The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “It’s all right, Halla,” he said, keeping his eyes averted from what was transpiring on the bed. He bowed low to Lady Inis. “My deep apologies, aunt. I am prepared to do my duty.”

  The stern line of Lady Inis’s mouth relaxed slightly. “I am relieved to hear it. Now—you’d best wait elsewhere. A birthing room is no place for a man. I’ll send someone for you once your child is born.”

  “No.” Halla pushed herself up against the headboard. Sweat darkened her tangled hair, the strawberry locks strangely blackened at the ends. Her green eyes looked huge in her pale face. “Whit stays. But I want all the rest of you out—now.”

  Whit couldn’t believe he’d heard her correctly. “Halla, I don’t know anything—”

  “Out,” Halla repeated, then gritted her teeth as another pang seized her. “Everyone. I need a few minutes alone with… with my fiancé.”

  A look of satisfaction flitted across Lady Inis’s face. “Very well.” She signaled her ladies and the midwife to follow her from the room.

  Left alone with Halla, Whit wasn’t sure where to look.

  “Come here,” she commanded.

  As he edged closer, she blew a dank strand of hair from her eyes.

  “Don’t worry, cousin. No ‘doing of duty’ will be required.”

  Whit didn’t agree, but he had the sense not to argue with her in her present state. “We can talk about that later. But what… what happened, Halla? Who… I mean, how…”

  Halla looked down at the bulge in the sheets. “How? In the usual way,” she said briskly. “The child is Nicu’s. And no, he did not force himself upon me. In fact, I went to him.” Tears sprang up in her eyes, and she turned her head away.

  “Did the Albrenians get him?” Whit asked quietly.

  Halla swallowed hard. “Mihail and Chik, too. But I need to speak to you about something else, before my mother and her ladies return. About the baby. I’m afraid…”

  Surprising himself, Whit took her hand. “You’re young and healthy, Halla. There’s no—”

  “Stop.” Halla tugged her fingers out of his grasp. “Listen to me. I’m afraid of what this baby will… be. I don’t think I can be more than five months along, maybe six, at the most. But I was fed something while I was carrying it. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know. Then after I became dragonfast, my belly swelled up as if the baby had suddenly grown in the course of a few hours.”

  Whit wondered if she was hallucinating, and by his stunned silence, she must have surmised as much. Impatiently, she fumbled with the ties of her shift, then drew its bodice open to reveal the same concentric rings they’d both seen over Leif’s heart. The only difference was that Halla’s were deep green rather than blue.

  “Holy gods!” Whit whispered. “Where is your dragon now?”

  “In Lord’s Wood, I hope. She dropped me on the western turret in the dead of night. No, let me finish, Whit! I told my mother you were the baby’s father because if… if something’s wrong with it, then it will be your right to decide its fate.”

  “What do you mean… wrong?”

  Halla swallowed hard. “Emlyn says there’s no precedent for a baby whose mother becomes dragonfast while it’s in the womb.”

  “Emlyn?”

  “My dragon.” She stiffened as another pain took her, and she gripped his arm so tightly he fully expected a bruise on the morrow. “Promise me, Whit, that you won’t let them take my baby.”

  “No one is—” The pressure on his arm tightened even further. “All right. I promise, if you’ll let the blood flow to my hand again. Now let me call the women.”

  “But you’ll stay?”

  It was the last place he wanted to be, but her emerald eyes held a plea he could not ignore.

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course I’ll stay.”

  * * *

  Several grueling hours later, Whit gazed down in wonder at the quiet bundle the midwife placed in his arms. He was still stunned by the drama that had unfolded before his eyes, and it took him a moment to remember that, as the supposed father, he should make some show of pleasure. Tentatively, he ran his finger over the baby’s flushed cheek—then drew a sharp breath when her eyelids fluttered open. Her crystal green eyes glittered like jewels bisected by long black pupils. They reminded him of the eyes of the sylth, Cressida.

  No, not Cressida’s eyes. They were dragon eyes.

  He looked up to see Halla watching him.

  “My lord and I would like some time alone now,” she said.

