The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “You are in this house,” replied Mistress Ella crisply, “and you will want a bath.”

  Under her stern gaze, the Lurker gave a diffident nod.

  The chatelaine resumed her kindly demeanor. “Very good. May I suggest you all get out of your wet things? Hinman will follow to collect them and bring you a change of clothes.” She turned to Whit. “With your permission, my lord, I believe some of your old garments in storage might suit our guests.”

  Whit nodded a weary consent.

  “I’ll see that another tray is sent to your room, Master Fynn,” Mistress Ella continued, “for—Master Grinner, was it? And the bath water.” With a neat curtsey, she bustled back toward the kitchens.

  There seemed nothing for it but to follow her instructions. Whit trudged up the stairs with Fynn and the Lurker trailing behind him. Fynn kept up an excited prattle as they climbed. Grinner’s arrival had brought him to life at last.

  “You weren’t there when I came out of my dream,” Fynn was saying. “Did they hurt you? However did you manage to escape?”

  Grinner seemed just as eager to share his side of the story as Fynn was to hear it. “After you went inta that dream o’ yours, it seem t’ me you wasn’t breathin’ no more. I thought ye were a goner, and there were no way I were stayin’ in that stinkin’ cell alone. So I made me a plan, I did, and set up a wailin’. The guards come runnin’, and when I tol’ ’em ye’d made the Leap, they opened the door right quick. I stood aside, all bowed o’er like me guts was afire. ‘Ye poisoned us!’ I hollered. The Owl, he went white as a sheet, and the two of ’em dropped t’ their knees and tried t’ rouse ye. It were then I made me move—nipped the keys right out o’ Strawman’s pocket, I did, and were out the door and swingin’ it fast ’fore they ever marked it!”

  Whit spied Quina and a tall, prim maid conferring quietly outside his bedroom door. He hoped they hadn’t overheard the Lurker describing his breakout from gaol.

  Seeing his attention directed their way, the women dipped in unison. The older one kept her gaze respectfully downcast, but Quina stole an owl-eyed glance at the Lurker.

  Whit swung open the door to the blue room and Grinner gave a low whistle of appreciation, as if he was already calculating the value of any portable objects. Whit wondered if he’d awaken to discover Trillyon stripped of its silver and one less occupant in residence. He left Fynn and his friend and made his way to his own room, where he dropped on the bed with a groan. He was too tired to do more than tug off his boots and wet clothes, then crawl beneath the coverlet.

  He was out like a pinched candle.

  When he awoke, it took him a moment to recall where he was, and why.

  Fynn.

  He threw back the covers and leapt from the bed. The rosy light informed him the sun had set. Someone had removed his sodden clothes and boots, but he found a robe in the cupboard and threw it on. As quietly as he could, he opened the door joining Fynn’s room to his. With a sinking heart, he saw Fynn’s bed was empty, although the rumpled bedcovers indicated it had been occupied. Had the Lurker somehow managed to steal the boy away?

  Whit was halfway down the stairs when a peal of laughter rang out from the sitting room.

  “You don’t have to gobble them all at once, Grinner!” he heard Fynn say. “No one’s going to snatch them away.”

  The Lurker mumbled something in response.

  Whit drew a calming breath to slow his racing heart. They were both still here.

  He retraced his steps to dress, and met the tall chambermaid coming down the hall. She had been at Trillyon for some years, but her name eluded him.

  “Good morning…” He raised a querying brow.

  “Grelda, my lord.” The maid dropped a practiced curtsey. “Mistress Ella sent me to see if you wished to come down for supper. I took the liberty of ordering hot water for you.”

  “Splendid.” At the prospect of a bath, Whit’s spirits lifted. He hadn’t had a proper wash in three days, and some of the vermin Fynn acquired in prison had migrated to him.

  He spent the next quarter hour scrubbing himself clean, then poured a final bucket of cold water over his head to clear away the last cobwebs of his long day’s sleep. When at last he entered the sitting room in clean tunic and hose, he was rewarded with Mistress Ella’s approving regard.

  Fynn was seated across from Grinner at a chatraj board, the same one the chatelaine and Whit had battled over when he was a boy.

