by K. C. Julius
Leif crossed his arms over his chest. “Then it stands to reason that I am bound to go with you.”
“To Belestar?” Rhiandra snorted. “It’s out of the question! Some of my siblings feel almost as averse to humans as they do to wizards.”
“What about elves?” Leif countered.
Rhiandra eyed him thoughtfully. “It’s true that elves and dragons have a long and mutually respectful history,” she conceded. “Perhaps if you came as your father’s envoy…”
Leif leapt to his feet. “I’ll seek his permission to do so at once! That way we can go directly after we return from Helgrinia.”
“You would do this for me?”
“I would do this for you and all the dragons,” Leif proclaimed stoutly. “I have no intention of relinquishing my binding with you so soon.”
He nearly leapt out of his skin when Rhiandra released a startling blast of fire skyward. “Nor I mine with you,” the dragoness growled. “All the same, these are precarious times, and the future of both dragons and men hangs in the balance. Fetch the wizard. We depart at once.”
Chapter 40
Maura
Maura was granted her wish to spend a solitary night with her uncle in the temple. She hadn’t expected to feel such grief for a man she’d known only a few months, but the late king had shown her kindness—and a deep gratitude for her presence in his final days. Through the father she had never known, she was bound to Urlion Konigur by blood, as surely as she was to Ilyria, which meant that Urlion had been, save for Maura’s mother and the reclusive Princess Asmara, the last of her kin.
She told herself this was a determining factor in her refusal to answer Master Morgan’s summons. She couldn’t just disappear from the capital before Urlion was laid to rest, not at this time of transition. That could easily be misconstrued as an objection to the late king’s successor.
Leif, however, had vehemently disagreed with her reasoning, and it saddened her that they had parted in discord.
“I don’t think this is about Urlion at all!” her friend had declared. “It’s Roth you’re staying for.”
“I’m staying to see this through!” she protested. “Have you forgotten the oaths we took? When will there be a more pressing time to stand by the one true king than this? Surely Master Morgan will support my decision.”
“He won’t!” Leif cried. “His message was clear—we’re to leave Drinnkastel at once. It was Master Morgan who swore us to the heir’s service; he must have good reason for us to return at once to Mithralyn.” He hoisted his pack to his shoulder. “There’s still time to come to your senses.”
The hurt in his eyes when she remained silent pained her, but not as much as his last words. “Don’t worry,” he threw back at her from the door, “I’ll tell Ilyria you’ve forged new and more important bonds.”
Now sitting vigil in the vast Elementa Temple, Maura confronted her decision. The truth was, she had stayed for Roth, in part—and she told herself it was because he was the heir she had sworn to protect.
A rustle in the aisle broke her train of thought. Two heavily shrouded figures had settled themselves in the first pew. How had these people managed a way in? The doors of the temple would not be opened to the citizenry of Drinnkastel until the service at the ninth hour. Maura willed them to hurry with their prayers and be gone; she resented their intrusion upon these final private hours with her uncle.
Before her, Urlion lay in his casket; he looked diminished, as though he’d starved in his last days. She sorely regretted leaving him the day of his passing to go riding with Roth and his cousins, even though Urlion had been happy to excuse her. “It pleases me that you and the young lord of Nelvor are keeping company,” he’d assured her. “He’s of a great house, and there may come a time when you’ll need powerful friends.”
She had seized that opportunity to ask her uncle if she might bring Roth to visit him, and she had been wholly unprepared for the vehemence of his refusal.
“Not you, too!” he thundered, nearly causing her to drop the goblet she’d filled for him. Seeing her distress, he modulated his tone slightly. “I’ve seen Lord Nelvor often enough these past days, both in the hall and at the Twyrn.”
Now it was too late, for both sire and son. Though Roth was to succeed Urlion, he would never have the chance to really know his father as he’d wished to.
