The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Food proved to be another distraction, though not a very good one, given the quality of their gruel. In an effort to make their porridge more appealing, they imagined they were consuming more enticing dishes.

  “I’ve got eels simmered in beer, with sage and bay leaves,” said Fynn, his mouth watering at the thought.

  “Cherry tarts,” Grinner sighed, “hot from the oven.”

  “Meatballs with dumplings and cabbage, swimming in thick gravy,” countered Fynn. They both took a moment to savor this in their minds.

  Closing his eyes, Grinner smacked his lips. “Milk rice wit’ a great knob o’ butter an’ a dollop o’ honey!”

  Fynn frowned. “You already said that at breakfast.”

  “I can’t think o’ nothin’ better,” admitted Grinner, then peered dolefully at the watery contents of his bowl before tipping it into his mouth.

  In the evenings, they traded stories. Grinner knew only a few Livårian folk tales, but Fynn, having sat at Old Snorri’s feet on many an occasion, was able to recount dozens of the old man’s sagas. To his surprise, Grinner hung on every word.

  “Tell the one ’bout the serpent and the owl goddess again,” he’d demand, then hoot and gasp with a touching innocence as he listened with wide eyes, as though hearing the story for the first time.

  One such evening, Fynn told him a memory instead, recounting the last time he’d run the wheel at the Midsommer celebrations. Afterward, his heart ached with longing for the life he’d never know again.

  “We have a Gatherin’ at midsummer,” Grinner said cheerily, as if he’d guessed Fynn’s homesickness. “Most times I was off me head, as it were always a time I could pick up a few chinkers t’ pay fer crennin. But when I were still a laddie, I recollect me pa buyin’ me a milk rice from a vendor in Palmador.” His eyes lit up at the memory. “’Twere at the end o’ the day, and I’d been bawlin’—most like I had the wearies. Me people were mummers, y’see, puttin’ on all manner o’ plays ’til late in the night. I passed the hat fer the coppers after.”

  Then his face hardened, like a door slammed shut. “’Twas in Palmador me sister and me was taken.”

  For a moment, Fynn thought Grinner would roll over and go to sleep, as he did sometimes when he got that angry look. But this time he kept talking, his flat, cold tone making goose bumps rise on Fynn’s skin.

  “Petra were four years older than me, and charged wit’ mindin’ me while our parents was on the stage. We was sittin’ by our wagon when a woman come o’er t’ us, holdin’ out a little poppet wit’ yellow plaits, makin’ it dance about. Petra wanted tha’ poppet somethin’ fierce, and went t’ the woman, me traipsin’ along at ’er heels. Snatched us then, the bitch Margred did,” Grinner growled, “an’ that were the last we seen o’ our kin.”

  “That’s terrible!” Fynn cried. “What did the woman want with you?”

  “Needed servants, did Margred, and she figgered we’d do. Worked us like mules from tha’ day on, keepin’ us locked in a cage at night so’s we couldn’t run. ’Twere bad fer me, but fer Petra…” Sudden tears pooled in Grinner’s eyes, and he swiped at them angrily with the back of his fist.

  “You… you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  But Grinner seemed not to have heard; his eyes had gone flat as well. “The bitch used Petra t’ earn the chinkers fer ’er crennin. After the first time Margred sent her t’ the barn, me sister quit talkin’. Just went somewheres inside ’erself, I reckon, somewheres where she could pretend she were safe. Didn’t worry Margred none that Petra went dumb.” He shook his head, his expression bitter. “No, the sow were pleased, said she’d had enough of me sister’s snivelin’.

  “After a time, I come t’ understand what were happenin’ t’ ’er in the barn. Night after night, tha’ bitch’d come fer Petra, and when Margred pushed ’er back in the cage agin later, me sister had the stink o’ men on ’er.

  “Then Margred started fergettin’ t’ feed us some days, lest I howled at her. She were thin as a reed, an’ I s’pected she were veerin’ toward the Leap. I knowed if she died whiles we was in the cage, we was done fer too.”

  Grinner’s lips curled in a cunning smile.

