by K. C. Julius
“He could if he’s in league with Aksel,” Fynn said, his jaw set tight.
Whit folded his arms across his chest. “Well, if the Helgrins are planning to attack us, they’ll have to come on land to do it. There’s no access to Cardenstowe by sea—which is what makes us the most defensible fortress in all the realm.”
“Aksel might not know that,” Fynn said. “We—that is, Restarians have always stuck to the eastern coasts of the Isle during raids.”
Halla pointed out to sea. “I don’t believe it! They’re flying a white flag!”
“They’ve come to treat? But why?” Morgan raised his brows at Fynn. “Is it possible they know you’re here?”
“I don’t see how.”
“Unless, as you suggested, Roth is in league with Aksel,” Whit said. “They’re both cut from the same sullied cloth.”
”In that case,” Morgan replied, “I propose I be the one to go and find out.”
Whit protested. “They’ve come to Cardenstowe,” he said. “They’ll expect me, as lord here, to meet with them.”
Halla placed her hands on her hips. “Have you all forgotten that I’m dragonfast? Let Emlyn and me chase them off!”
“None of you is going anywhere,” said Fynn, his hazel eyes holding a fierce light. “Aksel Styrsen is mine to deal with.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” Morgan said, “we cannot chance losing you. I speak the lang—”
“I shall meet them.” There was no arguing with the resolve in Fynn’s voice.
Morgan bowed his head. “As you wish, my lord. But I beg you, let me come with you. If they require a hostage during the treating, I’m the most expendable among us.” He raised a hand to silence Whit’s and Halla’s objections. “You both know I speak the truth. I’m not dragonfast, nor do I possess prodigious magical powers anymore. If Fynn should require rescuing, he will need you two to see that he gets it.”
“Ye ain’t goin’ nowhere wit’out me, Fynn Konigur,” Grinner growled.
A faint smile twitched Fynn’s lips. “Hoping to try out your Helgric?”
“Too right I am!” Grinner puffed out his chest and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “And I’d fain as not go a round wit’ that scunner cousin o’ yers.”
Fynn sobered. “If anyone’s to fight Aksel, it’ll be me.”
Grinner gave a curt nod. “Agreed. Anyways, I fancy seein’ a longboat up closewise.”
“I suggest we send a bird out to them to set the place and terms,” the wizard said. “Whit? Where should we direct the Helgrins?”
“Colwyn’s Cove. It’s several miles down the coast. There’s a small strand near the caves where a shoreboat can beach.”
And so a white flag was hauled up above the castle, to whip in the brisk onshore breeze beside the black crows of Cardenstowe. A bird was dispatched to the ships, carrying their terms written in Fynn’s own hand. The castle troops were put on alert, and an escort selected with whom Fynn, Morgan, Whit, and Grinner would ride out. Halla reluctantly agreed to remain behind on the turret to watch for a puff of white smoke from Whit’s staff. That would be her cue to come with all haste astride her dragon, an army at her back.
Whit and his vassals escorted the small party as far as the headland overlooking Colwyn’s Cove. From this vantage point, Whit would have a clear view of the beach below, and if danger threatened, he’d be on hand to deflect it with his magic.
As Morgan followed Fynn and Grinner down the narrow trail to the beach, the first of the longboats, still flying the white flag, rounded the point. Two Helgrin crafts detached themselves from the fleet and rowed over the crashing surf toward the shore.
When the boats cleared the breakers, Fynn gave a wild whoop. Before any of them could stop him, he ran straight into the shallows, waving his arms like a man possessed. From the bow of the leading boat, a tall man leapt over the gunwales and dragged himself through the water toward Fynn.
With a curse, Grinner bounded forward, but Morgan seized his arm. “We must trust Fynn knows what he’s doing. I’d venture to guess that’s not cousin Aksel.”
For Fynn and the Helgrin, knee-high in the water, were clasping each other in a long embrace, shouting and laughing. Then the joyful noise died down and they brought their foreheads together. The Helgrin was doing most of the talking, and Fynn nodded several times. When they pulled apart, neither of them was smiling.
