by K. C. Julius
Then he sobered. “I can imagine how it will go. In a few weeks’ time, Kurash will make it public that Zlatan was attempting to align Olquaria, to her detriment, with the western powers. We are an insular people, with a deep-seated distrust for foreigners, as you have learned. Ever since Balfou returned with your company, Kurash has been fanning the flames of suspicion, spreading word that my father’s been selling us out to the highest bidder. The truth—that the Basileus wished to make Olquaria more progressive—will be buried under the embers of this xenophobic fire. And when Kurash marries Yasiha…”
Borne’s stomach clenched. Until now, he’d held out hope that the princess had somehow escaped.
“I can’t let her marry that traitorous brute,” he said. “There must be a way to get Yasiha out of Olquaria. If you can arrange to get a message—”
Mir stopped in his tracks. “Yasiha has no intention of leaving Olquaria. She said I was to make this clear to you.”
“She knows you’re here?”
“Of course. Neither of us would leave you to the fate Kurash had planned for you.”
Borne shook his head. They were putting far too much at risk for his sake. If word were to get back to the hazar…
“Please,” he said. “You must come with me to the barracks. Convince Yasiha to join you. I can arrange for—”
Mir gripped his elbow and steered him down a narrow alley. “You’re not going back to the barracks. That’s the first place the hazar will look for you. And Yasiha has already agreed to marry Kurash. Do you not understand? He will make her his Basilea! You could never have offered her such an exalted status.”
“But she loathes him!”
Mir set his lips in a grim line. “Khadin Yasiha is no fool. She’s extracted an agreement from the hazar that she finds more than satisfactory. One that ensures the safety of her aunt and uncle.” He scanned Borne’s face, then sighed. “I see she was right when she said you’d need to hear it from her.”
“I can see her? Do you know if Ma—Melisa is with her?”
“The tutor?” Mir shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but it’s unlikely. All foreigners are confined to their houses until their passage out can be arranged.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What’s your interest in her?”
“I merely—as you say, she’s a foreigner. I just want to ensure that it’s arranged for her to safely leave as well.”
Mir looked skeptical, but didn’t press the issue. “At the moment, the only safety you should be concerned with is your own. Yasiha is waiting for you at the House of All-Knowing. I’ll deliver you there, and then I must depart. Now for the love of the gods, let us make haste!”
Chapter 35
Halla
Halla found Latour in the same camp where she’d first met him outside of L’Asdies—though that once-moderately sized camp had now transformed into a sprawling multitude of tents. Emlyn had dropped her off nearby under cover of darkness, then departed to find shelter away from superstitious Continental eyes, while Halla convinced the camp’s perimeter guards to take her to Latour.
The marechal greeted her warmly, but the dark circles under his eyes bespoke the burdens of his office, and the news he shared was discouraging. With Palan on the Albrenian throne, Gral was poised for all-out war over their southern border. Halla’s news certainly did nothing to lighten Latour’s mood, and his expression grew increasingly grimmer as she told him of her capture by Palan and his illicit trade with the vaar. When she described Lazdac’s monstrous creatures to him, his look of horror made her wish she hadn’t. He already had too much on his platter.
Halla was careful to make no mention of Fynn Konigur and his challenge for the throne, for it seemed news of him had not yet reached Gral, and she was under no illusion as to how the marechal would react to a Helgrin-raised youth occupying the Einhorn Throne. Besides, this detail was unnecessary to her request for assistance.
To her relief, Latour was fully in support of the å Livåri rebels’ return to Drinnglennin.
“To be honest, I’ve had my hands full dealing with complaints about their continued presence in Gral. They’ve liberated many of their people from Albrenia, which has played a part in escalating hostilities. I deeply admire their spirit and believe in the righteousness of their cause, but I think it would be better for all if they go back to the Isle.”
So she had Latour’s support. Now she just had to convince the å Livåri.
