The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  He nodded. “I fear something terrible must have occurred when Leif went to Belestar.”

  Maura stared at him in disbelief. “Leif went—what are you saying? He went to the dragons? Alone?”

  “He had Elvinor’s blessing, and mine, in the end. Leif and Rhiandra flew north to try to persuade the other dragons to bind.”

  “And you think he must have failed?” Maura hugged herself fiercely, as if by doing so she could somehow shelter Leif from afar. “I should have been with him. We should have gone with him, Ilyria and I!” She lifted her grief-stricken face to him. “This is my fault. If I had answered your summons, this could have been prevented. By staying here, I’ve lost another brother.”

  “We must find out the truth before we leap to conclusions, Maura.” Morgan meant to comfort her, but in his heart, he knew that if Rhiandra was flying openly over Drinnglennin, this could mean only one thing. Bound to Leif, the bluewing was held to the boy’s vow to protect king and country. But if Leif had made the Leap, she was now released from any promises she made when he was her dragonfast.

  And if it was the dragons’ intention to wreak havoc across the Isle, this was nothing short of a declaration of war against humankind and elves alike. All his carefully laid plans had come to naught. He had prevented nothing.

  “Master, I must—”

  A scratch on the door silenced her. Their time was up.

  “A moment,” Morgan called. He put his lips close to Maura’s ear and whispered, “You must leave Drinnkastel at once.”

  Maura stared at him. “But you just said—”

  Morgan laid a finger over her lips. “I said you are not released from your vow to honor and protect the one true king, and this still stands. I will explain everything, but this is not the time or place.” He inclined his head toward the door.

  “I will go to Ilyria,” she whispered back.

  “Yes. It’s best you return to Mithralyn and enlist Elvinor’s help in finding the boy Vetch mentioned. But have a care. Ilyria is still bound by your vow, but she may not be in accord with it—”

  They both turned as the door swung inward, revealing the tall veiled maid. She beckoned silently to Maura.

  With tears glinting in her eyes, Maura embraced Morgan. “I can’t bear to think of what will become of you.”

  “Whatever it is should not alter your path,” he said firmly. “Go now, child.” He bestowed a tender kiss on her cheek and gently turned her toward the door.

  She paused on the threshold. “I will try my best not to disappoint you again.”

  Her words made him smile, despite everything. “My dear girl—as if you ever could.”

  * * *

  Morgan’s eyes had barely adjusted to the dark of his dank cell when he heard the key grind in the lock once more. In the sudden torchlight, he blinked up at a thickset man with shaggy dark hair.

  “You’re to come with me,” the stranger growled, then stood aside to let him pass.

  “May I ask where we are going?”

  The man did not reply, but once they climbed up to ground level and headed down a number of corridors, it became clear they were making for the throne room, most likely to hear Morgan’s sentence formally proclaimed. Afterward, no doubt, he would receive his punishment straightaway. A nice tidy business, he thought, swiftly enacted.

  There was no opportunity this time to enjoy the murals in the Great Hall; the chamber was crowded with courtiers and their ladies. As Morgan scanned their expectant faces, he experienced a jolt of alarm at seeing Maura among them. He’d hoped she’d already be on her way north. Instead she stood to the left of Grindasa, who held the position of honor directly below the Einhorn Throne. Drinnglennin’s sovereign sat above them, an ermine-lined mantle of black fur draping his topaz-studded tunic. King Roth wore a golden crown set with rubies, and he clasped a jeweled scepter crested with a champlevé-enameled panther, its eyes, teeth, and claws wrought of gold leaf. A bold statement of sovereignty, if Morgan had ever seen one. Under different circumstances, such ostentation might have been amusing.

  As the lord chancellor read out the lengthy catalogue of the wizard’s supposed crimes, punctuated by incessant throat-clearings, Morgan gave his attention to Roth of the Nelvor. The king stared straight ahead, but his clenched jaw and whitened knuckles eloquently communicated his unspoken outrage.

  Here is someone who could play any role suitable to the occasion, Morgan observed, which made Roth even more dangerous than the wizard had presumed.