“Now we go forward,” the wizard said.
Grinner needed no urging. They met Fynn and the Helgrin at the shoreline. Fynn’s expression was somber, but he gave no sign of fear as he made introductions.
“Grinner, Master Morgan, this is Jered Aetheorsen, my… my brother.” A brief defiance shadowed his face as he made the claim.
“We’re pleased to make your acquaintance.” Morgan offered his hand in the Helgrin fashion, and the å Livåri mumbled a greeting of his own.
Jered gave Fynn a puzzled look. “Aren’t these men your captors?”
“No. They’re my friends.”
Jered’s brows shot up, and he clasped Morgan’s hand. “Then I thank you for restoring my brother to me.” He signaled to the boat offshore, and another man dropped into the surf, balancing a heavy bag on his head.
“If that’s a ransom,” the wizard said, “it won’t be required.”
“No payment?” The Helgrin smiled, showing his strong white teeth. “Friends indeed.” He waved his countryman back to the boat.
“Jered, I have something to tell you,” said Fynn, “and I must do so quickly, for I cannot guarantee your safety here for long.”
“You can tell me on the way back to the boats. We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the way home.” Jered put his arm around Fynn’s shoulder, and started to turn him toward the water.
Now comes the next test, Morgan thought. Beside him, Grinner stood very still. The wizard suspected the å Livåri was wondering the same thing he was: would Fynn change his mind and return to the people among whom he’d been raised?
Fynn slipped from under the Helgrin’s arm.
“I’m… I’m not going with you, Jered.”
Jered frowned. “What’s this? Have they threatened you in some way? Or do they have some treachery in mind?” He narrowed his eyes at Morgan and Grinner, then raised his gaze to the headland. “Have no fear, brother.” Jered laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “An old man and a skinny fellow with a blue face are no match for Bìdeagviper.”
Fynn stayed his hand. “There is no need for that. But we must talk—here and now. First, tell me how you knew I was here.”
Jered looked down at Fynn’s hand on his. “Aksel told me where to find you. Someone approached him about ransoming you.”
“Who?”
Jered shrugged. “I don’t know. Does it matter? I’ve found you—and now you can come home with me.”
Fynn shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Jered. I’ve learned some… things about myself since leaving Restaria.” He lifted his eyes to the longboats, and for the first time, Morgan saw steel in his gaze. “Is Aksel with you?”
“No. Why?”
“He killed Father, Jered. I heard it from his own lips.”
The Helgrin gave an incredulous laugh. “What nonsense is this? When would Aksel have spoken with you? You were taken from Restaria and brought here to the Isle directly, weren’t you? I’ve just come from Frendesko, and Aksel told me exactly how Father died. Their fleets were separated by a storm while crossing the channel. A heavy fog followed, and the Ydlyia and the rest of the Restarian longboats were ambushed by the Drinnglennian fleet.”
“Aksel lied to you,” Fynn insisted. “I saw the Ydlyia moored at Stonehoven last spring after I escaped from gaol. I was taken aboard her to find Aksel already calling himself yarl. He told me he’d claimed Father’s longboat after the Restarian fleet was attacke
d by Albrenians. He knew the Albrenians were hiding in the fog, and kept his own fleet back while Father’s was taken. If I hadn’t escaped the Ydlyia by jumping overboard, he would have used me as bait to lure you in and murder you too!”
Jered stared at him. “Did you not hear me? I was just with Aksel. He offered me nothing but sympathy and support. What’s happened to you, brother? Have you lost your mind?” He looked up again at the figures on the headland, and then out to sea, his countenance hardening. “Or have you gone over to our enemy? Is this gibberish you’re spouting to buy time for an ambush of your own?”
Tears sprang up in Fynn’s eyes. “I swear to you, Jered. I’m telling you the truth.”
Jered’s smile twisted. “Then why won’t you come with me? If Aksel killed Aetheor Yarl, as you claim, why are you not clamoring to stand at my side and avenge our father?”