  “So one day, I tells Petra, I says, ‘Don’t ye go out when Margred comes fer ye. Ye just lay still ’til I gives a cough. Then ye spring out, d’ ye hear? I’ll see t’ the bitch.’ When Margred opened the cage tha’ night, I edged aside, an’ me sister did as I’d tol ’er an’ curled up agin’ the back o’ the cage. It riled Margred, as I knowed it would, an’ she came inside ragin’ and grabbed Petra by the foot t’ drag ’er out. She tugged an’ pulled, an’ I could see she were in a bad way, not far from the jits.

  “Quick as a minnow, I slid out o’ the cage an’ snatched the key from the lock. Then I give a cough, an’ Petra come over Margred’s head faster ’n a snake at the strike, an’ give her a good kick in the face, too, as she passed.” A look of satisfaction spread over the å Livåri’s face. “I’ll ne’er ferget the ol’ shrew’s shrieks when I slammed the cage door and turned the key in the lock.”

  Fynn swallowed hard. “So you and Petra got away then?”

  Grinner’s eyes took on a hollow look. “We left Margred and ’er filthy hut, but we took ’er curse wit’ us. I knowed where she kept ’er crennin, see, an’ I stole it. Might be I’d a mind t’ sell it, but after a few hungry nights on the run wit’ Petra, I recollected Margred sayin’ crennin were the best food she ever et, so we chewed a few leaves, Petra and me, hopin’ t’ sate our hunger. That were the first time we went t’ Dveld.”

  He looked down at his bony hands, which he’d clenched into fists. “’Twere the wrong turn we took.”

  Then Grinner turned abruptly away. Fynn was relieved to hear no more of his tragic tale. He had sorrows of his own haunting his dreams—he didn’t need to take on Grinner’s as well.

  Chapter 7

  Maura

  The weeks following the announcement of the High King’s betrothal were a blur of celebrations. Lavish feasts were held at the castle, with glasses repeatedly raised in salute of the soon-to-be bride and groom. Much to the citizenry’s delight, Drinnkastel’s guilds expressed their approval of the joining of the Konigur and Nelvor houses with a dazzling display of fireworks, and largesse was liberally distributed.

  The king even organized a small tourney, curating the knights who would compete, many of whom came from Nelvorboth. He himself had taken the prize in the lists, emerging the shining hero before his new and glamorous court.

  “It’s because I carried your token,” Roth told Maura gallantly, and she was touched to think he still had the hair ribbon she’d given him on the day they’d first met.

  All around the city, new banners were replacing the gold-edged pennants of Urlion Konigur. For his royal sigil, Roth had decided to exchange the Nelvorboth black panther for a red one, poised to strike on a silver field. When Maura ventured to suggest it might lead some of his subjects to think he favored his birth kingdom over the realm, Roth laughed off her concerns. “It’s no secret my mother was married to Lord Nandor, and Urlion was my father. My choice is an acknowledgment of both.”

  Life was gay these days in Drinnkastel, with a lively young court filling the grand hall each evening. Still, Maura missed several familiar faces at the boards, among them Lord Oscar, the elderly Earl of Brezen, who had been one of her uncle’s regular dinner companions. Lord Oscar’s place was now occupied by Sir Lawton, Roth’s closest friend and a distant cousin. The sharp-faced Nelvorbothian was polite enough when sober, but after a few drinks, his narrow gaze would often linger on Maura’s breasts.

  Queen Grindasa was placed in Maura’s former seat at the right of the king. Roth assured Maura that once they were married, she could reclaim it, but Maura secretly preferred her present placement with Lady Hadley and Lady Maitane. Although their conversation cente
red almost exclusively on gowns and the eligible men at court, it was preferable to the rough banter of Roth’s gentlemen of the chamber.

  What Maura really desired was more time alone with Roth. She still hadn’t kept the promise she’d made to herself to tell him about her Lurker blood. But between the whirlwind of festivities and the seemingly endless preparations for the royal wedding, Maura’s life was now a blur of constant activity. She rose early to go out riding with Hadley or one of the other cousins, broke her fast with Roth and assorted members of his family, and then spent the rest of her day compiling guest lists, organizing accommodations and menus for the banquets and other entertainments. She often felt like she spent more time with Master Quaney, the bluff chief steward of Drinnkastel, than she did with anyone else.

