by K. C. Julius
A bitter laugh escaped him. “Why? Are you expecting them to take you in, in her place?”
“Your mother—”
“Is dead!” Fynn shouted, not caring who heard him. “My father will find her on the ground where I left her, if the dogs don’t get to her first!” He started for the door. “I’m going back.”
But although he banged his fists against the wood until they were bruised, no one came.
When at last he slid to the floor, Teca dropped to his side. They sat together in silence, listening to drums being rolled across the deck and the shout of orders.
“You swore by all the gods that my father was Drinnglennian,” Fynn said accusingly. “You’ve cursed yourself with this false oath.”
Teca released a soft sigh. “I did what your mother asked of me, Fynn. I am as heartsick as you are over her death. I’ve known and loved her all my life. I was born in her household in Thraven.”
Despite Fynn’s anger, Teca had gotten his attention. “Are you of her family?”
Teca unfastened the iron collar from around her neck, and set it on her lap. “No, we weren’t related. My parents were in service to your grandparents. When my mother was stricken with the plague, she was sent away, and my father went with her. They never returned. I was eight years old at the time.
“I was only kept on at Thraven because of your mother, who begged that I be allowed to serve as her maid. I didn’t know how to do anything useful—dress her hair or attend to her wardrobe. My parents had worked in the kitchen, you see. But your mother was patient and kind, and she didn’t mind when I made mistakes.”
Fynn felt the pain of his loss, of their loss, surge over him. It was so like his mother to help an orphaned child.
“In the early days,” continued Teca, “when I missed my parents and cried in the night, Jana comforted me, and even let me sleep in her bed, although we both would have been punished if we’d been found out. Once my grief lessened, she had grown used to my company, so I slept on a pallet beside her bed. I would have done anything she asked, so much did I love her.”
She looked down at the collar in her hands. “But then, everyone did.”
“Tell me about her,” Fynn said softly. “In those days.”
Teca brushed aside the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Your mother was an only child, born to your grandparents late in life. Oh, how they doted on her! I guess they saw that my companionship made her happy, so I was always with her. She taught me to ride, and my best memories are of the two of us racing on the beach, the spray of the sea rising around us. Your mother took the place of my parents, and more. She was my sister and my friend. She was my family.”
Fynn wondered why his mother had never told him any of this. Looking at Teca, he could imagine how they might have been taken for sisters, both of them with blue eyes and black hair, although Teca’s was cropped short.
“I went with her that day,” Teca said, “when she left Bodiaer. We took a little skiff that was tied up in one of the tunnels that ran beneath the castle down the river to Meregate. I’m not sure she knew that was where the current would take us. But cruel fate delivered us into a Helgrin raid. Jana got me out of the boat and told me to hide. When I saw her marching out into the mayhem, I was certain she wished to die. I knew she’d been crazed with misery over something for weeks, and had even barred me from her bedchamber.
“When one of the Helgrins seized her, I knew I couldn’t let her go away to an unknown world without me, so I ran to her and clung to her skirts. I was with her when she was brought to Aetheor, and she begged him to let me stay with her.”
“Wait—” Fynn shook his head to clear it. “She offered herself to my father’s men? But why?”
Teca leaned back and rested her head against the wall. “At the time, it was beyond my understanding as well.”
“And you became a thrall to stay with her?”
Teca nodded. “I don’t regret anything, except that I wasn’t with her when that bitch Wylda came for her. That, and… Otkell.”
Fynn pushed himself around to face her, then brushed a tear from her cheek. “You were a true friend to her, Teca.” He wondered if he would have been as brave.
Teca bent and rested her cheek against his. It made his heart twist, for it was something his mother would have done. Clinging together, they gave themselves over to their grief—for Jana, and for all they had lost.
* * *
Fynn became aware of the turning tide when the ship began to pitch. Teca lay curled against him, her breathing slow and even. Rising carefully so as not to wake her, he pushed open the porthole for a last glimpse of Restaria, but there was nothing to see but black water. The smell of charred wood was heavy on the air.
