The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  He’d begun to compose songs in his head about the wonders of the White Sea to sing with the elves. It had occurred to him that he might not make it back to Mithralyn, but the closer they got to Belestar, the more he allowed his elven side to rule his spirit. They would find a way to meet whatever challenges lay ahead. Rhiandra was with him, and surely, they would come to no harm from her own kin.

  When Rhiandra finally announced their destination was near, Leif felt a thrill of excitement tinged with fear. He had known they must be close, as it never really became day—dawn brought only a dusky twilight for a few hours before full darkness fell again. But the announcement sparked within him a rising urgency. Soon he would be in the presence of unbound dragons, which meant they would be far wilder and fiercer than Rhiandra and Ilyria.

  On the final break in their journey, he lay curled contentedly at the dragon’s side. “How shall I address them?” he asked. “Your sisters and brothers?”

  “You will say nothing until I have properly introduced you,” Rhiandra replied sternly. She wrapped her long tail around him, as if to shelter him from an imagined threat, but the pale smoke spiraling from her nostrils signaled a placid mood.

  “Tell me again about the others,” he urged.

  Rhiandra gave an indulgent snort. “Again? Very well then. The eldest is Isolde, and she is a silverwing. She is the wisest of us all, although some of my siblings would like to think otherwise—especially Gryffyn, who shared her egg.”

  “Gryffyn is grey,” said Leif.

  “As is his temperament. He is ever resentful that Isolde emerged before him.”

  “But why?” Leif asked. “If I had a twin sister, I would delight in sharing everything with her. Besides, I thought it made no difference, that among dragons none has authority over another.”

  “This is true, but a firstborn’s prominence is recognized nevertheless. After Gryffyn—”

  “Comes Emlyn,” said Leif, warming to the topic, “and she is a greenwing. She has a fierce spirit. Without her courage, her last dragonfast, Obinon, would have fallen to Skrimfil, a raging monster with the head of a demon and the body of a scorpion!”

  “Perhaps you should be telling me about my kin,” Rhiandra suggested dryly.

  “No, no!” Leif protested. “You reveal something new each time. I won’t interrupt again.”

  Rhiandra made a doubtful rumbling. “Aed is the fourth born, and only Zal is bigger than him. Aed’s fiery red scales reflect his fierce nature. He loves nothing better than to hunt and kill.”

  A chill ran down Leif’s spine. “What does he hunt?”

  “Not the likes of you, young one, have no fear. Dragons have never preyed on men or elves.” Rhiandra ruffled and stretched her leathery wings. “Next comes Ilyria, then Syrene, who is held in highest regard, followed by Una, Menlo, Ciann, and Zal. I am the youngest of the eleven, as you know. Una is blue-green like the sea, and after Ilyria, the most sensitive. Menlo is as deep as his indigo scales, and Ciann as pure as his white. Zal…” Rhiandra paused, and her breath darkened. “Zal is by far the most rapacious of my clutch. His distrust of other species makes him the most dangerous. You are not to go near him.”

  Leif needed no more urging to avoid the black dragon. “Is Syrene so highly regarded because of her clutch?”

  Rhiandra nodded. “She is the only one among us who has been fruitful. Her clutch is the first since the dawn of the After Age, and its survival is our only hope for the continuation of our species.”

  “Will the eggs have hatched by now?”

  “Ilyria thinks if they had, she would have seen this in her dreams. It’s possible that we must wait many years. It all depends.”

  “You mean, because dragon young will not hatch unless it’s safe? All the more reason why your brothers and sisters should bind.”

  “Not all would agree with you. Syrene, more than any of them, has reason to distrust humans. Her mate, Stondin, as you will recall, was slain by a maddened horde of Delnogothians in the Before. This, she will never forgive.”

  This tragedy, Leif knew, had occurred during the massacres on the continent that brought on the close of the last age, when magical creatures, including humans, were relentlessly hunted down and slaughtered. According to Master Morgan, ignorance and senseless fear had been at the root of this horror, just as it was in the more recent persecution of the å Livåri.

  “Did Syrene ever bind?” Leif asked.