With the marechal’s blessing, she went in search of Baldo and the others. It was a reunion of old friends around an evening fire, but one that proved bittersweet, for she had to recount to them the details of Nicu’s murder, along with the deaths of their comrades in that ill-fated raid. And she in turn was saddened to learn of all the other å Livåri rebels who’d fallen to Albrenian swords since she’d left.
Still, there was some good news to be had. Most of the women in the camp were said to have moved on with their lives after their harrowing experiences as slaves. Indeed, many of them were now a part of the fighting unit. And of course Halla had good tidings to share as well. Much ado was made over the birth of her and Nicu’s daughter. Baldo filled and refilled their tankards, and proclaimed himself Alegre’s second guardian in the event that Florian couldn’t fulfill this duty. After this toast, Halla seized the moment to make her proposal.
“I knew we would be getting to this sooner or later,” Baldo said, suddenly very sober. “You didn’t fly over here just to raise a glass with us. But you’re wasting your breath, Åthinoi, if you think to convince us to go back with you. From what we’ve heard, the Isle’s turning against our kind more every day. At least here, we’ve got the means to protect ourselves.” He patted the hilt of his sword.
“For how much longer?” Halla countered. “Latour’s not a man given to lamentation, but trying to keep this land from being carved up between the Helgrins and Albrenia is weighing heavily on him. And if he should fail, you’ve no guarantee that you’ll be allowed to remain here. Whereas you all have kin back in Drinnglennin, and now more than ever, they need your support.” She drew a deep breath. “The marechal’s agreed to lease me ships to carry you back to the Isle, and my cousin, Whit of Cardenstowe, gave me coin from his own coffers to secure them, as a gesture of good faith toward your people.”
Baldo frowned and set his tankard down. “Then it looks like you’ve wasted more than your breath.”
Halla leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Have you heard that a legitimate heir of Urlion Konigur has come to light?”
Baldo lifted a brow. “I may have heard an idle rumor. Do you know something more?”
“I know that Fynn Konigur is no rumor. And he’s promised to grant your people not only the full protection of the High Throne, like in the days of King Owain, but also the right to bear arms.”
“And in his generosity, he wants us to throw down our lives on the front line in exchange.”
Halla refilled his tankard. “Your cynicism is unwarranted. Fynn Konigur’s right hand—and best friend—is one of you. Master Morgan, who has always been a champion of your people, is his closest advisor. Fynn will welcome you back to Drinnglennin, and he will fight for you—whether you choose to ride at his side or not.” She seized Baldo’s arm. “This is your people’s chance to find real and lasting acceptance in the land you called home for generations. Seize it!”
Baldo stared at her for a long moment. Finally he shook his head in resignation. “I know nothing of this Fynn Konigur. But I do know you.” He lifted his tankard and held it up to meet hers. “The answer is yes. We will go with you. But only because it’s you asking, Åthinoi.”
* * *
Halla stood at the prow of the Swallow and leaned into the wind. In the sky above, a tiny speck moved with the ship, too distant for anyone on the water to identify. Only Halla knew it was a dragon.
At her side, Baldo clutched the railing as if he w
ould fly off the deck should he let go. She was sorely tempted to tease the å Livåri, for the sea was calm and the steady wind filling their sails portended a swift and uneventful voyage back across the Erolin Sea. But she knew that Baldo’s terror was well-founded; when he’d made the crossing years ago from the Isle with Nicu, the sea had been a churning cauldron, and some of his kinsmen had been washed overboard. He’d sworn then that he’d never board another ship, and now he’d broken this oath—and only, as he’d said, because it was Halla who’d asked him to.
She prayed he wouldn’t regret the decision.
In total, the å Livåri returning to Drinnglennin with her numbered nearly three hundred, more than half of them women, a few with babes at their breasts or toddlers in tow. Latour had arranged four Gralian ships to carry them, in exchange for a goodly sum and the promise of the crafts’ return with all speed.