She wondered once more what her uncle had meant about her needing powerful friends. In his last days, Urlion seemed to have forgotten that she was of the dragonfast, and she took care not to remind him, for fear that in his less lucid moments he might let it slip to someone. She was content to have him think of her as a long-lost and loving niece to whom he could turn for companionship and comfort. In this, at least, she felt she had not failed him.
The temple bells chimed, signaling that their doors would soon open to the public. Maura rose, whispered her final farewell to Urlion Konigur, and dropped into a deep, reverent curtsey. Then she drew her black mourning veil over her face and turned to go.
As she swept by the intruders, they turned their own veiled faces toward her, and one of them made a strange, sharp sound. It was not a sob of grief—indeed, it was almost… triumphant—and as Maura passed through the high arched temple doors, the incongruous cry yet echoed in her mind. Despite the late summer warmth, she felt a chill run up her spine.
Her carriage awaited, and she distractedly accepted the groom’s hand and climbed into its refuge. Twice on her way back to the castle she sat forward momentarily, intending to instruct the driver to turn back so that she could confront the strangers in the temple—but each time she hesitated. Great men attract fierce enemies, she recalled Master Morgan saying. Urlion had held the Einhorn Throne for nearly half a century, and it was judged by some he’d ruled with an imperious hand. He was bound to have trodden on a few boots in his day. Still, it seemed outrageous that one of his enemies had found their way into the temple this morning.
Back in her chamber, Maura dropped on her bed, too tired even to remove her mourning dress. But sleep was forestalled by an incessant tapping at her window and she opened her eyes to see a sleek, purple bird perched on its sill.
“Go away!” she grumbled.
But the bird merely cocked its head and resumed rapping its beak upon the glass.
With a sigh, Maura rose and flung open the casement. To her surprise, instead of swooping away, the creature merely fluttered up, then settled back into its spot on the sill.
It was then that Maura noticed the thin scroll of paper attached to its leg. Making soft reassuring sounds, she removed it. The bird immediately wheeled away.
The message was without salutation, written in a bold hand.
We are sorry to depart the capital without you. I will be unable to return to Drinnkastel at any time soon, but if you wish to leave, send word through the publican Gilly at the Tilted Kilt on Holder’s Lane. Other than him, trust no one and nothing, except for your best instincts.
M.
Maura tore the scrap of paper into tiny pieces before letting them drift like petals to the gardens below.
She wondered if her decision to stay was indeed what her heart instructed her to do. She missed Ilyria with a fierceness that could not be measured, yet she had elected not to return to the dragon. I will, she promised herself, once I’ve seen my uncle buried with the proper honors—and once I have witnessed a smooth transition to his successor.
A week longer in Drinnkastel would surely make no difference.
* * *
The next time a tapping woke her, it came from outside her door. A solicitous Heulwin entered, insisting Maura change her wrinkled garments and take some sustenance.
“From Lord Roth, my lady,” said Heulwin, setting before her a silver salver holding a letter. “His man left it just now.”
With trepidation, Maura broke the missive�
��s seal and scanned its contents.
“Is it bad news, m’lady?”
Maura realized she was frowning. “No—at least, not really. Lord Roth has asked me to accompany him and his mother to my uncle’s funeral services. I suppose I can’t refuse.” She looked at her discarded gown, lying in a rumpled heap on the floor. “Have I another black dress?”
Heulwin bustled to the wardrobe to reveal a row of dark gowns. “Llwella came with these last night, after you’d gone to your vigil. The princess sent her over with them, along with her condolences.”
“So many of them?” Maura ran her hand over the costly gowns. “It’s almost as if…”
Heulwin appeared not to have heard. “This one, my lady?” She held up an ebony gown with buttons of moonstone.
Maura gave a slight nod, and the maid began to open the buttons.
What Maura had been about to say was that it almost seemed as if Asmara had been anticipating Urlion’s death. Of course, her brother had been ill for so long; she had likely been prepared for this moment for years.
