The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  From the gathered faerie clan, a plaintive wail arose.

  “Distuwi!” commanded their queen, and all fell silent.

  Then Oren, visually agitated, began to pour out some tale. Whit picked up the word iron, for it was the same as in the elven language—iarann. At one point during the faerie lad’s torrent of speech, the queen flicked her fingers, and several of her subjects took flight to the east. When Oren at last trailed to a halt, Queen Tarna and King Elvinor spoke with each other in hushed, tense tones.

  “What’s happened? What are they saying?” whispered Whit.

  Aenissa laid a comforting hand on his arm. “It seems your cousin ran afoul of that horrid Cliodhna, who bound her and forced her deep into the forest. This one,” she lifted her chin toward Oren, “went along, but it seems he did so more out of fear of Cliodhna than from malice of his own.”

  “Bound her?” Whit repeated. The knot in his stomach cinched tight. “Are you saying Halla’s been tied up and lost somewhere in Mithralyn all this time?”

  “Oren swears he released her bonds, but she’s without her bow and her pack,” said Aenissa grimly. Her fine brow creased with concern at his expression. “I know this must be distressing to you, with Halla being kin. We must hope for the best.”

  Whit’s distress was not only for the reason Aenissa surmised. The horrible result of his deception had at last been made clear. “We have to find her!” he said. “Can this Oren show us where they left her?”

  The exchange between the elven king and the faerie queen had reached its conclusion, and Elvinor climbed back on his elk. “Don’t worry. We shall find her.”

  Yes, but alive? Whit blanched as the thought took root in his mind.

  “What about the angry faerie?” he asked. “What if she gets to Halla first?”

  “Cliodhna will revel no longer under the moonlight,” the king replied. “Tarna has banished her to the Unseelie, deep in the caverns of Mithralyn. A sorry existence for her, but her malevolence has brought about this consequence.”

  Though Whit had read only a little about dark faeries, he’d heard of this banished court. “Why are those evil creatures even allowed in Mithralyn?”

  “Faeries, even dark ones, can’t help their nature, Whit, any more than elves or humans can. The Unseelie are as they are made. I did not wish to see them pass from the world through wanton acts of violence by humans. Here in Mithralyn, they can do no harm, except plot against one another, which they do with relish.”

  The faeries had begun to return to their barrow, leaving behind only the miserable Oren, who was set before Aenissa on her elk, tears streaming down his cherubic face. It seemed to Whit that the faerie wept more out of fear than remorse. He had to restrain himself from reaching over and throttling the little imp.

  They set off once more, with Oren now at the fore, guiding them ever deeper into the forest. It was well past nightfall when Oren directed them to a narrow stream.

  “It was here we left her,” he said, “after she lifted iron against us.”

  A faint smile crossed Elvinor’s face. “So she knew about iron, did she? Was it a blade?”

  The faerie’s face twisted with revulsion. “Yes, sire. A burning blade.”

  “So she’s not without a knife,” the king murmured. “This is some consolation. We ride on.”

  Frandelas spoke up then. “With your permission, sire, I’d like to stay to scout this area.”

  A look passed between the two elves, and its obvious meaning made Whit feel ill. At the king’s brisk nod, Frandelas disappeared into the brush.

  Elvinor must have read Whit’s tortured thoughts on his face, for he said gently, “Tarna has sent her folk to seek Halla as well. They’ll report directly to me if they come across her.”

  “If?” echoed Whit faintly.

  “We’ll find her, Whit,” said Aenissa from the shadows, and Whit wished he could read her expression.

  Though they’d already traveled a great distance this day, the king chose to press on through the night. There was no moon and the forest lay in dense gloom. The dank odor of decay hung on the wisps of mist drifting across their path, and in the cooling air, Whit thought wistfully of the cloak Master Morgan had given him that he’d not thought to bring along.

  They ate on the move, but Whit could barely choke down the honeyed waybread Aenissa handed him. As the hours passed, he began to despair of ever finding Halla in the swirling brume.