If the sailing conditions remained fair, they would make Cardenstowe in ten days’ time. Under other circumstances, they could have made landfall at Chelmsford-on-Erolin, then traveled overland through Lorendale, but they couldn’t risk being intercepted by roving Nelvorbothian or royal troops.
Or by Emlyn’s brothers.
As Halla gazed out over the waves, she considered the grave challenges that lay ahead. She was still fuming over Nolan’s capitulation to their mother’s decree that Lorendale would not support Fynn. Which meant it was likely that Lorendale would align with Roth in the coming struggle. The possibility of meeting her own brothers as enemies on the field of battle filled her with dread.
“Cenne for your thoughts.” Baldo leaned his wiry frame toward her, keeping a firm grip on the rails.
“A cenne?” She poked him in the ribs with her elbow. “Aren’t you the worldly one? You’ll have to get used to making your purchases in pennies and groats again.”
Baldo grunted. “I hope we’ll be paid in shillings! Of course, I’ll need to survive to spend it.”
It would be on Halla’s head if he didn’t. She’d been honest with Baldo and the rest, telling them that the current attitude of many Drinnglennians was even less favorable toward the roving folk than it had been when Nicu first led them over the sea. But she believed, with every fiber of her being, that if Fynn succeeded in attaining the throne, he would command tolerance for all from his citizens. And she’d convinced Baldo and the others that their best way to change Drinnglennian attitudes toward the å Livåri people was to demonstrate their value to the realm.
Of course, there would be those who would howl for blood once they learned Fynn had armed them in violation of current law. And there would be those who howled regardless. Old ways died hard deaths.
The sun descended toward the horizon, a golden orb perched on a throne of clouds in blazing colors. From the stern of the ship, the opening bars of a ballad drifted toward them, along with rippling laughter. Halla needed no urging to answer the lavuta’s haunting call. Whatever lay ahead, she had this day.
* * *
Off the rugged coast of northern Cardenstowe and just a few miles from their destination, they lost the wind. The sails flapped and sagged as the crew scrambled for the rigging, but despite their efforts, the ship slowed, as did the others, until they were all adrift on the placid sea.
Master D’Voir, their doughty captain, was clearly unnerved. “In all my days at sea, I’ve never seen the like of it. It’s as if the wind’s just been sucked from our sails.”
Baldo nervously eyed the jutting rocks between the ship and the coastline. Like most of his people, he had never learned to swim. “What do we do now?”
The Swallow was a caravel, so had no oars. Halla didn’t need to read the captain’s apprehensive expression to know they were in trouble.
“Ships at anchor ahead, Cap’n!” came a shout from the crow’s nest. “They ain’t ours, but they ain’t Helgrin longboats, neither!”
As Master D’Voir gave the order to signal the unidentified crafts, Halla’s eyes were drawn to the Fortunee, one of the other Gralian ships, which was now rocking in their direction. It lurched suddenly closer, and a cry went up on deck. If the Fortunee were to strike them broadside, it could do significant damage.
Another shout came from the riggings. Their distress signal had been received, and the harbored ships were weighing anchor.
“They’re flyin’ the red-and-silver panther!” the lookout called.
Halla uttered a harsh oath. “King Roth’s sigil.”
She was all too aware that the consequences of a confrontation with the High King’s navy would be grave. If it came out, as it surely would, that Gralian ships were sailing å Livåri to Drinnglennin in aid of Fynn Konigur, then not only would the å Livåri be branded by the current High King as traitors to the realm, but war might be provoked between Drinnglennin and Gral—no matter that Latour and the Gralians knew nothing of Halla’s intent.
The Fortunee was a mere ten meters off when the Swallow’s rigging began to whistle and spin. “Hold tight!” bellowed the master, and Halla braced herself for the jolt of the collision. Instead, the sails of the Swallow billowed, and the caravel juddered hard to port before gliding forward, missing the Fortunee’s bowsprit by a hair’s breadth.
