by K. C. Julius
In the silent aftermath, Maura looked out and saw that most of the audience was weeping, and a few men were openly sobbing. The big man lunged toward her and lifted her from her feet in an embrace.
“I ain’t nev’r heard nuthin’ in this life so beautiful,” he mumbled into her hair. “Thank ye, sweet miss.” He set her down gently, then dropped off the stage and stumbled off through the quiet crowd.
Sensing an opportunity, Ruen thrust his floppy hat into Maura’s hands and nudged her toward the stairs at the back of the stage. “That’s all for tonight,” he called, his lute close against his chest. “If you’d like to show your appreciation, our own sweet Mae will gratefully receive any coins you have to spare.”
It was the first time Maura had been sent down to take up the collection, and she moved uncertainly among the men, bracing herself for offending touches and lewd offers. But the only hands that reached out were those with a few coppers or a silver tanner to drop into the hat. The offerings were made almost reverently, with murmured words of thanks, and all of the men’s faces reflected the same dazed glow.
By the time Maura made her way back behind the stage, the hat was bulging. Jory whistled as Ruen relieved her of her burden.
“That has to be our biggest take ever,” Ruen exclaimed. “You saved the day, Mae, with your golden voice, and you saved my lute. By rights, half of this should go to you.”
Wells and Volker nodded in agreement, but Elery didn’t look pleased with Ruen’s suggestion.
“Oh, no,” Maura protested. “Please! I’d like you to divide it as you always do. And Ruen, if you would keep my share safe for me, I’d be much obliged.” In truth, she was in no need of funds, for the purse of gold sovereigns her uncle had given her when she first arrived in Drinnkastel was tucked under her kirtle.
Everyone was all smiles after that, and they settled by the fire for a night of laughter and singing. Even Elery, who usually took his cut of the profits and returned directly home, lingered on.
It was well past midnight when Maura retired, leaving the men to finish the last of the ale. But from her bedroll, their voices carried to her on the still night air.
“It was almost as if she cast a spell over everyone. Gave me the willies!”
“Hush with your nonsense, Elery,” Ruen chided. “You’ve been too long among these superstitious folk. Mae is no sorceress.”
“It was something, though—never heard anyone sing like Mae did tonight.” Volker’s voice always reminded Maura of a creaking door. “The crowd went all quiet—could’ve heard a feather drop.”
“You should have seen yourself,” Wells chuckled. “Wee waterfalls were runnelin’ down your cheeks.”
“It ain’t natural, I tell you,” Elery insisted. “What do you know about her, really? Jory, you told me yourself she just appeared in the woods in the dark of night. If you ask me, I’d say she’s a—”
“Nobody’s asking you anything!” Ruen’s voice was as gruff as Maura had ever heard it.
She couldn’t suppress a shiver of fear, though. It had been strange, the way the audience had remained transfixed even after she’d finished singing. Ruen had never been affected so when she’d practiced with him, although now that she thought about it, he did get a very dreamy look in his eyes when she did her solos. Her mother’s voice had been mesmerizing, but Maura had never thought hers matched its quality.
There had been a time not so long ago when she would have laughed off Elery’s suspicions that there was something unnatural about her. But now that Ilyria was in her life, she was only too aware of the consequences of ignorant fear. Word of any novelty traveled like wildfire in a rough town, and the last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself.
Yet after the rewards they’d reaped this night, she knew she could hardly avoid singing again at every performance, for as long as she stayed with the troupe.
There was only one way she could think of to remedy that.
* * *
“Have a sip of this tea, love.” Ruen handed Maura the steaming mug. “My old gran swore by it for a frog in your throat. That’s it—drink it down and soon you’ll be warbling again like a nightingale.”
Ruen had been in the woods most of the day, searching for the herbs and roots for the bitter remedy he’d concocted. Maura knew there was no harm in the potion, but it was unlikely to cure a feigned loss of voice.
