by K. C. Julius
Although it had been centuries since Emlyn made the journey south, the way to Drinnglennin was mapped in her mind, for she had dwelt in the mountains of Valeland in the days of Before and had often soared over Fairendell’s broad meadows to hunt. Her heart lifted as she winged across the wide sky. Confined for so long to Belestar’s boundaries, she’d forgotten the joy of unrestricted free flight.
Her brothers’ earlier departure had given them a significant lead, and despite her haste, when Emlyn reached the string of small islands pebbling the White Sea halfway between Belestar and the north coast of Drinnglennin, she still had not sighted them. She wondered if they had stopped on the scattered isles to feed. Regardless, she decided she herself must eat, for the drakmøøt had gone on for days.
Hunting by the light of the moon peeking through high drifting clouds, she swiftly made a kill, a young hrossval, its flesh tender and sweet. She was preparing to launch herself once more into the air when she heard the rushing sound of dragonflight. Zal and Menlo were somewhere above her.
Emyln waited for them to appear below the clouds, until she realized the drakes were climbing at great speed. The greenwing scanned her surroundings to determine if there was some reason to flee, but saw nothing in the sky. She felt a creeping unease as the rushing noise shifted to a whine. The drakes were now descending so swiftly she feared that they were injured.
Or that one of them was.
Her blood ran cold at the thought.
Fearing treachery, she hunkered down at the water’s edge so that her shining scales might be taken as luminescence on the sea, and held herself very still.
An instant later, the two drakes plummeted through the clouds. Zal’s talons were embedded in Menlo’s back, and his lethal teeth were sunk deep into the indigo’s neck. Before Emlyn could rise to her brother’s aid, the black drake wrenched Menlo’s head back, snapping his spine like kindling.
As Menlo’s broken body plunged into the dark sea, fiery fury coiled in Emlyn’s chest, but she held her breath. Only when Zal was out of sight did she give vent to her rage and sorrow, sending a roaring blast of fire to the heavens.
Then she took flight, the image of Menlo tumbling out of the sky tearing at her heart as she raced southward, the wind of terror driving her to reach Mithralyn before her murderous brother.
Chapter 1
Morgan
At Rhiandra’s insistence, Morgan had endured the long, cold flight to Restaria bound and gagged. The dragons’ mistrust of wizards ran deep—with good reason—and so Morgan had accepted the conditions of travel, for there was no faster way to cross the Erolin Sea, and time was of the essence. He hoped that in Helgrinia he would fulfill the dying wish of Urlion, the last High King of the Konigur line, and find Urlion’s lost wife, Georgiana, and their child, believed to be held captive in this northern realm.
When at last they slid off the bluewing’s back, Morgan offered his bound wrists to Leif. As the lad bent over to free them, the wizard noted how much he’d grown in recent months. Elvinor’s son had crossed into manhood.
So swiftly do the years of innocence fly.
The dragon departed silently, and Morgan lifted his eyes to watch as she spiraled down to the sea to feed.
Leif followed his gaze. “I can whistle if we have need of her, master.”
Morgan raised an amused eyebrow. “Your magnificent lady comes to a whistle?”
Leif shrugged. “She didn’t say no when I suggested it.”
In the gloom of the cold dawn, they started down the trail ringing the settlement, and Leif’s mood was bright. But when the ruins of the longhouses came into sight, the youth stopped in his tracks, for there was little left but ash and a few timbers.
“What happened here, master?” Leif’s voice was hushed and somber.
“I’m not certain, but I’d venture to guess this is the work of Lord Vetch and the Nelvor armada.”
Leif drew a sharp breath. “Drinnglennians did this? On the High King’s orders?”
“Maybe. Urlion must still have been alive when the fleet set sail for Helgrinia. He mentioned to me he wouldn’t mind if Princess Grindasa committed her ships and soldiers to an invasion. As a result, it’s likely we’re too late for whom we seek, but there’s only one way to be sure. Stay close to me.”