“Because I have no right to,” Fynn said quietly, and Morgan could hear the anguish in his voice. “I would love nothing more than to cut Aksel Styrsen down, but it’s your right, and yours alone.” A deep sigh escaped him. “Aetheor wasn’t my father, Jered. My mother was already pregnant when she was taken in that long-ago raid on Langmerdor. I was sired here on the Isle, by a Drinnglennian. I am not Helgrin.”
Jered’s expression turned to stone, then he growled, “Did you know this all along?”
Fynn hung his head, his eyes on the sand. “No. My mother knew. She… she tried to tell me before she died, but I didn’t understand. I only found out the truth after I came here.”
The Helgrin fell silent as he digested this, and when at last he responded, Morgan was impressed by the sense and compassion behind his words. “Then you can’t be held to blame for Jana’s deceit. And it won’t be a hindrance to your return home. Our father accepted you as his son, and I shall continue to call you brother.”
Fynn clasped Jered’s arms, gratitude lighting his sad eyes. “Thank you… brother. But I still won’t be going back to Helgrinia. My destiny lies here.”
“Fynn—these people are our enemies, whether they killed my father or not! What could possibly keep you here?”
Fynn raised his chin. “My father, and the duty I owe his people.”
“This Drinnglennian who sired you? Do you even know who he is?”
“I never met him,” Fynn confessed. “His name was Urlion Konigur, and I am his only living legitimate heir.”
Grinner released a low hiss as Jered’s expression darkened, and Morgan found his own hand hovering over the hilt of his axe.
“Konigur? The late High King? If this is true,” Jered said through clenched teeth, “then I’ve wasted my time in coming here.” He took a swift step back, his axe leaping into his grip. On the water, his men shouted and began to spill over the gunwales of the longboats. “If it’s your intention to take me captive, it will cost you in blood.”
Fynn held up his empty hands. “No harm will come to you and your men, I swear it. But I beg you—don’t trust Aksel and those who follow him. You should be yarl, Jered, not him. And then, between us, Helgrinia and Drinnglennin can at last lay aside our differences. There’s a greater danger coming, Jered, and it threatens us all. The vaar of the Lost Lands is a powerful dark wizard, and he’s raised an army of monsters to set loose on the Known World. If we’re to have any hope of defeating him, we’ll have to unite against—”
“Unite?” Jered looked as though the word left an evil taste on his tongue. “If you’re not coming with me, you’re one of the enemy now.”
“Jered… I swear by the ties of brotherhood we’ve shared—”
“There are no ties!” Jered shouted, his face suddenly suffused with rage. “You said so yourself—we share nothing!”
The Helgrin backed deeper into the water, and beneath his towering anger, Morgan could see his pain. Jered had loved his younger brother, but love would not span the chasm that centuries of hate had hollowed out between Helgrinia and Drinnglennin.
Jered raised his axe and shook it menacingly as he called over the crash of the surf. “I shall return, son of Urlion Konigur, to exact revenge on this cursed Isle for our yarl’s death! As for you—my father told me about what happened in the Gralian colonies, so I don’t expect to see you anywhere near the field of battle. But if I should, there will be steel between us!”
Chapter 33
Whit
Whit had found his solar just as he’d left it: his books neatly organized, his clothes freshly aired, the beakers and vials he’d used to mix potions still lining the broad table under the window. Yet it seemed a lifetime ago that he’d paced these timeworn stones, debating the legitimacy of divination as a magical discipline with Cortenus, or expounding on how Rigiomotus’s concentric spheres could be used to predict the movements of heavenly bodies.
Sitting up in his bed, he yawned and stretched his long arms over his head. The morning breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle in from the gardens and rustled the parchment lying on his desk beside his inkhorn and quill. He’d labored long into the night to draft the proclamation, due to be sent out this day to every lord in the realm, officially informing them that Fynn was Urlion Konigur’s legal heir.
Whit had also penned a second document, this one addressed to Lord Roth of Nelvorboth, thanking him for his service to the realm, and nullifying his recent investiture under the statutes of established Drinnglennian law. The corners of Whit’s mouth twitched when he imagined Roth’s reaction upon reading it.
