The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  And try as he might, he would never forget how the boy’s bright gaze darkened, his fingers letting slip the rose as he slumped forward to follow it down, down to the trammeled ground.

  Chapter 20

  Morgan

  By the time the Sea Witch docked in Fairporth, Morgan had devised a new plan of action, and had determined those upon whom he could count for support to carry it through.

  For there was much to do, and all of it pressing. His first duty was clear: to investigate the treason against the High King. He would start by finding Vestor Santiman.

  But Morgan hadn’t forgotten about the missing å Livåri; he’d have to sort through rumor and false leads to track down the truth about where they had disappeared to. Then there was Maura and Leif’s safety to consider, now that they were in the capital and out of his protective reach—Gilly could help there, but still, the sooner the young dragonfast were back in the elven kingdom, the better. And not only for their own sake; they had much to learn from Ilyria and Rhiandra, particularly about what their secreted siblings in Belestar were considering. Not a day passed that Morgan did not ponder the very real threat the unbound dragons posed to the Known World.

  And now Halla had gone missing, and there was still Whit to deal with. As for Lazdac and the Jagar, Morgan would simply have to wait and see what would transpire.

  All of these concerns were on his mind as he presented himself in Elvinor’s bower, still wearing his salt-rimed robes, to hear what had been pieced together regarding Halla’s disappearance.

  “We tracked Halla to our easternmost border,” said the king, his handsome face worn with concern, “but all Whit found when he descended to the beach was an abandoned wagon at the edge of the sea. My sources tell me that slavers have been seen on the coast; it’s possible she was abducted and taken aboard a boat from there.”

  He cast a glance at Whit, who had joined them. The young lordling was uncharacteristically silent.

  “Was there anything in the wagon that might offer a clue as to who these abductors might be?” the wizard asked.

  Whit shook his head. “It was empty, but there were… bloodstains on the wood.” Abruptly, he rose and left the bower.

  “Whit—”

  Elvinor laid a hand on Morgan’s sleeve. “The lad has taken his cousin’s disappearance very hard, Mortimer. Seeing the signs of the poor maiden’s struggle… Since the tragedy, he’s kept to his rooms. It’s hardly surprising—after all, they were betrothed.”

  “Yes,” said Morgan, “they were, and still are. I shouldn’t like to presume that Halla is lost to us.”

  A familiar voice sounded behind him. “Good day, all.”

  He turned to see Egydd on the threshold.

  “Ah, Egydd,” said Elvinor. “Here, at least, is a bearer of good tidings. Would you care to relate to Mortimer what you told me about Whit’s time with you?”

  “I should be delighted,” declared the mage enthusiastically. “Simply put, he’s quite brilliant, both as a scholar and a practitioner. He’s set on mastering the imperative spells, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he should get at least one of them under his belt in the near future. He had a stab at shade-shifting while he was with me, although of course he didn’t wholly succeed. Still, he managed to bend my shadow before I caught wind of it. Never seen the like of it in so young a pupil! Well, that is, not since you were honing your art, Mortimer.”

  “I’m grateful for the time you’ve invested in him, Egydd,” said Morgan. “He can be a bit…”

  “Prickly?” Egydd laughed. “He got over that quickly enough. Overall, I’d say he’ll make something quite remarkable of himself, as long as it doesn’t go to his head. Only time will tell.”

  A rabble of butterflies swooped through the fragrant honeysuckle in the gardens, and with a cry of pleasure, Egydd followed them.

  “Mortimer,” said Elvinor, once they were alone,“I am so very sorry to have failed you.”

  “Don’t offer me apologies for that which was not in your control,” Morgan replied.

  “You left Halla in my care.”

  “Which you provided unstintingly. This is no time for recriminations. We shall do all in our power to find her. You have another concern to address, for the day is fast approaching when you and your folk will have no choice but to come again into the Known World. Then I may have a boon to ask of you which you’ll find very difficult to grant.”

  “I cannot believe this,” said Elvinor stoutly.

