The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “I don’t see why. Fynn Konigur holds one of Lord Roth’s kinsmen, as surety for my safety.”

  “Then he’s a dead man. Roth Nelvor has no intention of returning you to the young Konigur. He knows you’re dragonfast.”

  Halla swore softly. “How did he come to learn this? And how did you?”

  “We haven’t time to go into all that. Vetch’s guards are coming for you as we speak.” She slipped off her cloak and held it out to Halla. “Put this on quickly. You shall leave this chamber in my place. It’s unlikely you’ll encounter anyone, but if you do, remain silent at all costs. You will not be challenged.”

  Halla considered her options. She could attend a royal dinner in the company of the Nelvor and his mother, or trust the warning of two anonymous women.

  She put on the cloak.

  Chapter 43

  Borne

  Borne came to with his cheek pressed against wooden boards, Magnus panting at his side. The back of his head throbbed so badly it made his gut clench, and when he gingerly probed it, his fingers came away sticky with blood. The snap of a sail and the sound of rushing water informed him he was on a boat, which he had no recollection of boarding. He still reeked of anise from the empty raki cask he’d hidden in to travel north from Tell-Uyuk to Rizo. His last memory was of leaving the grubby inn near the port where he’d sequestered himself to await Balfou and his company.

  Despite the pain in his head, he was delighted to see his dog. He laid his hand on the hound’s back, then slowly turned his neck to see Mir at the tiller.

  “How’s your head?” the Olquarian asked.

  Borne hauled himself carefully to a sitting position, his head throbbing in sharp bursts. “What happened?”

  Mir’s gaze returned to the distant headland looming beyond the bow. To the stern, the saljada towers of Rizo rose in the hazy light. They were headed north, across the Contara Straits.

  “Mir. What happened?”

  “I waylaid you, along with your dog.” Mir pushed his dark curls back from his brow. “Magnus was easy. In the confusion of the Gralian mission’s boarding, I lured him away with your soiled tunic, followed by a nice piece of lamb laced with a sleeping potion. I’m afraid I was a little more-heavy-handed with you. I’m sorry, but when I received Khadin Yasiha’s urgent message, I had to act fast.”

  “Yasiha asked you to kidnap me?”

  “The khadin wanted to prevent you from boarding the ship carrying the Gralian embassy home. She instructed me to take you across the straits to Delnogoth instead. I knew you’d likely refuse to come willingly, so I took the simplest course of action and ambushed you when you left that hovel of an inn.” He ran a hand over his face. “I’m truly sorry.”

  “Are you telling me the Gralian mission sailed without me?”

  Mir nodded, his expression grim. “Comte Balfou was told you’d been temporarily detained and would follow on another ship. He was furious and filed a formal protest. Your aide D’Avencote had to be forced to board ship, but in the end there was nothing any of them could do but leave you behind—there were Companions everywhere. And now you must know why the khadin didn’t wish you to embark as well.” He pointed to the west, where Borne could make out wreckage bobbing on the water. “As soon as the Saveris got underway and cleared the port, an Albrenian warship rounded the headland and blew her out of the water. There can be no survivors. Forgive me, my brother. Had I known…”

  Gone. All of them. His friends. His comrades-at-arms. Borne closed his eyes against the horror, but he could still see the faces of Balfou, D’Avencote, young Gaétan, Nargoret, and all the other good men of his fighting force. Good men who were now entombed in a watery grave at the bottom of the sea.

  Once again, Borne had survived while innocents had died.

  “I share in your grief,” Mir continued, “for the dire news does not end there. One of my eniyara friends has informed me that Zlatan Basileus and Shareen Basilea were attacked by marauders while fleeing to the Mittegoth border.” Tears welled in his dark eyes. “My father is dead.”

  “I am so sorry, my brother.”

  Kurash’s promises to Yasiha had all been lies. Perhaps he had no intention of making her his Basilea either.

  Borne felt a wave of impotent anger wash over him. “Turn around,” he demanded.

