The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Balfou bowed his head in affirmation. “Small in number, perhaps, Basileus, but of great worth. May I have the honor of presenting Ser Borne Braxton, Herald of Gral and leader of this fighting arm. He and his men have accompanied our mission at the behest of King Crenel, as a sign of His Majesty’s great love and esteem for Your Eminence.”

  “Ser Borne seems very young to be awarded a herald’s sash,” Shareen remarked. “You must have prodigious skills on the field of battle, ser.”

  Mindful that he was supposed to be ignorant of the Olquarian tongue, Borne looked to Balfou, who translated the Basilea’s comment.

  Borne lifted his eyes to the empress. “Please tell the empress that my company and I are honored to fight alongside the Basileus’s brave Companions. The enemies of Olquaria are our enemies.”

  The Basileus smiled, exposing his strong, white teeth. “Fair words, Ser Herald,” he said, in heavily accented Gralian. “I hope in time you shall learn our speech, as then they would be fairer still.”

  Borne bowed again. “I shall strive to do so, Basileus.”

  With Zlatan’s permission, the gifts from the Gralian king were brought forward. Borne was curious to see their contents; he had seen the crates safely over the perilous Valmoinnes, yet with no knowledge of what was inside.

  The Basileus’s royal cousin had not stinted on his tributes. They included gold and silver goblets inlaid with jewels, skins of sable and lynx, precious attar and amber, ceremonial daggers, lace from L’Rochienne, and even coilhorn and fine lapin wools from Drinnglennin.

  Apparently, though, Borne and his men were considered the grand prize. After being graciously dismissed from the imperials’ company, he and Balfou were intercepted by Notaros Tou-Reh, Zlatan’s mistokos—his private secretary—outside the throne room doors.

  The man bowed deeply, then addressed Borne in near-flawless Drinn. “Ser Herald. The Basileus wishes to see your troops at training on the morrow.”

  Borne returned the mistokos’s salute. “We are his to command.” In truth, he wished such a demonstration could have been put off for a few days. The men would not be at their best after the long journey.

  Parting from Balfou, he returned to the barracks and held an immediate inspection, then conducted a rigorous drill in preparation for the impending exhibition. Before dismissing them to pursue their own leisure, he cautioned his men that Gral would be judged on how respectfully they comported themselves in the capital.

  Then he himself struck out to explore the city. The Grand Palace served as the hub of the metropolis’s wheel, while her streets, rising to the hills, formed its spokes. The imperial seat was a visual symphony of colonnaded domes and pavilions, connected by a network of arched bridges to the royal gardens, which were in turn linked to the rest of the city via still bigger bridges.

  It was under one of these bridges that Borne happened upon a fleet of small low-lying boats laden with all manner of goods for the provender of Tell-Uyuk’s citizenry. The hawkers’ soft cries, in the euphonious tones of Olquarish, sounded almost like singing, and he purchased a handful of plump grapes from one of them. From there, he wandered past the mosaicked city walls, and was struck by the quality and variations of light that set their golds, blues, greens, and crimsons afire.

  Anonymous in the crowd, he skirted the sprawling bazaar to inspect the various workshops, warehouses, and armories beyond the marketplace. He was particularly intrigued by the intricate system of canals used to irrigate the outlying crops; they also served as a further protective barrier around the city walls. Still, he noted the potential to improve the fortifications further by raising these walls, for although it was a hill city, Tell-Uyuk was surrounded by flat plains. Should an enemy bring in siege engines of sufficient height, the current defenses would not be enough to hold back an invasion.

  The barrage of new sights, sounds, and smells far surpassed what he’d experienced upon his arrival in Drinnkastel. Yet it struck him that the Drinnglennian capital had seemed nearly as foreign, if not more so, to his younger self at the time. How much has changed since then, he mused, then pushed away a tendril of melancholy. The past was dead and buried, and should remain so.