She felt miserable deceiving the kind man, but her ruse deflected a greater danger. It had been three nights since she’d sung her lullaby, yet despite this, the number of spectators around the stage kept growing. The past night, the audience had so loudly expressed their disappointment over Mae’s absence that Ruen had been forced to promise that their “warbling nightingale,” as he’d taken to calling Maura, would be fit to sing on the morrow.
When she insisted she wasn’t, she stayed back at the wagons, with Ruen’s blessing. He figured keeping her out of sight of the expectant men was for the best. Jory was supposed to remain with her, but as usual he slipped away, and wasn’t likely to return from his dicing or whoring until just before Ruen and the others finished their last song. Maura fervently hoped tonight would be no different.
For Ilyria’s wing should have mended by now. Which meant it was time for Maura to take her leave of the troubadours.
From the wagon, she watched with relief as Jory sauntered away. She had already prepared a little pouch with enough gold in it to pay for the horse she would ride out on, in case it didn’t find its way back to town once she released it. Disappearing without a word was a poor way to repay Ruen’s kindness, but there was no point in leaving a note, as nothing she could write in it would be true.
When Maura heard the musicians strike up “The Lass I Left in Langmerdor,” a spirited air that the audience all joined in singing, she crept to where Myrtle, the most docile of the draft horses, was plucking at the grass, and hauled herself astride the mare’s broad back.
Fortune was with her. At the few fires she rode past, the men were immersed in their gambling. Soon she was urging Myrtle to a reluctant trot, heading west on the same road she’d traveled in on two weeks before. Still, the old mare was frustratingly slow, and it seemed a lifetime before they reached the edge of the forest. When they crossed under the dark boughs and heard a screech from deep in the wood, the mare’s ears tipped forward and she came to a dead stop.
“There now, walk on,” Maura soothed, her own pulse racing. In the aftermath of the strange call, the forest seemed unnaturally still. She gave Myrtle a gentle kick, and the mare ambled forward.
It was nearly an hour later that the full moon rose high enough for Maura to catch a glimpse of it above the dense crowns of the trees. Thick bracken grew to either side of the road, and she felt sure she was nearing the place where she’d left Ilyria. Her heart leapt when she heard the sound of water tripping over stones. It had to be the brook, and it would lead her back to her dragoness.
Maura slid off Myrtle’s back, gave her rump a firm slap to send her back in the direction they’d come, then waded into the chest-high ferns, following the rush of water to the stream’s bank. She was just opening her mouth to call softly to the dragon when a shadow fell over her.
She threw herself to the ground, then cautiously looked up. Three dark shapes crossed the silver face of the moon. And from the road, she heard the sound of pounding hoofbeats.
“Ilyria!” she called softly.
The dragons wheeled directly overhead. Could they possibly have heard her from so high in the sky?
Terrified at being spotted by the drakes, she crawled forward under the cover of the ferns. Something stirred in the undergrowth ahead, and she drew her dagger. Then Ilyria’s beloved snout thrust out of the fronds, and Maura’s heart was flooded with joy.
“You must be very still, child.” The dragon’s voice was as soft as a breath of air. “My brothers
are near.”
“They are here, just above us.” Maura wrapped her arms around the dragon’s neck. “I’m so sorry. I think they heard me call you.”
“Then you must leave at once. Take to the stream and head east. Stay in the water—it will help to cover your scent—and you might have a chance to escape.”
Maura shook her head. “I’m not leaving you to face them alone.”
“You will only hinder me if you stay, child. Go now, and I will hold them for as long as I can. Should I fall, hopefully none of my brothers will survive to seek you.”
Maura pressed closer against the dragon. “No! I will not abandon you again!”
“There is no time to—” Ilyria fell silent at the sound of distant shouts. Flickering lights were coming from the direction of the road.
“Now we shall see if it is true,” the dragoness whispered.
“If what is true?”
“That Zal has indeed begun his war on mankind.”