  “She did indeed. But with the arrival of her clutch, she has chosen to forget this.” Rhiandra’s breath steamed in the cold air. “Dragonfast rarely survive their dragons, and few mortals understand the terrible loss we suffer when our bindlings pass from the Known World.”

  This was news to Leif. He was Rhiandra’s first binding, and the thought of her suffering after he made the Leap prompted him to throw his arms around her neck. “I don’t want to be the cause of any pain for you. I will always love you, and live in your heart, even beyond death.”

  The dragon’s filigreed wing gently descended to cover him. It was the first time Rhiandra had enfolded him so, and together they savored the pleasure it brought them both. The air was bitter cold, but huddled against Rhiandra in his elven cloak, Leif had never felt so warm. Before long, he fell into a deep, restful sleep.

  It was still pitch black when Rhiandra nudged him awake. “We don’t have far to go now, and I would have this parley over and done with.” She blew a short blast of fire into the smudged sky, a sure sign of her disquiet.

  When she lowered her head again, Leif reached up and brushed his fingers over the frill of her ear. “All will be well as long as we’re together,” he promised her. “Before you know it, you’ll be free to fly wherever and whenever you please.” A sudden thought made him smile. “We’ll go to Valeland and you can meet my gran!”

  If the dragon had doubts about the outcome of their meeting with her siblings, she didn’t share them. Leif leaned his forehead against hers and felt the warmth of her brimstone breath on his cheeks, then clambered onto her back.

  They were one day away from Belestar.

  * * *

  “Wait here,” Rhiandra cautioned Leif, “until I come for you.”

  Her counsel was unnecessary, for there was nowhere to go. The vast island of Belestar was mantled under a thick cover of snow and ice. From the small cavern where Leif sheltered, he could see no living thing. To the far horizon, the world was only black and white beneath the light of the full moon. But he knew that, somewhere out there, the last dragons were waiting.

  He understood why Rhiandra had to set off alone to seek her kin. She would have to answer for not returning sooner to Belestar, and she did not want to present Leif until their certain displeasure was appeased.

  Long hours passed while he waited for her return, but he spent them happily engaged tinkering with a song he’d been composing along the way. He was quite pleased with the lyrics thus far, and knew he could count on Frandelas and Galen to help polish it up once he returned to Mithralyn. He was just trying to decide which had a nicer ring to it—daring Leif or dashing Leif—when he heard the familiar sound of rushing wind that announced Rhiandra’s return.

  He slipped out of the cave and scanned the spreading sky, but could see nothing beyond the luminous moon. The sound rolled toward him, growing in volume until he realized it signaled more than one dragon in flight. Instinctively he stepped back under the shadowed ledge, and not a moment too soon. Two enormous dragons catapulted out of the north and shot past, leaving a trail of billowing vapor in their wake. His quickened breath filled his ears as the rumbling of the severed air faded. In the stillness that followed, Leif felt a sudden dread. What had spurred the dragons to streak across the sky as though the hounds of Blearc were on their heels?

  Staring up at the indifferent stars, Leif pulled his elven cloak closer against the whining wind, but it couldn’t
warm the chill that crept into his heart.

  Chapter 9

  Morgan

  At Elvinor’s insistence, Morgan lingered in Mithralyn after Leif and Rhiandra departed for the far north. Thus it was that he learned that Ilyria had remained behind and was still secluded in the great golden wood. This was alarming news, for without the guidance of the older, wiser dragoness, the chances that Leif and Rhiandra would convince the other dragons to bind were surely diminished. Morgan feared they were heading into grave danger—but the matter was now out of his hands, and he would have to put faith in Leif, as the lad’s father had done, and the young blue.

  While in Mithralyn the wizard took time, at last, to mourn the passing of his sovereign. In his prime, Urlion Konigur had been a sound ruler of the realm, and for this, Morgan would always honor him. Over the years their friendship had endured, despite occasional disagreements and the wizard’s long absences from the Isle. But now that the reign of the Konigurs had come to an end, Morgan had to determine how he could best serve Drinnglennin and its new young High King.

