by K. C. Julius
“We’ll want to put some distance between ourselves and Stonehoven,” Whit said. “When news of the Helgrin attack gets abroad, this place will be swarming with soldiers from both Lorendale and Nelvorboth.”
Fynn didn’t object. After all, he had nowhere else to go. No home to return to. No family. His mother was dead, as were both his fathers—his true father and the man he still thought of as one. His brother, if he lived, might no longer accept him; they weren’t blood. He thought of Grinner, and wondered if his friend was even still alive.
What he did have, though, was this kind young wizard who, for his own obscure reasons, wished to protect him.
For now, that would have to do.
* * *
They headed west, setting a brisk pace while the road was good, then slowing once Whit veered onto a less traveled trail. At one point they plunged into the brush and followed an old gully to a copse before Whit reined in, signaling for silence. Fynn hadn’t heard or seen anything, but after a few tense moments, the wizard clucked his tongue and the horses clambered back onto the track.
A few miles onward, they came across an abandoned croft. Its roof had fallen in, but the adjacent barn was still intact. Inside it was dry, and there was a rough pit filled with charred logs. They were not the first to shelter there.
“Once I’ve seen to the horses and had a look around, I’ll make us a fire,” Whit said, then slipped out of the barn before Fynn could answer.
Wishing to be useful, Fynn scraped together some kindling, but he had no flint, so he had to wait alone in the gloom until the wizard returned.
It turned out that Whit had no flint either, and didn’t need one; with a word, he had a flame licking at the wood. Despite its magic origins, it seemed an ordinary enough fire, warm and bright—until Fynn noticed that it wasn’t throwing off any smoke.
“Do you want to eat?” Whit asked.
“I’d rather we talk,” Fynn replied bluntly. “Why are you doing all this?”
Whit raised his brows with a little smile. “I’ve asked myself that same question many times over these past hours. It’s complicated.”
“We’ve time. You were sent to kill me—by Lord Vetch. Why didn’t you?”
“I never planned to, but if I hadn’t taken the charge, they would have sent someone else.”
“They?”
Whit sighed. “Forgive me for not explaining all this earlier. I thought the less you knew, the safer you’d be. Lord Vetch was acting under orders from the High King himself. I was a witness to his command.”
Fynn shook his head to clear it. “The High King? Why would he want me dead?”
“Because he sees you as a threat to his reign.”
Fynn gave an incredulous laugh. “That makes no sense at all.”
“It does, actually, if you can be confirmed as Urlion’s bastard. Urlion had years to acknowledge Roth and never did.”
Fynn’s confusion must have been evident, for Whit drew a hand over his weary face. “I should have made it clear before now who your father was. Urlion Konigur was descended from a long line of Drinnglennian royalty. He ascended to the throne when he was even younger than you are now, and ruled as our High King for nearly seventy years. Since Urlion sired no children in wedlock, when he died, the Tribus decided the Einhorn Throne would pass to Roth of Nelvorboth. The same Roth who ordered your murder, because of something Commander Vetch said you were wearing.”
Fynn would have been sure Whit was making this all up, if it hadn’t been for the dream he’d cast right before he’d been taken from his cell. The dream that had shown him, without a doubt, that Urlion Konigur was his true father.
Mamma had spoken his name with her dying breath, when she’d instructed Fynn to put on the chain with the pendant. You must never take this off, or reveal it to anyone, save a loyal vassal of Urlion of Drinnglennin.
And High King of the Isle, she’d neglected to add. Stunned by this revelation, Fynn wondered fleetingly if he was still dreaming. He wished he was, but the heat of the fire and Whit’s somber gaze were too real.
“Did you serve Urlion?” Fynn asked.
The wizard blinked in surprise. “Cardenstowe pledged fealty to Urlion. My father fought at his side in the Long Wars.”
Fynn reached under his tunic, drew out the pendant, and held it up to the light of the fire. “This is what Lord Vetch saw me wearing.” His voice sounded far away to his ears, for his mind was still reeling over what Whit had just told him.
Whit’s eyes widened. “The necklace King Roth spoke of!” He leaned over and studied the pendant. “It’s the hind quarters of an alphyn.”
“My… father gave it to my mother when he learned she was carrying me.” It felt disloyal to call anyone but his Helgrin father by this name. To Fynn’s shame, his eyes welled with tears.
Whit seemed to understand. “I’m sorry… about Aetheor Yarl.”
Fynn rubbed his eyes. “He—he wasn’t my real father.” The words were bitter on his tongue.
“Aetheor raised you as his son. Nothing can take that away from you—not even death.”
“I was a disappointment to him,” Fynn said softly.
Whit gave a little laugh and stabbed at the fire. “I’m no stranger to a father’s disappointment. Everyone fails someone sometime. Did your father never let you down?”
Fynn started to shake his head, then remembered the woman Aetheor had lain with behind the curtain in Thorpe, and how he’d done nothing to intervene when his men raped the woman in the shed. He saw again the bright surge of blood from the little girl’s throat as she slipped to the ground.
After a time, Whit released a long breath. “I’m not sure I can honestly say I loved my father, or he me. He wasn’t given to displays of affection, and what he most often expressed with regard to me was disapproval.”
