The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “That boy disappeared at the same time as the wizard,” Grindasa mused, with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps he was an accomplice in Urlion’s murder.”

  “What an absurd idea!” Maura snapped.

  From the sudden outrage in the queen’s eyes, Maura saw she’d gone too far.

  “I mean—”

  Grindasa set down her knife with deliberate care, then swept from the room in livid silence.

  Maura looked down at her clenched fists. She decided she was too angry over the woman’s ridiculous accusations against Master Morgan and insinuations about Leif to worry about what this bitter exchange might cost her. She was tired of being on her guard all the time around people she had hoped would be her new family.

  Throwing aside her napkin, she left her breakfast untouched and went in search of Roth. She would insist on a serious conversation with him—at once, before her resolve deserted her.

  She found him in the stables, dressed for riding in a new black-and-silver coat cut in the continental style. He didn’t look altogether happy to see her.

  Maura didn’t mince her words. “Your mother has been so kind as to inform me you’ve declared Master Morgan a traitor and a murderer. She went so far as to suggest that Leif was involved as well.” She gave a little choked laugh of incredulity. “You can’t honestly believe that either of them had anything to do with my uncle’s death?”

  Roth continued to adjust the girth of his horse’s saddle. “I know you like to believe the best of everyone, my dear,” he said, stepping back from the charger and signaling to a groom to lead the horse to the courtyard, “but in this you are mistaken. Others better equipped to uncover the truth are certain my father was poisoned.”

  “What others?” Maura demanded.

  When Roth didn’t reply and attempted to pass her, she laid a restraining hand on his sleeve. He looked at it pointedly, and when he raised his eyes to hers, they were glitteringly cold.

  “My Tribus,” he said curtly.

  “Perhaps,” Maura retorted hotly, “your Tribus should ask Master Tergin why he was giving Urlion melia berries.”

  Several of the stable boys glanced over at them, and Roth shrugged off her hand.

  “Perhaps,” he replied, keeping his voice low, “I would be better served to wonder how you came by this knowledge?”

  Before Maura could recover from the shock of his implication, Roth spun on his heel and left the stables. She hurried after him in time to see him swing up into his saddle.

  “I can see the travel has left you overwrought, my dear,” he said, wheeling the charger, “so I will overlook your impudence.” He gave her a polite, cool smile. “In the future, however, do not try my patience with regard to this matter.” Then he gave his horse a sharp kick, leaving her to the furtive looks of the grooms.

  Maura sought the refuge of her chamber, where she sat staring blankly at what might have once been a favorite tapestry. The weaving depicted a scene of a lady astride a silver mare, reaching down to accept an open book from a courtly prince. Beside them, a minstrel fingered his lute while a small dog danced on his hind legs. Snow-capped mountains rose in the background, surrounding a white, spired castle out of a faerie tale.

  A lovely scene, thought Maura bitterly, of a perfect romance in a perfect world. But perfect was just a flight of fancy. Her own world, which she’d recently thought so close to perfection, had come crashing down around her with seven words.

  Doesn’t his throat slit like any other?

  Chapter 15

  Leif

  The cold light of a billion stars lent no warmth. Leif’s feet were numb and the tip of his nose felt as if it might chip off at the slightest sniff. It had been three long nights since Rhiandra had departed, and he felt certain she hadn’t planned to leave him alone for so long in this forbidding land. Something had gone wrong.

  When the first sliver of light appeared on the fourth day, Leif took stock of his remaining stores. He had a dozen rounds of waybread and enough dried fruit to last him another week. After that he’d be in real trouble, for there was nothing to forage on this ice-bound island. And he had another, more immediate worry: the power of his solaric stone was fading, and he could no longer light fires with it. The few hours of twilight that made up a day in this place weren’t enough to renew its powers. The cloak Elvinor had given Leif would keep him from freezing, but even the fine elven weave couldn’t keep the icy fingers of the gusting wind from finding their way down his neck or up his sleeves. Already the chill had crept into his bones, and even though he kept his gloves and boots on at all times, his hands and feet had gone numb. It was likely he’d gotten frostbite, though this was far down his list of concerns; he’d no doubt succumb altogether to the relentless cold before he started losing toes and fingers.

