The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “My refuge was the forest and my å Livåri friends.” Halla felt a pang of regret to be riding away from them once more. “Whit… do you think there’s any truth in that rumor… about our mothers…”

  Whit’s expression darkened. “And Urlion? Absolutely not! Master Morgan told me the old scoundrel himself spread the salacious lie.”

  “He did?” Halla considered this. “That explains some of it.”

  “Some of what?”

  “Why our fathers were the way they were—you know, with us.”

  Whit blinked. “Your father thought you hung the moon. Even I could see that.”

  “Only until Nolan came along.”

  Whit gave a slow nod in acknowledgment of this truth. “Well, at least you have some good memories of the time before that. My earliest recollection is of my father bellowing for me to be removed from our hall. I think I must have knocked something over at dinner and spattered his boots. In any event, I was carted off under one of his vassal’s arms, until my nurse scurried forward to relieve the man. I was too shocked to cry, though I did afterward when I was told that I would henceforth take all my meals in the nursery. I always marked that incident as the beginning of my father’s loathing for me.” He pulled a leaf off an overhanging branch. “Perhaps you’re right though. Maybe Urlion’s casual boast of conquest was what ruined my chances of ever pleasing my father, and destroyed my parents’ marriage as well. What a bastard our royal cousin was!”

  “I guess my parents were luckier,” Halla said. “They loved each other enough to weather the suspicion it cast on my mother when she fell pregnant following the royal visit.”

  “At any rate, she lost that baby.”

  “What?” Halla stared at Whit in disbelief. “I was that baby!’

  Whit gave an emphatic shake of his head. “No—you weren’t. Your mother miscarried her first child. You were the second.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because I grew up being largely ignored by everyone around me. Wandering around with your nose in a book, you hear all manner of things that should never be discussed in your presence.”

  Halla, just parted from her firstborn child, could imagine how her mother must have felt after losing hers. “Do you know if the baby… was it a boy?”

  Whit frowned. “I believe it was. Why? Does that matter?”

  She sighed. “I guess none of it matters now, but I wish I’d known about the miscarriage. It might have helped me understand why my father was so… so attached to Nolan.”

  The two of them rode on in companionable silence, and it struck Halla that Whit had been in her life for as long as she could remember, yet she’d never gotten beyond her early dislike of him to really know him, not even in Mithralyn. She supposed she’d always been envious of him—but it seemed being an only child hadn’t been all roses and rainbows. She at least had her brothers, but he’d had no one. She realized that he’d never learned how to be in others’ company because he’d never had any.

  Then again, maybe it was this solitary existence that had allowed Whit to discover his magic, so it hadn’t turned out all bad.

  She glanced over at him and found herself smiling. He could still be a right dorbel at times, but there was no doubt he’d matured in the last year. And he wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, either—if you liked that meticulously groomed, superior sort of look. In any case, he’d proven to be an unexpected ally when she’d needed one.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, “for sticking up for me when my mother…” She flashed him a cheeky smile. “I like the idea of songs being sung about me. “ Then she sobered. “But if anyone’s going to save Drinnkastel from the terror coming, it’s more likely to be you, Whit.”

  “I don’t know about that…”

  “Now, will you listen to that? Don’t go getting all modest on me, Cardenstowe! If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard Master Morgan speak of your gifts, I’d be as wealthy as… well, as you are!”

  They were now deep in the forest, where Lorendale’s beauty was on full display. The summer fragrances of dog rose, honeysuckle, and nightshade mingled with the denser smells of moss and dark soil. Knowing that Alegre would spend her first seasons here helped, a little, to soothe the deep ache of parting that was heavy in Halla’s heart.

  Then she caught another familiar scent on the air, and her spirits lifted.

  Brimstone. Emlyn was near.

  Chapter 30

  Fynn

  Whit and his magnificent cousin were the first of a flurry of arrivals at Cardenstowe in the dead of night. Fynn’s pulse quickened when, upon his introduction to Lady Halla, he learned that she was newly dragonfast. He’d heard tales from Old Snorri about these heroes and heroines bound to dragons, but he’d never thought to meet one. Halla was just as he’d imagine a dragonfast might be—beautiful and fierce—but also possessed of a sharp wit, and she didn’t stand on ceremony. Fynn warmed to her at once.