“I must send my thanks to the princess,” she said, “along with my sympathies. After all, Urlion was her brother—she must be deeply grieved.”
“I expect so,” murmured Heulwin, but she looked doubtful.
“Heulwin,” Maura said firmly, “you’ve been working with Llwella for some time now. You must have learned something about Asmara and King Urlion’s estrangement. Is it because of the princess’s vows and her withdrawal from the world? Or did Asmara and Urlion have a falling-out before that?”
“It’s not my place to know, m’lady,” said the maid, laying the dress on the bed. But from her expression, Maura sensed she’d hit close to the mark.
“Not your place to know, or to say? Heulwin?”
Heulwin reluctantly met her gaze, and Maura saw the maid’s resolve weakening.
“Perhaps if I knew,” Maura urged, “I might be able to reach out to Asmara.” She didn’t have to pretend to make her voice catch. “She’s… she’s all the family I have left in the world.”
Heulwin chewed her lip, clearly torn as to where her duty lay. “I don’t know much.”
Maura nodded encouragingly. “Whatever you do know still might help.” She sat on her bed and patted a spot next to her.
“Well,” the maid confided, sinking down beside Maura, “Llwella’s never told me anything, but those who’ve been long in service here say there was always bad blood between the High King and the princess. Seems they never got on—even as children. It caused a right royal rift though, when Urlion proposed to marry Asmara off as soon as she flowered. The princess was having none of it, and that’s why she chose to take her vows.”
Maura recalled the lengths to which Halla had been prepared to go in order to avoid marrying Whit. “Did she object to the proposed husband?”
“It wasn’t even that. She didn’t want to marry anyone,” said Heulwin, warming to her tale. “And once she was pledged to the goddesses, there was naught the High King could do.”
Maura frowned. “But even so, that doesn’t account for Asmara hiding herself away here in the castle. Maidens dedicated to the goddesses live together in the sanctuaries and have the comfort of one another’s company.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Heulwin, rising to her feet. Her eyes had taken on an anxious glint.
Maura sensed she would get nothing more out of the young woman. She smiled in an attempt to reassure her. “Thank you, Heulwin. You prove yourself more valuable to me every day. You needn’t fear I’ll repeat what you’ve shared.”
Heulwin nodded, and the furrows in her brow eased. Then she cocked her head and clucked like a hen. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but your hair looks fit for naught but nestlings.”
Maura looked into the mirror across the room. Her hair was indeed in extreme disarray. “Oh, dear. It appears I could accommodate an entire brood. And I’m expected at the temple in less than two hours’ time.”
Back on safe ground, Heulwin drew Maura across the room. “Just sit yourself down before the glass,” she directed, “and leave it to me, m’lady.” Her fingers flew as she began to plait Maura’s hair.
Maura barely registered her reflection in the mirror. She was wrapped in her own thoughts. Why had Asmara cloistered herself in the castle—was she hiding from something? Or someone? Maura sensed keenly that it was important to know, and she pondered how she might establish a connection with the elusive princess to find the answer.
* * *
Maura was seated between Roth and the Princess Grindasa in the temple’s nave; she was glad they were in the first pew so she didn’t have to endure the speculative attention that had followed them down the aisle. The royal gallery above remained empty, for the new king would not occupy it until after his investiture in the coming week. Urlion lay in state before the congregation, clothed in white and adorned with jewels, his sword, Lámbrennen, resting unsheathed at his side.
Maura closed her eyes as the funeral rites were chanted, but forced them open again when she realized she was drifting off to sleep. She would have to resist the temptation, for she had a long day ahead of her, which would only end after the private ceremony in which the last of the Konigur kings would be laid to rest beside his father, mother, and wife in the royal crypt.
