The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “Blasphemer!” roared the pilgrim beside him. “You dare to pray to pagan gods at the sacred wells of Velicus?”

  Too late, Whit realized his mistake. “No, seor! I mean—I meant no—”

  “Estrangiro! What are you doing here?” By now, heads were turning. Whit’s angry inquisitor made a grab for him, and Whit brought his staff up firmly under the man’s chin. Stunned, the man slumped against a fellow pilgrim.

  The time for stealth was now past. Whit charged through the circling men, wielding his staff before him until he had fought his way free of the press. Shouts rang out, followed by the crisp orders of the royal guardsmen calling for the people to make way. Cortenus was nowhere to be seen, but Whit found the stairs and leapt down them, three at a time, until he reached the beach, where the broad expanse of the sea spread before him.

  His brief hope of escape died when he saw his tutor was already there, surrounded by a band of scarlet-clad soldiers.

  Slowly, Whit raised his staff.

  “No, my lord!” Cortenus held his palms up in supplication. “Don’t, I beg you!”

  In the fraction of a second that Whit hesitated, drumming boots rang out on the stairs behind him, and his staff was wrenched from his hand and tossed to the sand. His arms were pulled roughly behind his back and bound.

  “Have a care how you handle this man!” Cortenus cried. “He is of noble birth, and should be accorded the honor of his rank!”

  The captain of the guard snorted. “He’s an estrangiro, and like you, he is charged with spying, sorcery, and blasphemy—crimes for which your lives are forfeit. You will be taken at once to the Torre de Cadeia to stand trial. I suggest you prepare your souls accordingly.”

  “What sort of trial is this, that condemns us before it has even begun?” Cortenus demanded.

  He received a fist to his face for an answer.

  In a fury, Whit lunged at the man who had struck his tutor. He succeeded in bringing a swift knee to the cur’s groin before a rain of blows beat him to the ground.

  “That’s enough!” barked the captain, after one of his men had dealt Whit a particularly vicious kick to the ribs. “We were instructed to take them alive.”

  Through a fog of pain, Whit wondered why that should matter, seeing as they were already condemned.

  * * *

  The captain’s instructions clearly did not call for his prisoners to be treated gently. Whit and Cortenus were lashed behind two horses and forced to trot down the beach after them or risk being dragged through the sand. Mercifully, the Torre de Cadeia—a tower that jutted over the sea on a spit of land—proved no great distance away. Still, when the horses were reined in, both men dropped to the ground, panting and drenched in sweat.

  A gut-wrenching climb followed before they reached the cell into which they were unceremoniously shoved. Whit eased his battered body gingerly to the floor and leaned back against the brick wall, but Cortenus stood at the door and called after the departing soldiers for water—to no avail.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” said Whit. “I don’t think there’ll be any concessions made for sorcerers and spies such as us.” He released a ragged sigh. “I’m sorry, master, that you must suffer this fate because of my stupidity.”

  Cortenus sank down by Whit’s side and, to Whit’s amazement, gave a small smile. “I would not be elsewhere, my lord.”

  Whit winced as he straightened his sore legs. “Oh, I imagine Elvinor’s library might be more to your liking. But let’s not despair yet. I’m certain I can come up with something to get us away from here. We’re already assumed guilty, so using magic can’t make it worse.”

  He didn’t mention that he was currently in no state to do much of anything. Calling his staff to his aid had been an incredible feat of magic, and now that all the excitement had died down, he could feel the toll the spell had taken on him, compounded by the effects of his beating. His vision was blurred and his head pounded. If he still had the Rod of Kuval, he might have been capable of conjuring up something to get them out of this place. But he’d lost it, and it felt like someone had cut off one of his limbs. If he somehow managed to summon the strength to try anything, he would have only one chance at success. Without the staff as a conduit, the magic would consume all he had left to give.

  Cortenus lifted his chin. “What do you suppose he’s being detained for?”

