by K. C. Julius
He trailed after her and knelt down on the muddy ground to drink his fill. The water was so cold it burned his hands and throat, but he didn’t care. After the brackish stuff in his prison bucket, it tasted nearly as good as the nectar in the wizard’s flask.
When he got to his feet, he turned and met Whit’s disapproving eye. He looked down at his dripping sleeves and the clods of earth caked on the knees of his tattered breeches.
The wizard gave his head a slow shake. “It’s lucky for you I never travel without a change of clothes.” He withdrew several neat rolls from Sinead’s saddlebags. “If it weren’t so cold, I’d insist you wash first. I’ve already gotten several bites from whatever bloodthirsty creatures have taken up residence on you.”
Fynn pulled his soiled tunic over his head, then donned the fine blue linen shirt Whit handed him in its place. He had to cinch the borrowed breeches with a belt and roll their cuffs, for the wizard was a tall man, but they fit him better than he thought they would. He must have grown a fair bit while he was in prison.
“Hang on,” Whit said, digging out another cloak from Sinead’s pack. “I’d forgotten I had a spare.”
Fynn draped it over his shoulders, and it felt wonderfully warm.
The wizard then pulled a slab of ham, half a loaf of bread, and an apple from the saddlebags. Fynn ate slowly, aware that his stomach might not accept such long-denied fare, simple as it was. He was certain that food had never tasted so good. By the time he’d finished eating, most of the fog that had inhabited his brain since he’d awoken from his dream-cast had dissipated, and his curiosity about Whit and the whole business back in the abandoned house surged to the fore of his thoughts.
“Why did Lord Vetch want me dead all of a sudden, after all this time?” he blurted out. “And why did he ask you to do it?” Fynn leaned back on his hands.
Whit stabbed up a slice of apple and held it out to him. “As to your first question, I thought perhaps you could tell me the answer to that. Where did you grow up?”
Taken by surprise, Fynn gave a little cough and said, “In the east.” Across the sea, he added silently as he accepted the slice of fruit.
“And your mother? Where is she?”
When Fynn remained silent, Whit gave a little nod of understanding. “I’m sorry.”
Fynn swallowed a bite of the apple with a hard gulp. He didn’t want Whit’s pity, or anyone else’s.
The wizard took a long drink. “Where did you learn runic?” he asked, offering Fynn the flask. “You knew that Sinead means grace in the old tongue.”
Fynn felt his jaw drop, for Whit had posed his question in Helgric. “You speak Helgric?”
Whit gave a small shrug. “I read runic fluently, and the Helgric language is based on runes. It’s a modified form of the ancient Old Tongue, which a wizard needs to learn if he wants to study the ancient texts.” He scanned Fynn’s face. “Have you studied with a wizard? Is that how you came to know it?”
Fynn laughed. He didn’t see any reason to lie. “I speak Helgric because I was raised in Helgrinia.”
Whit laughed. “Sure you were.” He caught himself and frowned. “You’re serious? I don’t understand. If your father…”
“I grew up believing my father was a Helgrin.” Fynn turned away, for the pain of knowing he wasn’t Aetheor’s son was still too raw.
Whit must have noticed his discomfort, for he shifted the topic of conversation. “What’s Helgrinia like?”
“It’s beautiful,” Fynn said wistfully, “with silver lakes and tall trees that would dwarf any of these around here. The forests are filled with elk and boars and cave lions, and in the far north, the great white bears rule the land.” He hugged his knees against his chest, warming to the memories of his homeland and happy to be speaking his first language. “Fish swarm in the rivers, and in the summer, so many birds come to nest, they’re beyond counting. We feast on swan and ptarmigan then.” Remembering felt both good and bad at the same time. He could almost smell the balsam firs that had risen like towering sentinels around their manor. “My father went north after Midsommer every year, to hunt hrossval, the giant tusked seals.” Fynn flushed. “Father… I mean Aetheor… he was—”
“Aetheor? Aetheor Yarl raised you?” Whit had switched back to Drinn, his grey eyes wide with disbelief. “You—the son of Urlion Konigur?”
