The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “Where would I find this fellow?”

  The sailor spat a stream of brown liquid to the ground. “Oh, I should think that it’s he who’ll find you,” he said cryptically, before turning on his heel and melting into the bustling crowd.

  Whit stared after him. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”

  His tutor frowned. “Nothing good, my lord. I think it’s best we return to our host. Perhaps the marquez’s inquiries have proved more fruitful.”

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Seor Luiz’s people had met with similar blank walls. The marquez did assure them over dinner that he had one man still waiting to report back, but though this news was clearly meant to be encouraging, Whit felt anything but. His earlier hopefulness had dissipated, leaving him with little appetite.

  The marquez mistook the reason for Whit’s barely touched plate. “I do hope you’ll forgive the simple fare,” he said. “Since the passing of my dear wife, I’ve fallen out of the habit of entertaining.”

  From her place opposite her father, Bel protested, “But I am here, Papa!”

  Seor Luiz turned tender eyes on his daughter. “Yes, of course, mia dulce.”

  Whit wondered why the child had not supped in her nursery, but he had to admit the young donita kept the conversation flowing. She listened attentively, and even offered her opinions as Seor Luiz detailed the political climate in Albrenia.

  “King Jorgev is heavily influenced by Seor de Grathiz,” their host explained. “The commander has promised to double both the empire and His Majesty’s personal wealth.”

  “It’s wrong of King Jorgev to trade in slaves so that he can pay for his war against Gral!” Bel declared hotly.

  “My child, you must not say such things. It isn’t wise to speak against our sovereign. Why don’t you go now and say goodnight to your birds?”

  Bel clapped her hands. “I have a most wonderful aviary!” she declared, turning to Whit. “Would you care to see it?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow, Ysabela,” said her father. “Tonight, our guests must rest and recover from their voyage.”

  Whit hid his smile behind his napkin at Bel’s fierce pout. He surprised himself by saying, “Actually, I’d like to see your collection. I heard some unusual bird calls earlier. Do you, by any chance, have a blue-cheeked brimthrush?”

  The storm brewing on Bel’s face instantly dispersed. “I do—a pair! Don’t they have the most delightful song? Please, Papa, let me take Seor Whit to see them!”

  The marquez threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I see I have no choice. If you are sure, my lord?”

  Whit laid his napkin aside. “Lead on, my lady.”

  * * *

  The menagerie was situated on the western side of the palazzo, near the servants’ quarters. “It’s so the birds don’t wake the household up with the dawn,” Bel explained. She had once again latched on to Whit’s hand as they walked between the tall wired cages. “My birds are all quite rare. That one there is a red-tailed coot. Over here is a pair of southern warblers. And these,” she said, pointing to several long-legged birds with glossy black feathers, “may be the last of the glistered ibises. They were hunted to near extinction for their plumes. I’m hoping some of them will breed here at Casa de Selaze.”

  “From whom did you learn so much about birds?”

  Bel opened one of the cages to toss in a handful of seed. “From my mamma,” she said, a wistful note creeping into her voice. “This was her aviary. Now I care for it.”

  “It’s a beautiful way to honor her memory.”

  “I know,” said Bel, which made him smile. She tugged his hand again. “Come and see the eagles! Papa says once I’m married, I must free all my birds, else my husband will become jealous of them.” She tossed her curls and looked up at him. “If I married you, you would let me keep them, wouldn’t you?”

  Whit strove to think of a polite response, but the girl flitted away before he could answer.

  “Would you like to feed the ducks?” she called over her shoulder.

  Whit found he was enjoying the company of this breathless child. He was almost regretful when, after viewing the brimthrushes, they heard her father calling for her.

  Seor Luiz and Cortenus had moved to the library, where the marquez had a small thimble of herbal liquor awaiting Whit. The stuff tasted like pine pitch, but his tutor praised its digestive qualities.

  Bel lingered beside Whit, unwilling to relinquish his attention. “If you listen, you might hear the brimthrushes tonight from your bed,” she said, leaning on the arm of his chair. “Crilla complains they keep her awake, but she just likes to grumble!”

