by K. C. Julius
“The question now,” said the man behind the screen, “is how do we move forward from here? Will you execute Lord Lawton?”
“There are a number of questions, sir,” Whit replied coldly. “The whereabouts of my cousin only one among them. We’ve been waiting these past days for your council’s affirmation of Fynn Konigur’s legitimate claim to the Einhorn Throne.”
A sigh sounded from behind the partition. “The documents are in order, and I personally have no doubt as to their authenticity. Nevertheless, King Roth has made it clear he will not abdicate, and I am sworn to serve him. Thus my hands are tied.”
“So we are at an impasse,” Whit said, his heart sinking.
“I fear this is the case. Civil war is inevitable. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“The High King has proposed a way to avoid an all-out conflict. He will agree to meet Fynn Konigur in a trial by combat, with the prize of the Einhorn Throne going to the victor.”
Whit laughed. “You can’t be serious. Roth Nelvor would have the clear advantage! Why should our prince agree to this, when you yourself have confirmed the validity of his claim? Such a path could result in him forfeiting both his rightful position and his life!”
“Consider it, Lord Whit,” the man pleaded. “If your prince is to attain the crown, his only alternative is for all who support him to fight against the might of the Nelvor and his allies. And I will tell you in confidence that Roth has the support of the new Albrenian king. His uncle stands off our eastern coast with an armada of ships carrying close to a thousand men-at-arms. Who knows where they will come ashore—Langmerdor? Valeland? What’s more, King Palan has apparently allied himself with the Helgrin yarl, who has promised longboats will swell his ranks. Thousands of lives will be lost, my lord, and there is no guarantee the young Konigur will rise victorious from the carnage. Wouldn’t it be better for one man to die rather than countless others?”
“You forget, sir, that we have dragons on our side.”
“That may be. But one of them is Lady Halla’s, who is nowhere to be found to ride it into battle. As for Lady Maura—”
Whit sat forward. “What news have you of her?”
“She came to Drinnkastel a few weeks ago, my lord. She has been staying in cloister in the west wing of the palace with her aunt, Princess Asmara. We believe she is preparing to take vows to the goddess.”
“What? Why should she do that? She’s dragonfast!”
“I only tell you what I know. The Princess Asmara and Lady Maura have grown very close. So you see, King Roth’s proposal may indeed be your young prince’s best means of achieving his goal. If he wishes, he may choose another to fight in his place. Perhaps you, my lord?”
“The whole idea is preposterous!”
“Nonetheless, it is one I beg you to put to the Konigur prince. The contest can be held in a public arena, where all may witness the fairness of the trial. If the Nelvor should triumph, amnesty will be granted for those who have aligned themselves with Lord Fynn. Lord Vetch has with him a document averring all of this, and it bears the High King’s seal. You may take it with you.” The man lowered his voice. “And if you support this proposal, Lord Whit, I will see that your recent breach of magical ethics is excused, regardless of the outcome of the trial. I am the Elder on the Tribus, and I have this in my power.”
So—the Tribus did know about his fatal spell-casting. And the wizard behind the screen understood exactly the value of what he was offering Whit in exchange for his support of a trial by combat. But if the man sensed an advantage, he did not press it, allowing the silence between them to bloom.
The carriage door was yanked open, and Whit snapped his head around. Borne stood outside, a fuming Vetch behind him.
“Forgive me for interrupting, my lord. We feared some treachery.”
“I think we’re finished here,” said the man behind the screen. “I will await your prince’s answer, Lord Whit. Tomorrow at this time.”
“Finished?” Borne said. “What about Halla?”
Whit climbed out of the carriage and took Borne’s arm. “I’ll explain back at the camp.”
Borne resisted him. “Has something happened to her?”
“Yes,” Whit replied, “but what exactly remains a mystery. And we won’t solve it standing around here.”
* * *
The gathered lords listened gravely as Whit reported the mysterious disappearance of Halla.
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” Sir Nidden snarled, “that foul play’s afoot! I say we send ’em Lawton’s head in a sack!”
“And risk them doing the same to Lady Halla if she should turn up?” Borne retorted.