Fynn wasn’t sure what to make of the young wizard’s sudden agitation. “Why does it matter?”
Whit continued to stare at him. “Do you not know who your real father was—what he was here in Drinnglennin?”
Fynn shook his head. He wasn’t sure he cared to know anything about the man buried in the cold crypt of his dream. He was never a true father to me, he thought stubbornly.
The wizard gave him a long look, as if considering saying something more, then rose and began circling the small clearing, speaking under his breath and drawing lines in the air with his staff. When he finished whatever it was he was doing, he dropped back down beside Fynn.
“We’ll rest here for a few hours.” Whit leaned back against a tree, closed his eyes, and fell asleep at once.
Fynn was aware that Whit hadn’t answered his other question—about why Vetch had chosen him to be Fynn’s murderer. He wondered if the wizard had laid some sort of spell to keep him within the confines of the circle, or if the muttering had been for the purpose of keeping ill-wishers out. He supposed he could test it, but he felt weary beyond measure. He wrapped his new cloak around him and curled up on the mossy ground.
It seemed only a moment later that he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“We must go.”
Whit was already mounted by the time Fynn struggled to his feet. Judging by the sun’s position, they’d slept for several hours.
“Where are we heading?” Fynn asked groggily.
“South.” Whit held out his hand to pull him up before him.
Fynn eyed the other horse. “I can ride.”
“That may be, but my friend Rowlan is particular about whom he allows on his back.” After Fynn was mounted in front of him, he added, “We’ll have to stay off the main thoroughfares. I’m taking you to Stonehoven. No one will think to look for you there.”
It gave Fynn a queer feeling, knowing that there was a possibility he was being hunted. For whatever reason, Vetch had ordered his murder, and would likely renew pursuit if Whit’s deceit was discovered.
“Will you be staying in Stonehoven with me?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not. The High King will have returned to Drinnkastel by now, and I’ll have to go there to report your ‘death.’ With any luck, my two companions in Toldarin took my advice and fled the country without reporting in.”
“What if they didn’t? What if Lord Vetch suspects you of hiding me?” Fynn thought grimly of Grinner. He didn’t want to be responsible for more trouble.
“That’s my concern, not yours.” Whit clucked his tongue at Sinead, and they started down the trail.
They rode in silence, following the brook as it crossed the broad fields, where they were visible to any riders traveling the same road. Fynn felt better when their path veered into woodland again. As the hours passed, he drifted in and out of sleep, and once he nearly slipped off the horse before Whit pulled him upright. They rode into darkness and through the long night, the horses churning stout-heartedly onward.
Just as the sky was pearling to pink, they crested a low rise to see the pale sea spreading before them. Whit reined Sinead in, keeping to the shelter of the trees, presumably to scan the stony beach for any possible dangers. The crescent-shaped bay looked harmless enough, as did the distant spires of the town perched on its edge. On the sea, ships’ masts tilted through the drifting fog. It took a moment for Fynn to realize that the acrid smell in the air was caused by burning, and that it was smoke, not fog, that hung over the water.
And then he saw the boats clearly.
With a cry of astonishment, he flung his leg over Sinead’s back, leapt down to the ground and then—shouting and waving his arms—raced toward the town.
Fynn heard Whit calling after him, but he didn’t waste breath to answer. The stones clattered beneath his thin boots as he flew onward as fast as his legs would carry him, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath steaming before him, his spirit alight with joy.
For the ships that were laid to anchor were Helgrin longboats, and one of them was Ydlyia, the flagship of Aetheor Yarl.
Chapter 21
Maura
Maura’s happiness over discovering Whit in the courtyard at Nelvor Castle was short-lived. That same evening she learned he’d been sent away, as Roth coolly informed her, on “the king’s business.” She’d been bitterly disappointed, as she’d hoped Whit might talk some sense into the king regarding Morgan. She also craved news of Ilyria, Leif, and all the others she’d befriended in Mithralyn. Only the fear that any association with her would cause trouble for Whit had restrained her from asking Roth when he might return.