They were under sail. Fynn wasn’t sure how far west Drinnglennin lay, but if these conditions held, he expected it would be a swift journey.
He found a candle and lit it, sending a warm glow over the pale wood and brass fixtures of Vetch’s finely appointed cabin. A black and silver banner emblazoned with a black panther rampant hung above the low door. His mother had taught him much about the kingdoms of Drinnglennin, and he recognized it at once as the Nelvorboth standard.
What he didn’t know was why his pendant had so unsettled the commander.
He drew it out from beneath his tunic and brought it close to the candle’s light. Something about this strange creature had caused Lord Vetch to spare Fynn’s life. What did it signify? And where had Mamma gotten it?
Teca had said it belonged to his father, from whom he’d parted in disgrace. Fynn wondered if he’d ever see him again.
“Forgive me, Papa,” he whispered, his throat thick with unshed tears, “for failing you, in so many ways.”
Chapter 35
The Dragons
At the top of the world, Belestar’s cliffs jutted into the icy Frysten Sea. There was a time when huge mammoths ranged here, kings of the tundra subsisting on fungi, spores, and when necessary, their own dung. In those days, Belestar was a favored hunting ground of the sea-faring Helgrins. But their expeditions ended with the passing of the Age of Before.
That was when the dragons came, with their own rare magic.
Now ceaseless storms roiled the seas encircling the isolated isle, making it impossible to discern where the titanic fields of ice shards lurked, waiting to pierce an errant ship’s hull. Only wildfowl came and went, dominating the landscape in the brief spring and summer, flocking in the millions to Belestar’s shores to breed and bear their young, and to feed on the rich, rosy krill that teemed in the surrounding waters. The arktos, the great bears of the north, and the long-toothed hrossvals, prized for their dense glossy pelts and their slender tusks, fed on the birds and their eggs.
The dragons feasted on them all.
When it grew cold, the birds winged south. Such was the case now. Although summer still lingered in Drinnglennin, Belestar’s fleeting autumn was already over, and the first snow covered the frozen ground. Still, the hunting was good, and as Zal sailed over the western coast, he spotted colonies of hrossvals crowding the icy shoreline like fields of grey boulders. Dropping like a stone, he made a kill. The meat was tender and sweet, for he’d taken a pregnant cow.
At the sound of approaching wingbeats, he raised his bloody muzzle from the seal’s belly. Aed and Gryffyn circled above, the larger dragon a crimson gash against the grim sky.
“Do you not hunt?” Zal asked, after they’d descended to the beach in a flurry of snow. He buried his snout once more in the carcass, sinking his fangs into the cow’s liver, succulent and rich with blood.
“We would speak with you,” said Aed. “Without the others.”
Zal jerked the seal’s warm heart from its barreled chest and swallowed it whole. “Speak,” he growled.
Aed lifted his snout and inhaled deeply. “Do you smell it? The winds from the ea
st bear the scent of deep winter. It will be fast upon us, and Belestar will be locked in a frozen sea.”
“It is always so in winter,” said Zal. He prodded the remains of his meal into the lapping waves, and the water pinked with blood.
Aed made a low rumble in his throat. “But this year, we won’t be here to suffer it. We wish to return south and escape the brutal cold.”
Zal jerked his head up. “What are you planning?”
Aed narrowed his claret eyes. “Ilyria and Rhiandra have betrayed us. We all agreed to remain isolated from the Known World, yet they chose to seek new bindings. If they have accomplished this, why have they not returned as they promised?”
“They never meant to return,” snarled Gryffyn. “We must exact justice.”
“More than this, without Ilyria, we cannot see ahead,” said Aed. “And we fear for our survival.”
Zal flapped his great black wings in agitation, a dark plume of smoke rising from his flared nostrils. “You speak truly. Our sisters chose to ignore the lessons of the past, to disregard all that we learned at the close of the Age of Before. We bind at our peril!”