“We should waste no more time—”
“It’s clear we should—”
Whit cut through the barrage of voices. “Gentlemen. There’s more you should know before we determine our next steps.” He told them then about the Albrenian ships and the possibility that the Helgrins would join the fray on the enemy’s side. “I learned also that Lady Maura, our late king’s niece, is in Drinnkastel.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Borne lift his head at the mention of her name. “Vetch says she’s cloistered with her aunt, Princess Asmara, and preparing to take vows to the goddess. If this is true, we cannot count on her and her dragon in the coming fight.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Borne said vehemently. “If Maura’s in Drinnkastel, she’s being held there against her will.”
“That may well be,” Whit replied. He held up the document bearing the High King’s seal. “This is from Roth Nelvor to all of us. He claims he wishes to avoid civil war, and proposes instead that he meet Fynn Konigur in a trial by combat.” He held out his hands to still the shouts that rang out. “Hear me out, sirs!”
When the men quieted down, he continued. “This is to be a fight to the death. The winner of this trial will take the throne, and the vanquished will lose his life. But amnesty will be granted to the fallen’s respective supporters, regardless of the outcome. It is all confirmed in this document.”
Most of the lords raised their voices in protest, but several exchanged considering glances.
Fynn raised his hand for order, and his nobles all fell silent. “I would hear your thoughts, my lords, one at a time. Then I will share mine.”
Grinner spoke first. “It’s a load o’ cowshite!” he growled. “Ye’re nae considerin’ it?”
Lord Kenver placed his clenched fists on the table. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. The Tribus themselves have ratified the legitimacy of your claim to the throne, as they told Lord Whit! This proposition isn’t to be contemplated.”
Sir Hamish, Lord Wogan’s son, looked less certain. “Fairendell won’t be able to withstand an attack by the Albrenians and Helgrins if we must keep an army here in Drinnkastel.”
Sir Tucker agreed. “If Lorendale hasn’t already declared for Roth, news of this threat will surely sway Lord Nolan to his side.”
Fynn listened quietly, then turned to Whit. “And what do you advise, my lord?”
Whit released a long breath as he looked from man to man. “Every one of you is sworn to support Fynn Konigur. When you made this vow, my lords, you were given no assurance that helping him claim his birthright would be without risk. But you pledged your fealty nevertheless, because you know, every last one of you, that not only is Fynn Urlion’s rightful heir, he’s the best choice to lead us—and he’s worthy of our trust in him. As High King, he’ll see that the Isle remains a safe haven for all people who abide by her laws, regardless of their origins, regardless if they be descended from the oldest noble lines or if they be newly come to our shores. We live, gentlemen, in the last sanctuary in the Known World for many, including the å Livåri and the magical folk and creatures.”
He straightened his shoulders. “If we were to agree to th
is trial and lose, the victors won’t only be the Nelvor and his supporters—they’ll also be bigotry, tyranny, and suppression. So I say we fight, as we’ve intended to, with right on our side!”
Clamor filled the room once more, until Fynn signaled for order. “Fairly spoken, Lord Whit,” he declared quietly. “But I’ve reached my decision. I will accept Roth’s challenge.”
Whit stared at him. “My lord! Master Morgan charged me with advising you—”
“I understand. But I happen to agree with the Nelvor on the matter of avoiding unnecessary bloodshed. In Helgrinia, when two strong contenders emerge in the naming of a new yarl, they fight to decide who will claim the honor.”
“Lord Fynn,” Lord Ennius cut in, “with all due respect, you cannot hope to prevail in single combat against Roth Nelvor. He excels in all manner of contests at arms.”
“He’s been beaten,” Sir Nidden countered.
“Aye,” Sir Steward agreed, “and the man who bested him, on more than one occasion, stands right here among us.”
All eyes turned to Borne.
Borne’s eyes held a cold light. “If you’re proposing I fight Roth Nelvor,” he said, “I can think of nothing that would bring me more pleasure.”
Fynn shook his head. “No. I can’t ask you to—”
“Forgive me, my lord, for interrupting you,” Borne said, a strange look in his eyes, “but if you’re going to speak of risk, you’ve already asked every one of us to put our own lives, and the lives of our families and people, on the line for this cause. Now I must ask you to consider what will best advance that cause.”
Grinner laid a hand on Fynn’s arm. “Ye seen ’im sparrin’, Fynn, same as we all ’ave. Borne’s right lethal wit’ a sword, quick as a cat and as light on ’is feet, despite ’is size. ’E’s the best of us, fer sure.”
