The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Maura felt a vise of sorrow squeeze her heart at the mention of Dal. “That is really none of your concern.”

  “No,” agreed Borne, “you’re right. But surely it’s a concern of your parents?” Before she could form a retort, his eyes narrowed at something beyond her and he swept into a practiced bow. “Good day to you, my lady.” He moved abruptly past her, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lord Cole followed, the packet still in his grasp.

  “Who was that?” asked Leif.

  Maura watched Borne saunter in the direction of several knights dressed in the black and silver of Nelvorboth, then she took Leif’s arm and started off in the opposite direction.

  “That,” she replied, “was no one.”

  Chapter 13

  Whit

  After sharing Cressida’s vision in the hollow of the old oak, Whit found that the sylth’s pace was no longer quite so arduous. The silence between them seemed almost companionable, perhaps because he now waited at a respectful distance when she stopped at random trees, for which she rewarded him with her arrestingly beautiful smile.

  Dusk was fast approaching when Cressida announced a halt for the day. Whit found that he had a ferocious appetite. He devoured his dinner of berries and fleshy roots, then worked his way through half a dozen honey cakes and washed them down with a flask of croiuil, the sweet cordial of Mithralyn. The sylth raised an amused eyebrow, but made no comment.

  He hoped that after their meal, she might be more forthcoming about why she believed her life was drawing to a close, but as soon as they finished eating, Cressida curled up beneath a tree and fell almost at once to sleep. With a weary sigh, Whit stretched out on the mossy ground as well, and soon he drifted off to the mournful hoots of a forest owl.

  For the first time since leaving Cardenstowe, Whit dreamt of his father. They were together in the family chapel; Whit’s father knelt on the cold stones, the remains of the sin-eater’s meal scattered around them, and Whit stood silently behind him. For a long time, they held their places, until finally the praying man rose and lowered his cowl, revealing the head of a great crow. The crow raised its beak and cawed, then transformed before Whit’s eyes into a massive black dragon that lunged toward him.

  Whit jerked awake, still in the grip of his terror until the whispering of leaves reminded him where he was: far from Cardenstowe where his father lay buried beneath sodden earth.

  When he finally fell asleep again, his next dream was, if anything, even more terrifying. He found himself being propelled through unfamiliar corridors, filled with the foreboding that something sinister was in pursuit. Hot breath billowed at his back, and his footfalls failed to drum out the ominous sound of crackling fire in his wake. He stumbled over a cairn of grey stones and sprawled to the floor, and as he scrambled back to his feet, he saw the toppled stones had formed a rough arrow. It pointed back down the narrow hallway where something had just darted into the shadows. To his horror, he was now compelled to follow the apparition, but found only a scattering of desiccated, smoldering feathers. From the gloom beyond came the staccato tap of a single beak against the stone.

  Suddenly, cruel talons hooked into his shoulder.

  “You’re moaning,” said a cool voice.

  His eyes flew open to see Cressida leaning over him, her silver hair brushing his cheek like a delicate kiss.

  She sat back on her heels and graced him with her bewitching smile. “A nightmare? Send it back to its murky abode. By dawn’s light, all bad dreams are banished.”

  But remnants of the dream lingered in Whit’s thoughts throughout the morning; the image of the scattered stones, in particular, reminded him uncomfortably of how he’d deliberately misdirected Halla.

  By midday, he determined to turn his mind to brighter thoughts. After all, by this time tomorrow, he would be under the tutelage of an elven mage!

  “What’s he like,” he asked Cressida, “this Master Egydd?”

  “You’ll meet him soon enough,” she replied unhelpfully. Then relenting a little, she added, “He’s filled with the spirit of the forest and all who dwell here.”

  “But what about his magic? Is he a very powerful mage?”

  “He is indeed.”

  And it seemed that was all the information the sylth deigned to reveal.

  * * *

  Cressida was right about one thing: Whit did meet Egydd soon enough. After another night’s sleep—this one mercifully free of dreams—they barely walked for another hour before the sylth abruptly veered off the path, then started up a set of wooden stairs that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Sensing magic at work, Whit eagerly climbed after her.