  Then Elvinor pulled up sharply, his keen eyes spying footprints in the damp earth.

  “She came this way,” he said, then frowned. “But why? Why did she continue east once she’d gained her freedom from the faeries? Indeed, why was she heading east in the first place?”

  They all agreed this was a mystery. All except Whit, who knew exactly why she’d continued traveling east.

  “We should reach the coast by dawn,” said Aenissa beside him.

  Whit felt a creeping dread at her words, although he couldn’t say why.

  * * *

  Shortly after catching the scent of salt in the air, they arrived at a rough stair ascending sharply off the path. At the sight of it, Oren, who had been commanded by Elvinor to silence, could apparently hold his tongue no longer.

  “I beg you, great lord, don’t cast me off the end of the world!”

  Several of the elves exchanged amused glances, but the king addressed the faerie sternly.

  “We know this is what your queen told you we would do, but we aren’t so heartless as that. You will remain with us, however. I would have you witness the consequence of your devilry.” Belatedly realizing what his words implied, Elvinor turned swiftly to Whit. “We don’t know as yet what that may be.”

  Whit did not take comfort from the king’ words. As he followed the elves up the steps, the rhythmic sound of the waves echoed their accusing refrain in his ears.

  Your fault, your fault, your fault.

  The stairs led to the top of a rocky headland. All that was visible below was a dense fog, but the briny tang of the sea infused the air, evoking the memory of Halla crouched by the horses on the deck of the Sea Witch. The reminder served to strengthen Whit’s feelings of guilt and shame.

  Elvinor studied the ground at their feet. “She was here,” he announced, “and has continued on.”

  “Continued…?” Whit asked, confused. “Continued where?”

  Aenissa led him to the edge of the cliff and pointed down. Crude steps had been carved into the cliffside, disappearing into the mist. They looked decidedly unsafe.

  “We can go no further,” said Elvinor. “To cross this boundary would put Mithralyn at risk, should we be observed. Although I myself do go beyond our borders on rare occasions, as a race we are pledged to stay within them to keep our existence hidden from mankind.”

  “I understand,” said Whit. He drew a tremulous breath. “But I can cross.”

  “No.” The king shook his head. “Master Morgan entrusted you to my care. I dare not risk it.”

  But Whit would not be dissuaded. “Halla was also entrusted to your care, sire. She is my cousin. I will go down.”

  The elves exchanged troubled glances, then Aenissa placed her slender hand on Whit’s sleeve.

  “Of course you must go,” she said.

  The king slowly nodded. “Yes. I see my niece is right. But you must prepare yourself, Whit, for what you may find. If Halla fell from this height…”

  “I understand.”

  Whit knew it was possible he’d come upon his cousin’s lifeless body. He might even meet the same fate himself. If you fall after her, he thought bitterly, it will be your just desert for your rash stupidity.

  Before he was permitted to descend, an elven rope was fastened around his waist, its other end taken up by the strongest elves among them. The rope was of slight girth, but Whit knew better than
to question the strength of anything woven from Mithralyn silk.

  As he started down the perilous stairs, he heard Aenissa murmur from above. “He cares for her so, despite all their scurrilous banter.”

  Whit could have laughed aloud at the irony.

  Propelled by the weight of his self-loathing, he descended through the murk to discover the true cost of his folly.

  Chapter 15

  Leif

  The first day of the Twyrn dawned bright and fair. From his window, Leif could see throngs of people from the outlying villages of Brenhinoedd Tor making their way over the bridges leading into the capital. It had been more than ten years since the last tournament, and everyone, from the noblest duke to the humblest peasant, exuded an air of excitement. The city was festooned with vibrant banners all along its western wall where the lists had been erected. It was to be a three-day tournament, with jousting on the first two days, and on the third, the much-anticipated melee in which the champions from each kingdom of the realm would engage in mock battle from which only one would emerge victorious.

