The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  It was the last unbroken sleep he’d enjoy for many days to come.

  * * *

  When Morgan awoke, the carriage was at a standstill. He was at once on his guard, for he couldn’t possibly have slept all the way to Drinnkastel. Considering that his driver had simply stopped to relieve himself, Morgan eased the window curtain slightly open.

  Moonlight seeped into the compartment, accompanied by the song of crickets and the mossy scent of recent rain. Wherever they were, the carriage was far from any town. Far from any witnesses as well, he thought darkly.

  He didn’t intend to wait meekly inside the carriage for whatever lay in store. With an agility that belied his years, he flung open the coach door and leapt to the ground, brandishing his staff before him.

  He found himself sparring with air. The coachman was nowhere to be seen, and the pair of greys pulling the carriage had been released from their traces and presumably led away. Thankfully, Holly was still tethered at the rear. The pony pricked her ears, and Morgan lay a reassuring hand on her muzzle.

  They were no longer on the Great Middle Way; indeed, the road was barely more than a track. It seemed he had simply been abandoned here—the question was why? Had his driver, instructed to do away with him, lost heart and fled?

  A sudden light bloomed between the trees. He was to have an answer to his questions soon.

  “Now, my girl,” he murmured to Holly as he untied her, “it’s possible that trouble is coming our way.” He stroked her velvet nose as he watched the light bobbing toward them. “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve, but should anything befall me, you’re to find your way to Mithralyn, do you hear?”

  The approaching light concealed its bearer in shadow, and Morgan prepared himself for the possibility of an attack.

  A familiar voice called softly. “Before you accuse me of melodrama for bringing you to such a secluded place, you must hear my reasons.”

  The light was abruptly extinguished, and the following darkness was so complete that Celaidra moved into Morgan’s arms before he could stop her. Gently, he held her away from him, and at that moment the moon appeared from behind the clouds to reveal her beautiful, strained face.

  “I would never dream of calling you melodramatic, my lady,” Morgan said with a smile, “but perhaps these reasons would be better shared somewhere more private?”

  Celaidra took his arm. “There is a small croft just ahead.”

  Morgan was not surprised to find the cottage they entered set up with all the comforts a noble lady might require, including a crackling fire. Only when they’d crossed the threshold did Celaidra release him to pour them each a goblet of fine summer wine.

  The wizard accepted the glass she held out to him, and saw her hand was trembling. “My lady? You are unwell?”

  The elven princess shook her head, but sank slowly into a chair by the fire. “My illness is of the heart,” she confessed, “although it is somewhat eased now that you are near, Mortimer.” She set down her glass to push back her hood, revealing her lustrous hair. “I was so worried you wouldn’t receive the message I sent through Sir Gilbin, and now I regret the danger responding to it has placed you in.”

  Morgan waited in silence for her to explain.

  “You were ever a good listener.” Celaidra’s smile was bittersweet. “I’ll get right to the point of my urgent summons. We did not debate long on who should succeed Urlion. Audric put Roth forward as the obvious choice, and even Selka, although sullen as usual, offered no argument.” She lay her head back against the cushions and lifted her gaze to the low ceiling. “At first, it all seemed to be going as Audric had predicted—a remarkably smooth transition. Lord Roth was crowned High King, and on the same day, the leadership of the Tribus transferred from Selka to Audric.

  “His first duty as High Elder was to formally introduce us to our new sovereign—which meant revealing to the new king the elves’ presence in Drinnglennin. Under the Konigurs, I trusted that my people’s existence here would continue to be a secret known only to our king, you, and the Tribus—and more recently to those you sheltered there this past year—but with King Roth… I fear the worst.”

  Morgan sat forward. “He plans to expose the elves?”

  Celaidra shook her head. “No, no. Our young prince expressed delight that we still inhabit the Isle, and he assured me Mithralyn will remain a secret, just as it has since the dawn of the After Age under the Konigur kings.” She looked down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap.

  “And yet?” Morgan gently prodded.