  Lady Inis, surprisingly, merely nodded and left the room. If she was disappointed at being again so summarily dismissed before she could examine her first grandchild, she hid it well.

  When the door closed behind her mother, Halla raised herself up on the pillows. “What is it, Whit? Oh, just bring her here.” She held out her arms.

  Whit laid the baby in them. “Her eyes, Halla…”

  A brilliant smile spread across his cousin’s face. “It’s all right. They’re like Emlyn’s, not the drakdaemons’.”

  “The what?”

  Ignoring his question, Halla unwrapped the swaddling and inspected the tiny girl, delight lighting her own green eyes. Whit was relieved to see that in all other respects the child appeared normal.

  “I shall call you Alegre, little one.” Halla looked up at Whit, her eyes glistening. “It means ‘free’ in Livårian. And she’s beautiful.”

  “She is, Halla, but…”

  “What?”

  Whit raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s just… well, how are we going to explain those eyes?”

  Halla frowned. “We won’t need to explain anything. And I assume that as long as my mother believes I’ll soon be taking up residence at Cardenstowe as your lady wife, she’ll not give two figs about Alegre’s appearance.”

  “You can’t be serious! She’s bound to have questions, as will everyone else who sees the baby. And when we get to Cardenstowe, my mother will be there… but at least so will Master Morgan.”

  Halla brightened. “Master Morgan is at Cardenstowe? Then we’ll be able to go at once to Drinnkastel to convince the High King to prepare for war. The vaar of the Jagar will sail north any day now, bringing with him a scourge that no human army can hope to withstand. We’ll need every fighter we can muster, and all the dragons as well.”

  Whit shook his head in an effort to make sense of what she’d just said. “The vaar?”

  Halla gave a curt nod. “I was captured by Palan in Albrenia—you’ll remember that name. He sent me as a slave to the Lost Lands, where Lazdac held me prisoner.”

  “Lazdac?”

  “Lazdac and the vaar of the Lost Lands are one and the same.”

  “And you’re saying you were Lazdac’s prisoner… and managed to escape?”

  Halla held out the baby to Whit once more. “I’ll tell you all about it once we’re on the road to Cardenstowe.” She edged to the side of the bed.

  “What—now? Halla—you’ve just given birth! You can’t go riding off to war on your dragon with this child strapped to your back!”

  “I know that!” Halla snapped. “I’ve thought of nothing else ever since we escaped from Drak Icar. But I can’t leave Alegre here. If my mother were to learn that you’re not the father—or worse, if she were somehow to find out her grandchild is half-å Livåri—she’ll do what she can to save face. Which means giving Alegre to one of our villeins to raise as their own. Look at her, Whit—she’d be an outcast in the village.”

  Halla began to pull her shift over her head, and Whit quickly turned away.

  She laughed. “You just saw me give birth, cousin! I don’t think there’s much of my body to be left to your imagination. Fetch me a tunic and some trousers from the cupboard, will you?”

  As she dressed, Whit tried another tack. “Whatever message yo
u have for Master Morgan, let me take it to him. You’re in no condition to travel. Stay here and recover. You and the child.”

  She tugged on her boots, then took the baby from him. “I can’t. I’m the only one who’s seen with my own eyes the horror that’s coming our way. I have to go to Drinnkastel without delay, and with Master Morgan. The High King will need to hear it from me.”

  Whit shook his head. “You’ve been gone from the Isle too long, Halla. Morgan is not welcome within a hundred miles of Drinnkastel, and neither am I. If you plan to serve Roth of Nelvorboth, you’ll be choosing sides against us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’d better sit down. It’s a long story.”

  Whit proceeded to relay, as quickly as possible, his dealings with Roth, and what the Nelvor king had sent him to Toldarin to do.

  Halla scowled, though she seemed less angered by Roth ordering Whit to kill Urlion’s true heir than she was by the news that the Nelvor had brought over more slave-loving Albrenians. “The bastard! I’ll stake my life King Jorgev has known all along that his High Commander has been providing Lazdac with å Livåri.”