  He rounded a corner, only to be confronted by barred gates securing the residences of Tell-Uyuk’s elite. So instead he veered down a dusty lane, past the hovels of the kampals where the common folk lived in a honeycomb of stucco open to the sky. Continuing along a gangway, he emerged onto a tidy street. Here the bustle of the metropolis fell away, and only the sound of soft chanting broke the silence. Yet the twin spires of a saljada, where the devout of Olquaria prayed, were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the singing was coming from one of the quaint houses.

  Curious, he paused outside it to listen.

  Lana jamir altar ajou

  ‘Lamyae hal mal alkir

  kadamat wrath-agilitu

  sharis al’dir malir

  The words pierced his heart, and it was too late to unhear them. It was a verse from The Songs for Hegamah by Olkim bè Halour, the lines spoken by Farrad when he first saw the goddess bathing in the pool and lost his heart to her.

  I am all undone.

  I gather the folds of my love

  like so many petals,

  bruised and heavy with scent,

  a chrysalis to shroud my yearning heart

  As the poetry washed over him, Borne was transported back to Maura’s room, her fingers against his skin, igniting his blood. In that moment, he’d realized she was all he would ever want in this world.

  Blindly he spun on his heel, nearly toppling a cowled man about to pass by to enter the darkened house. Borne mumbled an apology and would have been on his way, had the man not stayed him.

  “How does it end?” the stranger murmured, his hand resting on Borne’s sleeve.

  Borne wanted desperately to be gone, but his interlocutor was not a young man, and he couldn’t bring himself to shake him off.

  “Pretending you can’t hear the music flowing through your veins won’t mute it, the man said. “How does it end?”

  Stunned, Borne numbly recited:

  Khyat lamesh lashira

  Marmul bidya il-ai

  Litas-iyal lahira

  Warat murtallee-i

  Mil lana jamir altar ajou

  The last line was barely more than a whisper on his lips, and he stared unseeing at the wall before him while the man repeated the tormenting stanza in Drinn.

  The silken threads unravel.

  Drawn by brilliance, how close I’ve come

  to fly to your sun

  and bittersweet I soar,

  knowing I am all undone.

  “It is beautiful in both tongues,” said the man, switching back to Olquarish. “One day, perhaps, we can speak of bè Halour’s work, but today we are debating the premise of time put forward by the great scholar, Dir Mamal.”

  At this, Borne gave the stranger his full attention. It was hard to guess the man’s age. An unruly mass of grey curls sprang from beneath his cowl, and his face was seamed with deep grooves, but his bright green eyes sparkled with vigor, and the lines around his mouth suggested it was one given to smiling.

  The man placed his hand on his heart and made a slight bow. “I am Taqui-Rash. I already know who you are, Ser Borne, as news of the Gralian fighters who are training the Companions is the talk of the town. Although I was told you do not speak our tongue.” He gave his arm a reassuring pat as Borne felt his face flush. “Do not fear. Your secret is safe with the al-imtirta.”

  Borne couldn’t believe he’d heard him correctly. The great scholars of the al-imtirta were renowned in every corner of the world.

  Taqui-Rash chuckled softly. “If you’re surprised to discover this humble abode is the House of All-Knowing, you would not be the first.” He stepped back and gestured for Borne to enter. “Please, be wel
come.”

  In a near-daze, Borne preceded Taqui-Rash down a narrow, cool corridor to a circular room where a few dozen of the learned were seated on worn carpets beneath a domed ceiling of blue-stained glass. Following Taqui-Rash’s example, Borne slipped off his boots before settling among them.

  His host followed his gaze to the dome’s supporting beams, which were blackened by fire.

  “The roof is sound,” Taqui-Rash whispered. “But we have never replaced those beams, for they serve to remind us of our brothers and sisters who perished when the Purge swept through Tell-Uyuk.”

  Then he turned his attention to the discourse in progress. The man speaking had a white beard, though he appeared to be not much older than Borne. His pale pink eyes identified him as an aytuju, one of the “moon children,” as those born without pigment were called in this part of the world.