  Mir shook his head sadly. “Your returning would only result in both our deaths, and possibly Princess Yasiha’s as well. We shall have our revenge, have no fear, but this delicacy is mine and hers to taste, not yours.”

  * * *

  They made the rest of the journey to the shores of the Mazarine in miserable silence. Like most of his people, Mir feared the lake and her infamous witches, so he brought the boat around just outside the gentle breakers.

  “This is as close as I dare,” he said. He nudged a bag at his feet. “There’s a few of your belongings in there, and money as well, to buy your passage back to Gral.”

  Borne pushed himself shakily to his feet to exchange a final embrace with his friend. “You could come with me,” he proposed. “It can’t be safe for you in Olquaria anymore.”

  “As I said to you before, I still have many friends, and I must avenge my father’s death. May the gods speed you home.”

  The gods be cursed, Borne thought bitterly. They care nothing for any of us.

  He slipped into the sea, the dog jumping after him. Mir handed down his pack, and he balanced it as best he could atop his aching head.

  As he struck out for shore, Borne considered Mir’s final words. Home. The truth was that he no longer had a place to call home. He could never return to Bergsehn—he wouldn’t inflict on Lord Heptorious the pain of his presence there.

  The only place that called to him was wherever Maura was. But uncounted miles separated them, and he had no idea when he might be free to bridge them. He was bound for Gral, to do his duty to the king he swore to serve. With autumn already upon them, traveling overland to reach it would take months, by which time heavy snowfalls might already have blocked the mountain passes until spring. Whereas taking a ship meant risking a meeting with another Albrenian war vessel.

  Lost in these thoughts, Borne waded out of the shallows onto the beach and investigated the contents of the pack. A knife, a flint, some hard-boiled eggs, two flasks—one containing chay and the other raki—and a heavy pouch that held a king’s ransom in gold coins. He turned to send his silent thanks to Mir, out on the sea, and watched his friend’s small craft dip like a great swan as the boat skimmed over the waves.

  Borne’s fingers went, as if of their own accord, to the chain around his neck, on which a pendant he had promised not to remove had hung since he was last in this land. “Come, Magnus,” he said, ruffling the hound’s fur. “We’ve a favor to redeem.”

  Shouldering his pack, he went in search of a joltora to carry him over Lake Mazarine.

  * * *

  It took most of the gold to convince a boatman to carry Borne and the dog to the Ile la Malfica. As before, when they neared the much-feared isle, the crewmembers and Magnus fell into a deep sleep. But Borne did not, and he suspected the black swan pendant he wore had something to do with this.

  To his surprise, there were no women lining the shore of the isle, and when he emerged from his swim to its shores, the only sound he heard was the croak of frogs from within the tall reeds. The air was heavy, making his head throb even more.

  He made his way to the hut where the witches had once held him in their thrall. Ducking inside it, he was disturbed to find a discarded pair of trousers and a tunic lying rumpled on the floor, as well as a pair of waterlogged boots.

  He returned to the path and continued inland until he came to the pool where he and Hinata had bathed together. Something about the perfect stillness of the water made him pause. How long he gazed into its still depths, he had no idea, but at last he was roused
by a low chanting.

  He followed the voices down a narrow trail bordered by towering reeds. Rounding a bend, he pulled up short. Hinata stood in his path, and she didn’t look happy to see him. But she didn’t look surprised, either.

  “Follow me,” she commanded, then stepped past him, heading back in the direction he’d come. She was clad in a close-fitting shroud of white, her black curls spilling over her bared shoulders to her waist. Although she moved with sinuous grace, he was relieved not to feel the irresistible pull of her sexual power.

  The witch stopped at the pool, then fell to her knees to look into its now-rippling surface.

  Borne lowered himself beside her. “Hinata, I’ve come—”

  “You want something from us.” She kept her eyes on the shining water.

  “Yes. I need your help.”

  Hinata continued staring into the pool. Its surface had taken on the appearance of black ice. She drew a sharp breath, then lowered her face into her hands. When she at last looked up at him, her eyes were dark with fear.

