by K. C. Julius
The king gasped in anguish. “I took her despite… her pleas… She… she hated me for it… I could see it in her eyes. And so the gods… the gods punished me by taking her from me. I… I lost her, my Georgiana… along with the babe… the babe she carried. Rather than endure my love-making… she threw herself into the moat… She killed herself!”
A great shudder wracked him, and he tossed his head wildly, his eyes wild with horror.
“Sire!” Morgan struggled to press the thrashing man back against the pillows. “You will do yourself a grave injury!”
“I wish to die!” Urlion sobbed. “Leave me!”
“My lord, listen to me. It’s possible the maid still lives.”
For a breath, lucidity returned to Urlion’s eyes. “What… what are you saying, Morgan? What cruelty is this?”
“She may have escaped downriver,” said the wizard. “There’s a rivulet that flows under Bodiaer into the Ortinoch. It runs to the sea at Meregate.”
“Meregate? I rode there… the day after Georgiana drowned. There had been a Helgrin attack… but no women remained in the ransacked town… The Helgrins had taken them all… captive in their raid.” A slow realization dawned in his eyes. “Morgan! Do you think—?”
He grasped the wizard’s tunic. “You must find them! I must… name this child my heir before… before… I swear by the Elementa, the child she carried is mine… born in lawful wedlock, and shall be my… rightful successor to the Einhorn Throne. You will bear witness, master! I command you!”
“Your Majesty—”
“Swear!” roared Urlion. “Swear you will find them!”
“How would I identify them, sire? Even if they live, as you said yourself, they disappeared over a decade ago. If Georgiana was taken by the Helgrins, she’s been living among them over the sea all this time. Helgrinia is a vast land.”
Urlion pressed his quivering chin to his chest. “Remove the chain,” he whispered. “Take it.”
Carefully, Morgan drew the silver chain from around the High King’s neck. Half a pendant dangled from it, in the shape of the head of a magical beast known to all Drinnglennin: an alphyn, sigil of the House of Konigur.
“I had it split on the day… the day Georgiana told me… she was with child. The other half was to be for… the babe, when it was born.” A thin line of spittle, mixed with blood, trailed from Urlion’s lips. “Tell me, Morgan… what does my marriage have to do… with my enchantment?”
“I’m not certain. Whom did you tell about this union, my lord? About your wife and the child she carried? Who else knew?”
“First you must swear…” He had begun to tremble, but his eyes remained fixed on Morgan’s face.
The wizard put his fist to his heart. “My lord king, I swear to find your queen and the child, should they live, and to support your wish that your legal offspring follow you on the Einhorn Throne of Drinnglennin.”
Urlion’s face was now the color of altar wax, and his shaking hand on the coverlet was bloodless. “May it come to pass,” he whispered.
“For the sake of the realm, my lord, you must tell me who else knew of this union.”
“Only her.” Urlion rasped. “She was… the only one I told.”
“Who?” demanded Morgan. “Georgiana?”
The High King’s answer was a long, ragged sigh.
In the stillness that followed, the wizard carefully crossed his sovereign’s hands across his chest. Urlion Konigur, High King of Drinnglennin, had made the final Leap.
* * *
Morgan was wending his way across the Grand Square when the death knell sounded from the Temple of the Elementa. He’d informed no one of the High King’s passing. He had known it would be discovered soon enough by one of the Tribus, and he couldn’t risk an encounter with whoever that was, for his anger was too great, his grief too raw.
Audric, Celaidra, and Selka would have to come to agreement on Urlion’s successor now, if they hadn’t already. And whoever they chose, Morgan had just sworn to oppose.
The wizard kept his hood low as all around him people spilled out onto the streets, some of them weeping, but most exuding an air of anticipation. An elderly gentlewoman passing by said, “Do you suppose the Princess Asmara will make the announcement? I’d dearly love to see her once more before I die.”
“She may well be our next queen,” replied the man at her elbow.
The old lady shook her head. “Nay, not Asmara. She gave up her birthright when she went into cloister.” She raised a spindly arm and pointed. “Look! Someone is on the Grand Balcony!”
