The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  He cried out, awakening to large drops of rain pelting his face in the grey dawn.

  “So much for my powers of scenting,” he grumbled, pulling up his hood.

  After partaking of a quick meal and breaking camp, he rode on. Several hours passed before the trail widened and began to wind upward. A whisper of water steadily grew to a rush; a cascade tumbled somewhere ahead. Whit wondered if the Argens, the river running through Drinnkastel to the Vast Sea, had overflowed its banks.

  The road rose steeply, and Whit had to pace Sinead accordingly over its muddy, slick surface, Rowlan plodding along behind. He felt a growing impatience at the delay. At this rate, he estimated it would take them a full day, if not longer, to navigate the switchbacks, and another half day’s travel to reach Drinnkastel. He had been to the capital once before, when he was quite young, and his only memory of the experience was of the mummers performing in the Grand Square. He recalled thinking the performers were working magic, and how his blood sang as they breathed fire, made nosegays and live doves appear out of sleeves, and pinched coins from spectators’ ears. Indeed, it may well have been that performance that had first stirred the magic in his veins.

  His excitement over visiting the capital was tinged by a queasy anticipation at the prospect of mingling with the crowds. He’d found fighting his way through the throngs of people in the Segavian bazaars and the milling masses of pilgrims in Altipa to be a most unsettling experience. He tried to reassure himself that it would be different in Drinnkastel, among his own people.

  Sinead at last crested the rim of the escarpment just as the rays of the setting sun pierced the louring clouds. A skein of geese winged its raucous way south above forests ablaze with autumn foliage, and the sun-struck river wound through the trees, a ribbon of light flaming like liquid gold. He’d have to cross to its far side at some point, and from the sound of the rushing water, he’d need to find a ford, or better still, a bridge.

  He was reminded of the river he’d walked along with Cressida under Mithralyn’s towering trees. He wondered where the sylth was now, and if she had already shed her mortal shell to meld her spirit with her poplar tree. His loins stirred at the memory of her as a living maid in the arms of her lover, just as they had when he’d first witnessed her young knight draw her down on that bed of sweet grass so many centuries ago.

  He gave Sinead a gentle kick, attempting to exorcise his yearning. He knew it was a natural impulse for a young man his age, but the idea of the actual doing of the whole business unsettled him. How exactly did one go about it, so as to get it right? Whit had grown up seeing many a stallion covering mares, bulls mounting cows, and dogs locked in what seemed an agonizing union. And more than once he’d come upon one of his father’s vassals humping away with a serving girl in an alcove. But he’d always felt more disturbed than aroused by these encounters. He suspected this was because his parents had treated anything related to sex as unmentionable.

  In fact, the closest Whit had come to a frank conversation about intimacy was when Cortenus broached the subject. They had come upon two crows emitting low, clicking rattles while puffing out their bibs and bowing in a mirrored dance with one another, and Whit’s tutor remarked idly, “It’s the start of a lifelong relationship for those two.”

  “Lifelong?” Whit remembered feeling incredulous. “How can anyone possibly tell them apart to prove that? They all look the same.”

  Cortenus chuckled. “Not to one another, they don’t.”

  They stayed to watch the odd ritual, then the mating afterward, which lasted only a few seconds.

  “That’s it?” Whit said.

  “That’s it,” Cortenus confirmed. “It’s a wonder his lady stays loyal.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Cortenus gave him a sideways glance. “A woman desires a lover who devotes time to her, my lord.”

  This was something worth learning. “How much time?”

  Cortenus pressed a thoughtful finger to his lips. “I suppose the best answer is: it depends on the woman. And it’s not just time you must invest—you must learn to read her subtler signs as well. Does she long for tender caresses, or is she yearning for a passionate embrace? Does she wish you to whisper terms of endearment or something… bolder into her ear?”

  “That sounds complicated,” Whit grumbled. “How’s a fellow to know for sure?”

  “Ah, if I had the answer to that, I’d be hailed as the wisest man in the Known World.”

  “Well, the whole business seems very imprecise. What’s so funny?”