  “I hope it doesn’t come to this pass. But I’d like to prepare you all the same. Let me tell you what I’ve learned.”

  * * *

  It was long after the candles had guttered out when the wizard headed to his chambers. Passing an open door on his way, he saw the young lord of Cardenstowe still awake, sitting cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by shavings of wood.

  Morgan entered the room and settled beside him. “What’s that you’re carving?”

  “Nothing.” Whit didn’t even glance up; he merely continued to scrape at the mangled wood with short, hard strokes.

  The wizard allowed the silence to bloom.

  Finally, with a tortured roar, Whit flung the knife savagely to the floor. “You know, don’t you? How do you know?”

  “One doesn’t need to be a wizard to discern a guilty conscience.”

  Whit looked up then. “What are you waiting for?” he growled, tears standing in his eyes. “Why don’t you castigate me for deliberately misleading Halla?”

  “Is that what happened?” Morgan regarded Whit steadily. “Would it make you feel any better if I did? One way or another, you’ll carry the consequences of your actions from this day forward.”

  With a strangled sob, Whit buried his face in his hands.

  Morgan waited until his rigid shoulders dropped, then said quietly, “Have you determined how you’ll repair your mistake?”

  “Mistake?” Whit gave a harsh laugh. “Halla could be a slave somewhere, if she indeed still lives, and you call it a mistake?”

  “Name it what you will, it still remains your responsibility to right it.”

  He had Whit’s full attention now. “What… what can I do?”

  “What can you do? Why, what you’ve been living your whole life up until this moment to do! You can act!”

  “But how—”

  “My dear boy, your magical ability is extraordinary for someone your age, and one day you may even be considered the most learned scholar of our time. What has been your intention in pursuing these ends? To simply harbor these gifts?”

  “N… no.”

  “Well then, that leaves the alternative—which is to employ them,” reasoned the wizard. “Until now, you’ve been dedicated to learning solely for learning’s sake. Surely you must see that the only way to make all that you’ve acquired meaningful is to use it to help others.”

  Whit frowned. “I—I don’t understand. How will what I’ve learned bring Halla back?”

  “Now you do try my patience,” the wizard muttered. “Come.” He rose stiffly to his feet. “I’m too old to be sitting on the floor in the middle of the night. Let’s make use of these fine chairs with which our host has provided us.”

  Seated more comfortably, facing one another in the darkened room, Morgan kept his voice low. “Whit, magic is not something merely to be learned. It’s something to be lived.”

  Whit studied his hands. “That’s just what Egydd said. I’m trying to understand this. It… it doesn’t come easily.”

  The wizard sat back. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you admit to a challenge. Let me see if I can clarify it for you. You, like every human, possess the ability to discern your light in others, to recognize that shared spirit between you and all living things. It’s not about possessing the best ‘magical skills,’ Whit. It’s about employing
both your talents and your empathy. You can begin by recognizing that while you’re gifted with a great intelligence, that doesn’t mean you’re better than others.”

  “I don’t think that,” Whit protested. “Well… not exactly… I mean, I know I’m different.” He drew a ragged breath. “If there’s truly a way for me to fix this with Halla, help me to find it, master. I’ll do whatever it takes to find her.” He looked up with pleading in his eyes.

  In the gardens, the crickets were performing a serenade, but Whit’s request was the true music to Morgan’s ears. “If you really mean that, I can show you the way. But there will be consequences.”

  To his credit, Whit didn’t hesitate. “I’m ready to leave whenever you say.”

  “I’m afraid leaving is not what’s required of you, Whit, at least not yet. I must ride for Drinnkastel in the morning—alone. I’ve missed the Twyrn by a week, but it couldn’t be helped. Now that it’s over, I must attempt to convince the High King to allow Maura and Leif to return to Mithralyn, for I cannot ensure their safety otherwise.”

  “You mean you’re not going to look for Halla?” Whit’s voice was strained with disbelief. “You’re just going to leave her to this terrible fate?”

  “No,” said Morgan patiently. “You’ve agreed to search for her.”