  “Crilla?”

  “The child’s nurse,” said the marquez, nodding to a red-cheeked woman in a starched apron who had just slipped into the room. “Ysabela, it’s time for bed.”

  Following Bel’s unenthusiastic departure, the marquez offered them an excellent port that was much more to Whit’s taste. “And now,” said Seor Luiz, “I’m sure you’d like to hear how your father saved my life. It was during the campaign of 482, when Drinnglennin came to our aid against Gral in the border wars. In those days, the Isle’s ties were closer to Albrenia than to our difficult northern neighbors.

  That was before Albrenia vehemently rooted out magic in its realm, Whit thought, but aloud he said, “I knew my father had been on the continent at some point in time, but… in 482, he would have been only seventeen!”

  “Exactly! Around your age, I would venture to guess. Lord Jaxe may have been young, but even then, he had the build of a bull and wielded his axe with deadly accuracy—the gods be thanked! He felled a Gralian soldier who was attempting to separate my head from my shoulders.” The marquez sobered. “Alas, he suffered an injury for his efforts, and so I convinced him to come home with me to recuperate from his wounds.”

  Whit sat up straighter. “You mean my father was here? In your palazzo?”

  The marquez laughed. “Indeed he was, although it was my father’s palazzo at the time. Jaxe spent a fortnight with us before returning to his company. He even met Ysabela’s mother, who was a distant relative of mine. At the time, I worried she might prefer him to me.” He smiled at the memory. “I was not entirely sorry to see him leave, in the end.”

  “How serendipitous that my lord’s arrival came to your attention,” said Cortenus, holding his glass up to admire its tawny contents.

  “Indeed, master,” Seor Luiz agreed. “It seems the gods have willed it.”

  * * *

  Sleep eluded Whit for an interminable time that night. He tossed and turned, worrying about Halla. And he couldn’t call on his magic for distraction, for he had promised both Elvinor and Cortenus he wouldn’t use it on this side of the world. Finally, in the wee hours, from somewhere beyond the wall he heard Bel’s brimthrushes take up their night song. As he listened to their lilting warbles, his tense muscles gradually relaxed, and his mind quieted.

  Dark shapes scuttled through his dreams, in a variation of the same nightmare he’d had while traveling with Cressida. Once again he found himself running through tunnels, blasts of heat scorching his back, and every time he whirled around to face the source, whatever menaced him darted out of sight.

  Fighting off a tangle of bedclothes, he awoke in the blackness.

  For a moment he lay in bleary confusion, until he realized that the acrid smell coming through the open window was not part of his dream.

  Something was burning.

  He tugged on his boots and hastened to the courtyard. From there, he could see the source of the smoke; it was drifting up from the eastern side of the gardens. The palazzo itself was alight.

  “Fire!” he shouted. He raced toward the flickering shadows, repeating the cry.

  When he reached the burning wing, smoke was pluming from an open window on the second level. By now
a number of other voices had taken up his cry, but beneath them, from within the smoke, Whit heard another sound.

  A child’s sobs.

  He swung himself onto the balcony, pulled his tunic up over his nose, and dove into the searing cloud.

  Following Bel’s cries, Whit found her crouched on the center of her bed, her hands clenched at her breast and her eyes wide with fear. Blue flames surrounded her, feeding on the bed-hangings.

  Whit tore the burning fabric aside and beat at the fire—but to no effect.

  With a sharp breath of realization, he turned to the terrified child. “Bel,” he said, “open your hands.”

  She shook her head. “I promised Papa, on my mama’s immortal soul.”

  “I understand.” Whit knelt on the floor beside her. “But your secret is safe with me. I swear it on… on my heart.” He laid two fingers on his chest as he made the simple vow.

  Slowly, Bel uncurled her fists.

  A blue flame flickered in her palms.

  “Do you know how to quench it?” Whit asked.

  She nodded. “Usually. But when it jumped so fast I forgot.” A small sob escaped her.

  “I’m here now. It’s all right. Can you try again?”