  Whit followed his gaze to the cell opposite theirs. Its occupant lay unmoving on a pallet in the corner, his face turned to the wall.

  “You there. Wake up,” Whit called.

  The man rolled over and sat up. “Fellow Drinnglennians,” he said, in their native tongue.

  “Indeed,” replied Cortenus. “How came you here?”

  The man pushed his matted black curls off his brow. “I was set upon by false friends in Palmador, who brought me over the sea to sell into slavery. My changed circumstances didn’t agree with me.”

  Whit straightened, ignoring the stab of pain in his ribs. “You came here on a slave ship? Was there a girl aboard? A tall girl with red hair?”

  The man stared blankly at him for a moment, then laughed. “There are no redheaded å Livåri. Anyway, any women taken were held separately. Why do you ask?”

  Whit answered with a question of his own. “So you’re saying it’s only Lurkers who are being stolen from our land?”

  The man scowled, then gave a curt nod. “We were taken while traveling south for the winter. Our abductors were å Livåri—may Flera feed their souls to the daemons—hired by Albrenian traders for their new, hungry market.”

  “Which is?”

  The man’s eyes ran over Whit’s shabby cloak. “Who might you be? And what is your crime?”

  “Stupidity,” said Whit. “I was overheard praying to the Elementa by the seven wells. And you, I take it, fled your owner.”

  The man smiled, as if Whit had said something amusing. “No, I didn’t flee. Didn’t need to. By the time I left the bastard, he was no longer capable of giving chase. I’m to be hanged for a number of charges—murder, unlawful confiscation of property, inciting revolution—take your pick— in the morning.” He smiled then and brought his hand to his heart. “I’m called Nicu.”

  Whit hesitated, then echoed the gesture. “Whit. And this is my tutor, Cortenus.”

  The Lurker raised his brow. “Your tutor? My, what fine company I’m keeping.” He gave them a mocking bow.

  “We’re all the same on the other side of the Leap,” said Cortenus.

  “Ah,” drawled Nicu, his smile wry. “Do you tell me?”

  Chapter 31

  Halla

  Halla was spared the humiliation of being stripped naked before a gawking crowd on the auction platform, but little else. After she’d seen her enslaved shipmates carted off, the captain dragged her from her cage and took her to a grubby market stall where a fat man with a white pillowed hat sat cross-legged on the carpet. The man took one look at Halla, set down his tea, and gestured for her sheath to be lifted to her waist.

  With a leer, the captain obliged. “He wants to be sure you’re a true redhead,” he murmured in her ear.

  Although Halla’s hands were bound, she still had use of her feet, and one of them connected painfully with the captain’s shin. She smirked as he bit off his cry of pain and did nothing to retaliate. Halla had guessed right; he couldn’t risk damaging the goods on the brink of a sale.

  Apparently satisfied with what he’d seen, the corpulent man grunted and tossed the captain a purse without even bothering to engage in the haggling Halla had witnessed at the auction. She felt a small satisfaction as the captain’s expression told her he’d set his asking price too low.

  The fat man clapped his hands, and two slaves appeared at the stall’s entrance bearing a traveling litter hung with crimson curtains. Halla’s stomach clenched at the sight of it, but s
he managed to bestow a knowing smile on the captain before she was bustled into the conveyance, where one of her ankles was fitted with a leather cuff chained to a sidepole. The screening curtains were drawn, and the fat man began barking orders. The litter was hoisted into the air, and Halla’s bearers padded off at a brisk pace.

  After testing the chain and finding it disappointingly solid, she peeked through the curtain. They were wending their way through a part of the bazaar where it seemed only men were gathered, sipping from tiny cups and seemingly haranguing one another. One of the men spied her and made a lewd gesture. She responded with the Five Fathers, an insult Bria had taught her, pointing her left index finger at the pursed fingers of her right hand as they swayed past. She grinned at the man’s shocked expression, but let the curtain drop when he lurched out of his seat, knocking over his chair.