  As Borne listened, adjusting his ear to the highly formal and archaic Olquarish spoken within the House of All-Knowing’s hallowed walls, he took the opportunity to study the twenty-odd people assembled there. Only one was a woman, but all the men accorded her respect, and she didn’t shy away from challenging any with whom she disagreed. The others addressed her as Alima Nina. She was small and plump, reminding him of a kindly grandmother—until she expounded brilliantly on the subject of createdness and atemporal origination. By the time she’d finished, Borne’s mind was reeling with so many questions he could not hold them back.

  “But what about trans-substantial motion? Isn’t non-existence necessary to accept as a prelude to origination?”

  His comment was met with silence, followed by a burst of laughter, and Borne felt his color rise.

  Taqui-Rash laid a reassuring hand on his sleeve. “I beg you, don’t mistake our response. Your premise is so insightfully novel, it has provoked our delight.” The approving expressions on the other faces verified this, and Borne’s heart lifted with the realization that he had been accepted by this erudite assembly. After that, the hours flew by, as they always did when he was learning. But as the day waned, the unaccustomed heat began to take its toll on him. It was with true regret that he excused himself, although not before accepting an invitation to return whenever he pleased.

  Out in the streets, the crowds had thinned, for it was sidura, the resting time. Borne purchased a melon drink from a drowsy vendor, then made his way to the public baths about which Balfou had waxed so lyrical. Inside the cool walls of the bathhouse, he was instructed by the vigorous hand signals of a beefy, bald man to remove his clothes, after which he was ushered into a hall filled with stone tables disturbingly reminiscent of sacrificial altars. Most were occupied by men submitting to rigorous massage by burly slaves.

  After being thoroughly pummeled, he proceeded to a labyrinth of pools, in which Olquarians of every size and hue were immersed. Borne settled with a sigh into the steaming hot water and felt his tired muscles relax. Balfou had suggested the baths would be an ideal venue for picking up the local gossip, but for now all Borne wanted was to float in serene silence.

  He didn’t notice he was drifting until he collided with another bather. Mindful to play the part of the ignorant barbarian, Borne bowed a mute, humble apology in response to the portly man’s complaint.

  The man turned his back, then resumed his conversation with his swarthy companion. “Of course, it all comes down to coin. These days, money is the essential commodity. We donate it to our holy men to appease our gods, we shell it out to foreign mercenaries”—here he cast a disapproving look at Borne—“to keep the Jagar from our door, and we use it to buy ships and the slaves to man them. Even the Basileus requires money to enlist our allies’ support, and to bribe those who would not otherwise be our friends. No, we cannot do without money, for it turns the wheel of our Emperor’s domain.”

  His companion sank under the surface, then bobbed up, shaking his dripping dark curls. “I still think bartering, as we did in the old days, is the better way. Too many things have changed since our Basileus began looking to the west, bringing foreigners to our land.” He too scowled at Borne. “What need has Olquaria of these janabis? For centuries uncounted, the Companions have protected us. I’ve heard it said our hazar thinks we should send the Gralian heathens packing, and I for one agree!”

  Borne had no wish to become embroiled in a conflict, particularly before his company could demonstrate its worth to the Basileus. So he kept an innocuous smile fixed on his lips as he stroked to the edge of the pool, hauled himself out, and padded into the next chamber.

  The water in the next pool, although tepid, felt deliciously cool against his heated skin. Most of the men who soaked beside him ignored him, as was the proper etiquette in the baths, but three young Olquarians, all with flowing black hair and handsome, dissolute faces, stared openly at him.

  One of them poked his companion playfully. “What were you saying about those hairy foreign apes, Taimar? This one looks like he’s descended from the gods!”

  Taimar uttered a coarse oath, then struck out for the far side of the pool. Watching him go, the third of their company pressed his lips together in disapproval.

  “Now see what you’ve done, Yil. You’ve hurt his feelings.”