  Then it was her turn to fill Whit on what she knew. He listened in growing horror as Halla detailed the fate of the å Livåri women Lazdac held captive. When she finished, her eyes burned with fury. “And I’ve sworn to serve this scum!”

  “No,” said Whit. “You haven’t. You vowed to serve and protect the one true king, and that is Fynn Konigur. I myself now intend to take the oath I refused in Mithralyn, and I’ll be proud to serve him.”

  Halla gave him a long, appraising look. “If you’ve chosen this sudden son of Urlion’s as your sovereign… then I have to say I’m looking forward to meeting him.” She got to her feet, then lifted the baby gently from the pillows. “All the more reason for us not to tarry here.”

  Whit held out a hand to stay her. “Can’t you give yourself at least a day’s rest?”

  Halla looked at him over her daughter’s downy head. “Every day we delay, more å Livåri suffer at Lazdac’s hand. So, no—I cannot.”

  * * *

  While Halla set about arranging for their journey to Cardenstowe, Whit went in search of Nolan. He found his cousin in Lord Valen’s private offices, and after delivering the news that Halla had given birth to a daughter, Whit wasted no time in telling him most of what he’d related to Halla about Roth. Then he laid out all the reasons Fynn Konigur should sit the Einhorn Throne instead.

  Nolan heard him out in silence, then said, “That’s a lot to digest, cousin, although not all of it is news to me. Mother and I have been exchanging correspondence with the lords of the lower realms ever since Roth Nelvor ascended the throne. There’s no denying the general dissatisfaction with King Roth’s flagrant preference for Nelvorboth and Tyrrencaster—and with the higher tithes to now be paid to Drinnkastel, unrest has already been brewing.

  “In fact, I was invited to a secret conclave in Sinarium just last month. I declined, because Mother was against my going; she has no love for the Nelvor, but says we must not risk involving Lorendale in revolt, and I agree. I can also promise you she’ll veto lending support to a Helgrin-raised stranger, however valid his claim to the Einhorn Throne might be. What you’re asking us to do is commit treason, Whit. Before taking such a rash stance, why not give Roth Nelvor a little more time to settle?”

  Whit kept his face neutral, resisting the urge to shake sense into his young cousin. “I’m sure your mother means to give you good counsel, but we don’t have time. And this coming storm from the Lost Lands won’t blow over. We must all of us consider what is best for the Isle. You are lord of Lorendale, Nolan, and you must avail yourself of all the facts before you determine your course of action. There’s more than just who sits the Einhorn Throne at stake. Halla says the Albrenians are in league with the Jagar’s vaar—and that this vaar is none other than the dark wizard, Lazdac Strigori. She’s seen for herself the monsters Lazdac plans to loose on Drinnglennin.”

  “Halla says?” Nolan frowned. “How can my sister possibly know anything about wizards and monsters?” He sat back. “Where were the two of you all this time?”

  Whit had no ready story, so he told Nolan as close a version of the truth as he dared. “We were up north at first. Then we spent some time in Albrenia.”

  Nolan’s eyes widened. “You were on the continent? Doing what?”

  Whit rose and stalked to the windows, beyond which lay meadows ripe with summer wheat. He wondered fleetingly who would be alive to harvest it. Sensing he’d need to try another tack with Nolan, he replied, “It doesn’t matter. What does is that Roth has an ever-growing circle of foreign kin surrounding him, and he’s deaf to the suggestion that the Albrenians may be positioning themselves to seize power over the Isle. For all we know, Roth’s already acquiesced to this. If that’s the case, he’s perfectly capable of opening the gates of Drinnkastel to a combined Albrenian and Lazdac-led force.”

  He turned back to his cousin and, leaning in, placed his hands on the desk between them.

  “Surely you see as well as I do that without even taking into account Fynn’s legitimate claim as Urlion’s heir, the country’s on the verge of civil war. The Nelvors’ sole concern is advancing their own power, despite the few bones they’ve thrown to those Tyrrencasters bound to them by marriage. You said yourself that dissent is already stirring the blood of the lords of the lower realms—soon that blood will be at a boil. We need a leader, Nolan, one whom the people can get behind, before their ire spills over into a bloodbath. And trust me, Fynn Konigur is that leader.”

