The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Maura stepped aside for Leif to enter. Once the door was closed behind them, she said, “I went to see Borne.”

  “Did you? They were cousins, weren’t they?”

  Maura didn’t see any reason to keep the truth from him. “They weren’t actually kin. Borne is Lord Cole’s father’s ward. I don’t really know the details of how that came to pass. All the same, I believe he and Cole were quite close.” She recalled how Borne had encouraged the lad before his jousts. “Such a tragedy. Is it true he was murdered?”

  Leif nodded. “Just as he scored the winning goal in the mob ball. In the uproar of celebration, no one saw who let fly the arrow. Lord Roth has offered a personal purse to anyone who can identify the assassin.”

  Maura sighed. “I wonder what this will mean regarding our return to Mithralyn, with this the second incident of its kind in the span of two weeks.”

  “Well, you may be about to find out. I went to the royal chambers, thinking to find you there. Your uncle sent me at once to bring you to his chambers. He’s most agitated, and that surly Tergin is hovering at his royal elbow.”

  Maura glanced down at her riding attire.

  “Never mind changing,” Leif said, taking up her hand. “You’d best come quick.”

  * * *

  “Maura… at last!” The king’s feeble voice sounded pettish, and he plucked sulkily at his coverlet. “You’ve been neglecting your duties to your king.”

  Master Tergin, who had deliberately and quite rudely kept his back to Maura and Leif as they entered, now turned with a sly smile.

  Ignoring him, Maura knelt beside the bed. “I beg your indulgence, Uncle. I went to see a… a friend in need.”

  “What about my needs?” he said peevishly.

  She pressed her cheek against his palm and felt his other hand rest gently on her hair. “There,” he murmured, seemingly appeased, “never mind, you’re here now. And I know your gentle nature—of course you would want to comfort a friend. What was her distress? An indifferent beau? An inept maid?” But before Maura could correct her uncle’s misconceptions, he’d lost interest. “I would have you read to me, my dear.”

  “But first,” interjected Tergin, “you must take your medicine, sire.” He reached for a small dish beside the bed.

  That same dish had been waiting at the High King’s bedside frequently over the preceding weeks, and its contents had been deviling Maura since the first time she’d noticed it. Until now she’d held her tongue, uncertain of her place and hoping for the opportunity to put the matter to Master Morgan, who could either advise her or intervene himself as he saw fit. But since she’d failed thus far to reach the wizard—and perhaps because she was influenced unduly by her throbbing head—she decided to throw caution to the wind.

  “Those are melia berries, are they not?”

  From Tergin’s sudden stillness, she knew she’d hit the mark. When he replied, his voice was tight in his throat. “My lady is better acquainted with plant lore than I knew. Yes, they are indeed melia berries, administered to alleviate His Majesty’s occasional anxiety.”

  Bracing herself, Maura locked eyes with the physiker. “But in heavier doses they cause forgetfulness, and can even prove toxic,” she said.

  The master bridled, and his nostrils flared with indignation. “Do you mean to imply that I… I am poisoning our sovereign?”

  Maura flushed. “Of course not! I only wondered…”

  “Stop badgering my niece, Tergin!” Urlion scrutinized his physiker from under his heavy brows. “Are you? Trying to poison your king?”

  Master Tergin sputtered. “Your… Your Majesty! I’ve been a most… most… zealous guardian of your health! Surely you… you don’t believe—”

  The king waved dismissively. “No, I don’t, but it amuses me to see you so discomfited.” He peered at the muddled concoction made from the berries, then pushed it away. “All the same, I’ll not be needing this particular potion again.”

  With a stiff bow, Master Tergin lifted the dish, then turned to depart. Maura felt a chill rising off the man as he passed her, but she was not sorry she’d spoken up.

  “In truth, my dear,” said the king, once the door closed behind Tergin, “you can put aside that book. I’d rather hear more about the dragons! You said yours is a bronze?”

  Maura felt the familiar tug on her heartstrings at the mention of Ilyria. “Yes, Uncle. A beautiful bronze. Her scales shimmer like burnished metal, and she bears a regal crown of horns. Her jade-green eyes sparkle like emeralds.”