  Most of the contestants had already been in Drinnkastel for weeks, housed in the homes of their respective representatives to the court. These young men had formed new friendships during days of hard training and nights of revelry, taking each other’s measure in both skill at arms and the ability to hold one’s drink. There’d been a few scuffles between houses, as was to be expected, but for the most part, the knights had followed the age-old code of honor of the Twyrn. Only a few knights, all from Nelvorboth, declined to keep company with those not of their realm, but the Nelvorbothians closest to the young Lord Roth followed his gracious lead to promote camaraderie among all the contestants.

  The ladies in attendance would soon be involved in their own competition—one that was, though unofficial, just as fiercely fought. They had been keeping the seamstresses of Delwray Lane stitching day and night to provide them with the most lavish gowns to wear to the contests. Their all-important tokens would be tucked in their sleeves, ready to be bestowed upon their favored combatants. As always, the High King’s colors of red and white were in fashion, but quite a few young maidens had chosen cloth of silver, in hopes of attracting the gaze of the favored Lord Roth.

  Minstrels, bards, troubadours, and mummers had all flocked to Drinnkastel to celebrate the boldest and most accomplished in songs and plays, and scores of vending stalls had sprung up in the broad fields surrounding the tournament grounds, their proprietors hawking whirligigs, whistles, and miniature banners to mark the occasion, so that at all hours of the day, the air was fragrant with the smell of savory stews, hot pies, and skewers of sizzling meat. Spiced wines and cool ale flowed freely.

  The spectacle also tended to attract the less desirable elements of society, as Rab, Leif’s valet, noted. “Mind your purse when you’re out and about,” he cautioned. “Every cutpurse in Drinnkastel will be roving the streets.” The manservant gave an emphatic shake to the tunic Leif would wear to accompany the High King and Maura to the royal box, then ran a practiced eye over the rest of his wardrobe. “If I might suggest the belt with the silver thistle clasp, Master Leif? It will better suit the watchet hose.”

  Leif nodded distractedly from his perch by the casement window. “Whatever you think best, Rab.” He leaned further out, for he’d heard the pump-a-rum of drummers below.

  “You should dress, sir. It’s nearly time.”

  Leif dropped down from the ledge and snatched up a slice of thickly buttered bread. “Do you know, Rab, I’m so excited I can barely eat!”

  The valet raised an amused eyebrow as he surveyed the meager remains of Leif’s breakfast. “Truly?”

  Wiping crumbs from his chin, Leif pulled the green tunic over his head and fastened on the fine belt before examining himself in the long mirror. He was exceedingly pleased with what he saw. “What would Gran think of me now?” he wondered aloud—then felt a familiar pang of regret. He vowed silently, as he did every day, that he would soon see her again.

  “I’m sure she would be that proud, Master Leif.”

  Rab knew all about Leif’s gran, for Master Morgan had encouraged Leif to stick as close to the truth as possible when speaking of his past, as long as he made no mention of elves or dragons.

  A scratch sounded upon the door, and Leif got to it first and flung it open.

  Maura stood before him, a vision in shimmering white satin. With his elven eye for beauty, Leif took in the crimson set in the cutaway sleeves and cinched skirt, and the gold cord that girded her slender waist. He also noticed the faint blue smudges under her eyes. She’d been plagued with headaches ever since leaving Mithralyn, and had confessed she believed it was due to separation from her dragon. Leif was concerned for her, but also relieved that he didn’t suffer the same, though he missed Rhiandra fiercely.

  “You look the picture of a princess,” he exclaimed, hoping the compliment would bring some color to her pale cheeks.

  “I think that’s the idea,” Maura said, keeping her voice low. “The gown was sent to me by the king himself. Between Asmara and Urlion, I’m afraid people will misconstrue my position at court.” She glanced over uncertainly at Rab, who was discreetly clearing away the breakfast tray, then ran her eyes over Leif’s attire. “You’re looking very fine in Valeland’s colors.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” Leif agreed, offering her his arm.