  The Lurker frowned at the board with fierce concentration. “Can I slide this one side-wise?” he asked, lifting the archer.

  Fynn pressed Grinner’s hand down until the piece rested once more on the board. “No,” he replied patiently, “at least, not by Helgrin rules. And remember—you can’t lift a piece unless you’re committed to moving it.”

  Whit winced inwardly at the mention of Helgrin rules. He stole a quick look at Mistress Ella, but she seemed intent on the knitting on her lap. With an inward sigh of relief, he settled on the low hassock and surveyed the board. “Is this your first time playing chatraj?” he asked the Lurker.

  Grinner looked up then, his eyes narrowed. “Might be.”

  “Well, for a beginner, you’ve established a strong defense.”

  “It’s not bad,” Fynn conceded, “but he’s no match for me.” He lifted his falcon with a flourish, and plunked it down directly in front of Grinner’s black monter.

  Whit drew breath to protest, until he saw Fynn’s discreet wink.

  Grinner scowled at the board, grumbling as his fingers twitched above his pieces. “If I move here, you’ll nab me serf.” He blew a loud puff and his frown deepened. “But if I was t’ take yer bird… hah!”

  He seized his monter, swept Fynn’s falcon from the board, then leapt from his chair and broke into an odd little gambol. “No match, did ye say?” he crowed, and Whit couldn’t suppress a smile as the funny fellow capered around his chair.

  Fynn was trying his best to look disappointed, but Whit could see he was pleased for his friend. He has a kind heart, Whit thought, listening to the silly banter between the two friends as they set up the board for a new game, and he’s loyal to a fault. He was certain Fynn truly would have slept in the barn if Grinner had been barred from the house. The lad didn’t lack courage, either: he’d bravely stood up to his murderous cousin Aksel, and although it could have cost Fynn his life, he’d denied his blood ties to Jered in an effort to protect the yarl’s son. Hardly the acts of a coward, regardless that he’d named himself one.

  Grelda arrived to tell them supper was served. Whit hadn’t touched the tray in his room; he’d been too exhausted to eat. Now he was ravenous. The four of them trooped into the hall, where dozens of tall candles illuminated the hunting murals lining the walls. The Lurker stopped to gawk at them and had to be prodded along by Fynn.

  Whit insisted another place be laid for Mistress Ella, and after a genteel protest, the chatelaine accepted his invitation. The goose was wonderfully succulent, its crispy skin peeled back to reveal rich fat and tender meat, and there was plenty of warm bread on hand to sop up the flavorful drippings. The ruby wine from Trillyon’s own vineyards complemented the meal so well that they soon became quite merry.

  Afterward, they adjourned to the sitting room, where Whit proceed to beat Fynn at chatraj. It was a respectable contest, and the boy’s play suggested that, with practice, he’d be a formidable opponent.

  Seated together by the hearth, Mistress Ella showed Grinner, who’d shyly asked, the rudiments of knitting. As she watched over his labored efforts, she told him the story of how she herself had learned. “My mother was not the most patient of teachers. Whenever I dropped a stitch, she’d give me a jab in the side. I was black and blue for weeks!” She smiled ruefully.

  Grinner looked as appalled as Whit felt at the thought of someone poking the gentle lady with a knitting needle. The Lurker
begged her for another story, as though he were a child, and Whit found himself wondering what sort of life the fellow had lived. He also itched to know what crime had landed him in a prison cell with Fynn.

  The Lurker’s presence complicated things. Whit had planned to leave Fynn under Mistress Ella’s care while he rode to Cardenstowe to ensure that all was well there. After that, he had thought to go to Thraven in Langmerdor to see if he could unearth any record of Urlion’s marriage to a young woman named Jana. He hadn’t yet decided whether or not he’d take Fynn with him, though his gut told him it would be foolhardy to let the boy out of his sight for too long.

  But now there was the Lurker to deal with as well. Grinner appeared harmless enough, sitting there with a skein of yarn in his narrow lap, but it would be foolish not to keep a close watch on him. Whit didn’t relish the idea of taking the man with him to Cardenstowe, but he might have no choice.

  When a bleary-eyed Quina came in to mend the fire for the third time, Whit realized how late it was. He sent the maid to her bed, and the party broke up.