  Murmurs rippled through the assembly, and he realized Lord Wynnfort’s droning had ceased. King Roth was staring at Morgan fixedly, clearly waiting for some reaction.

  “I beg your pardon,” Morgan said pleasantly. “I’m afraid I was wool-gathering. Could I trouble you to repeat that last bit?”

  Wynnfort’s jaw dropped. He shot an uncertain glance at the king, but it was Grindasa who exultantly called out the sentence that had just been passed. “You’re to burn, old man, in righteous agony for your treasonous act! As shall any proven to be in league with you!”

  “Ah.” Morgan inclined his head in a slight bow. “I thank you for the clarification, Princess.”

  Grindasa’s lips contorted into an ugly sneer. “Do you dare to mock your queen, wizard?”

  Morgan calmly met her flashing eyes. “Never, ma’am. I have shown only honor to the lawful queens of Drinnglennin.”

  Grindasa lifted her chin, apparently debating whether or not he had just done her further insult. But before she could speak, the doors of the throne room crashed open and the throng drew in a collective gasp. Morgan recognized the disheveled young man on the threshold—it was Lord Lawton. Four more men raced in on his heels, all with eyes wild with terror.

  “What is the meaning—” Lord Vetch had his sword half-drawn, but his demand was cut off by Lawton’s strangled cry.

  “A dragon! A dragon is flying over the castle, Your Majesty!”

  Several of the ladies screamed, and courtiers rushed to the windows to confirm this incredible announcement for themselves. The High King leapt from his throne with athletic grace and thrust his way through the crowd to the balustrade.

  “There!” A pallid man with a pinched nose pointed toward the north. “Gods have mercy, we are all doomed!”

  Morgan remained standing before the throne, but he noticed the young lady from Branley Tor was gone. It was unlikely anyone would remark her absence in the cacophony of shouts and entreaties. Even when the lord high chancellor pounded his ceremonial staff of office on the floor, it was to no effect.

  “Save us, Your Majesty!” a high shrill voice called out, and the plea was taken up by others.

  Roth stared out the window, his petite mother sheltering in the crook of his arm. Unobserved, Morgan made his way to the windows. The sky was a benign, cloudless blue, empty of any threat.

  Until a blur of bronze streaked directly overhead, its bellow of fury sending the frenzied lords and ladies reeling backward in horror. Only Roth, Grindasa, and Morgan remained to watch Ilyria veer and circle the turrets.

  Roth’s voice cut through the frenzied cries. “Call out the royal army, and all auxiliary troops! Prepare whatever armaments are necessary—cannon, catapults—whatever it will take to bring the beast down!”

  The bronze dragoness had not yet loosed any fire, but she would do so if threatened. Morgan had just opened his mouth to counsel the High King to exercise caution when he noticed Roth’s attention focused on a lone rider with autumnal hair galloping away from the Havard Gate. The faint echo of her horse’s hooves clattered against the cobblestone as it raced toward the North Bridge spanning the river.

  “I knew it!” Grindasa hissed under her breath. “The little half-cast was in league with the wizard all along—else why would she run?”

  Roth spun around, his eyes scanning the assembly. “It can�
�t be her—she was just here!”

  Several of the bolder lords and ladies had returned to the windows. One of them, a slim brunette maiden, unwisely clutched the queen’s sleeve. “Isn’t that Lady Maura, Your Grace? Oh, gods preserve her! She’s sure to draw the dragon’s eye!”

  Grindasa’s rebuke died on her lips, and her eyes took on a speculative glint. “Isn’t there a legend?” she said, turning to face the court. “About dragons and sacrifice? Perhaps…”

  Beside her, Wynnfort cleared his throat. “I believe… ahem… my queen refers to the tale of Bryluen of Bronwenil, who… ahem… sacrificed herself to save Glornadoor.”

  “Actually,” Morgan said, “I fear there you are in error, my lord Wynnfort. Dragons have never required human sacrifice. And Bryluen was no heroine; she was a foolish girl who was incinerated when she attempted to steal a dragon’s egg from a nest she chanced upon. It was recorded thus in the Drinnglennin Chronicles. As for the idea that Maura—”

  A fearsome roar drowned out his words, and all eyes followed Ilyria as she soared high above the castle. From this vantage point, the dragon would certainly spy the fleeing girl.