All eyes lifted to the figure who stood above them. For a breath, Morgan thought it was indeed Urlion’s sister, but then he saw the woman was far too young to be the princess. The crowd fell silent as she slowly raised her dark hood of mourning to cover her unbound, rippling hair.
“It is my grievous duty,” she called, in a ringing voice, “to inform you that our High King, Urlion Konigur, is dead.”
Around Morgan, people sank to their knees.
“In the name of the Tribus, our lord’s successor has been selected,” the girl continued.
Clever of them, he thought, to choose Maura to make the announcement. He alone had remained standing, so that she might see him.
When she did, she extended her hand, as if reaching out for his help, before letting it fall to her side. Somewhere nearby, the Tribus would be listening, and perhaps watching.
Morgan drew back into the throng.
“Citizens of Drinnglennin,” Maura continued, “following Urlion Konigur’s burial, our new High King will be invested.”
She stepped aside, and a man with princely stature and golden hair took her place.
A cheer, at first ragged, swelled up from the crowd.
“Lord Roth!”
“Long live King Roth!”
The dashing young lord raised his hand as the people cried his name; his expression was one of restrained grief.
Morgan didn’t linger to hear his words of reassurance to his soon-to-be subjects. Instead he pressed through the crowd. He’d taken an oath, the last he would make to his king, and he intended to honor it, even knowing that if he succeeded in locating Urlion’s rightful heir, there would be grave consequences. Civil war was not out of the question. For once Roth of Nelvorboth ascended to the Einhorn Throne, only death would remove him.
With a heavy heart, Morgan made his way back to the Tilted Kilt, where he left instructions with Gilly. The old knight set them in motion immediately.
Morgan then gathered his few belongings and made for the river. The streets were quiet, as most people had returned home to air their mourning clothes for the royal funeral, but the taverns saw their usual fare, and at a seedy alehouse on Beekmouth Street, he found a bargeman who was willing to carry three passengers downriver to Wellberwick on the coast. From there, they could book passage north.
“How soon can we leave?”
Weighing the purse in his hand, the boatman replied, “We can leave now, if it please you, master.”
Morgan nodded. “As soon as the others arrive, then.”
The man touched his cap. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be waiting on my boat just yonder. She’s the Nelly.”
Morgan settled at a table with a view to the street, his hood drawn close. Before he’d finished his second ale, he saw a youth with a pack on his back standing outside. He went out at once to meet him.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” said Leif, as Morgan stepped across the threshold. “The streets around the castle are mobbed. Have you heard? They’ve named Lord Roth as Urlion’s successor.” He pulled a face. “I know I’ve sworn to—”
“Not here, Leif.” The wizard was already ushering the boy toward the docks. “Remember, no whisper—and yes, I’ve heard. Where’s Maura?”
Leif sho
ok his head. “She wouldn’t come. She said her duty was to Urlion’s heir, and that mine was too. But when I got your message, I came straight away.” He dropped his voice. “Master, there were Nelvorbothian guards in the street. I overheard one of them say they were looking for you.”
So—it had already begun. There was no time now to go back for Maura.
“Wait here,” Morgan said.
He crossed back to the tavern, where he obtained a quill and a grubby slip of paper. He scrawled a hurried line, then rejoined Leif.
Once they’d boarded the barge, the wizard gave a low, lilting whistle, and a bird with iridescent purple plumage fluttered down to alight on the railing. Morgan attached the twist of paper to the bird’s leg, then threw the creature aloft.
The boatman poled off, and the wizard led Leif to the tiny cabin. As soon as the door closed behind them, Leif released a barrage of questions.
“A few moments’ respite, lad, I beg of you,” said Morgan, holding up his hand. “It’s been a long, trying few days.” He stretched out upon the single narrow pallet. “Just a few minutes’ rest, and then I shall explain everything.”
Then the wizard closed his weary eyes and listened to the lap of the river against the hull, while the distant bells rang on.