As they continued on, it became clear that few dwellings had been spared the torch. The remnants of daily life—kitchen pots, shattered dishes, shredded bedding, and soiled linens—lay scattered in the street. Even the dogs had run off, leaving the rubbish heaps to scuttling rats.
There were no signs of survivors. The dead had clearly been burned, for the tang of their passing to their afterworld still singed the air. Whoever had built the pyres were either well-hidden or had fled south. The latter was more likely, for winter was fast approaching in this unforgiving land, but for the sake of caution, Morgan and Leif moved stealthily through the deserted streets.
“Only death resides here now,” Morgan muttered under his breath, then seeing Leif’s pallor, he added, “Let us head for the river. We can refresh ourselves and have a bite to eat while Rhiandra feeds.”
It was lucky they did, for when they reached the bridge, Leif’s sharp eyes caught movement within the trees. “There’s someone ahead,” he whispered, “on the opposite bank.”
In mute accord, they crossed over the stone archway. A wide allée, spanned by majestic oaks kissed with the fires of autumn, led to a grove that Morgan recognized at once as a sacred place. And within it sat perhaps the only surviving resident of this forsaken settlement.
An old man rested on a stone bench, clutching a twisted staff in his gnarled hands. His hair and beard were long and grizzled, his tattered robes covered with soot. He looked right at them, but didn’t speak. He merely waited, taking slow, deep breaths, as if each might be his last.
“We mean you no harm,” Morgan called softly in the Old Tongue.
Leif’s eyes lit up. “They speak runic?” He’d gained a firm grip on the ancient language over the months he’d spent in Mithralyn.
“A form of runic,” the wizard confirmed.
The old man gave no sign he’d heard them, and Morgan, considering the possibility that the fellow’s senses were impaired, approached the bench slowly so as not to startle him.
“I’m nae full blind yet, and I still have my hearing,” the man announced suddenly. “And my ears tell me you’re not Helgrin. So who are you?”
“Seekers, master,” said Morgan.
“Seekers? Well, unless you’re looking for me, you’re wasting your time.” The old man’s voice was rusty with disuse. “There’s no one else here.”
“I see. Is there anything we can do to help you?”
The man shook his head. “That’s most kind of you, but the end of my story is fast approaching.”
The mention of a story brought Leif closer. “I would hear your story, master,” he said politely.
“Ah.” The trace of a smile curved the man’s thin, cracked lips. “Do you have a name, young seeker?”
“Leif.”
“Leif? That’s a fine name. I’ve been known, for many years now, as Old Snorri. Once I told the stories of the gods and sang of the glory of our warriors in the battles of yore. Now… there’s no one left to listen.”
“We will listen.” Morgan lowered himself onto the bench beside Old Snorri. “What can you tell us of this last battle?”
The smile vanished from Old Snorri’s lips. “What happened here was no battle. It was a massacre. Babes and old women brutally cut down—” His cloudy eyes glistened with sudden tears. “I will make no song of this horror.”
“Was it…” Leif cleared his throat. “Were the attackers Drinnglennians?”
“Aye, although there were those among them who spoke Albrenian. While they were at their butchery, I escaped here to the grove, hoping t
o die beneath the great Wurl.”
Morgan followed the lift of the old man’s chin to the magnificent oak rising above the grove.
“But they never came for me.” Old Snorri shook his head ruefully. “All gone now, those children who used to sit at my feet, just as you do now. Ragnarr, Jered, Ingrid, Gunnvora… of course, they’d grown too old for my tales. Those who were at sea when the raiders came were spared to do deeds another will praise. As for the rest…”
The old man fell silent, his gaze somewhere far away.
Morgan waited a respectful moment before asking the question that was foremost on his mind. “Master Snorri, were there ever any Drinnglennian children among your listeners?”
The old man’s brows lifted in surprise. “There were many thralls in Restaria who came from the Isle, and some of them quite young, but they had no time to spare from their chores for my stories, except on fest days.”