  “I thought the last Purge was the worst terror imaginable to descend upon the Known World,” she whispered. “But something far worse is coming. He must be stopped, else we are all lost.”

  “Who must be stopped?”

  “Lazdac Strigori. Even here in our sanctuary, my sisters and I will not be safe from the monsters he intends to set loose.”

  Monsters. That was what the captured Jagar had called their vaar’s creatures.

  “Tell me what you’ve seen, Hinata.”

  “Death and destruction.” She reached for his hand, her nails digging into his palm. “It has already begun. The dark wizard is setting sail.”

  Borne rocked back on his heels. “Then I must return to Gral as quickly as possible, and I’ll need your help to get there. Please, Hinata! Can you take me on one of your black swans?”

  Hinata pulled her hand from his grasp. “They are not our swans! We do not enslave or try to control the creatures with whom we share a kindred spirit.”

  Borne bowed his head. “Forgive my ignorance. But I must get to Gral by the fastest means possible. If a swan could carry me over the mountains, perhaps I can—”

  “Gral is in chaos! The Albrenians and Helgrins have overrun that land, and taken Lugeneux. The Gralian king was slain.”

  Slain? If this was true, there was no future for Borne there.

  “What of the Isle?” he asked.

  Hinata turned her attention back to the pool, and Borne found himself holding his breath. If Drinnglennin had fallen to her enemies as well, all he cared about in the world would be lost. Bergsehn, the villagers of Bren, the old earl at Windend—he could not now deny they all still held their places in his heart. But more deeply rooted there was the girl from Dorf, who held the key to it.

  Hinata released a low sigh. “There’s trouble brewing on the Isle, but perhaps it is not yet too late. Give me the pendant.”

  Borne started to draw its chain over his head, then froze. “You told me I should never remove it, lest its value be forfeit.”

  A flicker of amusement crossed Hinata’s drawn face. “It’s a bit late to question your trust in us. But you would do well to recall that our pledge of assistance was conditional. If we can help you, we will honor it, but I must speak with my sisters. What you ask isn’t for me alone to decide.”

  Borne handed her the necklace, and she slipped it on, the pendant bright against her umber skin.

  “Wait here.” The witch disappeared behind the swaying reeds, leaving only their whispers to keep him company.

  Borne cupped his hands and drank from the pool, then lay back in the wavering shadows of the grasses and closed his eyes. After a time, he realized his head no longer hurt, and when he touched the back of his skull, the lump was gone. Suspecting the water might have something to do with this, he emptied both flasks in his pack and refilled them from the pool before settling once more to rest.

  But sleep eluded him. Instead, the faces of his lost friends rose up again in his mind to torment him—Balfou in his impossibly immaculate attire, the devoted D’Avencote planting a kiss on his pony’s forelock and jogging along astride a droma, Nargoret grinning across his sword at Borne when he’d scored a rare hit against him. The noble visage of Zlatan Basileus as he raised Borne to his feet after conferring upon him the Order of the Bells, Shareen Basilea as she playfully teased him about his poor Olquarish. All of them had crossed over the Abyss now, taking with them a little more light from the world.

  Mir had vowed to avenge his father’s death, but it was far more likely that Kurash would stamp out all of Zlatan’s line, and Mir’s illegitimacy would not protect him. Would even Yasiha, as his wife, be safe from this tyrant?

  Rolling onto his side, Borne caught the scent of jasmine, as if across the miles Maura was willing him not to give up hope.

  I’ll find you—wherever you are, my lady. You will light my way home.

  * * *

  A full harvest moon cast a ribbon of gold over the lake. Borne and Magnus, cradled in a large reed basket that was lashed to the back of a great black swan, floated above the path of light. Another of the great birds, with Hinata astride it, ran on wide-paddled feet over the surface, then launched itself into the air. Borne’s swan followed suit, and a dozen more witches lifted off on either side of him. The silent sky was severed by the beating of wings, the birds aligning themselves in strict formation.