Baldo released a shaky breath, then frowned. “Why are we the only ones moving?”
He was right. The other ships were still becalmed, while the Swallow was cutting through the waves headlong toward the harbor.
Then a cheer rose up off to port. The Constant’s sails were also filling, and her crew scrambled to maneuver her out of the dead water.
One by one, their ships were blown out of the lull. Halla had just dared to hope that they would all reach safe harbor when a crack rent the air, and a flash of light was followed by a plume of smoke drifting over the sea. The royal navy was firing on them.
Halla braced herself for the cannonball’s impact, but none came. Nor did the missile sink into the water. While she scanned both sky and water, the cannons boomed again, sending up clouds of smoke.
“Blessed Ursaline, preserve us!” a crewmember cried. For a moment, Halla thought one of their companion ships had taken a hit, but the man was pointing to the sea between the royal fleet and the Swallow, where the water had turned dark and choppy. Spumes of spray shot up from the peaks of the waves, which were growing higher before her eyes.
Yet the water around the Swallow was still blue and tranquil. Why?
Looking landward, she saw her answer. A lone figure stood on the headland, his staff held high above his wind-tousled dark hair. Whit cast the rod forward, hurling his magic through the air, and a towering wall of water erupted out of the ocean depths, curling toward the royal ships. For one impossible moment it hung suspended against the sky, obscuring the fleet in its path, and the å Livåri and sailors alike fell to their knees, invoking their various gods.
Then the monster wave crashed down with a terrible roar.
Not a ripple from it rocked the Gralian ships. The Nelvor ships bearing down on them, however, were driven north before the great wave like toy boats on a pond. Two of their crafts collided in an almighty crash, splintering both hulls, and suddenly men were rushing to jump ship, while the other boats maneuvered furiously to come to their rescue.
A cheer rose up from the Swallow and the other caravels, their bows now pointed toward the harbor. As they sailed into the cove, Halla made a wide-sweeping wave at the cliffs.
Whit lifted his staff, then disappeared before her eyes.
“Show-off,” she muttered, grinning.
She was itching to know what had happened at Cardenstowe in her absence. For all she knew, civil war might have already broken out and the fortress was under siege. Whit’s solo appearance on the headland didn’t rule this out, for he had his magic to cloak his movements.
She shifted the sword on her back. If it was to be war—and if the gods were good—Palan himself m
ight come to lend his nephew support. And if he did, she intended to meet him on the field of battle.
Chapter 36
Fynn
Fynn, sitting astride his destrier, looked down the lines of soldiers gathered on the grassy verge. A stiff breeze, carrying the scent of sea brine, snapped at the pennants of those who had gathered to support his claim to the Einhorn Throne. He saw the black bear of Morlendell, the Valeland eagles, the willowy maid of Fairendell, the white duck of Palmador, and the lynx of Karan-Rhad. He himself would ride under the Konigur banner, with the crows of Cardenstowe, led by Whit, at his side. Wren was further down the lines with the men he’d been able to rally from Palmador, whose black swan sigil snapped and furled in the wind.
These are my people now.
Fynn’s gaze moved on to the å Livåri contingent. As are these men and women.
The arrival of Halla with the rebel fighters from the Continent had been a godsend in more ways than one. Not only had Baldo and his men swelled their ranks, the å Livåri leader had demonstrated his keen sense of strategy in the counsel meetings with Master Morgan and the noble lords of the realms.
And they were desperately in need of a good plan, for Master Morgan’s prediction that the Nelvor army would not give up so easily proved true. The retreat of the Nelvor army from Cardenstowe’s woods had been a ruse. The High King’s soldiers had simply ridden north to meet up with a greater army marching south along the North Downs Road, with Lord Vetch reportedly at its head.
Now, with the royal army less than an hour’s march away, Fynn’s stomach churned, and he wondered how many of these men at his side would survive to see the next harvest.