“We have no time to see anything. Can we not flee at once?” Maura pleaded. “The folk around here may not be as dangerous as your brothers, but if they find you, they will try to kill you too.”
“It’s not me they are seeking, child. Do you not hear? Listen.”
Maura heard only the blood pounding in her ears.
“They seek a sorceress,” Ilyria said, “by the name of Mae.”
Elery. He must have voiced his suspicions despite Ruen’s discouragement.
“A pity for them,” the dragoness murmured, “but their sacrifice might offer a lifeline for us. If my brothers have indeed declared against mankind, your pursuers will present them with an irresistible diversion.”
It took Maura a moment to understand what Ilyria was saying. Her heart ached for kindly Ruen, who was likely among the approaching mob, hoping to protect her from its senseless wrath.
“Can’t we—shouldn’t we try to help them?”
“I cannot avert what is about to happen—but I can save you. Come, climb onto my back. With luck, we can escape unseen while my brothers are caught up in their bloodlust.”
A blast of fire streaked across the heavens, splitting the night and leaving a reek of sulfur in its aftermath. The angry shouts turned to fearful cries.
Maura clambered up onto Ilyria’s back. “Isn’t there any way to stop your brothers?”
The dragoness didn’t answer; her luminous gaze was locked on a silver cloud drifting in the sky. As soon as it shrouded the moon’s pale face, Ilyria lifted into the air, skimming as low as she could over the undergrowth and away from whatever was about to transpire between her brothers and the mob hunting their sorceress.
Maura craned her neck to see torches bobbing madly as their bearers turned and fled. Then the clouds parted, and the drakes shot toward the flickering lights with talons bared and streams of fire blazing before them. With a sob of horror, Maura turned away, and though the stench of burned flesh dissipated as Ilyria winged toward the east, the echoes of anguished screams rang on in her ears for long hours to come.
Chapter 13
Morgan
Following the confirmation of Urlion and Georgiana’s marriage, a serious debate ensued around a single question: how to keep their son safe until his legitimate claim to the Einhorn Throne could be brought to light. All who knew of Fynn’s true heritage agreed the day was fast approaching when Drinnglennians could and should be made aware of his existence. Selka’s confession that she’d known about Urlion’s enchantment and of the rumors of his offspring made that clear. If the sorceress knew about this son of Urlion’s, others might as well. And now that Whit had uncovered the proof they required, the need for secrecy had passed. They could now begin rallying the support of the ruling houses behind Fynn.
There were significant obstacles to this. Morgan was wanted for treason and murder, which meant he was at risk as an advocate for the lad, and both Whit and Fynn were being sought, if covertly, by the crown.
It was Whit who convinced Morgan that the best option would be to take Fynn to Cardenstowe. He would be safe at the great stronghold, and while they made the journey there, Lady Guin and Sir Wren could enlighten the noble houses of the south—Langmerdor, Karan-Rhad, and Palmador—of Fynn’s heritage. In light of the general disgruntlement over the Nelvor’s blatant nepotism and his encroachment on the sovereignty of the lower realms, their arguments had a solid chance of being well received. Morgan was confident that the northern states would support his claim as well, for they had been wary from the start about a Nelvor sitting the Einhorn Throne. But Tyrrencaster was certain to reject any change of rule, and Lorendale and Fairendell, who both shared a border with mighty Nelvorboth, were likely to tread carefully. It was impossible to predict how Glornadoor, under the influence of their cagey Lord Denzel, would respond.
Once it was decided to take Fynn north, the next question was by what means he could safely be brought to Cardenstowe, and by whom. Riding overland exposed a party to other travelers on the road. An armed escort would almost certainly draw unwanted attention, and a small group could be too easily overwhelmed by anyone in search of missing wizards or escaped prisoners. Wren proposed they take ship as anonymous travelers, but that meant joining other passengers and a crew, leaving them open to the possibility of recognition—perhaps by one of Vetch’s men, for the commander of the Nelvor force was well known for his long arm and his cadre of informants.