Immediately following the main service, Maura accompanied the Nelvors in their carriage for her uncle’s final procession through Drinnkastel. Grindasa had insisted they ride together, and the princess squeezed Maura’s hand reassuringly as the carriage lurched into motion and the temple bells began to toll. The cortege passed through streets and squares thronged with Urlion’s former subjects, many of them tossing flowers and calling blessings. Roth sat in silence, holding his head high, but, as was fitting, he made no attempt to draw the crowd’s attention. This was Urlion’s final hour with the citizens of his realm.
Some of the onlookers fell to their knees as the last Konigur king rolled by. Seeing their mournful faces, Maura found herself struggling to keep her composure. The common people had loved Urlion, the king who had once been a great warrior prince, driving the Helgrins repeatedly from their shores. .
By the time the carriage rumbled through the castle gates, Maura was feeling the full impact of her sleepless night. The interment would take place after noctes, the last prayers before midnight, and she thought perhaps she could snatch a few hours’ rest before then. But when she turned to say her farewells to Grindasa and her son, Roth forestalled her.
“I’d hoped you’d come back to Casa Cantabria,” he said. “It will just be family, and we all think of you as one of us now.”
Unaccountably, Maura felt a thrill of alarm. One of us?
Pleading exhaustion, she declined, then hurried toward the west wing, too tired to care that she had most likely offended him. Indeed, she was too tired to think of anything except her bed, upon which she fell like a stone.
When Heulwin woke her for the final service, Maura still felt as if she’d only had a few moments’ rest. She sat numbly while Heulwin fussed over her hair, and didn’t object when the maid insisted on applying a bit of rouge to her cheeks.
“You’re pale as—” The maid bit her lip, then pinned Maura’s veil on in silence. “It’s time, m’lady.”
Maura met Heulwin’s reflection in the glass. Impetuously she asked, “Heulwin—will you come and sit with me for the interment?”
The maid’s eyes widened. “But… m’lady… you’ll surely have a place of honor. I couldn’t!”
“We’ll take a pew in the back, where no one will pay us any mind. Say you will? I need a friend tonight, Heulwin. Please. It would bring me comfort.”
The young woman’s expression softened. “Oh, my poor lamb! Of course I’ll come, m’lady, if you really think no one will object.”
Maura dared anyone to try.
They timed their arrival so that the chapel was nearly full, and the two of them slipped unobserved into the last pew. Maura had been right in her assumption that no one would notice. Now that Roth was the heir apparent, her own star as a favorite of Urlion’s had dimmed. The Nelvor’s was ascending, and all would seek, now more than ever, to garner the favor of his mighty house.
Roth and his mother were the last to arrive, and the select congregation rose as they made a stately progression down the aisle. Before taking his seat, Roth turned to scan the assembly, and Maura ducked low, grateful for once that she was small in stature.
“Do you suppose she’s here?” whispered Heulwin.
Maura knew immediately whom the girl meant. She, too, had wondered if Urlion’s sister would attend, perhaps hidden in one of the gallery’s recesses. Surely Asmara would want to pay homage to her departed brother, even if they’d fallen out in the past?
The dirges began, and the monters raised the stone sealing the vaults under the chapel floor. The pallbearers lifted Urlion’s coffin and carried it slowly down to his tomb below.
Now at last, Maura found she could weep. She was grateful for Heulwin’s comforting hand in hers.
When the High King had been laid to eternal rest and the great stone hauled back into place, the two of them slipped quietly out of the chapel and returned to her rooms.
All Maura wanted was to be alone, but it seemed that was too much to hope for. No sooner had she changed into her nightgown than a knock came on her door.
“Tell whoever it is that I’ve retired,” she instructed Heulwin.
But when the maid opened the door, Maura heard Roth’s voice and knew Heulwin was incapable of sending him away.
“You may leave us, Heulwin,” she said. She remembered then—with a pang of regret—that Borne had been the last man with whom she’d been alone in her chamber. She wondered if she’d ever see him again.
As Roth entered, she dropped into a deep, formal curtsey. “Have you come to chastise me, my lord?”
