The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  The egg gave a sudden jolt, knocking him against another, which began to vibrate as well.

  A sudden, terrible roar echoed through the chamber.

  Leif spun around, expecting to see an enraged dragon crouched behind him, poised for a kill. It was then he spied another aperture, this one a dark funnel spiraling upward. It was empty.

  The sound had come from the crevasse above.

  Which meant the tunnel offered a way out—the only one. If he was to escape, he’d have to go up it before Syrene came down.

  Leif slipped from the flames and shouldered his pack.

  He peered into the dark tunnel, dreading where it would lead him. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders. Syrene was surely up there. But then, he reminded himself, so was Rhiandra.

  He glanced down at his pendant—now blazing with pure, golden light—then began to climb.

  Chapter 16

  Morgan

  “Get away, yeh stinkin’ mumper!” The burly man shot Morgan a disgusted look, then pushed past him on the narrow lane.

  Morgan drew his filthy cloak close against the buffeting wind. He’d grown used to the smell of the thistle oil he’d been rubbing into his skin every morning, which made him reek of a combination of cat piss and rotting meat. Most folks crossed to the far side of the street when they caught a whiff of him, and certainly no one cared to strike up a conversation with a ragged man surrounded by a cloud of pong. Which was, of course, the point.

  Morgan clutched his recent purchases against his chest and ducked into the seedy tavern where he’d taken a room. A boy with a smudged face was sweeping out the cold hearth, but he leapt to his feet on the wizard’s approach, burying his nose in his sleeve.

  Morgan handed the lad a farthing. “I’d like water and soap brought up. And if the water’s hot, you’ll get another of those.”

  After the boy had trundled up with the last of the steaming buckets, Morgan stripped off his foul garments and had his first wash in days. Feeling much refreshed, he donned the new clothes he’d bought, then lay down on the lumpy mattress. Staring up at the knotty ceiling, he wondered once more if he’d find what he sought in this southwest outpost of the Isle.

  A letter from Barav, his informant in Findlindach, had been among those Morgan had received at Port Taygh, and Barav had directed him here.

  My people will be wintering in Glornadoor. If anyone’s learned what’s become of the disappeared, it will be my cousin Lehr. He’s a master of ferreting out what others would keep concealed.

  On this advice, Morgan had purchased a mule and headed south. He’d been sorry to part with Holly, but with a price on his head, he couldn’t risk anything that might cause him to be recognized—including his long-serving pony. He’d left her with Celaidra, who’d promised to deliver her to Gilly.

  Following Barav’s instructions, Morgan traced Lehr to Gloorhilly, a port town situated on Glornadoor’s southwestern coast. The moors on its outskirts had served as a wintering haven for the å Livåri in years past, and Morgan was relieved to learn from a surly innkeeper that a community of wagons had again gathered there this year. He set out at once to find it, but as soon as he veered onto the rough headland track to approach the camp, he was challenged by a cadre of narrow-eyed å Livåri. Even after he presented the letter from Barav, the men kept their hands on the dirks at their belts. Morgan suspected the scar-faced fellow he’d shown it to couldn’t read, so he produced the ring Barav had given him as additional proof of his good will. That at least extracted a vague promise.

  “Lehr isn’t here,” said the fellow, pocketing the silver trinket, “but if you tell me where you’re staying, he’ll find you.”

  Two days had passed since then, and Morgan had resigned himself to another trek out to the moors if Lehr didn’t appear by the morrow. In the meantime, it was prudent to keep to his room. He’d been declared a kingkiller, with a considerable reward offered for any information concerning him and an even more generous one for his capture.

  Despite this, it had been a difficult decision not to proceed to Drinnkastel as he’d originally planned. But in his clandestine meeting with Celaidra, the sorceress had vehemently discouraged him from doing so.

  “At the moment, King Roth wants your head, not your oath of allegiance. You can better serve the realm if you keep it,” she argued. “Surely you have other pressing business to which you can attend? What of your quest to discover what’s happening to the å Livåri? While you’re investigating their disappearance, Audric and I can try to persuade our lord king that there is no concrete evidence for these charges against you. In time, perhaps we can find a way to clear your good name.”

  Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Audric, but not Selka? Does she hold me culpable for the murder of my king?” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “Yes, of course she does. Just as she believes I stole the Chronicles.”

  Celaidra sighed. “When Selka sets her mind, none can dissuade her. You know she’s never been an ally of yours, and since Urlion’s death, she’s grown more temperamental than ever. Just before I stole away to meet you, I heard her exchanging bitter words with Audric.”

  “Words over me?”

  Celaidra shook her head. “I don’t think so. Selka swept from the room the moment I entered, but I could have sworn there were tears in her eyes. Proud, cold Selka, weeping! Can you imagine?”

  The elven princess knew nothing of Morgan’s vow to find Urlion’s betrayer, but he still found her reasoning hard to fault. Urlion was dead, and uncovering the spellcaster would not bring the late king back across the Leap. The missing å Livåri, on the other hand, might still be among the living.

  And Celaidra had reassured him regarding Maura. “The girl is aglow with happiness. I seriously doubt she’ll want to return to Mithralyn, at least not until after the wedding. Please, Mortimer. Attend to whatever affairs you can far from Drinnkastel. I promise you, I will send word if you are needed. We cannot afford to lose you. And I could not bear it if we did.”

  So Morgan acceded to Celaidra’s plea. In truth he had always found it nigh impossible to deny the princess anything. On only one occasion had he ever done so, and the pain it caused both of them had been almost too much to bear. He’d long wondered what he might have made of his life if he’d listened to her. If he’d spent that summer night with her in his arms, as she’d begged him to.

  Instead, he’d gone in search of Lazdac.

  Morgan closed his eyes, attempting to quell the memory. Dwelling on regret brought nothing but heartache. And even though he’d lost all that he desired by turning a deaf ear to Celaidra’s entreaties, his rash act had resulted in some good. His old mentor, Audric, had been selected to serve in Morgan’s place on the Tribus, and the realm had benefited from his steady guidance, along with that of Celaidra and Selka.

  And Morgan’s choice had a silver lining that was not to be discounted. Over time, it had taught him the lesson of humility.

  It had been a long process, that learning—and had come at great cost. After falling from on high, defeated by Lazdac and left with only the natural magic with which he’d been born, Morgan fled Drinnglennin to lick his wounds. For years after, he roamed the world, only lingering in places where he discovered someone or something worth knowing.

  In Delnogoth, he spent a winter at the court of Grand Prince Rikur, from which he sought out the hidden mountain eyrie of the beautiful Valblissa and her sister, Baba Vrodya, the last sorceresses of that vast, frozen land. He spent many a night beside their fire, trying to convince them not to pass over the sea. “Magic will again be welcome in the world,” he insisted.

  But Baba Vrodya spat into the fire. “I will no longer waste my gifts here, to be repaid in the coin of ignorance and fear.” Valblissa remained silent, but the next time he climbed to their sky-high abode, the ash in their hearth had long since grown cold.

  He
traveled on by sledge over the tundra to the frozen falls of Solono, then sailed the great Fatlakova River south on an ice boat that hissed over the frozen water with the speed of the wind. The river ended at the Mvalthian Pass, through which a road constructed by the departed dwarves of Mittegoth ran on to Sâri Topci, Mittegoth’s crown city. There he was welcomed with high honor by Izia, the kathuna of Kovatev, and acceded to Izia’s plea to accompany her when she went to treat with the nomads of the Amukent Steppes. It was on those windswept plains that he encountered Tochar, perhaps the greatest mage of the far east, who later perished along with so many others in the last Purge.

  In Far Taraia, Morgan traveled with the å Livåri, for this was their native land, and learned their language and ways. When they migrated west, Morgan continued east, ranging alone for many months over the Great Kyraki Mountains. Crossing the Tharkum Desert, he witnessed the hunting hawks of Helnig boiling over the snow-capped peaks in search of prey, and the summer migration of wildevacs, the great horned ungulates whose herds numbered in the hundreds of thousands.

