by K. C. Julius
As if reading his thoughts, Master Morgan laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s a lot for you to take on all at once, Fynn. We’ll choose with extreme care which lords we approach first. Even then, some may choose to ignore our evidence in order to avoid a civil war. But with or without you, Roth has already set us on this course. You needn’t feel responsible if conflict is to come.”
Fynn nodded, although he knew he would be held accountable, if he were to become the High King of this land.
Their first stop was at Pennmorse Castle, the seat of Lord Denzel of Glornadoor. Their bluff host gave them a warm enough welcome, but it did little to allay Fynn’s misgivings about the unsettling direction his life had taken. After being presented as Urlion’s heir, he suffered his lordship’s intense scrutiny in nervous silence, after which Denzel, whose sharp-planed face was as craggy as the mountains north of his estate, didn’t hesitate to voice his opinion as to how Roth would respond to the mysterious appearance of a Konigur heir.
“The Nelvor will come down with a vengeance on any lords who support this claim, however valid,” the lord of Glornadoor declared darkly. “After the long years of speculation as to who would succeed Urlion, at last there’s stability in the realm, or at least a semblance of it. As for the common folk, they just want to get on with their daily lives. And while the Nelvor’s clear favoritism and his close ties with Albrenia are worrying, many noble families are turning a blind eye. Indeed, what choice do we have? With the might of Nelvorboth and Tyrrencaster behind King Roth, and the sanction of the Tribus, none dare oppose him.”
“The choice stands before you!” Master Morgan replied sternly.
But when they departed Pennmorse shortly afterward, it was without a pledge of support from Lord Denzel. Master Morgan assured Fynn that in time, his lordship would come around. But at Carow and Regis Brann, Lord Horen and Sir Bere expressed similar reservations. Both grumbled about the new Nelvor king and acknowledged Fynn’s likeness to his father, but neither felt they could pledge their allegiance at this time, despite being shown proof of his legitimacy.
It wasn’t until they reached Karan-Rhad that they found their first enthusiastic supporters. Lord Lowan of Glenness bent the knee at once, as did Lord Kenver of Mauzel, and both offered as many soldiers at arms as they had to give. The kneeling, so foreign to a Helgrin, made Fynn ill at ease, but he accepted it as part of Drinn tradition, and so as not to give offense to those who would show his lineage honor.
Still, the pressures weighed on him, and built one upon the other. The loss of his family and homeland, the unasked-for burdens and duties of his future, his need to rouse support from these unknown noblemen who either eyed him with suspicion or treated him with a discomfiting reverence…
The simple fact was that he’d lost control of his life—and one evening, his frustrations spilled over.
They had crossed at last into Whit’s home realm of Cardenstowe, and stopped in the fading light to set up camp. Fynn and Grinner volunteered to take the first watch. And just before they settled themselves against a large oak tree, his friend swept into a bow.
“After ye, Yer Majesty!”
Hot blood surged through Fynn’s veins. “Not you, too!” He turned away, his fists clenched at his sides to keep himself from striking out at his friend.
Even in the darkest of nights in their Toldarin cell, Grinner could read Fynn. “Hol’ on, there. I were only jestin’. But ye needn’t fash yerself over bein’ a king, ye know. Most of ’em make a hash of it, far as I ken tell. Ye’re bound to do no worse, and once ye find yer footin’, a sight better, I reckon. But I’m sorry if I offended ye.”
Fynn’s anger faded as quickly as it had appeared. “Forget it… I overreacted, and it’s me who should apologize. But I don’t see how I’ll ever find my footing as a king. I was raised a bastard, not a prince.”
Grinner shrugged. “Then just be yerself.”
The two of them sank down side by side against the tree. It was a mild night, but there was a hint of rain on the quickening breeze. Looking up through the gently swaying boughs overhead, Fynn thought of the great oak Wurl, far across the sea. He wondered if the tree still lived, now that Restaria had been destroyed.