  Yil snorted. “It doesn’t hurt anyone if I ‘wash my eyes’ on attractive men now and then. Taimar certainly indulges in it often enough.” His gaze raked Borne with frank admiration. “Do you suppose there’s more than a pretty face and a stallion’s body to him, Lodhih? Not that I’d really care if we were alone in my—”

  Lodhih slapped at his arm. “Shame, Yil! You should go and make things right with Taimar.”

  “Oh, very well.” With exaggerated effort, Yil dragged his eyes away from Borne, and the two men paddled off after their sulking friend, who was looking daggers at the foreigner in their midst.

  Borne quickly removed himself to the last chamber. Here the pool was fed by a wall of cascading water, and he joined several other men standing under the icy, gushing stream. When he could stand the numbing deluge no more, he dressed and left the bathhouse. It had been a memorable first day in Tell-Uyuk—and his unexpected admittance into the House of All-Knowing was the highlight. The only shadow had been the echo of sorrow he’d felt when the poetry caught him off-guard, but it hadn’t lingered.

  He looked forward to the next day, when he and his men would demonstrate their skill at arms for the Basileus. It would be as the witch on the Mazarine had foreseen: he would have a fresh start, here in the City of Seven Hills.

  Chapter 4

  Halla

  Halla wasn’t deceived by her comfortable solar, by the fresh dates and cooling fruit ices sent to tempt her appetite, or the silken robes that appeared in her wardrobe. She was a prisoner, sent by Palan here to the vaar of the Lost Lands, who intended to kill her.

  But first he intended to toy with her.

  When Lash brought her from the docks to the vaar’s chamber, Halla feared the worst. But the vaar didn’t lay a hand on her then, nor did he on every subsequent night when she was summoned. Instead, he asked after her health and whether there was anything she required.

  She gave him the same answer each time. “My freedom.”

  To which the vaar unvaryingly replied, “Please, my lady. Be seated.” Then he proceeded to talk—for hours.

  Halla made no attempt to conceal her boredom, but the vaar barely glanced her way. It seemed her mere presence was enough to satisfy his need for an audience. But gradually, listening night after night as the man droned on about how he’d built this city of Drak Icar, Halla came to the realization that he was offering her something of value. If she wanted to get out of this place alive, these tedious sessions might provide her with the means to do so.

  She had tried to learn more about the city layout from Sharra, the å Livåri who served as her handmaiden, but the cowed woman had proven no help. Sharra carried out her duties in silence, and had bur
st into tears when Halla asked if anyone had ever successfully escaped. The only thing that kept Halla from shaking the woman in frustration was the fact that Sharra was with child.

  The life in Halla’s own womb was ever on her mind. Although there was as yet no visible sign of the baby growing inside her, there was no question now that she was pregnant; her breasts were tender, and she experienced a bothersome lassitude, interrupted by bouts of anxiety over the vaar’s unnatural interest in the child. Why was hers so special, when there were so many women here who shared her condition?

  In any case, if she was to get them both out of Drak Icar, she would have to do it before she became too ungainly. Which was why that night, before she was released from her audience with the vaar, she insisted on being allowed out in the city.

  “It’s making me ill, staying closed up in my chamber.”

  “It’s not in the child’s best interest for you to leave this tower,” the vaar replied.

  Halla responded by refusing both breakfast and lunch the following day, which must have been duly reported to her gaoler, for when Lash appeared bearing her dinner tray, he announced that the vaar had charged him with the duty of chaperoning her on one daily outing.

  The next morning, the drakdaemon was waiting outside her chamber to lead her through the busy streets. To Halla’s surprise, he allowed her to choose their destination, and even answered her questions about what she observed. She chose to go back to the port, where she drilled Lash on the ships in the harbor. After establishing how many men and what armaments they were capable of carrying, she asked where all the timber and iron came from.

  “North,” he replied unhelpfully.

  “Yes, but where exactly in the north?”

  The drakdaemon turned to stare at her, his ember-like eyes unblinking. “North,” he repeated, then lifted his arm and pointed over the sea.