  Cortenus covered his smile with his hand. “Forgive me, my lord, but as much as you may wish it, the art of love-making cannot be defined as an exact science. You’ll better understand once you’ve experienced it for yourself.”

  The conversation ended there, but now, five years on, Whit realized he was no wiser regarding these matters than he had been back then.

  He decided he would have to rectify that soon.

  * * *

  As the day progressed, Whit began to pass homesteads and crofts. Although he’d dressed modestly for travel, the folk he met on the road all pulled respectful forelocks or stepped aside with a curtsey. After this had happened several times, it dawned on him that it was the wizard’s staff slung across his back that commanded their respect, and he took care to arrange his features in a sage expression when he passed the next traveler.

  It happened to be a round-faced fellow with a jaunty cap driving a wagon filled with bright yellow and orange gourds. The man looked trustworthy enough, so Whit ventured to inquire where he might put up for the night. After sleeping in the open for days, he longed for a hot bath.

  “There’s the Magpie’s Mirror,” the farmer replied, pointing farther down the road. “’Taint more than a mile west o’ here. Fenella serves a fine lamb stew and a decent ale. Mind ye, she charges twice what ol’ Sim does over at the Pickled Pot, but yer not likely t’ find more than a morsel ’o meat in his sorry swill.”

  To thank the man, Whit handed him a coin. The farmer’s eyes shone with pleasure as he pocketed it. “She runs a clean house, Fenella does,” he said, then dropped his voice. “And if it please ye, master, ask fer Maeve—sweet as Langmerdor honey, she is.”

  By the time Whit realized what the farmer meant, the fellow had clucked to his mule and continued on his way.

  Whit spurred past the wagon, barely sparing the man another glance, for in addition to a hot meal and bath, he now had a maid called Maeve on his mind.

  * * *

  At first glance, the Magpie’s Mirror did not disappoint. The small, tidy inn, shaded by spreading fall-kissed maples, sat cozily tucked back from the road. Its white facade was chequered by black timbers, and it was capped with a neatly thatched roof with stolid stone chimneys rising on either end. Pots of bright purple freesia bordered the arched front door, and above the lintel a black-and-white bird was etched on a circle of burnished metal, which must have cost a pretty penny.

  After surrendering Sinead and Rowlan to a stable boy with detailed instructions as to their care, Whit ducked into the pub. The place was larger than it appeared from the outside, and already a few of the locals faced one another across the well-scrubbed tables. The aroma of the aforementioned stew emanating from the kitchen made Whit’s stomach rumble.

  A girl was crouched at the hearth near the door, attempting to fan a fire to life—though Whit could tell by the billowing smoke swirling round her that she’d used green, wet wood. When the maid, sensing she was being watched, looked up at Whit with the air of a startled doe, he gave her a reassuring smile, then tilted his staff slightly toward the fireplace and murmured under his breath. In an instant, the smoke vanished, and bright flames set the logs to crackling.

  The girl’s mouth formed a small ‘O’, and she flashed Whit a look of nervous gratitude before scurrying away.

  Whit sur
veyed the room to see if anyone else had witnessed his work, but no one was looking his way.

  He succeeded in procuring the Mirror’s best room for a groat, and the first thing he did upon entering it was ask for water to take a bath in its rustic tub. He had to fold his lanky frame into it with care, but at least the water was hot, and he’d had the forethought to pack his own soap. As he sat in the steaming tub, his thoughts drifted to sweet Maeve. Was she fair or raven-haired, petite or pleasingly plump? Imagining how it would feel to hold her against his bared chest, he felt himself quicken.

  With an effort, he rose out of the tub and let the cold air quell his ardor, then dressed with care, selecting a pearl-grey tunic and black hose girded with a silver belt. On a whim, he left his hair, which had grown long in Mithralyn, unbound on his shoulders, deciding it made him appear more wizardly.

  As he descended the stairs to the pub, he noted that several serving maids followed him with their eyes, and a few of the men cast him curious glances as well. He knew strangers were likely to be viewed with suspicion in these provincial backwaters, but he was confident his princely attire would discourage any unpleasantness. He’d felt at ease from the moment he’d crossed the threshold of the Magpie’s Mirror.