  Celaidra’s amber eyes were filled with misgiving. “A recent appointment has given me cause to doubt our High King’s assertion that magical folk are welcome in Drinnglennin. Gravlin has been removed as High Monter of the Elementa Temple, and replaced by Talek, a nephew of Nandor Nelvor. It seems Grindasa has long been a patron of his.”

  “Talek of Crydwyn? He’s quite the zealot, is he not?”

  Celaidra’s lips formed a grim line. “He’s long advocated for stamping out all magical practice in the realm. We were stunned when Roth selected such a man to lead the Elementa Temple.”

  “Perhaps the appointment is meant to appease Princess Grindasa?”

  “Queen Grindasa,” Celaidra amended. “She began to style herself thus immediately following the coronation.”

  Morgan frowned. “Are you saying you fear King Roth will be monarch in name only?”

  Celaidra’s little shrug evolved into a shiver. “It’s too soon to tell. Roth seems an intelligent man, and he’s already captured the hearts of Drinnkastelites, particularly those of the ladies. His fine face and figure have them practically swooning. The people have long been starving for a vigorous young ruler and the return of a lively, elegant court. And now that King Roth plans to wed, it’s expected he’ll produce an heir as soon as possible. The people crave stability in the succession, after these long years of uncertainty.”

  “Roth is to take a wife?”

  Celaidra blinked twice. “Surely you knew? Your Maura, of the dragonfast, has accepted his offer of marriage. The formal announcement will be made tomorrow.”

  Morgan was careful to conceal the frisson of alarm her words set off. “I see. Has Maura… Does the High King know about the dragons then?”

  “Not from me, and since there’s been no mention made of them at council, I suspect not from Maura either. Not yet, at any rate. But if they are to wed, of course he’ll soon learn of them.”

  Indeed, thought Morgan, for Maura bore the same concentric circles on her breast as Leif had on his. “It seems I’ll have to go back with you to the capital at once.”

  He made to rise, but Celaidra seized his hand.

  “You mustn’t dare, Mortimer! I haven’t told you the worst of it. Under no circumstances are you to come to Drinnkastel.”

  “And why is this?”

  Celaidra dropped her voice as though she feared the walls had ears. “It’s known you were the last person to see our former High King alive.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I was with Urlion when he made the Leap.”

  “Someone saw you leave his quarters. My dear, I’ve come to warn you that you must flee. A warrant has been issued for your arrest. The king’s guards are seeking you, and word is spreading across the realm of your supposed offense.”

  Morgan already knew the answer, but he asked the question all the same. “What is this offense?”

  Celaidra’s grip on his hands tightened. “Regicide, Mortimer. You’ve been charged with the murder of Urlion Konigur.”

  Chapter 10

  Whit

  Even since he’d learned about Master Morgan’s lost powers, Whit had found it impossible to meet the wizard’s eye. He told himself it was because Master Morgan hadn’t held up his end of the bargain that had brought Whit to Mithralyn in the first place. But in his heart, he knew
that wasn’t the real reason. The truth was, the wizard’s tale reminded him too much of what had happened to him in the High Priestess’s musty chambers in Altipa. Whit suspected he’d come close to meeting a similar fate, and every time he thought of that frightening day, his blood turned to ice.

  He was glad now that he’d never told Master Morgan of his own near-miss with blood-binding. If no one ever spoke of it, he could almost pretend it had never happened. He’d already sworn Cortenus to secrecy, and the tutor had mercifully made no further mention of the incident.

  So it was that after pining for Master Morgan’s return for many months, Whit now found himself strangely relieved when the wizard departed.

  It marked Whit’s own time to take his leave of Mithralyn as well. While his stay with the elves had been elucidating, he’d never felt like he belonged there, not in the way Cortenus clearly did, as evidenced by how quickly his tutor had seized on Whit’s suggestion that he remain for a while longer in Mithralyn. The lure of Elvinor’s library was largely responsible, and Whit wouldn’t be surprised, if he were ever to return to Mithralyn, to find Cortenus right where he’d left him, poring over ancient manuscripts and sipping honeyed blackcurrant tea.