  Despite the late hour, Master Morgan was woken to join them in Fynn’s solar, where they all listened gravely as Halla recounted the horrors she’d witnessed during her captivity in the Lost Lands.

  “This confirms what we learned in Gloorhilly,” Master Morgan muttered, “regarding the fate of the missing å Livåri. Lazdac is as much a monster as the creatures he breeds. We can waste no more time in formally declaring Fynn the rightful heir to the Einhorn Throne.” His gaze shifted to Fynn. “Are you ready, my lord?”

  Fynn flushed as all eyes turned to him. “I… I am.” He heard the lack of conviction in his voice, but no one else seemed to notice.

  The meeting broke up then, and Fynn slept only a few fitful hours before being informed that more visitors had arrived: the lords of Morlendell, Valeland, and Fairendell. Master Morgan, who’d come to report the news at dawn, said the northern delegation had unwittingly ridden right past the army camped in the Cardenstowe woods, but had not been challenged—perhaps because the Nelvor commander hadn’t been sure what to make of their appearance, or perhaps because of the impressive size of their entourages. The wizard was clearly cheered by this unexpected visit, and declared it a “fortuitous opportunity.” But at the prospect of meeting more rulers of the lower realms, Fynn felt a familiar pit in his stomach.

  Once he was alone, he made his way to the western turret of the great castle. The roiling sea below mirrored the churning in his gut. As he watched the waves crash against the cliffs to fall back upon themselves, a weight settled on Fynn’s shoulders, reminiscent of the stone-filled cloak Vetch had lashed on him on the docks of Restaria. The fate of the Drinnglennian people, including the å Livåri, would soon be his responsibility. It seemed one too great to bear.

  Everyone seemed to think that he had it in his power to unite the realms in order to prepare to meet Lazdac’s horde. But Fynn thought any one of these great lords sworn to support him would make a far better leader than he would. If they knew how he’d sickened at the sight of blood, they’d likely agree.

  When he descended from the tower, he went to seek out Master Morgan, determined to confess his dishonorable weakness before it was too late. But when he did, the wizard named it a strength.

  “I’d be surprised if you’d responded otherwise to the slaughter you witnessed. Any honorable person, particularly one of your tender years, would have been sickened by such butchery. But let me ask you this, my lord: would you not gladly fight for a world in which rapine and the deaths of innocents were defended against and did not go unpunished? A world in which we could all coexist in peace? And would you not readily shed the blood of these monsters who will soon be set upon us?”

  “I would,” Fynn said without hesitation. “But I’m no—”

  “You are the king we need, not Roth Nelvor. He will stand by and do nothing to prevent injustice nor prepare for the horrors to come. And he is sitting the throne that is right
fully yours. If you are to protect the people of the Isle—all of them— then you must take it from him.”

  Put this way, Fynn could only agree. But while his heart stood strong, he feared that when the time came, his weak stomach would betray him—and all those he would succor as well.

  * * *

  Fynn traced his fingers over the Konigur alphyn that had been hastily stitched onto the white satin surcoat Grinner held out for him. Along with the rest of his wardrobe, the fine garment had been procured from a trunk of Whit’s outgrown clothes.

  “Make sure ye have both them pendants round yer neck out where all them lords can see ’em, like Master Morgan said,” his friend reminded him. Grinner stood back, surveying him with an approving eye. “Ye look a right king t’ me.”

  They both turned as the chamber door swung wide. Master Morgan stood on the threshold. “It is time, my lord.” He gave Fynn an encouraging smile. “But before we go, I want you to see what the rest of us see.” The wizard lifted his chin toward the mirror, and Fynn crossed the room to stand before the glass. A stranger looked back at him—a tall, broad-shouldered youth, with newly trimmed chestnut hair, and garbed in princely robes.

  The wizard came to stand behind him, and their eyes met in the glass.

  “You are ready, my lord.”