* * *
When he arose some time later, Morgan found Leif perched on a barrel, watching the inky water slide past. No lights showed on either bank; they must have already traveled a fair distance from the Tor.
“How long did I sleep?”
“Half the night. The captain’s barely had to use his pole with the high water and the current running so strong.”
The wizard nodded his approval. “Generally, the river isn’t the fastest route, but for our purposes, it’s the most discreet, even if it cuts across Nelvorboth.”
“Where are we going, master?”
“In the end, across the sea. But first, we must make our way back to Mithralyn.”
Leif’s eyes blazed in anticipation. “Back to Rhiandra? I don’t wish to be parted from her again.”
Morgan looked out over the black water. “Perhaps you won’t need to be, lad. Rhiandra’s time of concealment is coming to a close. We have the future of the realm to secure… and we’ll need dragons to do it.”
Chapter 38
Borne
The day after Urlion made the Leap, a round ship slipped from Wellberwick on the ebbing tide. The Nelvorbothian harbormaster had tried, to no avail, to prevent its departure.
“I’ve orders from Princess Grindasa,” the surly man had insisted, even as the crew readied the craft. “No one sails until after the new king is invested.”
“Do you hear, men?” cried Sir Glinter. “If any of you are set atremble by the threat of Grindasa’s wrath, now’s the time to disembark.” When no one made a move, the knight turned his steely gaze on the harbormaster. “We sail with the tide,” he growled. “We’ll not see more favorable winds than these.” To Borne he muttered, “And I’ll be damned if that Albrenian bitch thinks she can call me to heel!”
And so the Balarin rolled out onto a grey sea shot through with laced peaks, then tacked away from shore as the brisk wind filled her sails.
Borne checked on Magnus, who’d been consigned belowdecks, then joined the crew in securing the riggings.
After a time working beside him, Ballard Tucker punched his shoulder. “Not bad for your first time aboard ship,” the Morlendellian observed. “But let’s see how you handle her dance.” He inclined his head toward Gavin Kenndrik, the youngest son of the lord of Tyrrencaster, who was retching his guts out over the ship’s railing.
“From the look of it, I’d say young Borne’s found his sea legs already,” said Glinter, stalking up behind them.
Borne grinned at the rust-bearded man. “The question is, will I keep them?”
As the morning passed, it seemed he would. He worked alongside the other forty-odd members of Glinter’s nascent company to ensure the ship’s deck was kept in order, and soon found a place beside Greyston, the Balarin’s captain, who agreed to instruct him in the art of navigation. “Since you say you’ve knowledge of the heavens, you’re halfway there already,” said the captain. “If you can decipher the stars, you can master any sea in the Known World.”
But ultimately, it was not a sailor’s, but a soldier’s life that lay ahead for Borne. Under Glinter’s leadership, these men, with Borne among them, were to join the loyalist force of Marechal Latour as mercenaries. The Gralian commander had convinced his king of the necessity of a professional army to quell the rebel knights who’d been ravaging Gral for the past decade, and he was always seeking recruits to swell his ranks.
Borne’s reasons for joining the company were straightforward. There was no longer anything in Drinnglennin to tie him to his past, and he had a desire to see the lands that until now he’d only read about. Glinter had welcomed him enthusiastically, assuring him that experience wasn’t required. “As I’ve said before, lad, you’ve got brains, brawn, skill with a sword, and I ken you’re a natural leader. We’ll have you trained up in no time.”
The winds remained favorable, and after six days at sea, they spotted land birds, prompting Glinter to call for all hands to assemble.
“Tomorrow we should arrive at the port of L’Asdies,” he announced over the buffeting wind. “You all know what you signed on for, but I expect some of you might find your new lives challenging. Most of you are used to giving orders, not taking them.” He paced the deck before them, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’ll have to get used to adhering to the customs of a foreign land, and for most of you, the routines of a new profession. You’ve skills to offer, else I wouldn’t have asked you to join me. As younger sons of great houses, you’ve been well trained in swordsmanship. All the same, few among you have sliced through the flesh and sinew of a living man, or felt the bite of steel. Facing down another gentleman across the lists is a far cry from soldiering, and the renegades of Gral won’t be wielding dulled blades.”