  Cortenus’s only concern was about Whit’s traveling alone. Whit promised to hire some swords along the way, though he had no real intention of doing so. He possessed enough wit and magic to fend for himself on the road, and it had been far too long since he’d been able to keep his own company. The past months living in the midst of so many elves had been wearing for a wizard who had more serious interests to pursue than engaging in playful repartee and long nights of music, dancing, and aimless merriment.

  Elvinor bid him a fond farewell, which Whit found himself returning with equal sincerity. The elven king bestowed upon him several fine gifts, including the books Whit had gathered, and a slim, battered volume from Morgan. Whit frowned at the spine of the book. It was an outdated almanac, and he wondered if this was the wizard’s way of suggesting he needed to improve his knowledge of agriculture, which didn’t interest Whit in the least.

  Once he was back in his chambers, Whit stuffed the book, unexamined, into the bottom of his pack.

  He set out alone for Cardenstowe. Sinead fell into a steady canter and seemed as happy as he was to be on the road. Rowlan, Halla’s destrier, was tethered behind her, for Whit had promised his cousin he would return the horse to Lorendale. Fortunately the two horses had shared a paddock in the elven realm, and the stallion offered no objection to being led by her.

  They followed a southwesterly route that would take them across the Tor of Brenhinoedd. Whit intended to break his journey in Drinnkastel, where he hoped to see Maura and make himself known to King Roth. With the advent of a Nelvorian dynasty, whatever divisions had existed between the Cardenstowes and the former High King could now be put aside, opening the way, Whit hoped, for him to offer himself as a candidate to fill the next vacancy on King Roth’s Tribus.

  He had given this vision of his future much thought. A Tribus appointment would free him from the necessity of managing Cardenstowe and allow him to focus almost exclusively on his magic. And sharing this honorable position with two other wizards or sorceresses would offer him the opportunity to glean from them even more magical knowledge. He would live a secluded life, away from distracting and often unpleasant interactions with people in whom he had no interest. He could devote himself to learning, reading, and growing his already considerable power. It would be the realization of his ideal life.

  The only obstacle, as he saw it, was his obligation to produce an heir for Cardenstowe. But he was sure he could think of some way to address this.

  At least Halla could no longer be considered a suitable candidate for the next Lady Cardenstowe. As soon as his mother learned her niece had not only lived and trained in a brothel, but was currently a member of a band of rebel Lurkers, she’d have no choice but to eliminate the girl from consideration as Whit’s bride. Whit only hoped knowledge of Halla’s escapades could be kept in the family. His aunt and young cousins of Lorendale had enough on their trenchers to deal with at present, what with so many of their peasants clamoring for refuge from what many believed was an imminent Helgrin invasion. And Whit himself would no doubt be busy with more important matters once his official standing as a full wizard, conferred on him by Egydd when the mage gave him his staff of power, was made known.

  Occupied with dreams of his bright future, Whit cantered out of Mithralyn feeling all was right with his world. The road was his alone, for the Fairendellians, a superstitious folk, clove to their coast. Now he knew it wasn’t mere superstition that kept them away; elven magic had rendered this dreary moorland purposely inhospitable to discourage anyone from discovering their hidden sanctuary.

  After passing mile after mile without meeting another soul, he began to entertain himself with magic of his own making. He whipped the wind to his will, driving the threatening clouds northward out of his path, then he tested his illusing, a difficult feat of magic he’d been working on for weeks. At first his reflection in the puddles left from an earlier rain revealed only subtle differences in his appearance, but by the end of the day, the face of a much older man, with heavy brows and a prominent jaw, gazed back at him.