“We three are agreed on this,” said Gryffyn. “But of the rest of our siblings, only Syrene shares our urgency to rid the world of the scourge of man. And unless we all concur on this course of action, we are doomed.”
“We must find a way to sway them,” Aed affirmed.
Zal’s breath was tinged with red. “What do you have in mind?”
“We believe that one of us must go forth. We believe it should be you.”
Zal’s silver eyes blazed. “Alone? To do what? Seek a binding?”
Aed snorted. “We know this is not your preference.” He lowered his snout until it was nearly touching the black dragon’s own. “We want you to find our sisters. Then you will return to Belestar to convey the news of their passing from the world.”
Zal recoiled in shock. “They are dead? Did Una discern this in a dream? If so, it is not conclusive. Her visions don’t foretell what is, but rather what might be.”
“There was no dream, brother,” said Aed. “We have no new knowledge of what has become of Ilyria and Rhiandra.”
“But what of their deaths?” said Zal. “You said—”
“Ilyria and Rhiandra still live. But by the time you are back, they will have passed from the world.”
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
“You are saying you want me to slay our sisters,” hissed Zal. “Dragon against dragon? This is against the most essential law of our kind.”
“No dragon’s blood will stain your talons, or those of any other dragon,” Aed assured him. “You need only lure our sisters out of the sanctuary in which they shelter. We will follow you, unbeknownst to the others, and devise a trap for them. After that, they will be left to their fate. The humans won’t suffer them to live.”
“And how can you be sure of this?” Zal demanded.
It was Gryffyn who answered, in his low growl. “On our way south, we shall see that mankind is reminded of the terror and havoc dragons are capable of wreaking.”
“Our sisters’ dragonfast will seek to protect them,” Zal protested. But already his blood warmed to the possibilities.
“Not if their dragonfast have already perished,” said Aed.
“The others will question why I am leaving Belestar,” Zal said. But in so doing he knew that his choice had been made. No matter what Isolde and the rest thought, he would go.
“Not if it is they who send you.” Aed showed his razor-sharp teeth. “I will call a drakmøøt. We need not change our stance. But if you offer to seek Ilyria’s and Rhiandra’s formal word on the subject, and vow to be bound by the majority decision thereafter, we think they will be eager for you to go.”
Zal frowned. “By choosing to bind, Ilyria and Rhiandra have clearly demonstrated their positions.”
“Nevertheless,” said Gryffyn, his voice smooth as dark silk, “their votes must be solicited. And when our siblings learn that our sisters have perished at the hands of men, along with their bindlings, it will take little to convince them that the time has come to end mankind’s dominion over the Known World.”
“It will be a terrible sacrifice,” said Aed, feigning sorrow, “but for the preservation of our kind, there will be no other recourse. And you, brother, will be praised for all eternity as the savior of our race.” He made a low bow to the black dragon, and Gryffyn followed suit. “Are you with us?”
Zal basked in the glow of their honor. It was a sensation he had forgotten over these long centuries of skulking in this gods-forsaken wasteland.
In answer, the black drake raised his massive head and roared into the bitter sky.
Chapter 36
Morgan
Since leaving Mithralyn, Morgan had kept abreast of news from the wider world through his network of informants. He knew that Urlion had finally released his vassals to return to their homelands, but had yet to name an heir. He knew that Whit and Princess Grindasa’s admiral were both at sea, the former in search of Halla, the latter bent on avenging purported Helgrin attacks on Drinnglennin’s east coast. And his travels through the southern realms in search of Santiman had confirmed the reports of the missing å Livåri—their absence giving credence to the rumor that they were being rounded up and shipped abroad into slavery. It was this context that made the disappearance of his most valued informant, Nicu, most troubling indeed.
But troubled or not, Morgan could not spare the time to investigate further. His first charge remained the same: to discover who had bewitched Urlion Konigur, for this foul deed held repercussions for all the realm.