  * * *

  In solemn silence, they proceeded to the great hall, where the northern lords awaited. When Fynn entered, all assembled rose to their feet. Whit and Lady Halla were among the gathered, along with Lady Rhea, a number of Cardenstowe vassals, and the noblemen from the north.

  A grey-haired lord with a long, well-lined face made a soft sound of surprise when he saw Fynn. “What wonder is this?” he murmured, although to whom he spoke wasn’t clear.

  The wizard raised his staff. “My Lord Fynn, may I present the Earl of Morlendell, Lord Grathin; Lord Ennius of Valeland; and Lord Wogan of Fairendell. My lords, this is Fynn Konigur, son of Urlion Konigur and Georgiana Fitz-Pole.”

  This proclamation drew gasps. The two younger lords exchanged puzzled glances, but Lord Grathin made a low bow. “How… Forgive me, Lord Fynn… it’s just… we came to Cardenstowe directly from a counsel of northmen.” He turned toward Whit. “We’ve been delegated to propose to you, my lord, that you relieve the Nelvor of the High King’s crown, and if you were to refuse, we are to make the same proposal to your cousin, Lord Nolan.” He shook his head in wonder. “Instead we are presented with our late king’s double from younger days.”

  Whit gave an astonished laugh. “I have no desire to rule.”

  “Did you not consider me?” Lady Halla inquired tartly. “I’m the eldest of my parents’ children, and succession to the High Throne isn’t based on primogeniture.” After an awkward silence, she added, “Not that I would have accepted the position either.”

  Master Morgan clasped his hands before him. “Gentlemen. It’s heartening to know that you’re in agreement that Roth Nelvor has shown himself unfit to reign fairly. And while either Lord Whit, Lord Nolan, or Lady Halla would be preferable to him, Urlion’s legitimate son’s claim to the Einhorn Throne takes precedence.”

  Morgan proceeded to give a succinct account as to why the last male Konigur’s existence had only just now come to light.

  While he did so, Fynn surveyed the lords’ faces. Most looked to be in a state of shock, but a ruddy-faced knight who had been introduced as Sir Nidden glowered at Grinner from the far end of the table. Observing that his friend was scowling back at the old knight, Fynn gave the å Livåri a gentle nudge under the table. Despite the knight’s blatant rudeness, Fynn was mindful that they would need the support of every man present.

  He had insisted the wizard hold nothing back. These men had the right to know the truth about where Fynn was raised, and the extent of the grave dangers that lay ahead for the Isle. If these noblemen agreed to support Fynn’s claim, they would be risking their lands and their lives, as well as the lives of those who served under them.

  When Master Morgan finished speaking, Lord Wogan was the first to respond.

  “You say Roth had Urlion’s heir incarcerated upon the lad’s return to the Isle?” The earl shook his head. “The man should be burned at the stake for high treason!”

  “Roth will be dealt with according to the law, but right now we’re in no position to do so. As you’ve learned, he has a goodly part of his royal force ensconced in Cardenstowe Forest.”

  “We sent them packing the last time they came, and we’ll do it again!” Nidden growled. “They’ll not be taking Lord Whit back with them to the capital, then billeting some bloody foreigners in our city to take control of our lands! Why, for all we know, Roth would have our lord marry some Tyrrencaster wench.”

  “But Lord Whit is already engaged to Lady Halla,” Lady Rhea protested.

  This was news to Fynn. He cast a covert glance at Whit, who was looking intently at a knot in the table’s surface. Beside him, Lady Halla studied her hands.

  Sir Olin, one of Whit’s vassals, cleared his throat. “If I may speak, master? When the silver cloaks came before, it was to demand that Lady Rhea go to the capital to pledge Cardenstowe’s fealty in Lord Whit’s absence. It may have been Roth’s original intention to hold our lord’s lady mother hostage there in exchange for him whenever he returned.”

  Morgan nodded. “I thought as much myself.” He surveyed the assembled lords sternly. “Some of you may have heard that Lord Whit has been declared a traitor to the crown for refusing to swear his fealty. The real reason is because he refused Roth’s order to murder Lord Fynn.”