  The stairs ended before a curtain of hanging vines concealing the mouth of a dark cave, and Whit wrinkled his nose at the dank odor emanating from within.

  “Surely this can’t be where Master Egydd lives!” he protested.

  Cressida sank gracefully into a cross-legged position on the ground. “Perhaps you should refrain from judging things solely on their appearance. And Egydd doesn’t use the title of master.”

  Whit settled reluctantly beside her. “Aren’t we going to let him know we’re here?”

  “He knows.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll wait.”

  Whit frowned. “What are we wait—”

  Something rumbled behind the vines, as if earth had been shaken loose. Whit laid a protective hand on Cressida’s arm.

  “You needn’t be afraid,” she murmured.

  Whit snatched his hand away. “Afraid? I was merely concerned for you!”

  But his indignation was forgotten as the air before them began to ripple, revealing the sprawling roots of what must have once been an enormous tree, though its massive trunk had at some point been hacked off ten meters from the ground. What was now left of the tree—its base and its tangled roots—reminded Whit of a great, tentacled sea monster. A slate walkway appeared between the roots, leading to a hollow from which golden light spilled.

  When Whit spied the short figure standing on the threshold of this hollow, he rose instinctively to his feet. The fellow looked nothing like a great mage—or an elf for that matter, except for the pointed ears jutting through his long, leaf-matted hair—but Whit sensed he was in the presence of power. The mage’s face had the appearance of ancient gnarled bark, and he leaned heavily on a wooden staff, but his hazel eyes were clear and sparkled with a lively intelligence.

  “Welcome!” Egydd said, shuffling toward them. He held out his hand to Cressida, and she bent to lay her brow against it with a surprising reverence.

  “Egydd,” she murmured. “I hope we find you well.”

  The old elf’s laugh sounded like the creaking of branches in the wind. “Well enough, my dear, well enough. You’ve journeyed from Elvinor’s palace, have you not? What news have you of the forest along the way?”

  “The trees whisper of flooding and drought in the south,” Cressida replied solemnly. “The winter wind to the north was harsh, and many fell before it. But all is well in Mithralyn.”

  “Yes,” said Egydd, “for the present, at least.”

  At last he turned his attention to Whit. “And this young man has been sent by Elvinor? How are you called, lad?”

  Whit gave a short bow. “I am Lord Whit of Cardenstowe.”

  “Dear me, a lord, are you? And a grand one at that, it’s plain to see.” He tilted his head, reminding Whit of a curious sparrow. “But I was expecting a wizard.”

  “But I am!” amended Whit quickly. “That is, I’m studying to be a wizard, sir… er…”

  “Egydd will suffice. So you’re a lord who wants to be a wizard, are you? How unusual.”

  “Begging your pardon, but not as unusual as an elven mage,” said Whit.

  Egydd raised his woolly brows. “Why, yes—you’re right there. Well now… very
well.”

  And as if that settled the matter, he trundled back into his cottage.

  Whit’s heart sank, for it seemed age had tarnished the mage’s mind. For just a moment, he considered asking the sylth to take him back to Elvinor—but something told him such a request would displease her. Besides, he had not come all this way only to give up so easily. Addled or not, an elf mage must know a thing or two worth learning.

  As soon as Whit entered the burrow, his reservations disappeared. The strong aura of magic was almost palpable, and the evidence of its use was undeniable. Herbs and dried flowers hung from the wide beams of the low ceiling, and the walls were lined with shelves of vials and beakers, from some of which escaped tendrils of smoke. Cauldrons, chalices, scales, and books—so many books—covered the tables, and candles sprouted everywhere, casting a rosy glow, except where a broad ray of sunlight streamed through a gaping hole in the ceiling.

  Whit lifted one of the books and brought it closer to the bright light. “I don’t believe it! The Grimoire of Heka! It is thought to have been lost to the world!”