“Do you recollect a thrall called Georgiana?”
Old Snorri tilted back his head and studied the rustling leaves. “Georgiana? No, I never heard that name here.”
“She would have arrived over a decade ago. She was fifteen when she was taken, and quite a beauty.”
“Young, pretty girls are always the first taken in a raid. She would have been one of many.”
Morgan nodded. “Yes, of course. We won’t disturb you any longer. Thank you, master, for your time.” He caught Leif’s eye, then rose.
“We wish you well, Old Snorri,” Leif said. He lowered his forehead respectfully to touch it to the tale-weaver’s proffered hand, clearly reluctant to leave the old man alone.
“Thank you, my boy. I regret I have no tale for you to take with you. I spun my last for Einar and Fynn.” The faint smile returned. “There was a fine lad, young Fynn. You remind me of him, a bit. ’Twas a shame he and Jana were shunned.”
Jana, the wizard thought. Was it possible this was a shortened name?
He had turned to leave, but now swung back toward Old Snorri. “Jana, did you say? Why was she shunned?”
“She was taken by Aetheor himself in a raid on the Isle.” The old man’s laugh was warm with memory. “He thought he’d stolen her, but it was Jana who captured our yarl’s heart. It was said that from the moment he laid eyes on her, he was smitten. He set her up in a house of her own and made her his mistress. The yarla was wild with jealousy, and made life difficult for Jana and the boy whenever Aetheor was at sea. But once he returned home, he always went straight up the hill to them. Who could blame him for loving such a one as beautiful as Jana? Even I, at my age, confess to having fallen under her spell.”
Morgan felt his heart quicken. “What became of them—Jana and her son Fynn?”
Old Snorri planted his staff and heaved himself to his feet with a grimace. “Come. I will show you.”
* * *
The house was surprisingly in order, despite having been plundered. Morgan suspected this was Old Snorri’s doing. The wizard noted the costly gowns hanging in the wardrobes, the quality of the furnishings that hadn’t been carted off, the ornate carvings on the lintels and mantels. Whoever had raised and furnished this home had spared no cost.
The old man led them through the kitchen and into the yard at the back of the manor. “I found her here,” he said, a quaver in his voice.
Leif drifted over to the bright cornflowers that circled a memory stone laid at the edge of the woods. The men joined him, and together they silently read the runes on the stone.
“Did she follow your gods?” Leif asked quietly.
“I don’t honestly know,” Old Snorri admitted, “but I’d like to think so. Then, when I travel to Cloud Mountain, I shall see her again, and perhaps the boy as well.”
Morgan hadn’t failed to note there was only the one stone. “What happened to her son? Did he perish here as well?”
The tale-weaver gave a slow shake of his head. “I found no trace of him. I’d say it’s likely he died in the fires in town, except that he wasn’t welcome in anyone’s home. Perhaps someone with a good heart took him in all the same, before the end.” He gazed down at the stone and sighed. “I miss her. Others saw Jana’s outward beauty, but it was the beauty of her spirit that shone brightest for me.”
“And Fynn?” Morgan asked. “What was he like?”
“Fynn?” Old Snorri looked up with a smile. “Lively of mind and body. High-spirited. He worshipped his father and half-brother—followed them around like a besotted pup when they weren’t at sea. A regular boy, Fynn was, with the occasional lapse in judgment, but no real penchant for mischief. He was a good lad at heart.” He reached down to pluck a wilted blossom, then cast it aside. “If Aetheor Yarl and Jered have made the Leap as well, perhaps they’re all together in the Sky Hall.”
“If? You mean you’re not sure?”
“Our yarl and his older son were at sea when Restaria was attacked. His fleet has never returned. The same raiders who wreaked havoc here must have waylaid Aetheor on his homeward journey—otherwise he would have been back by now.” The tale-weaver looked between them. “You never said what it is you’re seeking here.”
The wizard met the man’s questioning gaze for a long moment. “That which was lost,” he said at last, “and shall remain so.”