In the end, Fynn himself offered the best solution: to take a small fishing craft along the coastline. “When my… when the yarl took his fleet out on a raid, he never bothered with the local fishermen, for they had no booty worth taking. And if anyone should show an interest in us, Whit could always cast his shadow to hide us until we’re safely away.”
Morgan turned to Whit. “You’ve succeeded in mastering shadow-casting beyond yourself?” He was surprised that the young lord hadn’t mentioned it himself.
Whit shrugged. “I covered two horses and four riders, but not for long.”
Morgan was impressed. “If you can manage this spell, it seems a small craft is our best option, although it will mean a much longer journey—first to the west, then north up nearly half the coastline of Drinnglennin.”
“I can ensure the wind is at our backs,” said Whit.
“And we won’t need t’ carry many stores,” Grinner chimed in, “not when we got the fish runnin’ right there all ’round us.”
Fynn gave the å Livåri a friendly elbow in the side. “Leave it to you to think of our stomachs!”
And so it was agreed that Morgan, Whit, and Grinner would accompany Fynn. Wren and Lady Guin, whose families were well-respected in Langmerdor, would make the rounds of the southern realms to sound out support for the true heir of the Konigur line. They would have to be circumspect in what they shared about the lad, but they would make it clear that Bodiaer and Heversney were ready to do whatever necessary to set the rightful successor on the Einhorn Throne. Once more support was secured, Wren would send word to Cardenstowe, and they could take the next step: bringing troops north.
And so a fishing craft was procured the very next day, and after a fond farewell to those they were leaving behind, the four travelers set sail for the Midlands.
* * *
It took them a week of hugging the coastline before they rounded Glornadoor’s westernmost point and headed north. Good fortune smiled on the travelers—the sea was calm and the winds fair, even without Whit’s urging. Fynn proved to be an able hand at the tiller, and between the four of them they found the sailing easy, and the crafts they passed from time to time showed little interest in their nameless boat.
In the close quarters, Morgan had ample opportunity to become better acquainted with both Fynn and his friend Grinner, as well as to observe the changes the past year’s adventures had wrought on the young lord of Cardenstowe.
Fynn was an impress
ive lad, if understandably subdued. Morgan empathized; to have the responsibility for ruling an entire land thrust upon him was bound to be sobering, particularly since Fynn hadn’t grown up in anticipation of this, let alone that land being Drinnglennin. Yet there was much in the lad to recommend him to such a role. Well-mannered and seemingly wise beyond his years, Fynn showed promise of maturing into a stable, just king. His Langmerdorian mother had made sure he spoke Drinn like a native-born, and had taught him to respect others, no matter their station in life. Credit was due to his foster father as well, for it was clear the Helgrin yarl had instilled in Fynn the virtues of courage and honesty. And from what Morgan had witnessed of Grinner’s loyal devotion to the lad—and from Whit’s interactions with Fynn as well—it seemed that Fynn was a leader born.
Grinner was an interesting study as well. His voracious appetite spoke of years of near-starvation, and his stunted growth suggested a former addiction to crennin, but the fellow had a lively wit and was quick to learn, as Morgan discovered when he overheard Grinner and Fynn conducting a quiet conversation entirely in one another’s mother tongues. Their friendship boded well for the å Livåri folk, for should Fynn ascend the throne, he would champion their rights, just as his grandfather Owain had when he ruled as High King.
As for Whit, he seemed to have undergone a transformation since Morgan had last seen him. His former abrasiveness had dissipated, and his prickly edges were smoothed. He was no longer ill at ease with his long, angular body, but seemed to have grown comfortable in his skin. Regarding his progress in magical arts, it was clear that Whit was far more gifted than even he knew or Morgan could have anticipated. But Morgan also sensed that the young lord was burdened by something that he hadn’t been shouldering the last time they’d met. He suspected he knew what it was, so he raised the question one night after they’d dropped anchor.