  “By myself? Where would I begin?”

  “If you come with me now,” said the wizard, “I will show you.”

  * * *

  The elven architects of Mithralyn had combined rare marble, precious metals, and the soaring living trees to create a splendorous abode for the last of their kind in the Known World. Set like a glittering gemstone in the embrace of rivulets and verdant foliage, the palace appeared to have sprung from the forest itself.

  As Morgan walked along its arching corridors and out into the gardens, he drew solace from their beauty, balm for his weary spirit. He led Whit over a series of bridges, then into a copse where a charming belvedere had been erected. It glowed with an ethereal light, and Whit drew a sharp breath when he saw its source. At the center of the belvedere, resting precariously on its slender curved base in a nest of glittering crystals, rose a tall, moonlit stone as white as snow.

  “What is it?” Whit whispered.

  “This is Gywna’s Fire, the greatest of all scrying stones. It was raised by the dwarves of yore from the Vale of Jura, which lies deep beneath the mountains of the same name. It might have passed over the Vast Sea when the last dwarves sailed west, had not Roldar, their king, loved the elven princess after whom the stone is named. Roldar presented it to Princess Gywna before he made his final voyage.” Morgan ran his finger over the runes engraved on the stone. “Hjarta mitt myndi sitja undir sanngjarna augnaráð þitt um alla eilífð,” he murmured. “For all time will my heart linger, before your radiant gaze.”

  “A scrying stone? You mean… it can tell us where Halla is?”

  The wizard nodded. “It may.”

  “But if Elvinor has had this stone all along, why has he not asked Egydd to use it?” He shook his head in disbelief. “We’ve wasted so much time!”

  “Egydd cannot pass into this pavilion, Whit. It serves as a barrier to all elvenkind.” Morgan laid a hand on the pale stone. “The tale of Gywna’s Fire has a tragic ending. The princess for whom it is named lost her life gazing into the stone, for she refused to eat or drink until she saw her Roldar in its hidden depths. It’s said her heart literally broke when she failed to find him. So Elvinor placed the stone here, and Egydd himself cast the unbreakable spell that raised the barrier through which no elf can pass.” Morgan met and held Whit’s searching gaze. “Egydd can’t be of assistance to us with the scrying. It’s up to you to find Halla.”

  “Me?” Whit retreated a step. “Why not you?”

  “It is beyond me,” replied Morgan tersely.

  “Beyond you? Nothing is beyond you! What is it you aren’t—” He bit off the question, but it still burned in the air between them.

  Now is not the time, Whit, Morgan thought. “Do you want to do this?” he said aloud, striving to keep his voice even.

  “Well, it seems someone has to.”

  Morgan didn’t rise to the bait. He merely waited in silence.

  “I know nothing of scrying,” Whit said at last.

  “Then it seems that you shall have to learn. That’s never posed a problem for you.”

  “But who will teach me? You said you’re leaving for Drinnkastel in the morning.”

  Morgan replied patiently; the lad was willing, which was all that was required. “The art of scrying can’t be broken down into so many steps, Whit. No one can teach it. You must simply practice, until you get it right.”

  Whit stared at him blankly.

  “Come now, my dear boy,” Morgan said encouragingly, “with all your book lore, there must be something about scrying stored away in that laudable mind of yours!”

  He saw he’d succeeded in striking a chord. The youth frowned, considering. “Scrying is the art of divination,” he said, as if reading from an invisible page before him. “Only one possessed of magic can practice it, and even he should do so with extreme prudence. For striving for visions takes its toll on the scryer, draining his powers and leaving him weakened, even unto death.” His eyes widened in understanding. “Is this why you asked if I really meant it—when I said I would do anything to find Halla?”

  “And I shall ask you again,” said Morgan, “now that you know what it will entail.”

  Whit glared back at him. “Of course I mean it. You haven’t left me any choice.”