For it was clear that Maura had fallen out of favor with her fiancé.
On the return to Drinnkastel, Roth rode with his courtiers. Since Grindasa, recently returned from Nelvorboth, had chosen to remain behind in Nelvorboth for another week, Maura traveled back with Heulwin, who was made ill by the rocking carriage and moaned the entire way. And when they reached the capital, Maura continued to feel outside the Nelvor circle. She encountered them only at meals—during which Roth treated her with a polite formality, while Roth, more often than not, greeted her coolly and then ignored her.
Perhaps that was for the best. On the one evening when she did draw the High King’s attention, it was not the sort she would have wished. He tossed back goblet after goblet of wine at supper, eyeing her from time to time with a disconcerting gleam in his eyes. Fearing some unpleasantness to follow, she pleaded a headache and left before the boards were pulled. Much later, Roth came to her rooms and banged on her door, demanding to be let in. And he was not alone—Maura could hear Sir Lawton egging him on. She remained silent, trembling in her bed, until they’d gone.
Increasingly, sleep eluded her. The week in Nelvorboth had made clear to her that she didn’t really know the man she’d agreed to marry. She’d allowed her judgment to be clouded by her desire to make Roth the prince of her dreams and to create with him a new family to replace the one she’d lost. She’d come to realize the life he had to offer, glamorous as it might be, was not one she cared for, and she had to figure out how to extract herself from this future—the sooner, the better.
One night, tossing and turning, she decided to risk a visit to her uncle’s library. Books were her sanctuary now, and she hoped to read herself to sleep. She threw on her robe and slipped out of her chamber. The torches had burned low in the west wing, but knowing the corridors well, Maura didn’t bother with a candle. At this time of night, no one would be about.
She arrived at the east wing without incident and was heading toward the library when the door at the far end of the passageway swung open. A low, feminine laugh emanated from the High King’s apartment.
Maura instinctively darted behind the large sculpture of Mihfar the Good, an ancient monter reputed to have been beloved by the gods for his deep devotion. Concealed in shadow, she heard the murmur of Roth’s low voice, and her first thought was that Grindasa, recently returned from Nelvorboth, had been bidding her son goodnight.
There was no reason, except for the late hour, why Maura shouldn’t be in this corridor, but all the same she feared detection. Holding her breath, she watched a flickering light approach, then pass, offering her a glimpse of a fair-haired woman, clad in a filmy gown that left little to the imagination.
In a state of numb disbelief, Maura slipped from her hiding place to follow the candle-bearer. She didn’t give any thought to what she would do if the woman turned around.
Roth’s visitor stopped in front of one of the guest chambers, opened the door—then raised her eyes to look directly at Maura, a mocking smile on her sultry lips, before slipping into her room.
Maura fled on down the corridor, and by the time she’d bolted her own door behind her, she was caught up in a torrent of anger and hurt. And more than either of these, she felt amazed at her own naivete.
Bitterly, she forced herself to recall how methodically Roth had courted her; how early on, he’d ensured that her name was linked with his, beginning with his bold request to wear her token during the Twyrn jousts. After that had come the invitation to the most highly attended temple service of the year, where all the nobles of the court saw Urlion’s niece at the side of the dashing Lord Roth. The Nelvors had urged her to come often to Casa Calabria, and encouraged her to consider herself one of the family. How cunning of Grindasa to send a petition to the Tribus, requesting Maura announce Roth’s selection to succeed her uncle, putting to rest any lingering doubts that Maura might feel she had a more legitimate claim to the Einhorn Throne. After all, Urlion had recognized her, and not Roth, as his kin.
I was just a means to an end all along.
Even the announcement of their engagement had been carefully timed. Then, once Roth was proclaimed High King, all the urgency to prepare for the wedding had fallen away, and with it any semblance of romance. The ceremony had been postponed until the spring—and perhaps…
Maura felt a stirring dread, remembering the calculating look in Grindasa’s eyes when she’d dared to defend Master Morgan, and the coldness in Roth’s tone when he’d asked her how she knew about the melia berries.