  Morgan knew little of this son of Grindasa to whom he’d sworn Maura, Leif, and Halla’s fealty. The Nelvor clan had proven untrustworthy in the past, yet it was possible that young Roth would break the mold. After all, the Tribus had settled on him, and Maura, too, must have seen much in him that was admirable, otherwise she wouldn’t have insisted on remaining in Drinnkastel to show her support. Still, Morgan couldn’t shake his uneasiness over the accession of a Nelvor to the Einhorn Throne. The clan’s rapacious love of power had not appeared diminished at the time of the Twyrn. And he hadn’t forgotten that Nelvorbothian guards had searched for him in the streets of the capital after Urlion’s death. The question remained as to why.

  After careful consideration, Morgan resolved to return to Drinnkastel, proclaim his own allegiance to King Roth, and ascertain that all was well with Maura. He had dedicated most of his life to the service of the High Kings of Drinnglennin, and now, more than ever, his counsel should prove useful. He also wished to meet with the Tribus regarding the Nelvorbothian attack on Restaria. An all-out war with the Helgrins could easily be the unfortunate result of this ill-advised aggression, but Morgan could offer advice on how to preserve the decade-long peace. King Roth would need to reaffirm Drinnglennin’s alliances with Gral and Albrenia, without becoming embroiled in their infighting. Morgan would encourage the young king to act as an arbitrator to resolve any differences between the fractious states, for should the rumors that the Albrenians and Aksel, the yarl’s nephew had joined forces against King Crenel prove to be true, it boded ill for the fragile stability of the entire Known World.

  Morgan pondered his remaining obligations. Urlion’s long-lost second wife and their son had perished in the terrible ravaging of Restaria, so at least this search could be laid to rest. But he had still to uncover the truth about Urlion’s enchanter and see him or her brought to justice. And he had a promise to Nicu to follow up on: to discover what had become of those missing å Livåri who hadn’t ended up as slaves in Albrenia. The wizard had learned from Whit that Nicu was alive and well on the continent, fighting to free their captive kinswomen, but many more å Livåri men and women had simply vanished.

  Morgan also had to face the unpleasant task of informing Lady Inis that her daughter had declined to become the first lady of Cardenstowe, and had instead taken up with a band of rebel å Livåri across the sea. He had a reasonable idea of how this news would be received.

  When the day came at last for the wizard to depart Mithralyn, Whit was nowhere to be found. Morgan had succeeded in convincing him to stay on a while longer, but the young lord had been avoiding him ever since Morgan had revealed that his duel with Lazdac had cost him his powers. Whit clearly felt he’d been deceived, since Morgan had led him to believe he himself would be instructing him. At this point, Whit had probably decided that a wizard so foolish as to surrender his powers had nothing of value to teach him anyway.

  Before the wizard departed, he left a book for Whit with the elven king. He could only hope would make some amends for his failure to teach the lad himself. It was a risk to share its contents with a wizard of Whit’s talents, but one Morgan felt he had no choice but to take.

  He then set off, taking a ship down the coast. His journey to Chelmsdale-on-Erolin was without incident, but when he arrived at Port Taygh, he found his old friends in a state of uncharacteristic agitation.

  “Thank the gods you’ve come, Mortimer,” said Maisie, drawing him quickly through the door. “We’ve a right hill of correspondence from your friends around the Isle, and there’s more coming in every day!”

  When Horace joined them in the garden, the big man thrust a bundle of papers into the wizard’s hands. “These are the ones we think are most pressing.” Drops of sweat beaded the man’s brow. “I’ve been at the stoves,” he explained. “I’ll get us some refreshments while you look those over, then I’ll share the other news I’ve gleaned since last we met.”

  Horace returned shortly, bearing a tray of almond-stuffed olives, ripe coilhorn cheese, ginger preserves, and steaming hot flatbread. As Morgan sipped a glass of mulate wine, his friends detailed the trouble brewing in all directions. The wizard wasn’t surprised by their catalogue of concerns, but he found it disheartening all the same.