  Whit was about to follow the others upstairs when Mistress Ella asked for a private word.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for not speaking sooner, my lord. I could see you were exhausted on your arrival, and so I decided to wait until you’d had a proper rest and a decent meal.”

  This could only mean bad news. Whit steeled himself to hear the worst—that something had befallen his mother—but the chatelaine alleviated this fear at once.

  “Lady Rhea is well,” she assured him, “but Taggart, her reeve, rode over last week to tell us there’ve been callers at Cardenstowe Castle in recent days. Royal army. The first time was to inquire why she’d failed to send a representative to the coronation of High King Roth.”

  “Yes, I know about this.” Whit had heard about it from both Lord Ewig and King Roth.

  The chatelaine’s expression remained grave. “There’s more, my lord. Earlier this week, the Nelvor king sent a personal letter to Cardenstowe to formally inquire why our lord had not yet taken an oath of fealty.”

  “How did my mother respond?”

  “With the truth, my lord. She apologized for the omission and explained that you were still away. Sir Herst, the spokesperson for the king, then proposed Lady Rhea return with him immediately to Drinnkastel in your stead.” A small smile curled her lips. “Unfortunately, her ladyship was taken with a sudden illness and found herself unable to travel. When Herst insisted she come nevertheless, Sir Nidden dissuaded him from forcing the issue by drawing steel against him.”

  Whit swore under his breath. Sir Nidden had always been a firebrand, and he’d long borne a grudge against the Nelvors. “Was anyone injured?”

  “Fortunately not, but I’m afraid some unpleasant things were said on both sides.”

  Whit could imagine, particularly if Nidden’s bristly feathers had been ruffled. He ran a hand over his face. “What was the outcome?”

  “Sir Herst rode off in a rage, and your vassals proceeded to get roaring drunk. At least that’s how the story was told to me.”

  This news was far from heartening. He was still mulling over what to do about it when he climbed into his bed, but the wine coupled with the warmth from his hearth quickly lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He woke to pale light streaming through the high windows. The lone caw of a crow transported him back to Cardenstowe Castle, where in winter, huge murders of the black birds festooned the bare trees. Halla had once complained about the racket they raised and threatened to take her bow to them. She’d likely been jesting, but he recalled how irate he’d been at the thought of her shooting down the sigil of his realm.

  Halla often crossed his thoughts unbidden these days. As soon as I’m able, he thought, I’ll return to Mithralyn and scry for her again. I’ll have to go to Lorendale as well, to set Aunt Inis’s mind at ease. Depending on what he saw in the stone, that was.

  He’d made up his mind to ride for home that very day. He’d just have to figure out what to tell his own mother regarding his wayward cousin’s whereabouts. He hoped Lady Rhea would be so happy to see him that Halla’s failure to return with him wouldn’t upset her too much.

  Before descending for breakfast, he took up his staff and cracked open the door of Fynn’s room. The youth was still curled in sleep, but the Lurker was up, perched on the foot of the bed. Whit noted that Grinner was wearing a green tunic that had once been his own. Then he noticed the blade the man was slipping into his boot.

  Whit firmed his grip on his staff. Had he just interrupted some intended violence?

  His face must have betrayed his thoughts, for the Lurker met his gaze defiantly, his pale eyes weirdly flat.

  “I would ne’er hurt the lad,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I ken ye don’t trust me word, but I give it ye all the same. He’s like me own flesh an’ blood, Fynn is. Ne’er had anyone treat me so… like I were…” He frowned as he searched for the word that eluded him. “Like I were… worthy.”

  Whit blinked at the Lurker’s odd eloquence. “He’s… your friend. I see that.” It seemed Fynn might have the right of it after all, with regard to Grinner’s harmlessness. Still, Whit had heard too many tales about the unsavory habits of Lurkers to trust Grinner completely. Especially one with a hallowed chest—the telltale sign of a crennin user.

  Fynn rolled over with a soft groan, then slept on. Whit inclined his head toward his own chamber, and after a moment’s hesitation, Grinner rose to follow him.

  Whit got straight to the point. “How did you find us? And for what purpose? I want the truth.”