  And yet, there was an energy to it all that she savored. It was true that at times she found herself longing for the solitude of Elvinor’s gardens and the time she’d had to read there—but it was hard not to be caught up in the daily rush of excitement.

  So it was with a pang of regret when Roth suddenly suggested that their wedding be postponed until the following spring. He broached the topic during a rare solitary walk with her in the winter garden.

  “I hope you aren’t too disappointed,” he said, studying her face. “You see, Mother’s set her heart on having all our relatives from Albrenia at the wedding, in particular her brother Palan. I squired for him in Albrenia, and I’d quite like to have him here as well. But he can’t get away at present, as he’s on campaign fighting rebels near the Gralian border.” He lifted Maura’s hand tenderly to his lips. “You don’t terribly mind waiting, do you, my dear?”

  Maura assured him she didn’t, though this wasn’t entirely true.

  Compounding her disappointment was the fact that a postponement meant she would be in black for several more months. Convention no longer required her to wear the somber gowns Princess Asmara had sent her, but Grindasa, recently returned from Nelvorboth, had strongly suggested she continue to dress in mourning clothes until the week before the ceremony. “It will remind the people of your close connection with your dear late uncle, which is important for the transition, as I’m sure you understand. Then once you put aside your dreary attire, think how joyful Roth’s subjects will be, seeing you entering a happier stage in your life.” Maura wasn’t sure she followed this logic, but it was easier to agree than to come into conflict with her future mother-in-law.

  It later occurred to Maura that continuing to wear weeds also meant that she wouldn’t be able to dance at the fete marking the end of the forty-day mourning period. When she mentioned this to Roth at breakfast the next day, he frowned.

  “I shan’t dance either then.”

  “But you must!” Maura insisted. “I don’t mind, really.”

  “Maura is right, muiero,” Grindasa agreed, setting down her buttered toast. “When the lords of the lesser realms come to court, you must bestow honor on them by dancing with their ladies. It is one of your duties.”

  Roth’s expression darkened, and Maura thought he might object. She’d never witnessed a disagreement between her betrothed and his mother, and she hoped she wasn’t about to, especially seeing as it involved her.

  “It’s settled then,” she said brightly. “It will please me to watch you enjoying yourself.”

  Roth raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve seen Lady Elburga of Glornadoor, you’d not refer to partnering her as pleasure. It’s a test of muscle to move her around the floor.”

  Maura laughed, for Roth seldom attempted humor, but she felt a bit guilty doing so. Lord Ien’s wife, Elburga, was a genial woman whose plump figure could be attributed to the eleven children she’d brought into the world. Sir Simm, the eldest of these, was one of the few gentlemen of Roth’s chamber whom Maura really liked. Unlike Sir Lawton or Sir Herst, who rarely acknowledged her, Sir Simm was always gracious.

  As the days passed, Maura found herself in Roth’s company less and less. “It will be different once we’re married,” he promised, when he had to forgo yet another ride with her to meet with the Tribus instead. Maura didn’t see how being married would lessen the demands on his time, but then she remembered they would have their nights together. She felt an odd anxiety at the thought.

  For she couldn’t deny that occasional doubts had begun to cross her mind about the future she’d agreed to. For a brief time after she became dragonfast, she’d felt empowered, as if she could do anything she set her mind to, and being Roth’s queen hadn’t been the slightest consideration. The thought of a life with him didn’t fill the hollow place in her heart that had been there since she’d learned the truth about how Dal died. And her yearning for Ilyria, who had been so constantly in her thoughts when she’d first come to the capital, was fading, as if her time with the dragoness and the elves had been naught but a wondrous dream.

  She told herself it would be different once they were reunited, as Maura was determined they would be soon. And she would see Leif then too. Her heart ached when she remembered how angry and hurt he’d been when they last parted.

  We’ll see each other soon, she promised herself. Once Roth knows about Ilyria, I’ll return to the elven realm, and perhaps Roth will even come with me. On their wedding day, she would reveal the oath she’d sworn before they’d even met—by all the gods, to aid and succor the next true heir to the Einhorn Throne, to serve the realm of Drinnglennin, in peace and in war, for all the days of my life.