  Fynn flushed as all eyes turned to him. “It’s true, my lords. If Lord Whit hadn’t come to my rescue, I would be long dead.”

  “Burn the Nelvor!” Sir Nidden cried, setting off the other men, who murmured among themselves.

  The wizard called them to order. “You are right to be concerned about Roth Nelvor. He likely does have designs on Cardenstowe lands, and on the lands of any who are not his steadfast supporters. Once he learns that Fynn Konigur is in residence here, the stakes will be significantly higher. For you can be sure the current High King and his mother will do all in their power to eliminate the threat this young man poses to them.”

  Sir Nidden hadn’t stopped glaring. “I say we strike first, before we find ourselves besieged!”

  “This is no longer just about Cardenstowe, Nidden.” Lord Wogan of Fairendell, a tall, slender man with thinning black hair, turned to the two nobles who had made the journey south with him. “I think I speak for us all when I say the lords of the north would gladly declare for Urlion Konigur’s heir. But we must have some surety of the chance of seeing him crowned.”

  “The lords of the north?” Nidden snapped. “I see only three of you. What of Branley Tor and Tyrrencaster?” He turned his testy gaze to Whit. “And where, may I ask, is Lord Nolan, your cousin and soon-to-be brother by marriage, my lord? It seems to me that if your houses are to be joined, the lord of Lorendale should be the first to declare his support for this endeavor.”

  “My brother is still considering his position,” replied Lady Halla, “but I feel confident he will lend his support.”

  Nidden gave a derisive laugh. “Confidence doesn’t wield an axe.” He narrowed his eyes as he swept them over Lady Halla’s attire. “You’d do well, Lord Whit, to instruct your lady in her place—”

  Whit slammed his fists down on the table and leaned menacingly toward Nidden. “If anyone needs reminding of their place, it is you, sir. Lady Halla requires no man’s instruction. You will apologize to her at once for your rudeness, and then we will hear Master Morgan’s advice without further interruption. If this is beyond your ability, sir, you are excused from this council!”

  Nidden looked thunderous, but he hefted himself to his feet, bowed low, and stiffly begged Lady Halla’s pardon.

  Lord Ennius broke the short, aw
kward silence that followed. “It’s surely no secret where Tyrrencaster’s sympathies lie. Two of Lord Lewin’s daughters are wed to vassals of the Nelvor. The youngest DuBleres squired for Roth himself and is now a gentleman of his chamber. As for Branley Tor…” The earl sighed. “Since his son’s tragic death, Lord Heptorious has withdrawn entirely from public life.”

  “Then it’s our obligation to bring him back into it,” Master Morgan said firmly. “I know for a fact that Heptorious is no admirer of the Nelvor clan, and if he declares for Fynn, all of Branley Tor will follow. Lord Ennius, your family has ties with some of the earl’s vassals, does it not? Could you not call on Heptorious to apprise him of Fynn Konigur’s existence and our plans for him?”

  “I shall do all in my power,” replied the lord of Valeland, “but even if the north bands together, we can’t hope to take on the rest of the combined lower realms.”

  “We won’t have to.” All eyes turned toward Fynn. “My grandmother… Lady Guin of Bodiaer… has pledged Langmerdor’s support. She and Sir Wren are making the rounds through Palmador as well, to gather troops to support our cause.”

  “We already have the backing of Lowan of Glenness and Kenver of Mauzel,” Whit added, “and they’re at this moment rallying other noble houses in Karan-Rhad.”

  Lord Ennis nodded approvingly. “And what of Glornadoor?”

  Master Morgan made a noncommittal face. “You know the mountain lords. They’ll straddle their gates until they see which way the wind swings them.” His comment provoked a spate of laughter around the table, but the men sobered when he added, “In truth, Roth of Nelvorboth is not our only problem. The High Commander of the Albrenian forces, Lord Palan, is Grindasa’s brother, and—”

  A hiss from Halla cut him short. “I know for a fact that dog is in league with Lazdac. He’s overseen the shipping of arms and å Livåri captives to the Lost Lands for several years now.”

  “Lazdac?” Lord Wogan wasn’t the only one who looked aghast. “Lazdac still lives?”