Fynn rolled to his side and propped himself up on one elbow. “Your father’s dead, too?”
Whit gave a curt nod.
Fynn remembered what Whit had said about the possibility of the two of them being related. At the time, he’d figured it had only been to win his trust. “And your mother?”
“Alive and well, at least the last I heard,” Whit replied. “It’s through her that we’re related to Urlion. I’m his grand-nephew.”
Fynn blinked. “Grand? But that would mean—”
“He was an old man when he sired you. I would say close to sixty winters. But the Konigurs were ever long-lived.”
Mamma had been sixteen when Fynn was born. It was hard enough to think of his mother with anyone other than Aetheor, but to imagine her lying with a man of such great age was impossible. His beautiful mother! Why would she have done such a thing?
Whit appeared to be thinking hard. “Do you have any idea what station in life your mother held in Drinnglennin?” he asked. “Was her family a noble one or—”
Fynn shook his head. “I told you—I was raised to believe Aetheor was my father. My mother never gave me any reason to think otherwise.” Then the memory of Mamma’s expression when she’d settled his Midsommer’s crown on his brow came to his mind.
You look like your father, she’d said, and she’d been startled by his reflection in her looking-glass.
Then, when she was dying, she’d tried to tell him the truth.
Why did you wait so long, Mamma? he thought bitterly.
“It’s a pity,” Whit said. “It would make it all much simpler if you knew their story. Is there anyone else who might?”
“Only Teca, and it’s likely Vetch killed her.”
Whit looked up sharply. “Who’s Teca?”
“She was our thrall. When my mother was taken to Restaria by my father, Teca was too. She returned to Drinnglennin on the same ship that brought me, but we were separated at the port in Toldarin. One of Vetch’s men knocked her down when she
fought to stay with me.”
“You don’t know what happened to her after that?”
Fynn shook his head, remembering how Teca had crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from her mouth.
“And there’s nothing else your mother told you about Urlion?” Whit persisted. “Think, Fynn. It could be very important.”
Fynn could feel the weight of the wizard’s will pressing on him. A memory surfaced, and he heard the echo of his mother’s voice. I wore the jewels my husband gave me on our wedding night… We took our marriage vows before the gods.
“What is it, Fynn? What have you remembered?”
“My father—Urlion—he married my mother. They took vows before the gods.”
“Blearc’s beard!” Whit’s eyes were strangely alight. “If this is true… Fynn, it means that you are the rightful heir to the Einhorn Throne of Drinnglennin.”
Fynn frowned. “But—that’s ridiculous. I don’t want to be… and I couldn’t be! I was raised a Helgrin! Even if what you claim were true, how could I rule a people I’ve been taught are my bitterest enemies?”
Whit leapt to his feet and began to pace. “By learning a new credo. This is your homeland, Fynn, not Helgrinia. Your parents and their parents, going back generations, were born here!” The wizard spun toward him. “I’m Drinnglennian. Do you think of me as your enemy?”
Fynn didn’t know how to respond to that. The whole idea that he was heir to any throne was rubbish. His mother must have meant a different Urlion.
He distinctly recalled Teca’s words: On that fateful day, when your mother offered herself to the Helgrins. Offered herself. Why would Mamma have left Drinnglennin of her own free will, if she’d been the queen of this land? It didn’t make any sense.
Whit crouched opposite him. “This Teca—if she still lives, where would she go?”
Fynn took a moment to consider this. “I… I suppose she might try to find her way home.” It seemed a strange thing to say; he’d always thought of Restaria as Teca’s home, but of course that was stupid. She’d been a thrall there. Here in Drinnglennin, she’d lived a free life. “She was raised with my mother in Langmerdor, but I don’t know where. Teca didn’t want to talk about her past. Except…”
“Except?” Whit urged.
Teca had said something on the ship. She’d mentioned two places, but he could only remember one. “Thraven. They came from Thraven.”
“Thraven!” Whit shot to his feet again. “If Urlion married her there, there should be some record of it in the local temple. It would be proof you’re his legitimate son!”
“But I don’t want proof!” Fynn protested. “It makes no difference now anyway. Urlion’s dead, and so is my mother.”
“Of course it makes a difference! You’re grieving now and confused, but soon you’ll want to assert your rightful claim.”
“I won’t!” The vehemence of Fynn’s retort caused Sinead to snort in alarm. She gave him a long look before settling back to her feed.
Whit dropped down beside him. “Listen, Fynn, I know this is all a lot for you to take in. It’s a lot for me to take in. But it was one thing when Roth thought you were just one of Urlion’s by-blows, as his mother Grindasa claims he himself is. It’s quite another if you’re the lawful offspring of the Konigur line. That’s not something you can just ignore. You have… you have obligations to honor, just as I do, whether we like it or not.”
He laid a hand on Fynn’s arm. His expression was grave, as if what they’d both just learned had added years to his face. “I’ll help you, Fynn. We’ll figure this out. But we have to keep you out of the Nelvors’ reach until we’ve evidence to support your claim. Your heritage must remain a secret, just between us, for the present. Will you trust me in this?”