He crushed a fistful of pine needles, releasing their sharp fragrance. “Throughout all that’s happened since I left Restaria—crossing the Erolin Sea with Teca, the months you and I spent in that horrid prison…. even being caught by Aksel and learning of… of Aetheor’s death—I still felt like… like me. But this whole ‘king’ business…” Fynn let the mangled needles sift through his fingers. “The idea that I could rule this realm… it’s beyond fantasy!”
Grinner gave a little laugh. “Funny that. I’m thinkin’ jus’ the opposite, about ye being a king and all. Knowin’ it’s ye… well, it gives me sumthin’ I ne’er had b’fore. Not jes’ fer me, but fer me people too. Gives me hope, it does, in the times what lay ahead—imaginin’ ye on the Einhorn Throne.”
Fynn was astonished. What he deemed as a misguided faith in a proven coward, Grinner viewed as a promise of good to come. His friend actually thought him fit to rule Drinnglennin. Maybe… maybe he could be. But that didn’t make the prospect any less frightening.
“Whatever happens,” Fynn said quietly, “you’ll stay with me, won’t you, Grinner?”
“Bloody right I will! Once ye’re king, ye’ll need someone t’ keep an eye on all yer gold and jewels and such, and t’ teach yer cook how t’ make a proper milk rice!”
Fynn grinned in the dark at the idea of Grinner, lording it over the cooks in the royal kitchens.
“Just don’ let ’em change ye, lad,” his friend muttered. “I know yer nae the sort what usually gets all puffed up. But power can turn a fellow’s head, and it’d be a damn’ble shame if it twisted yers like it has so many t’others. Stay yerself, Fynn Konigur, and I’ll stand by ye ’til me last rattle.”
“Even though I’m”—Fynn dropped his voice—“a coward?”
Grinner gave a loud snort. “Blearc’s bones, ye are! Why, ye’ve shown mer’ guts ov’r these past months than anyone I runned across in this life!”
Fynn hugged his knees to his chest. “But don’t you remember my telling you what happened when my… when Aetheor took me into battle? How it made me sick? When we had to fight off those silver cloaks, it happened again.”
“Tha’s ’coz ye’ve a good, gentle heart, ’tis all. We ain’t all born t’ be cold-blooded killers—thank the gods—but that don’t make ye a coward!” Grinner gave his head an emphatic shake. “Bein’ brave don’t mean a body ain’t scared, Fynn. Everybody’s scared o’ sumthin’—even wizards. Ye’ve heard fer yerself how Whit moans in th’ night, and ye seen how Master Morgan’s brow is ev’r creased wit’ worry. Bein’ brave is when ye go about the business what needs tendin’ to, even if yer knees’re knockin’ and ye’re shivery t’ the core. The world’d be a sight better if there was more like ye in it, I tell ye that. Coward, my eye! Ye’re anythin’ but!”
With this emphatic pronouncement from the person he trusted most in the world, Fynn felt the burden of his shame lighten, if only a bit. Raised among people who valued valor in war above all else, he’d never considered until this moment that bravery might take other forms.
An owl hooted overhead, and was answered by another deep in the woods. The calls stirred something in Fynn, and for the first time, he allowed himself to imagine a future beyond the despair he’d been living with for the past year. These people—Grinner, Master Morgan, Whit, Wren, and now these other lords—had all sworn fealty to him because they believed he had something of value to offer, and not only because of his bloodlines. He’d failed at being a Helgrin warrior, but perhaps he was being offered a chance to succeed at something else in the homeland of his mother and the father he’d never known.
The possibility made Fynn’s pulse quicken. He’d been raised a ba
stard, yes, but he’d been the yarl’s bastard. Since first memory, he’d seen first-hand how Aetheor commanded respect: by honoring his responsibilities. He’d delivered fair justice, and in turn, he’d inspired the trust of the people who’d chosen him to lead them.
Fynn might not be Aetheor’s true-born son, but the man he’d believed for thirteen years to be his father had planted the seeds of his character in Fynn nonetheless.
A twig cracked on the other side of the tree. Fynn leapt to his feet, and Grinner lunged up as well, his blade already drawn.