“I don’t care how sharp their swords are,” shouted Hew Damien, “as long as that’s all they try to stick me with!”
The men howled.
With a grin, the bandy-legged Palmadorian measured Borne with fluttering eyelids. “A great strapping lad like yourself is sure to draw attention.”
“Alas,” said Borne, “I’ve vowed to eschew all dalliances, what with fair Grendel carrying my heir back in Drinnkastel.”
Hew’s smile slipped, and he balled his fists. Everyone knew he was hopelessly besotted with Grendel, a delectable barmaid at the Tilted Kilt.
“A joke, Damien,” said Borne evenly.
“Aye,” declared Quesen, stepping between them, “and I can attest that young Borne here’s been living the life of a monter.” He shook his head in disapproval. “He’s not had so much as a whiff of a wench these past weeks, let alone left one ripening.”
“We’ll right that when we make landfall.” Sayar, one of the few seasoned soldiers among them, threw his arm around Borne’s shoulders. “Gralian women are like luscious plums, ready for plucking.”
“Aye, there’ll be the usual camp followers,” affirmed Glinter, who’d patiently tolerated this banter, “but be forewarned. Latour commands a highly disciplined army, and he’ll expect us to expend our energy on fighting, not whoring. His dedication to King Crenel borders on holy.”
“I imagine he’s dedicated to the riches it brings to Gral’s coffers to boot,” growled Kenndrik. “You said we’d be handsomely rewarded for our efforts on Crenel’s behalf.”
Glinter gave Kenndrik a stern look. “Aye, but I also said you’ll have to earn the right to fight for booty first. Before you reap any profits, prepare yourselves for six weeks of grueling training, spare victuals, and hard beds.”
“I’ll find someone to cushion mine,” murmured Sayar.
Glinter frowned. “You’ll do as you’re ordered. All of you. You can start by seeing to it that everything’s battened down. There’s a storm brewing.”
And indeed the sky had darkened. As the men dispersed to obey, Borne lingered. “Sir, if you could spare a moment?”
“What is it?” asked Glinter.
“It’s only—I wanted to clarify that I’m not from a noble house. Lord Heptorious is… was my guardian. My parents were coilhorn farmers in Bren, not far from Windend.”
“I see. Well, it makes no difference to me, and it better not to any of the others—we’re a military company now, in a fraternity as binding as blood ties. I’ll wager you’ll perform in the fray as well as any man. And in battle, that’s all that truly counts.”
* * *
That night, the breeze grew to a bluster, and when morning came, the sky remained dark, except when lightning illuminated the leaden clouds. They were plowing through heavy seas as the first drops pelted the deck of the Balarin, and the crew scrambled to heed Greyston’s brisk orders in preparation of running before the rising wind.
The captain signaled Borne over, then thrust a thin rope with a lead bob attached into his hands. Negbarth, the first mate, had shown Borne how to measure the depth of the sea, and now he was to put his new skills to the test.
In the ship’s rattle and the wind’s gust, the captain had to shout his instructions. “I’ll need Negbarth here with me at the helm! Do you remember how to use the lead?”
Borne nodded.
“Get to the chains then,” Greyston ordered, pointing to the small platform on the exterior of the hull, “and start calling out the depths. If we get caught in the eye of this storm, it could run us onto the reef before we know it. And for the gods’ sakes,” he shouted after Borne, “don’t get yourself washed overboard!”
The seas grew more turbulent by the second, and men slipped and staggered on the slick deck. The wind roared in Borne’s ears, the rain lashing against his upturned face as he noted the taut sails. He climbed down to the chains, then shackled himself to the rail and swung the line out off the Balarin’s hull. When it sank, he bellowed the depth, then hauled it up to swing it over his head once more. He doubted the captain could hear anything above the tumult of the gale, and knew he’d have to pay close heed to any sudden change in the readings.