  A pretty girl placed a mug of cool brown ale before him, then took his dinner order. Drinking deeply, he felt the last of the rigors of travel drain away, replaced by a growing exhilaration. Tomorrow he would arrive in Drinnkastel, and surely then his future would be secured. Of course, he was already a lord of the realm, but this paled in comparison to the prospect of one day soon becoming a member of the Tribus. He felt a giddy thrill at the thought of obtaining the most august commission a wizard could hope for in a lifetime.

  And before that, there was tonight… which offered its own exciting possibilities.

  Whit glanced about the room, taking particular note of a group of laughing young women. Perhaps Maeve was one of them. Several of them were quite comely, particularly a petite blonde with a laughing mouth and skin the color of fresh cream.

  His stew arrived, along with a half a loaf of dense, warm bread and a pot of sweet butter. The old man who’d recommended the Magpie hadn’t exaggerated the stew’s flavor. Whit quickly polished off the tender chunks of lamb, turnips, and carrots swimming in rich gravy, then used the heel of the bread to mop up the last savory drops.

  He was working through his third mug of ale when he sensed he was under observation. Lifting his gaze, he met the frank stare of the pretty blonde. Emboldened by the invitation he read in her eyes, he rose and carried his tankard across to where she sat with her friends. The ladies all fell silent as he inclined his head toward the vacant space on the bench.

  But instead of sliding over, the fair-haired maid frowned, and Whit felt a jolt of misgiving. The ensuing flitter of giggles from her companions made him feel even more a fool. For a long awkward moment he stood frozen as the girl’s eyes swept him from head to toe.

  At last she parted her sultry lips. “’Tisn’t the custom here, sir, to approach a lady without an introduction.” She remained unsmiling, but a spark of amusement lit her eyes as more titters circled the table.

  Whit made a swift, courtly bow. “Forgive me. I’m a stranger to these parts, and so cannot call on an acquaintance to properly present me.” He stepped respectfully back, preparing to retreat in humiliation, but the girl reached out and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Then you must proceed alone. What is your name, sir?” The tip of her pink tongue flicked against her upper lip as her fingers caressed the fabric of his sleeve.

  “I… Card—” A sudden caution made him hesitate.

  “Master Card?” repeated the girl, with a raised brow. “I’ve not heard this name before. Where is your home, master?”

  She still hadn’t invited him to sit, but as her hand rested on his sleeve, he was unable to leave. He fiercely rued the impulse that now had him under the scrutiny of the entire pub. “I’m from… the west.”

  “I see,” said the maid primly. “Well, Master Card from the west, what is your intention in approaching me?”

  Intention? Whit cast wildly about in his mind for an appropriate response. If he could have extricated himself gracefully, he would have done so at once, for the girl was decidedly pert, and on closer inspection, he noticed that her eyes were set slightly too far apart. “I… I…” He glanced up as a barmaid moved past bearing a tray. “I merely wished to buy you and your friends a flagon of wine.”

  This appeared to have been the right thing to say, for the girl smiled at last and flicked her beguiling tongue again. “Why, Master Card,” she purred, sliding over to make space beside her, “in that case, you are most welcome.”

  With an inner sigh of relief, Whit settled beside her.

  A plump dark-haired girl raised her goblet to him and said, “I’m Shel.” She tipped her glass toward the blonde. “And she’s Cammie.”

  The other girls offered their names as well, but Whit was deaf to them, for beneath the boards, Cammie’s warm hand had come to rest on his knee. To cover his surprise, he hastily raised his tankard and gulped down his ale. When he set it on the table again, Shel leaned toward him, displaying her ample cleavage, and announced, “Cammie’s gettin’ noozed t’morrow.”

  “Noozed?” he repeated. It came out as a croak, for Cammie’s hand was now sliding up his thigh. Whit found he couldn’t shift his eyes from Shel’s breasts, which threatened to burst from her tightly cinched bodice with the next breath.