Master Morgan emerged from the shadows with his hands raised. “It’s only me—I’m sorry to have startled you. I came to relieve you, Grinner, and keep Fynn company, if he doesn’t mind staying on watch for another hour or so? Whit’s sleep is still troubled from the meddwlmenns, and I fear he gets little rest.”
As Grinner trundled off to his bedroll, the wizard settled next to Fynn in his place. “I must admit to eavesdropping on some of your conversation,” he confessed. “Grinner is right, you know—you needn’t fear failure. Even at their worst, our mistakes teach us valuable lessons. In any case, I’m convinced you have the strength of character to ably assume the royal mantle, and I can promise you’ll have good men and women to advise and support you while, as Grinner put it, you find your feet. He’s rather a wise fellow, your friend. You’d do well to keep him close.”
“I don’t think he’d give me any choice in that, in any event.” Fynn’s quick smile faded. “In truth, I consider myself lucky to know he’ll stay at my side through all this, wherever it might end. If we do actually succeed, Grinner would be the first to tell me if I was letting power go to my head. And I hope I can always count on you to advise me as to how to be a good king.”
Morgan folded his hands across his chest and leaned back against the tree. “Several practices spring immediately to mind. Remind yourself, daily, that you’re not all-important in your role. If you don’t do the job well, another should take it from you—and will. Heed the advice of those who support and encourage you to discharge your duties honorably. Don’t surround yourself with sycophants—folks that sing nothing but your praises. Bar greed from your heart, for greed feeds on itself, giving rise to the craving for more riches, more lands, more subjects to rule. And most importantly, devote yourself to the service of your people, with whose welfare you are entrusted.”
“I… I think I can do these things.”
Master Morgan laughed. “So do I.”
“But even if I follow your advice, Master Morgan, what will the people of Drinnglennin think once they learn I was raised a Helgrin? It’s bound to come out before long.”
Master Morgan inclined his head. “I see you’ve not failed to notice that when I petition the lords for support, I omit this information. I’m not attempting to deceive these men, Fynn, but I firmly believe we must carefully manage both the how and the when of that revelation.”
Fynn raised his chin. “I’m not ashamed of it. I may not be of Helgrin stock, but I feel more one of them than I do anything else.”
The wizard laid his hand over Fynn’s. “I understand. Give us time, lad, to make you feel welcome here. Whit told me something you once said to him that I’d like to remind you of now. We’re not so different, any of us, regardless of where we grow up. It’s just what we’re taught—who to love, who to hate—when we’re too young to decide for ourselves, that causes all the trouble.”
Fynn did believe that. But unless everyone else did too, not much was likely to change. He couldn’t imagine Drinnglennians accepting a High King who’d been brought up among their most feared and despised enemies.
“One step at a time, Fynn,” said the wizard, leaning back against the tree. “We’ll plan for the worst and hope for the best.”
But Fynn couldn’t rid himself of the feeling the former of these would be the most likely scenario to play out.
Chapter 18
Maura
Landing outside the walls of Tell-Uyuk in the dead of night, Maura and Ilyria barely had time to say a whispered farewell. The dragon dared not linger in this magic-hostile land.
It was a month to the day since their fateful flight from her vengeful brothers, and to Maura, the whole premise for this arduous journey to the East seemed tenuous at best. Finding the descendant of a long-dead woman—even one who had been dragonfast—in a foreign city where she didn’t speak the language would prove challenging enough. To hope that this descendant, once located, would welcome a strange young woman into her home based solely on the explanation Maura had to offer seemed even less probable. But Ilyria remained adamant that they follow this plan, and Maura suspected there was something more driving the dragoness’s insistence than what she chose to reveal.
Before taking her leave, Ilyria made Maura swear not to reveal her true name to anyone. “It would be better still if you do not show your face in the city; if someone should recognize you, it could prove catastrophic.”
Maura, already feeling the first pangs of parting, nodded numbly.
Ilyria blew a soft breath on her face. “Give me time to discover what I can about my siblings’ decision, child, and what has become of Leif and Rhiandra. After that, I will do all in my power to return for you. Look for me on the night of the dark moon before the autumn solstice. If all goes well, we shall meet here when the crescent is at its zenith.”