  From there, his wanderings took him south to the abandoned temples of Bhahtgat, spreading for miles across the Deeyann Plateau, swathed in perpetual mists and inhabited only by bats and wild pigs. The holy shrines were believed by some to have been the home of long-forgotten gods. Beside their gilded pagodas, the wizard slept under skies so full of stars, they blazed white in the dome of the heavens.

  In Near Taraia, he trekked down into the Canyon of Glass, so named for its sheer walls of mica. There he gazed upon the massive geyser that rose daily out of a steaming river, and he bathed in its burbling waters, said to heal the broken spirit, though they did little for his.

  He rafted the Kuratek between towering cliffs carved out over millennia by the rushing slate-blue river feeding the Hykanian Sea. When he came to Tell-Uyuk, he discovered that the imperial seat of Olquaria offered much to detain him—in particular, the House of All-Knowing. In this humble abode, the wizard passed his days sitting cross-legged on a rug, listening to the teachings of the al-imtirta, the most learned scholars of the land, and joining in lively discourses on geometry, philosophy, astronomy, and literature.

  Then one day, Rusul-Lax, the great sage, invited Morgan to his home, where he was introduced to Al-Gahzi, the Basileus’s supreme military commander and a dedicated scholar in his own right. Through Al-Gahzi, word reached the palace of this foreign bazdir, the title given to a highly learned man, and Morgan was duly summoned to an audience with His Imperial Majesty, Radan Basileus. After that fateful meeting, Morgan became a regular visitor to the palace. He was given a house in Kuca Zarich, a prestigious sector of the city reserved for foreigners who had found favor with the emperor.

  Morgan was often in Al-Gahzi’s company, and a deep bond of friendship grew between them. The commander opened his home and heart to Morgan. They hunted often together, using magnificent hawks from the royal aviary, they sparred fiercely with staves in the Olquarian style, and they spent many hours debating all manner of topics, from irrigation practices to the ordering of the heavens. When marauding Jagars threatened to overrun the western border of Olquaria, the two men fought side by side to drive the barbarians far to the south of the Lost Lands, where they could do no more harm.

  Upon returning to Tell-Uyuk after their successful campaign, Al-Gahzi urged Morgan to marry his sister, Namatay, and found his own dynasty.

  “Radan Basileus wishes you to remain among us, Morgan, and you are already as close as blood to me and my family. You cannot have failed to notice that you have found favor with my sister as well.”

  Namatay was both beautiful and intelligent, and Morgan would have been honored to take her to wife. But she deserved better—a great prince or landed lord, not the over-prideful son of a farrier who’d squandered his gifts. Besides, he knew he could never give her his heart, for it had long ago been lost to another.

  Still, Morgan had come to terms with the bitter fruit of his terrible folly and had accepted his reduced role in the order of the world. So although he did not marry, he decided he would stay on in Tell-Uyuk indefinitely, gleaning and sharing knowledge at the House of All-Knowing.

  But this was not to be his destiny, for it was not long before the sparks of ignorance and fear were fanned into the flames that would sweep from Albrenia eastward across the continental kingdoms and empires to Herawa on the Temonin Sea. The fever of another Purge burned, and all those deemed “different” would soon be forced to flee or perish before it. It was just such a Purge that had brought about the Fall of the Before, when all magical creatures—dragons, unicorns, basilisks, wolfwargs, alphyns, and gryphons—and folk outside the race of man—dwarves, elves, djinns, goblins, sylphs, sprites, faeries, merfolk, and giants—had been pursued by this deadly fire of hate. Only this time, the hungry inferno craved a different fuel, and the å Livåri became its favored kindling. They perished by the thousands, and if King Gregor of Drinnglennin had not offered the survivors sanctuary, it would have been a complete genocide.

  Robbed of this terrible victory, the sanctioned leaders of the temples of Priscinae, Velicus, and Horiastria turned their vitriolic prejudice on the learned instead, who counted many a wizard and sorceress among them.