* * *
They left Old Snorri by the grave of Jana—the woman Morgan now felt certain had been born Georgiana Fitz-Pole of Bodiaer Castle—and climbed back up to the bluff. The buffeting wind tugged at their cloaks while Morgan pondered the circumstances that would have compelled a young girl, newly with child, to flee her ardent royal husband and go to Meregate, a place his enemies were raiding.
Leif, beside him, stared down at the white peaks spreading over the waves below like a flotilla of miniature sails. The lad hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the old man. Morgan was not insensitive to the fact that the demolished settlement was the lad’s first glimpse of the reality of war. Morgan’s own initiation into the gruesome destruction men leave in the wake of battle had occurred long ago, yet it was forever emblazoned on his mind. At the time, he’d been in the service of Anarwyd, the first king to sit the Einhorn Throne after the bloody forging of Drinnglennin’s realms into one nation. He could still see the wide eyes of the fallen, many in the flower of manhood, with hacked limbs and pinioned chests, their arms flung across their enemies in still, cold embrace. Most men become inured to war’s carnage, either out of necessity or because it fuels the bloodlust roaring in their veins in the heat of the fray. But none escape the deep scars it leaves on memory.
“Now I know what dark doings are,” Leif said when at last he spoke. His expression was clouded. “It’s beginning, isn’t it, master?”
“I fear it is.”
“Where will we go from here?”
“Back to Mithralyn, once night falls. After that, I’m afraid I must go south alone. While I was at Port Taygh, I received new information regarding the disappearance of the å Livåri, which I need to follow up on.” He rested a reassuring hand on Leif’s shoulder. “At least our journey here has revealed the fates of Urlion’s wife and heir. And although Georgiana has made the Leap, her long-grieving parents will finally learn what became of her.”
He raised his hand and pointed to a dark crescent in the sky. “I didn’t hear you whistle, but I believe that’s your dragon.”
Leif followed his gaze, but it was clear his thoughts were still on the devastation they’d just witnessed. “What will you say, master, to Georgiana’s parents?”
Morgan’s heavy heart lifted as the dragon skimmed toward them, and he gave Leif a small smile. “Something that should bring them comfort in their last years. I shall tell them that their daughter chose a different path, and in doing so, she found love.”
Chapter 2
Whit
Whit sat up with a jolt, his heart thundering in his ears. Th
e scent of brimstone was heavy in the air, which could only mean one thing.
Dragons.
Vividly recalling Leif’s and Maura’s horrifying descriptions of the piercing talons that had marked them as dragonfast, he scrambled out of the pavilion where he’d fallen asleep and scoured the sky.
Sweat streamed down his neck as he braced himself for an unseen onslaught. Instead, there was a crackling in the bracken, and the dragon he’d expected to barrel out of the clouds came from the woods instead. Whit retreated several quick steps before he recognized Ilyria, who was already bound to Maura. He hadn’t seen the bronze dragoness in many months, for Maura had been away in Drinnkastel since springtide, and according to Leif her dragon had gone into seclusion deep in Mithralyn’s forest.
From which she had apparently just emerged.
After a brief meeting of the eyes, Whit forced his gaze away, willing the dragon to pass.
The dragon loomed over him. “You’ve been scrying?” she asked. This close, her contralto voice reverberated in Whit’s very bones.
He gave a weak smile of acknowledgment. “I’ve been trying, but only once have I received a true vision through the stone.”
“Yet you dream.” Ilyria’s emerald eyes, flecked with gold, bored into his, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
“How—how do you know that?”
A puff of blue smoke emerged from the dragon’s curved nostrils. “I too have prophetic dreams.”
Whit’s pulse quickened. “Does that mean you… you can see into my mind?”
The dragon’s snort startled him. “Even if I could,” she replied imperiously, “I would have no desire to do so. Your aura is too vibrant, which is what led me to distrust you in the first place.” She narrowed her jeweled eyes. “A wizard who is also a seer is known to be most dangerous to our kind.”