  Rising to stomp his feet and clap his shoulders, as he had done repeatedly over the last hours to stir his blood, Leif considered his options. He could either continue to wait where he was, in the hope that Rhiandra would return, or he could go in search of her. But if he left and she came back, she might find it difficult, if not impossible, to trace him.

  Leif nibbled a slice of waybread, watching as the thin bright line riming the edge of the world widened. It came down to this: the idea of sitting idle in the cavern until his food ran out simply wasn’t one he could stomach. It was one thing to die, but to do it by starvation…

  The gruesome prospect decided him. He would head due north to find the dragons, for Rhiandra had told him they lived high on the far pole of the Known World.

  Leif shouldered his pack, stepped out of the cave into a biting wind, and set off across the crusted snow. He would have only a few hours before darkness descended again, so he set a brisk pace to make the most of them. Despite the cold, it felt good to be moving, and his spirits began to lift.

  Belestar was white and grey and black, and he wondered how any living thing could bear to dwell in such dull isolation. Of course, dragons had always avoided the bustle of cities and contact with humankind, but centuries of living on this lonely island must have grown wearisome. Leif’s thoughts drifted to Valeland, with its dark firs and woodland meadows of purple wildflowers, beauty he’d once taken for granted, and he wondered if he’d ever see such vibrant colors again.

  Although the first hour of the march was over flat terrain, jagged ice blocks loomed up in his path with increasing frequency, and he was gradually forced to slow his pace. As he picked his way carefully around these obstacles, he kept his eyes peeled for the dark lines that signaled weak ice, for a sudden fracture could send him plunging to a cruel death. He also kept his ears attuned for signs of life. Now and then he would hear a roaring in the distance, a deep, unsettling resonance that carried to him from what he hoped was afar. He didn’t care to meet any of the ferocious ice bears said to share this isle with the dragons.

  Occasionally he sensed he’d lost his bearings, and he wasted valuable time stopping to debate if he should backtrack or alter his course. The third time he felt like he’d strayed, having lost the pale sun under heavy clouds, he slumped down in near-despair. He was a fool to have set out like this. He had perhaps another hour before night fell once more, and there was no sign of shelter. He had already come too far to consider turning back, even if he wanted to.

  It occurred to him that he might not survive the night.

  His steaming breath slowed, and he was just about to rise once more, to trudge onward for however many steps he had left, when he felt a warm pulse against his chest.

  The stone.

  In the months since Master Morgan had presented him with the solaric pendant, it had never before signaled to him on its own accord.

  He tugged the stone from the inner folds of his cloak. Though it was usually translucent, it now glowed a dark magenta. Leif gazed at it in wonder and was struck with a sudden inspiration.

  Rising,
he held the stone at arm’s length, then made a slow circle. Nothing happened until he’d completed the turn, at which point the stone gave a soft pulse of light. He repeated his circling several more times, starting from different orientations, and the results were always the same: the stone pulsed with light when he faced a certain direction. Could it be that it served as a compass of sorts?

  He took several steps in what he believed to be an easterly direction, then turned in place again. Three quarters of the way round, the stone lit up once more.

  It was a compass. And it was guiding him north.

  Heartened, he carried on.

  Another hour passed. His neck ached from constantly looking down to watch for treacherous fissures and shifting ice. When he did glance up, the distant rise ahead remained just that—distant. Although several hours had elapsed since he’d started out, he appeared to be no closer to the higher ground. The sky was darkening, the temperature was dropping, and Leif was too weary to go on. He’d have to bundle up and do his best to stay warm until the sun rose again. At least the stiff winds of earlier had now ebbed.