  Bel closed her eyes and murmured softly. After a defiant moment, the ball of fire in her hands winked out. The girl’s eyelids fluttered, and she toppled over on her side.

  Whit lifted her still form and ran to the balcony. Below him, men were filling buckets and rushing about in confusion. “Here!” he cried. “Take the donita! I’ll deal with the fire!”

  A servant scrambled to the balcony just below, and Whit lowered the child to him before ducking back into the smoke-filled room. He yanked down the smoking remnants of the bed-hangings, but by now the fire had leapt to the curtains and on across the wooden beams. The whole wing would soon be engulfed.

  Unless Whit fought it with magic.

  There was no one here to see. But he’d never attempted the incantation to quell fire without his rod, and there was no time to retrieve it.

  He would just have to try.

  Centering his mind, he forced himself to fill his lungs with the harsh fumes, struggling against the overwhelming urge to cough.

  Thân fyn marlw, gwelwch yn dda!

  He held the words firmly in his mind, but the fire didn’t waver.

  With a sudden stroke of inspiration, he tried again—this time in Albrenian.

  Feur focau, stirus plauna!

  The fire roared like a wounded beast, then with a dull thud, all the air was sucked from the room with such force that it propelled Whit onto the balcony. Despite the agony in his chest that provoked a fit of coughing, he felt a surge of elation.

  He had succeeded in quelling the fire.

  The violence of his coughs forced him down onto the warm stone, where he curled on his side, gasping but triumphant. Remembering his lessons with Egydd, he rested his palms against his chest and thought of cool water, harnessing the elemental energy to ease the burning in his lungs.

  “My lord?” It was Cortenus, calling from the garden. “Where are you?”

  At first, Whit had no breath to answer. All his will was focused on drawing the last of the toxic gases from his body. When at last he could speak, he called back, “Here!”

  “Quickly, men! The ladder!”

  Then Cortenus clambered over the railing and dropped to Whit’s side.

  “I’m afraid I’ve done a bit of damage to Donita Bel’s décor,” Whit said with a weak grin.

  Cortenus sat back on his heels with a sigh of relief. “I’m certain the marquez will be forbearing.”

  Whit pushed himself up and looked down at his soot-smudged garment. “In that case, I guess it was worth ruining my best nightshirt.”

  The marquez’s agitated call drew them to the balcony’s railing. ““Lord Whit! Praise Velicus, you are spared! Pray come down so that I may properly express my gratitude to you for saving my beloved Ysabela.”

  Whit raised his eyebrows at Cortenus. “I assume this will involve more kissing,” he muttered. But he made his way down the ladder and succumbed to the marquez’s fervent embrace.

  Then Seor Luiz released him and said, “And now, I regret to inform you that you must leave my home at once.”

  * * *

  It turned out Seor Luiz’s motives for inviting Whit and Cortenus to enjoy his hospitality were not all that they had seemed.

  “I’m sorry to have to confess that I acted on the orders of Commander de Grathiz,” said the marquez, once they were seated behind closed doors. “I am telling you this, my lord, because one of your family has twice saved those of my house, which makes me doubly beholden to you. Seor Palan believes you to be potential enemies of the state, but now that I’ve made your acquaintance, I cannot accept this as truth. What is certain is that it isn’t safe for you here, nor anywhere in the capital. I understand you seek your cousin, but to save yourself from imprisonment or worse, you must leave at once.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Whit. “Why would I be considered a threat to Albrenian security?”

  “It was reported by the harbormaster that you wear the symbol of rebels,” Seor Luiz said, and his gaze fell on the crude ring on Whit’s finger.

  Whit laughed in disbelief. “What, this? It was given to me by… a friend.”

  The marquez’s expression remained grave. “Friends such as these are considered foes in Albrenia. There has been a series of minor uprisings in recent weeks, led by a renegade army of Lurkers.”

  “Lurkers?” echoed Whit. “I find that hard to believe. How would such rogues obtain arms?” Then he recalled his vision of Halla on the ship’s deck, between two swarthy captors, and comprehension dawned. “Are you saying they sell slaves in exchange for weapons?”