Across the wide courtyard, the temple bells sounded sext. His mother would be expecting him, and he was glad the whole business of his marriage to his cousin had been put to rest. Both Halla and he had agreed to be honest with Lady Rhea, and together had told her no wedding would take place between them. His mother had not taken the news well.
This morning Whit found his mother alone in her apartments, save for old Willis, who was setting two places at the table where her ladyship had been taking her morning meal ever since Whit could remember. He listened patiently to her plans for the day, and waited until the servant had departed with the remains of the roasted pheasant in onion sauce before broaching the subject he’d come to discuss.
“You’ve spent much of your life within these walls, Mother.”
Lady Rhea looked up from the prayer book she’d just laid on her lap. “I suppose I have.”
“It’s just that… well, while I was away, I heard… a rumor regarding my parentage.”
His mother paled.
“Don’t worry, Mother! I know it’s not true. What I wanted to tell you is that it was Urlion himself who put about that you and he… that I was…”
“That horrid man! I always thought as much.” She reached for his hand. “I’d hoped to spare you all that unpleasantness.”
It wouldn’t do any good to tell her he’d lived with the lie from the time he was six years old.
“The truth is,” his mother confided, “Urlion Konigur was a willful, soulless man, and he actually did try to bed me. I think he would have forced himself on me had I not called upon the gods. He tried the same with Inis, and earned a bloody lip from her. Our houses paid a price for our resistance, for it cost both our lords royal favor.”
Whit took up her hand between his. “Well, the old scoundrel is dead and buried now, and the lie will die with him. I just wanted you to know… well, I hate to think you’re hiding away here because of Urlion’s long-ago idle boast. You deserve more happiness in life, Mother. I know my father wasn’t… the kindest of men.”
His mother’s expression softened. She was still fair, the years having barely touched her, for Konigur blood ran through her veins. “Your father was who he was, my son. We were happy, in the early years. And later, we both took solace in our shared devotion to the Elementa.”
She lowered her eyes, and when she raised them again, her cheeks were flushed. “I have something to tell you as well,
my son. The gods have seen fit to bring love once again into my life.”
Whit was so surprised by this announcement, he jerked his hand from hers.
“Oh, you are displeased!” his mother cried.
You just wished her more happiness, Whit reminded himself, and he forced a smile. “No, no… of course not. Who is he?”
Her color deepened. “He wanted to be here when I told you, but I thought… It’s Sir Nidden.” She bit her lip. “You are angry, aren’t you?”
Yes! he nearly snapped. Why Nidden? The man is a blustering nuisance. Instead he replied, “If you’re happy, then of course, so am I.”
The stiffness in his voice was apparently lost on his mother. She smiled brightly, then lifted his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Thank you, my son. We have so hoped for your blessing. Sir Nidden will be very pleased!”
Shortly after this unforeseen announcement, Whit made his excuses and left his mother’s suite. Crossing the courtyard in a stew of anger, he nearly plowed into Master Morgan, who took one look at him and drew him into the stables.
“What’s put a bee in your bonnet, my lord?” the wizard asked.
“My mother—and bloody Nidden!” Whit fumed.
“Ah.”
Whit stopped in his tracks. “You knew?”
Master Morgan stroked the muzzle of a grey mare. “Gastineau, who is as aggrieved as you are by this budding romance, shared his misgivings about it upon my arrival. I admit, Nidden can be quite irksome, but then, love finds perfection in the imperfect.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
“Simply that it’s your mother’s choice, not yours, as to where she bestows her affections. Surely you don’t begrudge her companionship in life?”
Whit kicked aside a feed bucket, and several of the horses snorted at the clatter. “No, I suppose not. But Nidden?”
The wizard gave his shoulder a comforting pat. “Put it in this light. You may soon be at the forefront of a battle for the future of the Known World. Does it not bring you some solace to know that your mother will have someone at her side, should some ill befall you?”