Maura nodded again, but she was filled with misgivings as the shadow of Ilyria’s wide-spread wings fell over her, and the dragoness soared off into the night.
Maura was on her own.
She squared her shoulders, reminding herself she was not the same naïve girl who’d ridden off on her coilhorn in search of her lost brother. Her experiences in Drinnkastel, and her recent adventure since, had left her far less trusting and more capable of dissembling. Her survival had depended on these dubious assets for some time now.
She looked up at the imposing, ornate city gates, then marched up to them. Ilyria had told her most Olquarians spoke a smattering of Gralian, which Maura had studied with her tutor. So she called out imperiously, “Vetre la portis!”
She reached into the pocket of her cloak and found the pouch she’d wished for, then reached in again for a handful of golden coins. When the guard appeared, she silently offered him the money and announced her destination.
The guard took the coins and signaled for his companion. The two men put their heads together, whispering fiercely, and Maura’s throat went dry as they occasionally cast glances her way. Sensing their hesitation, she wished up another handful of gold, then held it out to them while pointing imperiously toward the litter she could see on the other side of the gates, two bearers curled on the ground beside it. By this time her heart was pounding so loudly she feared the guards would hear it, but after another whispered exchange, the second guard pocketed his share of the gold and growled at the sleeping slaves, then stepped aside to let her through.
She nodded curtly as she passed, then slipped into the palanquin. Her fingers were trembling so much, she struggled to close the curtains before the bearers jogged off down the dark alleyways.
After what seemed an eternity, she was set down outside a modest house with high walls. The slaves had already padded off when Maura realized there was no bell rope to pull. She peered through the iron bars; it was still hours before dawn, and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself on the isolated street by calling out.
The gate swung open at her touch.
Stepping cautiously over the threshold, she followed a narrow corridor to an interior courtyard filled with a labyrinth of potted plants. It was open to a sky blazing with stars, and the warm air was scented with orange blossoms and roses. Maura found it blissfully peaceful. She leaned against the cool stone and allowed herself a brief moment to step back from the chaos that had been her life for months on end. Drawing long, slow breaths, and taking in the
flowers’ fragrance, she felt her heart, which had been pounding ever since braving the gates of the city, finally slow to a steady beat. She’d made it into the city, and to this house where Ilyria was sure she’d find refuge.
But she knew she couldn’t afford to feel entirely at ease. There were still far too many things that could go wrong. Ilyria was putting herself in grave danger by returning to Belestar, Master Morgan faced execution, if it hadn’t already been carried out, and there was no telling what might have happened to Whit and Halla. She spared a thought for Borne Braxton, her last connection from her past life, but he too had left Drinnglennin for the wider world.
The sound of soft chanting intruded into her thoughts. Treading as lightly as she could, she wound her way around the ceramic pots toward its source, and spied the flickering light of a single candle through an interior window. The door to this part of the house stood ajar, and a small white flag was mounted on the frame. That explained the unlocked gate, for Maura had read this signaled a death in the family here in the East. All portals were left open so that visitors would not disturb those who were attending the dead.
This was a house in mourning.
Beside the door stood a squat table with a pitcher of fresh water and a basin resting on it, and a pair of worn sandals tucked beneath it. Maura slipped off her shoes and washed her face and hands before ducking inside.
The voice intoning within belonged to an older woman, clad in black, who sat on a low stool beside a body draped in white muslin. The woman gave Maura a small nod in greeting, but did not break her chant. After a moment’s hesitation, Maura settled herself on the bench against the wall, letting the unintelligible words wash over her. Despite the fact that she was far from sure she could trust her companion in this strange house, the melodic sound was comforting.
It was only when she nodded awake that Maura realized she’d dropped off to sleep. The chanting had ceased, and the black night was surrendering to the dawn. Across the small chamber, the woman was replacing the candle, which had already burned low. She must have sensed Maura’s wakefulness, for without turning, she raised her hand and beckoned, then left the room.