  As soon as Morgan formed this thought, the great winged creature shot after the galloping horse.

  “Blearc preserve us!” cried the same lady who had dared to lay hands on the queen.

  A look passed between Grindasa and her son. Morgan knew what they were thinking: if Maura were to die now, it would eliminate the need to come up with an excuse to put her aside.

  He watched as Grindasa artfully allowed worry to cloud her brow. “Oh, that poor dear brave girl!” she sighed, leaning heavily on the king’s arm. Roth, taking his cue from his mother, looked gravely concerned. The members of his court edged closer as if to bolster him, although their eyes remained riveted on the dragon plummeting toward her quarry. Even Vetch stood spellbound at Grindasa’s side.

  Morgan seized the moment. Silent as a shadow, he melted back into the crowd. It was a mere few steps to the Paros; he slipped behind it and into the Tribus’s inner sanctuary—the last place his enemies would think to look for him. As he entered this once-familiar territory, he heard a terrified cry rise up from the Great Hall, followed by a harrowing silence.

  There was no time to lose.

  Chapter 30

  Whit

  Sliding from Sinead’s back, Whit felt the throb of every muscle. During the wretched, wet ride to Trillyon, he’d stolen only a few hours of sleep. All he wanted was a long hot soak in a tub, and then his bed.

  Mistress Ella, standing on the threshold of the lodge, took one look at him and his young companion and began issuing a rapid series of instructions to the still-assembling household.

  “Sigrid, see that his lordship’s room is aired and fresh linens are on the bed. The young master…?” She raised her brows at the lad.

  “I’m Fynn, my lady.”

  “Mistress Ella,” she corrected him with a smile. “Master Fynn will take the blue room adjoining his lordship’s.” She cast a glance at Whit, who nodded his approval, and a tall, thin maid spun off to do her bidding.

  The chatelaine turned to a pretty, dark-haired maid, whom Whit vaguely remembered. “Quina, ask Cook to prepare breakfast trays immediately, and if she would be so kind as to roast a goose for supper this evening. Hinman, Warf—you will see what else the gentlemen require once they’ve settled in their rooms.”

  She suggested Whit and his guest take their ease in the smaller sitting room while their chambers were being made ready. It seemed an excellent idea, and Whit sank down in a chair by the hearth with a sigh of pleasure. He’d passed many an afternoon reading in just this spot. Across from him, Fynn took in his surroundings. In the morning light, the boy’s face was all planes and angles, and there were dark hollows under his hazel eyes. He’s in need of nourishment, Whit realized.

  Mistress Ella poured them both a mug of creamy ale. “You must wish for nothing more than to sleep, my lord. I apologize for the delay. If we’d known to expect you…”

  Whit stifled a yawn. “It’s all right, Mistress Ella. I should be begging your pardon—there was no one to send ahead.”

  The chatelaine nodded her understanding. “May I be so bold as to ask after Lady Halla, my lord? I couldn’t help noticing that you brought her horse with you. I hope nothing has gone amiss with her?”

  Whit shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He hadn’t thought to prepare for this query. No, nothing amiss in the least, Mistress Ella. Lady Halla was a slave for a while, training in a bordello. The last I saw of her, she was in Albrenia, armored for battle and riding with renegade Lurkers. No, the truth wouldn’t do.

  “My cousin was well when last we parted.” His voice sounded stiff to his own ears, but it served to deflect further questions.

  “I should have known you were coming, my lord.” Mistress Ella moved to the sideboard to set down the pitcher. “Something prompted me to tell Cook to bake this morning.” She turned her bright smile on Fynn. “Do you like apple tarts, young master? I believe they’re still warm.”

  Whit found himself smiling. “Even if he thinks he doesn’t, he’ll like these.”

  When the pastries arrived, still steaming, Fynn polished off four. Whit was finishing his third when the maid Quina entered the room and bobbed a curtsey. He recalled then that she was the one Halla had drugged before attempting to steal away from Trillyon. How long ago that seemed now.