  “Yoked.” Shel gave him a sly smile. “You know—hitched. Jumping the broom. I s’pose a fine gent such as yourself would say pledgin’ ’er troth.” Her speech was slurred, either because of a regional accent or the amount of drink she’d consumed.

  Comprehension dawned on Whit. He turned his astonished his gaze away from Shel’s heaving bosom toward Cammie, who was engaged in a whispered conversation with the girl on her right. Her fingers continued their bold approach toward his manhood.

  While he was attempting to digest the fact that the girl who was causing him such inappropriate pleasure was about to be married, a barmaid plunked a bottle that he hadn’t ordered down in front of him.

  Cammie’s hand abruptly withdrew, leaving Whit feeling both bereft and relieved, for he’d been on the verge of exploding. He now felt a slight revulsion toward the minx and pitied her hapless groom. Such wanton behavior on the eve of their wedding foreboded a doomed marriage.

  The barmaid seemed to be of a similar mind regarding Cammie’s moral fiber. She glared at the girl with knowing eyes, reminding Whit uncomfortably of Mistress Merch, a nanny under whose tyranny he’d been forced to suffer for nearly a year.

  “You lassies should see the bride-to-be home,” the barmaid proposed, “as she’ll want to be fresh for her big day.” She pushed the bottle toward Shel, but her eyes never left the blonde. “You can take the wine with you—it’s on the house.” She dropped her voice, which now held a threat of menace. “If it’s fiddlin’ you’ve a penchant for, Mistress Cammie, surely my brother will oblige you with a bow.”

  Her expression was so fierce, Whit rose at once, and Cammie had the grace to blush as she slid hastily off the bench. Whit felt certain the barmaid had guessed what had been going on under the table. His own face burning, he mumbled his excuses and made for the stairs, only to remember he hadn’t paid for his supper. Cursing, he felt for the coins in his pocket and found them gone.

  “Looking for these?” said a familiar voice. The barmaid jingled the silver in her hand. “There’s no need for you to leave, sir.” She laid the coins on the table, then pulled out a chair for him.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Whit sat, and was startled when the maid took the chair opposite his.

  “You’re not the first who’s been taken in by that connivin’ slut,” she said. “I’d ask Mistress Frenella to bar her from this place, if it wouldn’t
mean I’d never see my younger brother again. That doxie will be my sister-in-law by this time tomorrow.” She pulled such a sour face that Whit laughed, and her expression softened. “Ah well, we’ll not have you saying your time at the Magpie was unpleasant.” She signaled a passing barmaid for another ale. “It’s on me.”

  “That’s not necessary. I—”

  “Will accept the ale and enjoy it,” she said firmly and smiled for the first time. He liked the way her eyes crinkled at the edges, and her dainty teeth. She was pretty, in an understated sort of way, with dark curls that fell to her shoulders and a charmingly turned-up nose.

  He smiled back.

  “I saw you come in earlier,” she said, “with a staff ’cross your back. My mistress says you must be a wizard. Are you?”

  Whit sat up a bit straighter. “Yes, I am.”

  The woman’s eyes widened with admiration. “I’ve never met a wizard before.” She stretched out a finger and traced the scar on his wrist, leaving a pleasant tingle in its wake. “So—you can do magic?”

  “Y-yes,” he replied, his eyes glued to her hand. “I can.” He expected she would now ask for some proof, but instead she sat back and crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “And what do you do, when you’re not casting spells and such?”

  Whit blinked. “Why… I—I learn.” He winced inwardly, for it made him sound like a schoolboy.

  She must have thought so too, for she rose from her chair. “Well, Master Wizard, if there’s anything else I can get you, you’ve only to ask.”

  Whit shook his head. “No. That is…”

  “Another ale, perhaps?” She shook her glossy curls, then planted her hands on the table and leaned so close to him that he could smell cinnamon on her breath and see flecks of green in her brown eyes.

  “Ale, is it then?” she asked again. “Or would you perhaps care to learn… something new?” A slow, suggestive smile spread across her generous lips, making Whit’s pulse quicken.