Fynn nodded. As far as he was concerned, it could stay a secret for all time.
“Good. That’s settled then.” Whit stretched his arms over his head. “Let’s get some sleep and then set off as soon as the light fades. With luck, we’ll make Trillyon in three days.” He threw a few more logs on the fire.
Fynn lay back down, his heart heavier than his eyelids. His father might have been a Drinnglennian king, but Fynn would have given all the royal blood in his veins to be back in the manor on the hill, living a happy lie as the Helgrin son of Aetheor Yarl.
Chapter 28
Maura
Maura had been in an agony of indecision ever since learning of Master Morgan’s arrest. She longed to see the wizard, but any request to do so might be used to implicate her as an accomplice in this farcical charge of regicide. Wracking her brain for something she could do to help the old man, she paced in her chamber until the walls seemed to press in on her. When she could stand it no more, she fled to the stables.
No one challenged her as she galloped out of the castle grounds and on through the Gate of Havard. She promised herself that she wouldn’t return until she’d come up with a plan of action.
She headed north across the Tor, then veered off the main road onto a track leading to the Brynglwan Moor. Here, the rocky path forced her horse to a walk. The moor might seem a lonely place to some, but its brown, windswept grasses and rugged stone outcrops suited Maura’s mood, and the piping of the rosy-breasted stonechats was all the company she desired. A muted palette of cotton-tufted swards and rust-colored mosses covered much of the terrain, and juniper, sphagnum, sundews, and bilberry grew in abundance.
Maura slid off her horse to rub the leaves of the wintergreen, savoring its scent on her fingers. She thought of her lapins, back in Branley Tor, and wondered who was tending them now, using stores of herbs such as these to treat them when they fell ill.
Riding on, she came upon remnants of an ancient stone circle. It reminded her of the sentinel stone where she’d had her first encounter with Ilyria and she was tempted to just keep going north, back to Mithralyn. Then Ilyria and I could go somewhere no one would ever find us. But even as she had the enticing thought, she knew she wouldn’t.
For Master Morgan, she’d sworn an oath to serve Roth, who had now imprisoned the wizard. She had no idea how she could help Master Morgan and still keep her word.
For a while, after she’d become dragonfast, she’d felt transformed into someone stronger and more resolute—in control of her own destiny. But she realized now that that had only been because of Ilyria. Without her dragon, Maura had reverted to being just Maura. Not even Maura Trok—lapin-tender, older sister to Dal, and dutiful daughter to her parents—but mixed-blood Maura. The by-blow of a dead prince from an obsolete line and a deceitful Lurker mother, she thought bitterly.
She drew a steadying breath of the cold, cleansing air. Her mother’s duplicitous past would serve Maura in one way, at least. Maura merely had to tell Roth the truth about her Lurker mother, and that would put an immediate end to her ill-starred engagement. She would be clear of her predicament and could return to Ilyria. She would not forget that she had sworn an oath to serve Roth, should she be called upon to do so, but this did not require her to marry the man.
But she would not depart without Master Morgan. She had to find a way to make Roth listen to reason about the wizard, and if she failed in this, perhaps Asmara could help her. The princess might know of a secret passageway to the lower dungeons. If Maura could speak with him, he could tell her who to call on to advocate for him.
As the sun descended, Maura turned back toward the city. The pale light glinted off icy patches where the bog water had frozen, and a few flurries swirled down from the lowering sky. By the time she’d rejoined the main road, snow was falling thick and fast. She looked back to see that the trail up to the moor had already disappeared under a white mantle. There was no trace that she’d passed that way.
As if where she was right now was where her road began.
* * *
She sent Roth a message, asking him to meet her in the libra
ry. After his late-night attempt to force his way into her chamber, and with what she now knew about him and Maitane, she hoped the coming encounter would be the last she’d ever have alone with him.
To Maura’s relief, Heulwin returned with his agreement, and shortly before the appointed hour, she made her way to the east wing, hoping the solace of her favorite place in the castle would bolster her confidence for what lay ahead. But when she heard approaching footsteps, she felt a rush of anxiety and snatched up a book to have something to occupy her trembling hands.
Before she could open it, Roth stalked in. He was dressed in a new riding costume, this one in dove grey with snowy lace at the throat and cuffs. If she’d harbored any doubts as to his present feelings toward her, they were dispelled when she saw his cold expression. His face, which she had once found handsome, now appeared stark and forbidding, the set of his lips grim. He stopped at a distance from her that seemed calculated to invite no intimacy.
She clasped the book before her and dropped into a deep curtsey. “Your Majesty. Thank you for granting me this audience.”
Roth looked momentarily nonplussed by her formality. Had he expected accusations and tears?
“Lady Maura.”
“I wish to speak with you about Master Morgan, my lord—”
Roth’s mouth turned down at the corner as he cut her off. “You brought me here for this purpose? Let me make myself very clear: the wizard will burn, and there is nothing you can say or do that will alter this fact.”
He turned on his heel, and as he stalked away, Maura felt a surge of angry frustration.
“There’s something else,” she called after him, and when he did not slow his retreat, she added, “something I have to confess.”