  That long night as he lay curled in his cloak, he saw the windlights for the first time. They began as pale greenish-yellow flashes that unfurled into ribbons of pink light against the dark sky, reddened at both ends—as though they had been dipped in the ichor of the gods. The stone against his chest radiated with sudden heat, so he drew it out—and to his delight, it pulsed in time to the rhythm of the sky’s silent symphony.

  Perhaps if Rhiandra were flying in search of him, she would see its tiny beacon.

  The thought reminded him of his gran, who had always left a candle in the window of their little croft on nights he returned home from Master Morgan’s cottage after dark. In his mind’s eye, he could see her feeding sticks to the fire, then rising slowly to stir the hot broth thick with carrots and barley and onions she’d prepared for their supper. He hoped she’d gotten someone to help her stock in enough wood, and that her knees hadn’t gone too stiff. They’d troubled her in the colder months of recent years.

  If only he had been able to take his gran with him when he’d gone to Mithralyn. The leaves of the forests would be golden there now, as they were when Leif first arrived in the elven realm. How quickly the year had passed. And how much his life had changed since Rhiandra had pierced his heart with her talon. He’d left the little village of Tonis Vale and crossed over the mountains to Fairendell, where he’d met his father, the king of the elves. In Mithralyn, he’d made the first real friends he’d ever had. He remembered as if it were yesterday sitting by Maura’s bedside after she’d been found unconscious at the sentinel stone, her heart pierced, as his had been, by a dragon’s talon. And from the moment she opened her violet eyes, he’d known she was a true kindred spirit.

  Leif gave a rueful laugh, his breath a puff of vapor in the still air. That’s what he’d believed at the time, anyway. Recalling their bitter parting still made him feel wretched.

  He dredged up happier memories of his time in the capital. The best of these had been the jousts, especially the one between Roth and Borne. Borne was the better of the two contenders, and he’d turned out to be a decent fellow as well. I wouldn’t have minded so if Maura had ended up with him, a fellow northerner. But the Nelvorbothian? Leif wrinkled his cold nose with distaste, recalling the scent Roth wore. As if he had to cover up an underlying stink.

  And I’ve gone and sworn to protect the man!

  He rolled onto his side with a sigh. It was more likely he’d die here in this frozen land, and be forgotten by them all.

  No. I can’t think like that. I’ll find Rhiandra—I just need to keep going north.

  He closed his eyes and lay listening to the groaning ice. It sounded like a lament of coming doom.

  * * *

  Two exhausting days later, the distant peaks looked only slightly closer than when Leif had first set out. His extremities were numb, his body weakening. He’d finished the last of his dried fruits, and was down to five rounds of waybread. Still he plodded ever northward, trying not to dwell on how little time he had left.

  Surely Rhiandra will come for me before I die, he thought, but he lacked his earlier conviction. If she’d been trying to find him, she would have done so by now. A terrible specter of his beautiful bluewinged soulmate, broken and torn by her siblings’ cruel teeth and talons, had begun to haunt him. He felt certain he would know if she was dead, but he couldn’t think of any other reason for the dragon’s extended absence.

  By the end of the third short day, the mountains to the north appeared a little closer. The ice had leveled out, and there were fewer crevasses to negotiate, so he threw caution to the wind and continued walking after dark, carrying the solaric stone like a radiant talisman before him. Rest was a luxury he could no longer afford; he must either find Rhiandra soon, or perish. And he was determined to find her, even if it was the last thing he did. If he was going to make the Leap, he had to know first what had happened to her.

  As the hours dragged by, Leif felt the tendrils of despair gaining a stranglehold on his thoughts. He’d failed everyone. He’d left his gran heartbroken. He’d let Master Morgan and Elvinor down. His last words to Maura, who’d shown him only kindness, had been harsh. And now he was going to die a stupid, pointless death, leaving Rhiandra, heart of his heart, behind in terrible grief.