  “Glornadoor and Karan-Rhad are one season away from famine on a massive scale,” Horace reported, “unless the lords there lay by a third of their harvests. The crop yield this year in Palmador has been poor, due to the rivers spilling their banks, and in much of the southern realms, the new plantings were washed away by torrential rains. Cardenstowe hasn’t yet recovered from the flooding they experienced last spring, and the old farmers say to expect more of the same across the west in the coming weeks.”

  “Here in Lorendale, we’ve been spared the worst of the wet,” Maisie added. “But rumors fly that we can expect a rain of Helgrin arrows at any moment. Many of the common folk living along the coast have abandoned their fishing boats and farms, and they’ve flocked inland to set up makeshift homes outside Lorendale’s walls. Lady Inis and young Lord Nolan are having a time of it trying to convince their people there’s no threat of imminent invasion. They’ve even sent soldiers to fortify the coastal towns. What began as an exodus to seek safe haven in Lorendale Castle is beginning to look more like a siege.”

  I shall have to arrange for assistance for Lady Inis, Morgan thought, adding this to his list of concerns. “What can you tell me regarding the whereabouts of the å Livåri?”

  Horace sighed. “I’m afraid we’ve run into a thorny hedge there. There’s a sizeable encampment down in Glornadoor, but other than that, all we’ve been able to turn up is ransacked camps, abandoned wagons, and a few bodies—all of them either old folks or babes.” His face hardened. “The bastards!”

  Morgan nodded in grim agreement as he sorted through the letters on his lap. “So it remains a mystery to be—” He stopped short when he spotted a familiar seal, a silver doe, on a thin missive. He held up the letter. “When did this arrive?”

  Horace frowned in consideration. “I believe it was two days ago.”

  Morgan broke the seal, scanned the closely written page, then rose to his feet.

  Horace heaved up from his seat as well. “Here—where are you going, Mortimer?”

  “My apologies,” said Morgan. “Urgent business, by order of the Tribus. I’ll pack up the rest of the correspondence, then be on my way at once.”

  But Maisie protested, pointing out that Holly, at least, deserved a few hours’ rest before making the three-day journey north to the Tor of Brenhinoedd—and as long as Morgan had to wait for the little horse to recover, why did he not partake in some refreshment himself? So he accepted his friends’ offer of a steam bath, savored a bowl of Horace’s ginger-infused fish chowder, and drank several goblets of Maisie’s fine wine. Then, after giving strict instructions
to be wakened before the candle had burned by half, he retired to his chamber and fell dead asleep.

  He left Port Taygh in the wee hours and followed the coastal road. It seemed to him there was less traffic on the road than there should have been. The few wagons he passed were empty, and their drivers shared the same gaunt, hungry look.

  He reached Stonehoven at midday. At the Braeburn Inn, he found a coach awaiting him, as had been promised in the thin missive. The discreet but eminently recognizable T scrolled on its doors ensured that he would meet with no challenge along the Great Middle Way through Nelvorboth to the capital. Morgan confirmed that his coachman knew their destination, then tethered Holly behind the carriage and climbed aboard. The coachmen gave the command for the horses to walk on, and they lurched into motion.

  The cabin’s interior was opulent, with soft seat pillows and a velvet-pleated ceiling replete with gem-studded stars and crescents. Violet silk covered the walls, complementing the rose curtains that hung over the windows. Morgan settled in comfortably and took advantage of their leisurely pace to ponder the reason for this summons passed on to him by Gilly. Did Urlion’s enchanter suspect Morgan had uncovered their treason? Whoever it was who had placed the enchantment on the late king, they had to be a wizard of great power, with access to Urlion. This almost certainly implicated one of the Tribus. But Morgan couldn’t be certain; the strain of breaking the spell he’d been under for all those years had killed Urlion before Morgan could learn who had betrayed him.

  Morgan was well aware he might be heading into a trap, but there was no way he could ignore a call to the capital without raising the suspicions of the one he meant to expose.

  It would all become clearer soon enough.

  Someone had thoughtfully placed a food basket on the floor of the coach, and he had a flask of Maisie’s mulate in the pocket of his cloak. After enjoying a light refreshment of cold chicken and briny pickles, he settled back and allowed the rhythmic swaying of the carriage to lull him into a deep, dreamless slumber.