  “Really?” said Egydd, looking up from something bubbling over a burner. “Well, now it’s been found.” He peered over at Whit. “Are you interested in magical lore?”

  The question astonished Whit. “Isn’t every wizard?”

  “I suppose to some degree. I myself enjoy reading from time to time, but I can’t say it’s vastly improved my work.”

  Whit felt his initial misgivings flooding back. What sort of a mage didn’t rely on the spellcraft knowledge of the ancient masters?

  “It’s a wizard’s ultimate desire to gather the wisdom of the great among them,” he declared.

  “Some wizards, perhaps,” agreed the mage airily. “But it isn’t mine.”

  “Truthfully?” Whit said, ignoring Cressida’s sharp look.

  “Truthfully,” affirmed Egydd. The bubbling potion began to spit, and he turned back to it.

  Whit shook his head in disbelief. “Pray then, what is your greatest aspiration as a wizard?”

  “Aspiration?” Egydd sprinkled some dull yellow powder into the pot. “That’s a fine word indeed. My aspiration,” he said, giving the brew a vigorous stir, “has always been to become my magic.”

  Whit frowned at the little elf’s back. “Become your magic?”

  “Yes.” Egydd straightened, then turned to face Whit at last. “To put it in layman’s terms, I mean to realize the magic within me, and express it through my work.” The steaming cauldron let out a sudden hiss, and the air was filled with the smell of sulfur. “An aspiration,” he observed through the malodorous haze, “that I seem to have failed, on this occasion, to achieve.”

  “Egydd,” said Cressida, “I’m afraid I must take my leave. I have some… obligations to see to.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Egydd held out his arms and wrapped her in a warm embrace. When he released her, Whit sensed something unspoken pass between them as Cressida bent once again over his hand. It reminded him of her silent communion with the trees.

  Egydd brushed a strand of silver hair from her face. “We shall meet again, amhaina. Until then, may Styra hold you strong against the storm.”

  To Whit’s surprise, Cressida then placed her hands on Whit’s shoulders and planted a cool kiss on each of his cheeks. “Do not forget,” she whispered.

  Then she slipped out the door.

  Whit felt a sudden urge to follow, but before he took a step forward, the mage’s gnarled hand clasped his wrist.

  “It is her time,” Egydd said. “Do not think to urge her to stay. She is awaited.”

  “But where is she going? What is she going to do?”

  “I think you know,” said the mage, releasing him.

  Whit knew, though he wished he did not. “But how?” he asked. “I mean, just like that? Cressida will become a tree?” The thought of a world without her made him feel unaccountably bereft.

  Egydd returned to his potion. “She left her human shell many centuries ago. It’s time for her to enter her spirit home. I think even you can see that she is nearly there.”

  Whit recalled Cressida’s expression when she laid her cheek against the tree’s bark. He nodded slowly. “The trees speak to her.”

  “Trees speak to us all,” said Egydd. “They have done so since the beginning of time. But since the close of the Before, few have listened, and now most can no longer understand what they have to tell us. But Cressida can.”

  Whit had glimpsed this communion in the cleft of the ancient poplar. “Egydd,” he said tentatively. “Cressida… she gave me a gift.”

  Egydd looked up, his eyes bright with interest. “Oh?” He studied Whit intently for a moment. “Yes, I see she did. And why does this trouble you?”

  Whit hesitated; it had always been difficult for him to admit to ignorance. “I… it’s just, I’m not sure what to do with it.”

  The mage frowned as he lowered his head over his steaming pot. “It’s clear you have a great deal to learn, young man,” he grumbled. “What to do with it, indeed!”

  Whit felt his face flush. He hadn’t said exactly what he meant. What he needed to know was how to honor Cressida’s offering.

  “Where is the other?” Egydd demanded abruptly. “I understood there would be two of you.”

  Now was the time for Whit to admit to his prank, but he was deterred by the mage’s chilly tone. “She decided not to come,” he said, bending over a spellbook to hide the burn the lie brought to his cheeks. “Shall we begin, master?”