  Nolan opened his mouth to protest, but Whit held up his hand. “Just hear me out—please. I’m asking you, Nolan of Lorendale, to join with Cardenstowe—not just as your blood kin, but also as one governing lord to another—for the security of our people. And while it’s true you don’t yet know Fynn Konigur from the Stick Gatherer on the moon, I do. He wasn’t raised a Konigur prince, and he’s not worldly, but in spite of that—or maybe because of it—he’s got… something. Something that inspires trust and loyalty. And I know, to my very core, that I’ll not regret my decision to serve him. And nor will you, once you meet him yourself.”

  From Nolan’s avid gaze, Whit sensed that his cousin was half persuaded, so he pressed his advantage. “Answer me this, cousin, and tell me truly. When you went to Drinnkastel to make your vow of fealty to Roth of Nelvorboth, did you have the same certainty about serving him?”

  His cousin’s hesitation was all the answer Whit required. He reached over and clasped Nolan’s arm. “Come with us to Cardenstowe! That way you can decide for yourself. He’s of our blood—in fact he’s our uncle, although you and he are nearly the same age.”

  Nolan nodded slowly. “I would like that… but I shall need to discuss this first with my mother. She’s been most disparaging of your mother’s refusal to swear allegiance to King Roth in your absence.”

  Whit bit back the scathing reply that sprang to his lips. “Just tell her you wish to accompany Halla to her new home. Surely Lady Inis will see that as fitting.”

  Nolan brightened. “She may want to come as well. In any event, we’ll all be there for the wedding.”

  “Yes… yes, of course,” Whit murmured.

  Nolan reached for a pitcher of ale. “Come. Let us raise a glass to becoming brothers as well as cousins, and to the birth of your daughter. What is she to be called?”

  “Alegre.” It seemed as good a time as any to break the news about the baby’s eyes, and he was struck with sudden inspiration. “It’s an old family name on my father’s side, because she’s inherited an… an unusual Cardenstowe trait. Dylar’s kiss, it’s called.”

  Nolan paused with the tankard at his lips, looking aghast. “Are you saying the child is deformed?”

  Whit forced a laugh. “On the contrary! This… blessing is a sign of the gods’ favo
r.” He gave himself a mental pat on the back at this quick thinking. A religious touch regarding the child’s condition would appeal to his aunt. “Her eyes are unusual, but very beautiful.”

  Nolan’s expression cleared. “Ah! Well, what more could a man wish for in a daughter than beauty?”

  “Quite a lot more, I should think. Intelligence, determination, courage…”

  Nolan raised an eyebrow. “I see your bride-to-be is already influencing your views.”

  Whit, who had never before given any thought to fatherhood, realized Nolan was right. He might as well have been describing Halla.

  “To the three of you!” Nolan declared, lifting his goblet.

  Whit raised his glass as well. And to getting you, cousin, to Cardenstowe, with Lorendale’s army at your back.

  Chapter 27

  Jered

  Sailing into Frendesko’s harbor, Jered felt his heart leap at the sight of the Ydlyia rocking on the gentle waves alongside the rest of Restaria’s longboats. After months apart, he and his father would soon meet. But Jered’s anticipation was tempered by the knowledge that the yarl would take the news of their settlement’s fate, and the deaths of his people—especially Jered’s mother, Fynn, and Jana—very hard.

  Jered called for the shoreboats to be lowered, then once on shore went in search of his father. But when he was ushered into the great hall, he found his odious cousin Aksel seated at the main table instead, surrounded by his unsavory hird.

  Aksel set down his goblet and signaled for his men to leave the hall. They streamed silently past Jered, none of them meeting his eyes. Only an old bard and Reider, whom Jered remembered as Aksel’s disagreeable companion from years past, remained behind.

  “Where is my father?” Jered asked.

  “Jered.” Aksel came around the table, his arms open.

  Jered ignored the invitation. “Where is Aetheor Yarl?”