  Borne was grateful for the warmth of Magnus, and for the blanket, woven of grasses, that Hinata had given them, for the swans flew high and at great speed. The witch had told him that even with their passengers, the birds could cover over one hundred miles in a night. If the weather remained fair, and no mishap befell them, they would be in Drinnglennin well before the next full moon.

  The witches, at first wary about leaving their sanctuary, now laughed and called to one another as they raced amongst the scattered clouds, giving rein to their unfettered nature. And many hours later, when they stopped at last to rest, the women were still ebullient as they hung their sleeping hammocks high in the trees, leaving only Hinata behind on the ground with Borne.

  He rolled out his bedding while she paced back and forth, as if searching for something.

  “I sense you’re not as delighted as your sisters to be away from your ula,” Borne observed.

  The witch arched her brows. “Unlike them, I was alive during the last Purge. They’ve all heard the tales of that terror, but they still cannot begin to understand what it was like.”

  “Yet you agreed to come back into the world to help me. I am forever in your debt.”

  A smile flickered across her full lips. “You forget—your debt is paid. We have seven new little sisters to raise and swell our ranks.” She laughed at his expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your time with us?”

  “No man could forget an experience like that.”

  “Yet I sense you have no wish to repeat it. As I foresaw, you found your destiny in the east. Is she in Drinnglennin now?”

  “Yes… at least, I hope so.”

  Hinata studied his face thoughtfully. “Your fates are tied together, although I cannot tell where they will lead.”

  Magnus’s tail thumped, making the witch laugh. “It seems your hound approves of her, at any rate. I’d say that’s a good omen.” She grabbed a low-hanging branch, pulled herself onto it, and climbed to her sisters.

  Borne stretched out on the ground and lay his hand on Magnus’s head. “Let’s hope you’re right, my friend.”

  Chapter 44

  Fynn

  Three interminable days dragged past while Fynn and his supporters awaited the Tribus’s response to the marriage record in their possession. The inclement weather didn’t help their mood; it rained without cease, and the promise of winter chilled the air. But at least an emissary
from the castle appeared daily with a message from Halla, as agreed. She was being well treated, and had been given Roth’s assurances that a decision would soon be reached.

  “He’s stalling,” Whit said. He paced back and forth in Fynn’s tent, where the young prince and Grinner had set up their chatraj board under the flap. “Roth hopes to wear down your patience, my lord, and that of your army’s, until the momentum to fight for the throne is lost.”

  If this was the Nelvor’s intent, his tactics seemed to be working. The previous night, Lord Wogan had called on Fynn to say he was heading north to Fairendell to deal with “strange goings-on” across his realm. Folks claimed to be beleaguered by all manner of strange creatures, including a three-headed bird and a “half-man” with a single eye who had a hand protruding from his chest and hopped around on one foot. Barns were being overrun by rat-like beasts with human faces, and a flock of sheep had been decimated by great black dogs with fiery red eyes. Wogan had promised to return as soon as he could get to the bottom of these assaults, and he’d left a modest force behind on the Tor, but his departure caused a stir among the troops nonetheless.

  Making matters worse, Master Morgan had accompanied Lord Wogan—the wizard told Fynn he’d received a summons he could not refuse, but he wasn’t at liberty to say from whom—and Baldo had expressed his intention to soon take the å Livåri force south to rally more of their people to the Konigur standard. Both moves met with Fynn’s approval, but resulted in the further diminishment of their army in the interim, which only increased the restlessness of the men left behind. Adding further to their uneasiness was the presence of the dragons who had taken to circling over the capital, their roars disrupting sleep and provoking troubling dreams.

  Fynn feared trouble ahead. The men needed disciplined leadership, and the commoners who had joined them required training in arms, but Fynn had no experience managing an army. And though Whit had been charged by Master Morgan with serving as Fynn’s main counsel, the young wizard couldn’t advise him on how to keep his supporters from drifting back to their homelands. What was desperately needed was a strong, experienced commander.