  “You shall begin,” retorted Egydd. “I haven’t stopped.” He pointed to a mortar and pestle. “Take down a handful of dragonwort and grind it with a few march-alan blossoms.”

  Whit gathered the ingredients and ground them in the pestle, then watched as Egydd added the powder to his potion. An herbal fragrance rose from the pot, reminiscent of a forest in spring.

  “That did the trick!” the mage declared. All traces of his dark mood had vanished. “It’s a ticklish concoction, to be sure.”

  “What is it for?”

  “To ease my tired bones.” The mage chuckled. “Why do you look so surprised?”

  Whit shrugged. “I guess I thought a great mage could just…”

  “Magic away his aches and pains?” Egydd bent over his concoction and inhaled deeply. “Not even the best of us can defy the march of time, lad—or the decline it brings. Which brings us back to becoming one’s magic. You see, Lord Whit of Cardenstowe, a wizard’s greatest achievement is to supersede his non-magical elements. To transform from a human being creating a magical experience to a magical being living a human one.”

  Whit frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” declared Egydd tartly. “You’re not meant to—not yet, anyway. Now, help me carry this cauldron outside to cool, and then we shall start on an elixir to cleanse the spirit.” He wrinkled his nose. “It seems someone is in dire need of one!”

  * * *

  So began Whit’s apprenticeship with the elven mage. Each day at dawn, they broke their fast with fat berries in thickly churned cream and a mug of honeyed wild lavender tea before setting off to gather whatever Egydd required from the forest. When they returned with their harvest, Whit would receive instruction in the preparation of various healing tonics, and before long he was able to identify scores of Mithralyn’s wild herbs and flowers essential to the work. He learned how to distill tinctures for blood clotting and thinning, to make antidotes for venomous bites, to induce hallucinations, and how to incite or diminish good and bad humors.

  The most pleasing aspect of his training was the opportunity to apply his newly acquired skills in the real world, for Egydd was in continual demand from the animals of the forest. At times, these patients were unnerving; the first time Whit encountered a massive black bear on
the mage’s doorstep, a thorn deep in its paw, he nearly fainted. But Egydd fearlessly hunkered down beside the beast to dress its wounds, ignoring its groans, and Whit soon grew accustomed to the idea of dealing with fearsome beasts. In the following days, he set a fledgling’s delicate bones, bottle-fed a pair of orphaned fawns, and sewed up a badger’s torn footpads. He hardly minded that Egydd wasn’t teaching him spellcraft, so engrossing was the herb lore he was learning.

  There were, however, some aspects of Egydd’s methods that he found less pleasing. The foremost of these was Egydd’s insistence that he taste the remedies he prepared.

  “A wizard must ensure that his potions are faultless,” the mage contended when Whit pulled a face at a spoonful of foul-smelling brown slime. “How will you recognize and ensure their quality if you don’t know all their properties? Come now,” he chided as Whit gagged on the vile-tasting stuff, “it can’t be that bad.”

  He took the vial from Whit’s hand and sniffed at it. Then his eyes widened with alarm.

  A sharp pain erupted in Whit’s head. With a cry, he reached up to feel a curved horn jutting from his forehead.

  Egydd thrust a flask into Whit’s hands. “Drink!”

  Whit gulped down the sweet nectar. It made his ears pop and instantly relieved the heavy aching across his brow. Gingerly, he touched his forehead; the horn was gone.

  “You must have forgotten something,” Egydd said. “Perhaps the toadflax?”

  “I didn’t,” Whit insisted.

  “What about the rush pollen?”

  Whit bent over the recipe. “It only says rush.”

  Egydd reached across him to brush a clump of spider web off the page. “Look again. You used the blossoms as well, didn’t you? They’re not called juncus effuses without reason.”

  “Unicorn horn?”

  Egydd nodded approvingly. “Your knowledge of terminology does your Master Cortenus credit. I should quite like to meet him.”

  Whit privately thought it was to his own credit, but he refrained from saying so as he suspected it would displease his teacher.