  They set off behind the herald Urlion had sent to take them to the Grand Hall. Many admiring glances from court members were cast their way, and it seemed, to Leif anyway, that some of them lingered to the point of rudeness on Maura.

  Their arrival at the Grand Hall coincided with that of the High King, who was attended by a number of courtiers, his servant Dinton, and the disagreeable Master Tergin. Urlion’s robes of white and crimson served to accentuate his pallor. He did not look a well man.

  “My dear,” said Urlion, raising Maura from her curtsey with his own hand. “How is it possible you grow more lovely each day? You do the House of Konigur great honor.”

  “Uncle, I wish to thank you for this splendid gown.”

  The king gave a pleased wave of his hand, then acknowledged Leif with a friendly nod. “We are pleased you are joining us today. Let us proceed.”

  He kept hold of Maura’s hand, which Leif supposed was just as well, for Urlion’s gait was slow and unsteady. The king’s men walked quite closely behind, and Leif couldn’t help but wonder whether their aim was to catch their lord should he fall, or to eavesdrop on the king’s conversation.

  By the time they’d reached the waiting horses, Urlion looked grey, and his face was runneled with sweat. He was hoisted onto the white stallion by the hovering grooms, while Maura was boosted onto a snowy palfrey.

  A stable boy about Leif’s age led forward a bay mare. “Your horse, sir,” said the young groom shyly.

  Leif reached up to stroke the bright blaze on the mare’s muzzle. “She’s a beauty! What’s her name?”

  The boy gave a little laugh. “Aleaha. It means beauty in the Old Tongue.”

  “So it does,” said Leif, recalling the rune, “but how do you come to know this?”

  “I come from Glornadoor, sir. We speak the Old Tongue in the villages there.”

  “Glornadoor!” Leif whistled. “That’s as far away from Valeland as you can get! What sort of music do they play there? And what are the best-loved stories?”

  The boy looked startled.

  “We mustn’t keep His Majesty waiting, Leif,” Maura murmured.

  Leif sprang onto the horse’s back. “What’s your name?” he asked the stable boy. But the lad from Glornadoor had already retreated, his head bowed before the king.

  The knights who would be competing that day were also gathered in the courtyard, along with their squires and standard-bearers. Leif craned his neck to see who was there from Valeland. He didn’t
recognize anyone—not that he expected to, coming from the tiny village of Tonis Vale. Searching the milling crowd for a green banner, he spied the two young men from Branley Tor whom Maura had so summarily dismissed the day before. The tall one caught his eye and raised a hand in greeting.

  The jostling horses were brought to order, and the king’s standard-bearers moved smartly forward to take their positions in front of King Urlion. For a moment, only the jangle of stirrups and the snapping of the pennons in the breeze broke the stillness, then a fanfare of blaring trumpets and rumbling drums signaled the start of the procession.

  Leif’s heart swelled as he clattered along with the royal party across the inner courtyard to another beyond it, where they were joined by an assembly of riders that included the judges of the day’s contests. He was nearly deafened when they streamed on through the castle gates and the people lining the road, having caught sight of Urlion, roared out his name.

  The Lord of Spirit, the most exalted monter of the Temple of the Elementa, was waiting for them astride a grey coilhorn. He advanced toward them with his acolytes in tow, and their black robes fluttered as they fell in line behind the royal party, just in front of the High King’s heralds.

  The contestants would follow behind, and for a moment, Leif wished he were among the crowd rather than in the royal party, so that he could watch the competing knights ride through the city gates. But with luck, he would be seated in the High King’s box by the time the bold young champions pranced onto the tourney grounds astride their caparisoned chargers.

  He allowed himself a contented sigh as the party moved forward, the roars of the people loud in his ears.

  * * *

  Maura took a seat beside the king under a canopy of tasseled velvet and golden cloth, but Leif chose to climb to the top of the grandstand, from which he could see the entire grounds. He needn’t have worried he would miss anything, for it had quickly become apparent that the rest of the procession would not be permitted to enter until the High King had received all manner of bows and curtseys from his berfrois.