  The marquez nodded. “I won’t ask you how you come to know this, my lord, but even if you are somehow in league with these people, I cannot see you come to harm under my roof.” He paused, then seemed to come to some conclusion. “I must beg you—what transpired tonight… I mean with the fire… it will remain between us?”

  They both knew that if Bel’s use of magic should become known, it would be at the cost of her life. “Your daughter is in need of guidance,” Whit replied carefully, “and she will not find it in this land.”

  Seor Luiz’s shoulders slumped. “I know that on the Isle, there is tolerance for… her kind. But Bel is all that I have left in the world. I cannot bear to be parted from her.” He raised his eyes, which were filled with pleading. “Perhaps when she is older, I can send her to you at Cardenstowe?”

  Whit wondered if the marquez had somehow guessed how he had extinguished Bel’s fire.

  A scratch came at the door. “The horses are ready, Marquez,” came a call from without.

  Seor Luiz rose. “You must leave at once. In the morning, I am expecting the king’s guard at my gates to take you into custody.”

  “But where shall we go,” said Cortenus, “if we are to become wanted men throughout Albrenia?”

  The marquez lowered his voice. “I maintain a hospice for pilgrims at the Temple of Velicus in Altipa, about forty miles along the coast to the north. Palan will not think to look for you there. Once the furor over your disappearance dies down, you can arrange passage back to Drinnglennin. But you must leave right now, while there is still confusion in the household. It must appear that you slipped away after the fire.”

  “What about my cousin?” Whit asked.

  Seor Luiz dropped his gaze.

  Whit sprang to his feet. “You know something, don’t you?”

  The marquez sighed. “The girl you seek disappeared the day she arrived, three weeks ago. I swear I only learned of this tonight, after we parted.”

  The familiar vise renewed its grip on Whit’s stomach. “Take me at once to t
he man who brought you this news.”

  “He’s not here. I sent him out again to continue the search. Please—you must go! I promise to send word to Altipa if there’s any news of your cousin. There is one who dwells in that holy city who may be able to help you as well.”

  “Who?”

  “I am the patron of a hospice there. I have prepared a letter for you to bear to Dona Encertesa, the High Priestess of Velicus and spiritual leader of this sanctuary. She is an intermediary through which the god speaks. Perhaps Velicus will reveal to her your cousin’s whereabouts. In any event, I will request that you shelter with her until I too have exhausted all avenues to find Halla, after which you can make your passage home.”

  A commotion outside the door preceded a tearful Bel, who burst into the room and flung herself at Whit in a fierce embrace.

  “Take care,” Whit whispered quietly in her ear, though he knew it was glaringly inadequate advice. He prayed the child’s secret would remain just that, and that the household staff was more dedicated to the family than to their monters, who preached of the evils of sorcery.

  A flurry of short minutes later, laden with their belongings and armed with a letter of introduction Seor Luiz had hastily prepared for them, Whit and Cortenus were hurried to a back gate where horses awaited to carry them north. As they mounted, Whit couldn’t ignore a frisson of fear… and with good reason.

  He was about to put himself under the protection of a priestess—a devotee whose faith guided her to believe magic was the root of all evil.

  Chapter 30

  Whit’s disquiet was not dispelled by the sight of the tall spires of the Temple of Velicus rising above the plain. If not for the knowledge he possessed about Bel—knowledge that her father was desperate to keep secret—Whit would not have been willing to put his trust in Seor Luiz, and he and Cortenus would have followed their own path. But since the High Priestess might offer some way for them to trace Halla, they reluctantly plodded on to Altipa.

  The holy city sat high above the fertile land, perched on wind-shorn cliffs rising from the sea. In the shadow of blue mountains, herds of curra, an ancient breed of sheep prized for wool, meat, and a rich milk from which the famed zamura cheese was made, roamed and grazed on the rolling hills. Olive and orange groves, fig trees, vineyards, and fields of barley flourished, and Whit determined this must be a prosperous place.