  Thanks to Radan Basileus, Morgan was protected from the first crazed wave of killings in Olquaria. But he was not spared the horror of witnessing the Purge’s rapacious sweep through Tell-Uyuk—and he could do nothing when the House of All-Knowing was barricaded from the outside and set alight.

  In one night, the world lost the greatest sages of the Known World.

  After that, for Morgan, bitter and heartbroken over the murders, the allure of the city was lost.

  Then the last Helgrin War broke out, and Morgan felt called upon to return to the west to defend the isle of his birth. He was no longer able to raise the Shield of Taran, but he had a strong sword arm and a lethal way with a stave. So he went home.

  Upon his return to Drinnglennin he found that although memories of Master Morgan the virtuos had faded, the disgrace with which his name was linked lingered on. Even simple folks would tell you it was Morgan, the only wizard forced off the Tribus, who’d set alight the great library of the Alithineum and stolen the Chronicles. Despite his sullied reputation, Morgan believed he still had something to offer, yet found his services, in any form, were unwelcome.

  It was Urlion who restored his sense of purpose. When the High King caught wind of Morgan’s whereabouts, he summoned him to Drinnkastel. Urlion gave him a place of honor, asking Morgan to ride at his side into battle as together they drove the Helgrin invaders back. Urlion succeeded in bringing peace to the realm, and Morgan found a way to be of service once more.

  For this, he owed much to the last Konigur king.

  Now Morgan had dedicated himself to a different purpose—one that had brought four young people together in Mithralyn’s forest, where three of them swore an oath to support Urlion’s heir. Soon one of them would marry the man who’d been named as Urlion’s successor, perhaps, in part, because of her vow.

  A Nelvor king who was likely behind the charge of regicide against him.

  Since Morgan’s return to the Isle, he’d done all in his power to see that Drinnglennin remained a tolerant and stable realm, that it did not succumb to the fear and bigotry that had infected so much of the rest of the Known World. He’d been aware of the risks to Leif, Maura, Halla, and Whit when he brought them into this political turmoil, but that didn’t make the burden of responsibility for their fate any lighter to bear.

  And bear it he must, for he would not alter his course, not for them or anyone else. No matter the cost, he would ensure the reinstatement of Owain Konigur’s legacy. which had made Drinnglennin a haven of tolerance for all.

  The rumbling of kegs across the floor in the tavern below prompted Morgan to his feet. At least his business in Gloorhilly might result in saving, not threatenin
g, lives. He would try again to see Lehr.

  He was fastening his cloak when there came a sharp rap on his door.

  “Who’s there?”

  When there was no reply, Morgan reached for his staff. The sound of retreating footsteps drew him out of his room in time to see a man disappearing down the stairs—a man with a tail of black hair running down his back in the å Livåri fashion.

  Morgan followed him out of the tavern, then north on Wilkes Lane. From there, his quarry turned left, making for the town gate leading out to the moors. The å Livåri never looked back, but continued along the rutted road until it rounded the headland and the way narrowed to a trail.

  The scarp jutted up from the slate-grey sea, and the waves, fetched with whitecaps, railed against the bluffs below and foamed over the sand. The wind tore at Morgan’s cloak and ashen clouds billowed over brown grass laid low by its bluster. He thought he saw a sail on the horizon, but it might have been a trick of the flat, pale light.

  In the brief moment he glanced at the water, the man he’d been following vanished.

  Morgan walked on. The path began to descend, and he stayed close to the wall of rock on his left. One false step would send him pitching down to a cruel death. One false step—or a push. He tightened his grip on his staff.

  At the next turn, he saw the å Livåri waiting in a narrow aperture in the cliff face, the wind whipping his cloak around him. He bore a distinct likeness to Barav, only older and stockier. When he stepped back to make way for Morgan to join him, the wizard offered the traditional Livårian greeting.

  “Oranat zava chuskoh. Lehr, I presume?”

  “Patrut sunt oranat va chuskoh.” Lehr leaned forward to brush Morgan’s cheeks with the kiss of peace, then opened his palm and offered its contents. “You must be a true brother of my cousin. He would not have parted with his dragon ring otherwise.”