An unplanned stopover on the north side of the Kerl River proved to be a stroke of luck with regard to this endeavor. The river’s only ferry had been swept downstream in the recent floodwaters, forcing Morgan to spend a night with two other travelers who were likewise stranded. One of them, a retired soldier, said he knew of a Santiman family in Collamore, half a day’s journey upriver from Sinarium. So as soon as the ferry had been towed back upstream, Morgan crossed over and made his way directly to the small fishing village, which proved indeed to be the home of the High King’s former Master of Hounds.
But it was there that the wizard’s luck waned. Santiman had died the previous year.
His widow, Mistress Vera, broke this news after welcoming Morgan to their comfortable manor home. She must have seen the disappointment on his face, for she pressed him to stay the night. Morgan accepted the invitation. Not only was he weary to the bone, it was clear Vestor’s widow was lonely and longed to speak of her departed husband.
“It’s good to know our High King remembers my Vestor’s years of service to him,” Mistress Vera said after sharing a quiet evening meal with the wizard, and Morgan didn’t have the heart to tell her that Urlion had nothing to do with his visit. “My husband returned to me a broken shell of a man, Master Morgan,” she confessed, “and rarely spoke. But even so, he’d have stayed up to record your visit here in his journal. He was ever a one for putting everything down while it was fresh in his mind, my Vestor.” Her smile was bittersweet. “He wasn’t addled, you know. Not like they said up at Wellmont. Oh yes, I knew about that.”
Morgan shook his head in sympathy. “Wagging tongues are often as not just fanning hot air.”
Mistress Vera smiled. “That’s true. I suppose you know better than most how fleet-footed a lie can be.” She put her hand to her mouth and flushed. “I hope I haven’t overstepped by saying so.”
Morgan gave her a reassuring smile. He’d mastered his feelings over the Alithineum fire tale years ago. “Not at all, mistress.”
The old lady took up the thread of her thoughts. “After Vestor got back from the Brink of Terfyn, his journal entries were just as lucid as when he was a young man. I know, because I peeked into his journals now an
d then.” She blushed at the memory of this gentle transgression. “He never shared them with me, but I don’t think he would have minded if he’d known I’d done it. He was proud as a cock that he could read and write. Self-taught he was, and he taught me too. Of course, he only wrote about the farm in the later days—how many sheep he’d taken to market, how much wheat had been put up for the winter, that sort of thing. But it reassured me to know my Vestor—the man I married—was still there, even if he’d gone quiet on me.”
Morgan set aside his pipe with a studied nonchalance. “Whatever became of these journals?”
Mistress Vera rose and went to a corner cupboard. Morgan followed her and raised a candle to illuminate its contents. Rows upon rows of slim journals lined its shelves.
“May I?”
“I wouldn’t have shown you otherwise. Were Vestor here, I’m certain he wouldn’t begrudge you a look.”
Master Morgan selected several volumes to peruse. On the first page of each, a date was written in a firm, bold hand.
“Would you mind if I read a bit…?”
Mistress Vera smiled. “You’re curious about something. I can see it. Well, if the answers you seek are in my Vestor’s journals, he’d want you to find them there. He was ever in service to his king.”
Santiman’s widow left the wizard and retired for the night.
It didn’t take Morgan long to find the journal he needed; Santiman had been orderly man. In the last volume he had recorded while in Urlion’s service, he detailed Urlion’s final procession from the spring of 492 until wintertide in 493. The next volume on the shelf began five years later, after he’d returned home from the Brink of Terfyn.
When Morgan said his farewells to Mistress Vera the next morning, a copy of the procession itinerary was tucked deep in his pocket.
* * *
Retracing Urlion’s steps led the wizard to Lauwston Castle, which overlooked the ancient city of Sinarium. During that long-ago summer, the High King had passed a fortnight there. But when Morgan learned that Lauwston’s current occupant, Lord Howhell, hadn’t even been born at the time, he moved on.