  The litter slowed as they started to climb, and the pungent smells of the bazaar were replaced by the scent of orange blossoms. Halla stole another look to see high, pale walls rising to either side of the street, punctuated by fine wooden doors and grilled balconies hung with garlands of greenery. She allowed herself to hope that she was going to a noble house, where she might plead her case as a kidnap victim.

  Abruptly, the bearers stopped, and the litter was lowered to the ground before an elegant, dark-haired woman on the threshold of a charming villa. Halla’s foot was freed, and she stepped out of the conveyance.

  The woman addressed her in Drinn. “You’re thinking of running,” she said.

  It was true.

  “You can try, but all you’ll earn for your effort is a beating.”

  Halla followed her gaze to the guards, armed with cudgels, standing at opposite ends of the narrow lane.

  “Good,” said the woman, when Halla remained where she was. “It appears that along with beauty, you possess at least some degree of intelligence. Now, come in out of the sun; it’s already freckling that fair skin of yours.”

  Halla was encouraged by the woman’s civil speech in her own tongue.

  Her wrist bindings were removed, and she followed the woman into the cool shadows of a richly decorated sitting room, where she was directed to a chair. As the woman busied herself over a canister on the table, Halla had a moment to study her. The artful use of powder and rouge concealed lines around her mouth and eyes; she was older than she’d first appeared.

  “What is your name?” asked the woman.

  “Halla.”

  “Halla. Yes, that will do. You will call me Dona Soriana, Halla.” She held out a cup heaped with a creamy, pale substance. “A refreshment for you. It’s called sorbete.”

  Halla eyed it suspiciously, but her thirst forced her to accept it. It was ice cold, and tasted of lemon and sunlight. She tipped the cup back and drained it.

  “I see that it meets with your approval,” said the dona, “although one usually drinks sorbete slowly, so as to savor the experience.” She took Halla’s cup and refilled it. “It won’t do to look greedy in front of your seor.”

  Halla didn’t like the sound of that. “My seor?”

  “Come now. Surely you’re under no illusions as to why you’re here?”

  “I’ve been sold into slavery—I’ve not forgotten. Am I to serve you?”

  “‘Am I to serve you, dona,’” corrected the woman. “No, you are not. You’re here in my house to receive your training. Velicus has smiled upon you, Halla. You will serve a great lord of Albrenia—Seor Palan de Grathiz.”

  “In my land, unmarried ladies of gentle birth do not wait on men.” Halla raised her chin imperiously, ignoring her racing pulse. “Dona.”

  Dona Soriana folded her hands before her. “Perhaps not, but you are no longer in your land. You are in Albrenia, and you are a slave.”

  “I am the daughter of the late Lord Valen of Lorendale,” Halla protested, “and… and betrothed to the Lord of Cardenstowe.” She realized how desperate she was, to make mention of this. “I was kidnapped by slavers. My family will gladly pay to ransom me back.”

  “An inventive tale, but you’re wasting your breath. You’re the property of Seor de Grathiz now. It is for him to decide if he cares to investigate this unlikely claim. In any case, you needn’t worry. You won’t be required to do manual work. You shall have the honor of seeing to the seor’s personal needs, in the comfort of his boudoir.”

  As Halla was digesting this information, there was a scratch on the door.

  “Enter.”

  Dona Soriana did not look at the stunning, fair-haired young woman who stepped into the room, but the newcomer’s blue eyes raked over Halla from head to toe.

  “Kainja will guide you here at Casa Calida,” the dona said.

  “Quen, Dona Soriana?” the young woman asked, her voice pleading.

  Dona Soriana lifted her gaze, rebuke clear in her eyes. “You will speak Drinn with Halla, Kainja, until she has learned our fair tongue.”

  “Mai—”

  “In Drinn, Kainja,” commanded the dona.

  “It’s not fair, dona! Seor Palan is my padron! What does he want with an ignorant Isler?”