  Grinner shrugged. “’Twere only by chance, my comin’ here. Since I broke free, I been headin’ for Glornadoor. I trekked through all o’ Nelvorboth and thought I were on the road t’ Karan-Rhad, but I musta took a wrong turn somewheres. I were just down the way a piece when I heard yer horses comin’ and leapt inta the bracken. ’Twere then I spied Fynn ridin’ wit’ ye on yon fine white mare.”

  Whit gave a derisive laugh. “You expect me to believe you didn’t follow us here?”

  “How could I ’ave?” Grinner demanded, his voice rising. “Wit’ no horse—only me two legs to carry me? D’ ye suppose I ran after ye clear ’cross Drinnglennin?”

  Put in that light, it made a chance meeting more plausible.

  “As t’ why I come here, ’twere t’ make sure ye meant Fynn no harm.”

  Whit blinked. “I see. In that case, it seems I owe you an apology.”

  They stared at each other in an awkward silence that was interrupted by Fynn’s appearance in the doorway, his hair sticking up around his head. He had on a frilly lace-cuffed ivory shirt Whit had been forced to wear to his cousin Pierce’s name day ceremony. He’d hated the tunic, and when Lord Jaxe decided they’d spend a few days at the lodge on the way home, Whit stuffed the balled-up shirt up the chimney. Someone must have retrieved it after they’d left.

  The shirt looked well enough on Fynn, though, who was tall and well-made for his years. Although he was bone-thin, the muscles in his arms and the curve of his calves were proof he’d worked hard at keeping fit while imprisoned.

  “I’m glad you’re up, Fynn,” Whit said in greeting. “I’m leaving Trillyon for a few days, and while I’m away, I’ll ask that you and Grinner keep close to the manor. It would be even better if you stay inside, but if you must go out—”

  “We know,” said Fynn. “We overheard Mistress Ella talking with the household yesterday before you got up. We’re to have one of the men with us at all times. And she showed us the crawlspace off the library at the top of the house, in case anyone comes and we need to hide.”

  Thank the gods for Mistress Ella, Whit thought. Whoever she thought his guests might be, she’d worked out that they were in need of sanctuary. He should have given these instructions himself; that he hadn’t done so showed
how exhausted he’d been.

  “Well then,” he said, “I’ll be off straightaway after breakfast. See that you mind whatever Mistress Ella says while I’m away.” I sound like my father, he realized, and for some reason, it left him with a lingering melancholy.

  But by the time he was on the road to Cardenstowe, his spirits had begun to rise. It had been well over a year since he’d been home, and in addition to his mother, he looked forward to seeing Wren, Olin, and other familiar faces. He wondered if they’d notice any changes in him now that he’d earned his rod of power.

  As he galloped along the forest road with Rowlan in tow, he realized winter was over. All around him trees were in bud, and the scent of greening made the world feel made anew. The burden he’d assumed by defying the High King didn’t seem as heavy as it had the day before.

  Soon, he would be home.

  Chapter 31

  Borne

  Borne stood at the prow as the joltoras entered the port of Rizo. Viewed from the water, the city appeared to be a hodgepodge of brick, plaster, and stone sprawling across the coastal plain. The Mausoleum of Zaena, Rizo’s crowning jewel, perched above it, overlooking the narrow straits where the Mazarine River flowed to the Middle Sea.

  Upon docking, Balfou and Borne left the captain to deal with the harbor officials, and went straight to their lodgings. They found a stack of correspondence awaiting them.

  “Here’s something that will interest you,” Balfou said, looking up from a letter. “Drinnglennin’s new sovereign is soon to be wed—to a princess who was raised in Gral. King Crenel is pleased to learn King Roth’s bride-to-be has ties to our land, although he finds it strange the princess never came to court at Lugeneux. This connection bodes well for our future relations with the Isle.”

  Borne had no idea what he said in response. He excused himself on the pretext of seeing the men were settled, then retired to his room with several flagons of the fiery local raki, which he proceeded to determinedly consume.

  He woke just after dawn with Magnus’s wet nose in his ear, still wearing his rumpled clothes. The golden light promised a fair day, but Blearc’s cudgel hammered in his head, and the brightness was a torture to his sensitive eyes.