  The king chuckled. “So like a maid to describe a dragon’s appearance. But I wish to know what she can do! How would one best make use of her in battle?”

  Maura shivered inwardly to think of riding Ilyria into the perils of war, but she had learned much in the past months about the threat these magnificent creatures posed in conflict, and this was an opportunity to convince her uncle of their value to the realm.

  “Ilyria can soar above the clouds,” she said, “so she would be able to gauge the strengths and weaknesses of an enemy force. Her breath is of bright blue fire, terrible to behold and capable of igniting anything or anyone who comes within range. But her greatest gift is that she is wise beyond wise, Uncle. To be in Ilyria’s presence is ever a lesson in life.”

  “A lesson in life,” repeated Urlion dourly. “It seems I’ve forgotten most of those I learned.”

  The smile faded from his lips, and for a moment Maura feared he would weep, as he often did, for no apparent reason. To distract him, she reached for The Songs of Orain, a lengthy tale of courtly love. “Shall I read to you, Uncle?”

  She waved Leif out the door, for which he grinned in appreciation, then settled in to read. She had only turned the first page when she looked up to see that the king was deep in sleep.

  Setting the book aside, Maura rose to open the window overlooking the High King’s private garden, which never failed to please her. The untamed expanse of wildflowers was festooned with myriad gilt cages from which blossoms and tendrils spilled. Marble fauns, unicorns, nymphs, and pixies cavorted amidst the greenery and along the stepping-stone paths, and fountains burbled under the boughs of the pear and cherry trees. Since her first glimpse of the garden, Maura had longed to explore it. Why had she never asked for her uncle’s permission?

  But even as the thought occurred to her, something shifted behind the foliage below, and she drew back instinctively. A veiled figure emerged from a hidden alcove, followed by another, similarly shrouded, her soft peal of laughter identifying her as female. Within a heartbeat, they disappeared again into the lush verdure.

  Who but the High King would have access to this privileged space? Their concealing dress suggested that they might have been there without leave. Or could they have been members of the Tribus? And if so, what consequences might there be for spying on them, however inadvertently?

  At the sound of the door opening behind her, Maura spun around as if caught doing something untoward. But it was only Dinton sweeping into the room. Relieved of her duty to the king, Maura excused herself without delay. She wanted nothing more than to return to her chambers and rest her head.

  But there Heulwin awaited her, announcing that she’d set aside extra time to prepare Maura’s hair for her evening’s engagement.

  Maura had almost forgotten her appointment with Lord Roth.

  With a resigned sigh, she changed out of her riding clothes and sat for her maid. Maura may have been ambivalent about this evening, but Heulwin had made it abundantly clear that her approval of Roth was unreserved. She’d even been so bold as to suggest he and Maura were a perfect match. The idea was preposterous.

  Of course, Heulwin had no way of knowing how unsuitable Maura was for the noble Roth. In all of Drinnkastel, only two people knew about her heritage from her mother: Leif, and Borne Braxton. And now it seemed Borne wished to put a
further distance between them.

  Maura was surprised to discover this saddened her. With a feeling akin to loneliness, she closed her eyes and acquiesced to Heulwin’s eager ministrations.

  Chapter 25

  Even with her eyes demurely lowered, Maura felt the scrutiny of the entire congregation as she entered the Temple of Styra. Much to her dismay, it appeared to be at maximum capacity.

  Behind her, Heulwin murmured, “He’s in the front pew, milady.”

  Of course he is, thought Maura ruefully. She glanced up to see Lord Roth turned toward her far down the aisle. It was clear he’d been watching for her, and now he presented her with his radiant smile.

  As Maura slid onto the bench beside him, Roth whispered, “I apologize, my lady. I’d completely forgotten this is a high holy day for the Mother Goddess.” His breath was pleasantly scented with mint.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t have known either. My family didn’t attend any temple.”

  “And yet you are a devout young woman. And, if I may add, the fairest lady here—indeed, in all of Drinnkastel.”

