they admitted cascades of honeyed light. Whit found himself wondering if his father would have found some sense of the sublime in this setting. He thought not. Its majestic splendor would have passed unremarked by the austere Jaxe of Cardenstowe, for Whit had never heard him utter one word regarding beauty of any kind.

  By now, Whit was footsore and weary. He was not used to walking such distances, and he wondered why they hadn’t been offered the use of Elvinor’s fine elks. He was about to voice this complaint when a slate-green river snaked into view, luminous in the slanting sunlight. Its loveliness brought him to a sudden halt, and he stood mesmerized by the flowing water—until he became aware of Cressida’s now-pensive gaze upon him.

  Whit’s sore feet were forgotten as they followed the bright water chasing over smooth stones. The lowering sun warmed his back, and he found himself whistling a half-remembered tune the troubadours had sometimes played after his parents had retired to attend to their evening prayers. It seemed half a lifetime ago that he’d sat alone at Cardenstowe’s High Table listening to the ballads, with only the hounds dozing at his feet for company.

  He recalled watching, with veiled envy, the knights and their squires exchanging banter and laughter over their meals at the lower tables, a few boldly flirting with those of his mother’s women who were slow to follow Lady Rhea from the hall. Some of them exchanged lingering looks, and more than once, Whit stumbled upon a pair pressed into a shadowed corner. Often, a few months after these furtive trysts, the lady involved would be called home unexpectedly—or rather, discreetly dismissed before the love child she carried became visible to the disapproving eyes of Whit’s parents. Whit had known from an early age about such goings-on, having grown up around horses and witnessing the stallions mounting the mares each spring.

  His gaze wandered involuntarily over the sylth before him. The light shimmered on the silver tresses cascading to her hips, and beneath her tunic and slim leggings, she had a very womanly form. He was glad she couldn’t see the heat his thoughts brought to his cheeks.

  She stopped abruptly, and for a horrified instant, Whit feared she’d read his mind, until he saw her attention was directed to the forest to their left. She strode off the path toward an enormous poplar tree, its furrowed bark covered with a fine down of green. Although silver-sided leaves still shivered on its branches, it was clearly nearing the end of its long life, for a cleft broad enough for two men to stand upright had formed at its heart.

  Cressida stepped into this hollow, then raised her arms above her head. Whit was startled to see her black eyes glaze over, and he felt a sudden, sharp anxiety on her account. Uninvited, he entered the heart of the tree with her.

  Viewed from the cavity of the trunk, the forest was a canvas of variegated greens. The trees were bearded in mantles of luxuriant moss, their branches bowed in graceful arcs. In the perfect stillness, he heard the soft sound of Cressida’s breath, and he was keenly aware of her closeness. When she laid her warm fingers on his wrist, he felt his loins stir.

  The sylth raised his hand slowly and placed it beside hers on the dark ceiling above them. “Now the other one.”

  The wood was surprisingly smooth. A sudden jolt of heat surged through Whit’s arm. He snatched his hands away.

  “What in—?”

  To his surprise, the sylth smiled at him—a wide, deep smile that lit her face with a rare, radiant beauty.

  “Who would have guessed,” she said, appraising him, “that you would have sap sense?” Without removing her hands from the crevice above her, she nudged him lightly with her hip. “Go on, then. Put your hands back. You’re in for a gift not given to many.”

  Cautiously, Whit raised his palms once more to the wood above him, his thigh tingling where Cressida had pressed against him. This time he was prepared for the warmth that spread down his arms and across his shoulders. He felt his face flush, not unpleasantly, as the heat encompassed his scalp and flowed through his chest all the way down to his feet, as though he were wrapped in the softest of down, only from the inside out.

  “Whatever you see,” Cressida whispered, “say no word, and have no fear. Nothing that passes here can harm you, and there will be much to please you.”

  The forest spreading before them began to glimmer with an unearthly golden light. Whit caught his breath as the leaves on the trees inexplicably began to furl and shrink into buds. The air was filled with swirling brown tatters that rose from the ground to flare on the trees in flaming colors before greening and furling again. A passing buck with a full rack was transformed into a spotted fawn as it leapt backward out of his field of vision.

  Whit realized then what he was witnessing.

  Time was running in reverse.

  The trees shed their mossy cloaks and grew willowy as the underbrush thickened. A huge crash shuddered the earth beneath their feet, signaling the death of a long-ag
o tree, then Whit watched in amazement as its massive roots appeared and tipped into the soil, and the gnarled alder righted itself before their eyes.

  A sudden deluge followed, sheets of water gushing from unseen clouds. The acrid smell of smoke made Whit’s throat burn and tears runnel his cheeks, then, for a heartbeat, the woods stood suddenly charred and lifeless. He jerked back from a blast of heat as a terrible fire raged and roiled through the forest, a maddened red beast with a roar louder than any gale. And when the flames dwindled to flickers, an exodus of squirrels, hares, beavers, foxes, lynx, boars, and wolves was set in motion. Bears lumbered past with their cubs clutched in their teeth or bawling before them.

  A blinding crack of lightning followed a great rumbling, and the woods were green again, the soaring trees spreading their canopies over saplings yearning for the light. Patches of melting snow grew to great drifts, transforming the forest into a winter wonderland, then the heavy mounds thinned once more as thick snowflakes drifted up to the sky. Dry leaves chased one another in playful whirlwinds before floating upward to color and green again on the branches overhead.

  The forest was shrinking now, and beyond its diminished borders Whit caught glimpses of sylvan meadows riotous with lavender, black-eyed marys, and poppies, the shifting grasses transforming from lush green to gold and back to green again. Then the wood was not much more than a copse, and Whit could see the gentle rise of the land stretching beyond it.

  He stifled a cry as the meadow became a muddy mire strewn with butchered bodies run through with pikes or brutally hacked—the aftermath of a bloody battle. A young woman, heavy with child, appeared to kneel at the side of a young knight, cradling his fair head. She raised her grief-stained face to the sky and gave an anguished cry.

  Then came the sudden screams of dying men—men who rose from their death throes, the swords that killed them drawn back from their fatal thrusts. The conflict raged briefly, then their horses galloped tails-first back up the hill. A vast company of men stood on the rise only for an instant, outlined against the bright summer sky, their yellow standards billowing, before disappearing. The blue woad-dyed faces of their enemies melted back into the surrounding trees.