  Two days passed uneventfully before Whit crossed the border onto the Tor, leaving behind Fairendell’s dull fields of drifting mist for green meadows undulating toward the horizon. His first sign of civilization was a campsite. At first the circled wagons, the laundry hanging on the line, and the chickens scratching in the dust all indicated that people were near at hand. But on closer examination, Whit discovered that the blackened stains on the earth were blood, and the overturned pots evidence that their owners’ lives had been interrupted by violence. He suspected he’d happened upon the aftermath of Lurker kidnappings.

  Although dusk was fast approaching and the encampment had a good source of water, Whit didn’t linger. Instead he followed the stream until he found a sheltered grove a few miles farther on. After carefully checking both horses’ hooves, he tethered them to graze and sat down to some elven fare.

  Low clouds spooled by overhead as he prepared his bedroll. There was no scent of rain in the air, so he could expect a dry night’s repose. This enhanced smelling of things was a recent addition to his magical repertoire. He could now scent out weather, water, all sorts of plants, and the proximity of various creatures, including humans—but not, to his chagrin, elves. Unfortunately this capability also had its disadvantages, for he was just as likely to pick up the odors of dung, toadstools, or people’s unwashed bodies as he was herbs for his evening stew.

  As he lay down to sleep, he focused on developing his skill to perform another magical feat: shade-shifting. Ever since achieving a level of competence in the discipline of scrying, his ability to be still had improved significantly, and tranquility was essential to mastering the imperatives. Master Morgan had explained that for this reason, the moments before sleep were the most fertile times to practice this elusive shadow work. And the wizard proved to be right. On several quiet nights in Mithralyn, Whit had already managed to move his own shadow several increments across the wall of his chamber.

  In the secluded grove, Whit lay on his side, focused on his breathing, and stared at the shadows cast by his conjured fire. His breaths slowed and deepened as he mentally projected his exhalations farther and farther from his physical sphere, while drawing his inhalations deeper within it. He expelled a long, slow breath, and his efforts were rewarded: the flickering shadows of the fire leapt up to lick, like black tongues, the boulder to his right. Whit’s pulse quickened as he held the shadows against the stone, watching them dance. It was the longest he’d been able to maintain any shade-shifting thus far.

  Encouraged, he willed the shadow onward to arc first to the trees, then out of his line of vision. He forced himself to count to ten before turning to follow its progressio
n in the direction his mind had sent it. He was sweating with concentration, but a warm glow spread through him as he directed the shadow, like a master conductor drawing forth a symphony from his orchestra. This was what Egydd meant about becoming my own magic.

  When at last he released the shadow, he felt a surge of triumph. He had succeeded in performing the first of the imperatives! He envisioned the time, now certain to come to pass, when he could shadow-cast and glide across any space wrapped in his shadow. He’d seen Egydd do it once. One moment the mage stood in front of Whit, and the next he’d disappeared. Whit would have been unable to track the mage at all had he not known precisely what to look for: the slight ripple of air surrounding a shadow that looks denser and darker.

  With a sense of deep satisfaction, Whit now took control of the fire’s shadows again. He lost track of the time he spent playing in the small arena of light. At one point, something Master Morgan once said about the essence of shadows flitted through his mind. They are more than a confirmation of our presence in this world; they’re a reflection of our inner mystery—ever-shifting and ethereal. Whit wished the wizard was with him now to witness his achievement. He even wondered what Halla would think if she could see him wielding such challenging magic. Knowing her, she’d probably find some fault with it.

  How Leif would enjoy it though! Whit imagined the lad chasing after the shifting shade, while Whit kept it leaping just out of his reach. He laughed aloud at the thought, and Sinead snorted in mild alarm.

  Unlike scrying, shadow shifting didn’t leave Whit feeling drained. Still, he needed rest, so with reluctance, he released the wavering dark forms and lay back on his bedroll. Despite his excitement, sleep came quickly.

  But with it came troubled dreams.

  He dreamt of a great hall, at the center of which stood a crystal dome, covering an ancient book, its pages lined with runic writing. A figure hunched over the glittering glass, intoning an incantation. In a sudden burst of light, the crystal shattered, spraying shards of glass that flew into Whit’s eyes, blinding him.