  Chapter 21

  Fynn

  For years, the Helgrins had found the unwalled towns on the northern coast of Gral ripe for plunder, and the beleaguered inhabitants of these towns had learned to flee whenever the longboats were sighted, leaving their belongings, livestock, and granaries behind. But upon becoming yarl, Aetheor went a crucial step further than his predecessors: he seized and fortified the cities he took. The Helgrin’s main Gralian colony was established in Thorpe, whose chalk cliffs stood sentinel over the Enanjoki River. Thorpe offered a secure port, sheltered from the prevailing winds, and was protected from invasion by the rising heights surrounding it.

  Fynn now stood proudly beside his father at Thorpe’s main gate. At long last, he had succeeded in convincing Father to take him on his first long-distance voyage, so it was with barely repressed excitement that he watched his cousin Aksel’s longboats sail into the harbor, their high sinuous prows undulating beneath the wind-bitten cliffs.

  Fynn hadn’t met this cousin before, for Aksel never came north to Restaria. Brunlind, Aetheor’s sister, had remarried shortly after Lothiar died, and it was Styr, her second husband and Aksel’s father, who for years had handled the business of tributes and the administrative duties of southern Helgrinia. But in the past year a plague swept through the south and carried off both Brunlind and Styr, and it became Aksel’s responsibility to take up the collection of grain and casks of ale that the more fertile southern lands provided to Northern Helgrinia.

  Jered’s blue eyes had blazed with indignation when he told Fynn about how their cousin had handled this responsibility, for he’d been with their father in Frendensko, Aksel’s seat, when the accounting revealed the tithe fell far short of the agreed-upon stores. “Father made allowances, and put our cousin’s impudence down to his youth. I’d have shown Aksel where the hammer hangs and taken a trophy or two from the scoundrel’s thieving hand! At least our cousin had the wits to show contrition. He made no protest when Father ordered the storehouses opened and loaded what had been promised aboard his ships.”

  Fynn suspected that their cousin had still to learn good sense when he spotted Aksel’s sail. It was emblazoned with the old standard of Lothiar, despite the fact the former yarl had been dead for over a decade, and the official standard of Helgrinia was now Aetheor’s
white bear. Fynn expected his father to reprimand Aksel for this, but once again Father showed forbearance, and when Aksel disembarked, the yarl received his nephew with unperturbed courtesy.

  Aksel took after Styr’s side of the family, for he was barrel-chested and stocky, with slightly bulging eyes. He reminded Fynn of an angry bull; his lank, dull hair hung loose over his wide shoulders, and at his waist he wore two ketju, the gruesome chains of thumbs cut from those he’d killed in battle. His beefy arms were circled with thick bands of gold, and a large amber pendant hung from his thick neck. But despite his bulk, his movements were swift and fluid as he bent his knee, then rose to receive his uncle’s embrace.

  “It is good that you’ve come south at this time,” Aksel declared. His voice was rasping, as though he’d used it up shouting. “I’m hoping you’re of a mind to go raiding with me, Uncle.”

  Father dismissed the thrall who was tending to refreshments before asking, “Whom are you considering raiding?”

  Aksel’s smile was sly. “The Drinnglennians are plotting a retaliatory attack on Helgrinia. I plan to strike first.”

  “Retaliatory? There’s been no Helgrin attack on the Isle. How do you come by this tale?”

  Aksel made a vague wave. “I’ve had visitors.”

  “Aye, so I’ve been told,” said Father, steel in his voice. “It seems you’re in need of reminding that matters of state between Albrenia and our people are conducted solely by me.”

  “Who said anything about matters of state?” Aksel raised his goblet and emptied it greedily, heedless to the spillage on his rough beard. “I’ve only been entertaining a few of our southern neighbors.” He thrust his goblet at Fynn for a refill. “They produce a fine mulate grape down in Filante, but there’s nothing like cool ale to quench one’s thirst!”

  With lightning speed, Father dashed the goblet from Aksel’s hand, the dregs spattering his nephew’s boots. Aksel’s eyes widened as his uncle, towering over him, grasped hold of his stained tunic.