Perhaps a marriage between them had never been a part of the Nelvor plan. Perhaps something would occur to prevent the wedding from ever taking place.
But most telling had been the expression she’d seen on Roth’s lover’s face. She hadn’t looked like someone caught betraying a friend by entering into an incestuous relationship with her own cousin. She wore the same sly smile as Maura’s mother had that long-ago day in the kitchen while caressing the unborn children in her womb—the babes who had by now replaced Maura and Dal in Cormac’s heart.
Indeed, Maitane had looked like a cat who’d been at the cream, smug triumph written all over her face.
* * *
The following day, Maura kept to her rooms, at one moment dreading a visit from Roth—or worse, his mother—the next wishing the king would appear so that she could assail him with all the venom churning inside her.
When a scratch finally came on the door, she opened it with clenched fists and her heart in her mouth. But it was Heulwin, bearing a letter addressed to her in an unfamiliar hand. Accepting the missive without comment, Maura stepped aside to let the maid in to tidy the room.
Moving to the window, Maura examined the letter’s seal. At first glance, it looked like her late uncle’s sigil, until she noticed the alphyn stood rampant and faced to the right. She broke the wax and scanned the few lines scrawled on the slip of parchment. Tears sprang to her eyes as she read, and she was glad that Heulwin was occupied with smoothing the bed.
Maura tucked the paper into the pocket of her burgundy surcoat, sending a silent prayer of thanks to any gods who might be listening. She knew she shouldn’t let herself hope too much, for what was on offer might well be damnation rather than deliverance. Still, the timing of it made it seem a godsend.
Once she felt composed enough to speak, she said, “I’ll need you to send my regrets for dinner, Heulwin.”
Heulwin straightened, her brow creased with concern. “I thought as much, m’lady, seeing those dark rings under your eyes. Is it the headache again?”
Maura gave a small nod. At least her sleepless nights lent credence to her lie. “You needn’t bring a tray either, Heulwin. I’m going directly to bed.”
As soon as the maid departed, Maura plumped two
pillows under the bedcovers, in case the girl looked in later. Then she waited until she was certain Heulwin had left their corridor before she slipped out after her. She knew that in the west wing she had little fear of discovery, but negotiating the wide hall separating it from the royal apartments and guest residences might prove difficult.
When she got there, though, the hall was empty. At this time of evening, all those who stayed in the king’s part of the palace—Nelvor kin and a growing number of their Albrenian relatives—were no doubt in the Grand Hall, beginning the first course of another long and raucous supper. She hurried across the marble floor, then darted on to the familiar corridor where the storeroom was located.
When she slid through its door, she saw that someone had lit the two sconces on the wall, illuminating the clutter of curious objects. Her eyes swept over heavy leather-strapped cases and miniature enameled boxes, an old wooden cradle heaped with dusty poppets, tarnished shields and plumed helmets, and other odd bits of armament, including a full suit of armor fashioned for a child. Vases made from porcelain, pewter tankards and silver chalices, and drinking horns carved from bone stood on the floor or along the shelving. A jumble of unopened crates was pushed to one corner.
She remembered Leif’s assumption, that these were gifts to the High King that had found no favor, and thus had been carted here and forgotten. Maura would have wished Leif now at her side had it not been for the ominous suspicion voiced against him by Grindasa.
Better he’s safely in Mithralyn, she thought, stepping over a roll of dusty carpets.
She scanned the wall for a peephole, and it gave her a queer feeling, knowing that she was likely being observed. Otherwise, how would anyone be aware of her knowledge of this room?
To steady her nerves, she drew out the piece of parchment and read it again. Come to the storeroom in the passageway to the tourney grounds at seven bells. Behind the mirror, you’ll find a friend. It was not the startling message, but the signature beneath these lines that had convinced her to accept the offer of aid.