  It was a mercy that exhaustion eventually emptied his mind of any thought beyond putting one foot in front of the other. In a daze, he tramped on to the cadence of his labored breathing, his eyes on his feet, which he could no longer feel.

  He never saw the darker shadow lying in his path. He simply stepped into air and dropped through the cleft in the ice like a stone, thudding against the unyielding walls that tore at him with jutting teeth as he wheeled, blind and breathless, into the abyss.

  * * *

  There was light, but no air. Leif struggled to breathe, gripped by stabbing pain in his chest and gut. Gasping, stubbornly fighting his panic, he willed his lungs to inflate. When they finally obeyed and the terror began to subside, he lay for uncounted moments, staring up at the rising walls of ice through which he’d plummeted. It seemed impossible that he’d survived such a long fall.

  He groped beneath him and found the reason why. His hand met a pliant pile of deep fur that had cushioned his landing. It was the only reason he hadn’t shattered every bone in his body.

  He pushed himself into a sitting position and gingerly tested each limb. Although he ached all over, and had trouble finding a spot that wasn’t bruised, no bones were broken. He let his pack slip from his throbbing shoulders onto the luxuriant pelts, found his wineskin, and drank deeply. If he’d hurt anything internally, the elven elixir would help him mend. Then he lay back down and was still for a time, just grateful to be alive and warm. He was almost too warm, for his eyes kept drifting closed. Don’t sleep, he warned himself. For all he knew, he’d fallen into an ice bear’s den. He fervently hoped this was not the case.

  As the elixir worked its magic, he surveyed his surroundings, for this subterranean den into which he had fallen was lit, but not from above. The treacherous rift through which he had fallen was lost in darkness. But then, where were the light and heat coming from?

  He rolled onto his stomach and crawled across the island of furs until he found the source. A wide, deep bowl had been hollowed out in the pelts, and a crimson fire blazed at its heart, surrounded by scalloped golden shells. It burned silently and without apparent fuel. Leif sensed magic at work.

  And in the midst of the fire stood four gilded stones, half as tall as he was.

  He gasped as he realized where he was. “Syrene,” he whispered.

  What he’d mistaken for shells were scales—thick, golden, dragon scales—and what he’d thought were stones were in fact eggs.

  The shed scales of Rhiandra’s golden sister had formed this ne
st for her precious clutch.

  Leif’s heart gave a horrified lurch, and he scrambled to his feet. A mortal presence anywhere near these eggs would not be tolerated, not after the lessons of Chaos. If he were discovered here, his life would surely be forfeit. He had to find a way out of the nest before Syrene returned, as he was certain the dragoness would give him no time to explain himself.

  Still, he couldn’t resist approaching the nearest egg. He stepped forward, reaching out, his hand drawn as if by a will of its own. Against his chest, the solaric stone pulsed with heat as it fed on the fire, but he felt no burning sensation.

  Transfixed by the flickering golden glow, he paid no heed to where he placed his feet. His boot sank deep into the scales, pitching him forward, and he felt the sharp scales slice into his palms as he fell headlong into the fire.

  The pain in his lacerated hands kept him from realizing, at first, that he was not burning. He was on his hands and knees, right in the heart of the flames, and yet… they did not harm him.

  The rhyme of the dragonfast sprang into his mind.

  “Immersed within the elements,

  The dragonfast acquire

  The essence of the inner sphere—

  Water, air, earth and fire.”

  The essence of the inner sphere.

  Leif pushed himself to his feet, staring in amazement at the flames licking painlessly against him. His skin remained unmarked and cool. Why had Rhiandra not told him that being dragonfast would make him immune to fire?

  He held out his bloodied palms and watched the crimson drops hiss into the flames, sending up sprays of light like the faerie dust in Grandda’s tales.

  Emboldened, he stroked the gilded shell of the nearest egg nestled in the embers, and laughed with delight as it quivered under his hand. He wrapped his arms around the egg, feeling a surge of joy such as he’d only known flying with Rhiandra.