  “Your rooms are ready, my lord.”

  Whit levered himself out his chair. “I’ll show you up, Fynn. If you’d like a bath before you sleep, the girl can fetch hot water now.”

  As Fynn rose to his feet, shouts rang out in the courtyard. Whit exchanged an alarmed look with Fynn, then reached for his staff. “Go upstairs with Quina. I’ll see to this.”

  He was relieved to find no Nelvorbothian soldiers milling in the yard. Instead, two of the grooms were wrestling with a bedraggled stranger.

  “Sorry for the disturbance, my lord!” Flax called over. “We caught this Lurker skulking ’round the back of the manor.” The groom paused to get a better grip on the fellow. “Claims he has a friend here!”

  Whit was suddenly jostled to one side as Fynn barreled past him.

  “He’s my friend!” the boy cried. “Let him go!”

  The astonished grooms obeyed, and Fynn threw himself at the stranger.

  “Grinner! You’re alive!” He was laughing and crying at the same time, and the two of them thumped each other’s backs, all the while exchanging a garble of Drinn, Helgric, and Livårian.

  “How did you get out—”

  “I thought you was dead!”

  “You weren’t there when I woke up!”

  It began to rain, but neither seemed to notice. Flax looked uncertainly at Whit, who dazedly waved the grooms back to the shelter of the barn.

  Fynn hooked arms companionably with the Lurker and led him over. Seeing the intruder’s disfigured face up close, Whit felt a surge of distaste. Surely Fynn didn’t mean to bring the vagrant inside?

  “This is Grinner!” the boy announced. It was the first time he’d looked happy since Whit had met him. “He was my cellmate.”

  The Lurker kept his head bowed and muttered something unintelligible.

  This put Whit even more on his guard. The drifter might well be one of Vetch’s creatures, sent to find Fynn, then report back on his whereabouts. Now that he was here, the Lurker mustn’t be allowed to leave—but what were they to do with him?

  Whit was so tired he couldn’t think clearly.

  Fynn was still beaming. “Grinner, this is Lord Whit of Cardenstowe. He rescued me when I was taken from—”

  “Not here!” Whit cautioned sharply. “Your… friend can bed down in the barn while we get some sleep.” Where my men can keep him under watchful eyes. “Once we’re rested, he can tell us what�
�s brought him to Trillyon.”

  “In the barn?” Fynn echoed. “If that’s the case, I’m staying there too.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Fynn! You’re exhausted and soaked to the bone—again. You’re likely to take a chill, if not something more serious, unless you get into a warm bed at once.” Whit was aware he sounded like a scolding nurse, but he didn’t care.

  “As will Grinner. He’s just as wet as we are.” Fynn had a stubborn set to his jaw.

  Whit felt himself sway with fatigue. He leaned on his staff, too weary to take up a fight with the boy. “Very well. I suppose Grinner can have some dry clothes and—”

  “Stay in my room with me?” Fynn suggested.

  Whit didn’t like the idea of that at all. “May I have a word, please?” He drew the boy out of earshot of the Lurker. “I don’t really think having this fellow in the same room with you while you sleep is—”

  Fynn gave an incredulous laugh. “Grinner was with me alone for months in our cell, and never once did he try to harm me. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have died in that horrid place.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I trust him with my life.”

  The boy’s argument was compelling, as was his fierce loyalty, and Whit’s own powers of persuasion seemed beyond his reach at present. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll find someplace inside for him to stay, but once I’m rested, I’ll need to question him further.”

  “It’s settled then,” Fynn said. “He’ll stay in my room.” He led the shivering Lurker past a startled Mistress Ella and into the manor. In resignation, Whit followed them.

  “Are we to have the pleasure of an additional guest, my lord?” the chatelaine asked, taking in the newcomer’s ragged clothes. She wrinkled her nose. “You’ll be wanting a bath, Master…?”

  The Lurker, standing in a small puddle of his own making, was gaping at the portraits on the walls.

  Fynn gave him a playful shove. “She means you, Grinner. Master Grinner, that is.”

  Grinner blinked. “I’m no master.”