  Maura’s cheeks went from warm to hot. She quickly turned her eyes to Styra’s sacred symbol, a simple circular coil of gold on the altar, which was laid with a rare Tyskandic lace cloth.

  Roth did not fail to notice her disconcertment. “And now I see I must apologize yet again. It wasn’t my intention to discomfort you. Please, my lady, say I am forgiven?”

  Despite her embarrassment, Maura smiled. “Really, sir,” she replied evenly. “Your offense doesn’t warrant such importuning. And there’s no need to flatter me.” She had obligingly donned the gown Heulwin had laid out—the burnt-umber silk that accentuated the gold in her hair, which she’d left unbound and covered by a gossamer net of seed pearls. Perhaps she should have insisted on something more demure.

  “But you’re mistaken, my lady,” Roth protested. “I don’t seek to flatter you. I merely speak the truth.”

  The ringing of handbells signaled the monters, who filed in from the transepts on either side of the altar, already intoning their prayers. The service had begun.

  With the need for pleasantries past, Maura found herself slowly relaxing, lulled by the monters’ melodic chanting. As their voices rose and fell, she drank in the beauty of the ancient chapel’s vaulted ceiling, timbered with dark, burnished wood that glowed in the lowering sunlight streaming through the leaded windows. Filigreed panels separated the apse on its eastern side from the main body of the nave, and the heavy cloths that draped the striated walls were dyed a verdant green—made possible, Maura knew, by combining greenweed, woad, and indigo, a painstaking and costly process.

  Like the tips of Ilyria’s wings, she thought, recalling how she’d caught her breath the first time the dragoness had spread them.

  A tear slipped down her cheek, and she quickly brushed it away. She cast a covert glance at Roth; his eyes were closed in prayer, but she met the intent gaze of a dark-eyed woman on his right who, although past her prime, possessed a sultry beauty. Her jet-black hair was piled high on her head, encircled by a heavy gold band. She nodded courteously to Maura before raising a floral hand fan edged in black lace to shield her full lips.

  With a jolt, Maura realized who the woman was. This was Princess Grindasa, Roth’s mother. The woman’s attention was oddly unsettling, though Maura couldn’t have said why. Still, for the rest of the service Maura was careful to keep her gaze unwaveringly forward, and when the chanting at last drew to a close, she closed her eyes in feigned prayer until she heard the last of the parishioners’ footsteps fade away.

  “It’s only us now,” murmured Roth. “I didn’t wish to disturb your devotions. It’s evident that, like me, you are sincerely dedicated to honoring the gods. I learned in Albrenia how true devotion is observed. Here in the capital, worship has sadly fallen out of fashion. Were I… able, I would change this.”

  He had either not been listening, or had chosen to ignore Maura’s admission that she never attended temple services.

  Maura rose, and Roth offered her his arm as they started up the aisle. “How fares my father?” he asked quietly.

  For a moment, Maura was at a loss. Then she realized he was referring to the High King.

  “Much the same,”’ she said.

  His sigh made her realize how difficult it must be for him, to be so near to the man who had sired him, yet unwelcome in his life. She could ask her uncle to consider seeing Roth, but she guessed that if Urlion wanted to become better acquainted with his bastard son, he would have done so long ago. Not for the first time, she wondered why he had not.

  She was relieved to find Heulwin just outside the chapel doors, until she saw that Princess Grindasa also awaited them. Petite like Maura, the princess managed nonetheless to convey the stature and majesty of her rank. Her magnificent white gown was of patterned silk, its bodice flecked with gold thread and beryl stones, its long sleeves edged with snowy ermine.

  “Mihna,” said Roth, “allow me to introduce the Lady Maura.”

  “Your Highness.” Maura sank into a deep curtsey.

  “Ah, but she is enchanting!” cried Grindasa. Her voice, low and musical, still bore the accents of Albrenia, although she had lived many years in Drinnglennin. “Our lord king has kept you to himself for far too long, my child. You must join us for some proper entertainment. Why not this evening?” She looked expectantly between Maura and her son.