  Dona Soriana impassively delivered a sharp slap to Kainja’s cheek. “May I remind you that yours is not to question why? You will do this for me, and for Seor Palan!”

  Kainja’s eyes were locked on the fine silk carpet, her beautiful mouth set in a grudging line.

  With calm composure, Dona Soriana sank into a plush chair. “I chose you for this duty, Kainja, because you speak her language and you are the most accomplished florita of this house. You must see that this Isler does not remain ignorant. And should you refuse,” she added, “you’ll be turned out like a common puta for every low dog to take you against the wall.”

  She shifted her attention pointedly to Halla’s empty cup. “I see you’ve finished. You may rest now. Tomorrow you shall meet the other floritas and begin your lessons. Kainja will show you to your room.” Without deigning to look again at Kainja’s burning face, she ordered the young woman to see that a bath be prepared for Halla, and her supper sent up.

  “Yes, dona,” Kainja murmured.

  Dismissed with a flick of the dona’s fingers, Halla followed her reluctant guide through a series of empty parlors. In a high-ceilinged hall, they ascended a stairway to a second-floor interior balcony lined with doors on all four sides.

  Kainja stopped before one of the doors. “In here,” she said tersely, flinging it wide. Then she strode on to a room farther down the hall and slammed its door closed behind her.

  Left alone, Halla stepped into her room. It held a dressing table, a chair, a narrow wardrobe, and a wide bed, hung with a red silk canopy and curtains. Behind a screen she found a small wooden tub padded with cloth. There was one window, which was barred.

  “For you, dona,” said a small voice behind her.

  She turned to see a child, a red birthmark spread over half her face, standing in the doorway. She held two steaming pails of water, one in each hand.

  “Let me help you,” said Halla, taking one of the buckets. “You speak Drinn?”

  The girl nodded shyly.

  They emptied both buckets into the tub, and Halla eyed the resulting few inches of water.

  “I’ll fetch more,” said the girl.

  Halla smiled. “No need. I’ll make do with this.”

  “Are you sure?” The girl looked frightened. “The other floritas always insist I fill the tub.”

  “I’m sure.”

  The girl went to the cupboard and brought out a robe and a towel.

  Halla realized the child expected to stay. “You can go,” she said. “I’ve been bathing myself for years.”

  The girl bit her lip. “Dona Soriana won’t like it.”

  Halla didn’t care what the dona did or didn’t like, but she suspected she would only cause trouble for t
he girl if she sent her away. “I see. In that case, why don’t you sit over there and keep me company?”

  “Thank you, dona.” The girl remained standing.

  Halla drew her sheath over her head, stepped behind the screen, and lowered herself into the tepid water. She was surprised to find a scented soap, until she remembered what sort of place she’d been brought to. The seors would want their merchandise to be fragrant. Despite the warmth of the room, Halla shivered.

  A man’s sudden laugh out in the corridor made her heart bump, but the sound of footsteps passed and receded. To calm herself, she attempted to strike up a conversation with the girl.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Yenega, dona.”

  “And how long have you been here, Yenega, at… what is this place called?”

  “All my life, dona, and this is the Casa Calida.” There was a note of pride in the girl’s voice. “Surely the dona knows of it?”

  Halla slid down in the tub in an attempt to wet her hair. She had to kick her long legs over the sides before she could submerge even a fraction of her head; the bath was too small for her tall frame. She used her hands as scoops to little effect, then stood, water runneling down her body. “Can you hand me the towel, please, Yenega?”

  “You’re finished, dona?” Yenega darted around the screen, her eyes wide. “Most of the floritas spend at least an hour bathing!”

  Halla rubbed herself dry, then wrapped the towel around her head. “I’m no florita, Yenega. You can call me Halla.” She slipped on the robe, savoring its softness after the rough sacking of her slave sheath. Then she inspected the wardrobe, only to find it was empty. If she were to make her escape, she’d have to do something about that.

  She would start by befriending this child.