  Thinking of this, she felt her troubled heart lift.

  * * *

  When Maura saw the breakfast tray by her bed, she knew she’d overslept. Throwing off the covers, she dressed quickly, for the last time she hadn’t appeared at the morning meal, Grindasa, recently returned from Nelvorboth, had come to see her—ostensibly to express her concern, but with the effect of making Maura feel unaccountably guilty.

  The day was dreary. Rain pelted the windows and the wind whined mournfully around the turrets, ruling out a ride with Hadley. Roth had told her he would be engaged elsewhere for most of the day, so after nibbling a bit of a bread roll, Maura decided it was perfect weather to curl up with a good book. Before her uncle had made the Leap, she’d been working her way through the classics in his library, and had also discovered some historical and philosophical texts that sparked her interest. She’d even begun to refresh her Gralian from an old primer she’d found among the stacks.

  As she headed for the library, she didn’t meet a soul. That wasn’t out of the ordinary; besides the reclusive Asmara, Maura was the only one housed in the west wing. But when she came to the central hall, it, too, was empty. Usually courtiers passed through here at all hours, and lately Grindasa’s Albrenian mercenaries had been patrolling the corridors as well.

  Yet the only sound of activity now was the pounding of hammers from within the royal suite. Grindasa, recently returned from Nelvorboth, had decided it required refurbishing.

  “It has the lingering stink of the sickroom,” the queen had complained. Maura had taken offense at the callous remark, and when she replied that it had been unfortunate that her uncle had suffered from illness for so long, Grindasa’s eyes widened. She swept Maura into her perfumed embrace and proclaimed, “We do miss him so, don’t we, muiera?”

  Maura knew better. From the lingering looks she’d seen passing between her future mother-in-law and Vetch, the royal lord commander, it was clear the queen was not much concerned with Maura’s departed uncle.

  It’s none of my business, Maura reminded herself as she entered the library.

  As always, her heart lifted at its whimsical beauty. Elaborate moldings of leafy tendrils encircled a magnificent painting of a sunlit forest that dominated the central wall. It transported her back to Mithralyn and the summer days she’d spent with Ilyria and her dear Leif.

  She knew this library was but a shadow of the Alithineum that had once been housed here at
Drinnkastel. Thousands of precious manuscripts were said to have burned in the fire that destroyed the east wing fifty years ago, most notably the Drinnglennin Chronicles, the magical book in which the true history of the realm was recorded. But to Maura, any library was a wondrous place, and she would ever be grateful to Urlion for having given her the key to its doors.

  As she wandered slowly along the glass-encased shelves, her slippers making no sound on the dark polished floors, a slender volume with gold lettering caught her eye. It was by Guiliard de Courty, her favorite poet. Her heart gave a strange jolt as she recalled how Borne, overcome by loss, had grieved himself to sleep in her rooms. In his tortured dreams, he’d mumbled the same line of poetry several times over. How had it gone? Something about shivered trees and golden tears.

  She slid the book off its shelf, her mind lingering on the image of Borne asleep on her bed, his tousled golden hair on the pillow. His face had looked so vulnerable in the candle’s glow, and she’d glimpsed the boy he’d only recently left behind—the boy from her own childhood, racing with sheer abandon in the Gathering contests, wrestling and laughing and joking with the circle of other boys who always surrounded him. She remembered the times he stood behind interested breeders at her parents’ lapin stalls and stared at her, while she determinedly avoided meeting his insistent gaze. He never seemed put off though; on the rare occasions she did venture to look up, she always caught the flash of his dimpled smile before she could look away.

  And now he’d left Drinnglennin, and if Roth, who had shared this news, was right, he might never return.

  “Lawton heard it from one of the barmaids down at the Tilted Kilt,” Roth had confided. “I’m sure you knew Borne was quite the ladies’ man. Left a string of broken hearts in his wake when he joined up with Glinter’s mercenaries and sailed off against the express orders of Lord Vetch. It’s a shame,” he added ruefully, “that he’s chosen a path such as this.”