  Roth smiled. “The lady has already accepted an invitation from me to dine, Mihna.”

  “Then it is settled!” said Grindasa, beaming at Maura. “We keep continental customs at Casa Cantabria, so it will be but simple fare. Will you join me now in my carriage?”

  “I—” Maura glanced at Roth in mute appeal.

  “You go on ahead, Mihna,” he answered for her. “We’ll follow shortly.”

  The princess laid a hand on her son’s arm. “You’ll forgive me for appropriating your evening, cuiero? After dinner, I’m sure the young lady will enjoy a stroll with you in our gardens.” She turned to Maura. “They were designed by the great Al-Gerero himself, and are without equal in this land.”

  She then signaled to a stern bald man with an impressive black mustache, who strode to her side. His white sash, draped over the livery of Nelvorboth, proclaimed him a knight of distinction.

  “Lord Vetch, the Lady Maura,” said Grindasa. “My lady, this gentleman is commander of the Nelvor armed forces, the most renowned fighting arm of our High King’s domain.”

  The knight bowed. “My lady.”

  Maura had heard some talk of this man, but couldn’t remember where.

  Grindasa took up her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll await your arrival with pleasure.” Then she laid her glove on Lord Vetch’s arm and swept down the hall, trailed by her entourage.

  The touch of cool fingers on her elbow brought Maura’s attention back to Roth. “It seems I’m destined to be ever begging your pardon,” he said, his smile again rueful. “If you truly don’t wish to go to my mother’s house, I can make our excuses.”

  As a result of which I would surely earn her enmity, thought Maura, for she sensed the Princess Grindasa was accustomed to having her way. “I’d be delighted to dine at Casa Cantabria, my lord.”

  Roth responded with a gallant bow. “You are as gracious as you are lovely, Lady Maura. Shall we proceed?”

  * * *

  Nandor Nelvor, the late husband of Princess Grindasa, had commissioned the Casa Cantabria as a wedding gift for his young Albrenian bride. Its interior was designed in the style of the princess’s homeland, albeit with a nod to Drinnkastel’s architecture in its façade. Crow-stepped gables rose above the lime-washed masonry stones, which glowed golden in the lantern light.

  As Maura stepped out of Roth’s carriage, she feared she’d been rash to accept this invi
tation. There was a reason she’d kept to herself, or solely in Leif’s company, in the weeks she’d been in Drinnkastel. Tonight she was sure to meet with the barrage of questions she’d succeeded in avoiding thus far in her stay.

  Roth seemed to sense her trepidation. “My mother is a most gracious hostess; you need have no concern on this score.”

  His words didn’t diminish the butterflies in Maura’s stomach, but she felt grateful he’d tried.

  Taking his proffered arm, she climbed the steps leading to the arched oaken doors. They opened to reveal a wide hall pillared with colonnades and lined with potted palms and cordylines. The heady scent of orange blossoms drifted from the courtyard, open to the starry sky, beyond. Small clusters of guests, numbering perhaps a score, mingled in the flickering torchlight.

  With outstretched arms, the princess approached, then seized both of Maura’s hands warmly. “Lady Maura, I bid you welcome. I must confess when you first entered the room, I felt transported back in time. Princess Asmara was often a guest in this house, before she took her vows. You are very like her, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told, Your Highness.”

  “I must ask you about your exquisite gown.” Grindasa caressed its sleeve. “It’s rare to find such artful design on this isle.”

  Maura returned her smile. “It was sent to me by Princess Asmara. She has been most generous.”

  Grindasa’s fine eyebrows shot up. “You are indeed favored by our royals. The princess has granted you audience?”

  Maura shook her head. “No, Your Highness, she has not. But she’s taken a kind interest in my wardrobe.”

  “Clearly! No one at court has failed to note the splendor of your attire—as is befitting a daughter of the House of Konigur,” Grindasa added approvingly. She hooked her arm through Maura’s. “Come, my dear, and meet my other guests.” The princess cast Roth a fond smile. “Don’t worry, cuiero, the lady shall partner you at board.” And with a gay laugh, Grindasa led Maura away.