Whit could see that he wouldn’t be able to dissuade Fynn from taking this rash course. Perhaps Master Morgan could have put a stop to it—but he wasn’t here. And from what they now knew of the combined Albrenian-Helgrin threat, there wasn’t time to wait for the wizard’s unforeseen return. Nevertheless, Whit objected once more, only to be shot down by Fynn’s determined silence.
The proposal was put to a vote, and the ayes carried the day. Roth Nelvor’s offer would be accepted, and Borne Braxton would stand as champion in Fynn Konigur’s place.
“This won’t end well,” Whit muttered to Wren as they headed back to their tent. “And I blame Master Morgan. I’d finally come to trust him, but now when we need him most, he’s let all of us down—again.”
Wren tilted his head. “Do you think Master Morgan trusts you, Whit?”
Whit frowned. “I… suppose. Otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to stand in his place as Fynn’s counselor.” He kicked a stone in his path. “Sod it all! Why in the gods’ names did he have to leave?”
“You might consider that it was for that very reason: Master Morgan left because he had to. And he had confidence in you to take his place.”
Whit dug his hands into the pockets of his robe. “Which means now I’ve failed him.”
To his annoyance, Wren laughed. “You may be a virtuos, my friend, but you’re not a god. The decision was taken by all present, and it has the resounding support of the peers of the realm. You did your part—you voiced your objections, and they were heard. You’re not to blame if Fynn chooses not to heed them.”
But Whit couldn’t help thinking, once again, that had Master Morgan been here, the outcome would have been quite different.
As things stood now, the future of the entire realm was to be determined by the single stroke of a sword.
Chapter 47
Maura
At the sound of the door to Asmara’s chambers swinging open, Maura looked up from her book, then leapt to her feet as Halla of Lorendale preceded her aunt into the room.
“Halla!” Maura threw her arms around her tall friend, whom she hadn’t seen since their time together in Mithralyn. “I don’t believe it!”
“Maura? Is it really you? You’ve…”
“Changed?” Maura laughed. “I should hope so. As have you! It’s been an age since we last saw one another. I heard you were in Gral, but nothing more. Then I went… away, too.”
“Whit told me they tried to kill Ilyria to stop you from escaping this place. What could possibly have brought you back to Drinnkastel?”
Maura cast a glance at her aunt, who was observing their reunion. “It’s a long story.”
Princess Asmara untied her cloak and cast it aside. “I apologize for not introducing myself to you earlier, Lady Halla. I am Asmara, and on your mother’s side I’m actually your cousin. I’m delighted to finally meet you. You look very much as I remember my own mother. Her hair was that same fiery color.”
Halla blinked, then belatedly dropped into a curtsey. “Your Highness. I had no idea. I thought you’d dedicated yourself…” Her eyes slid to the precious vases on the table and the golden candelabras ornamenting the room.
“I live a cloistered life,” the princess replied, “but that doesn’t mean it must be without comfort. And please, call me cousin.”
Halla gave an uncertain nod. “I’m honored to meet you… cousin. But if I may ask, why have you brought me here?”
A rueful smile touched Asmara’s lips. “For safeguarding, I’m afraid. The same as my niece.” She clasped her bejeweled hands before her. “Once Llwella returns, we’ll get to know one another better. But for now, if you will both excuse me, I’m feeling in need of a rest.”
After the princess had drifted off into an interior chamber and shut the door behind her, Halla slipped off her cloak. “Safeguarding from whom?” she asked in a low voice.
Maura laid a finger to her lips, then led Halla to her room, where they sat together by the windows. “I’m honestly not sure what danger my aunt believes we’re facing,” she said. “I’ve been trying to find out, but she isn’t given much to conversation. After living alone for so many years, she finds the company of others wearying.”
“Then we should relieve her of ours. There’s war brewing, Maura, and we’re needed elsewhere.” Halla straightened her shoulders. “I’ve been made dragonfast as well.”
Maura seized her hands. “That’s wonderful!” Then she sobered. “But, Halla—I hope you haven’t brought your dragon here to Drinnkastel?”
Halla shook her head. “I left Emlyn in the Midlands. She’ll come before the fighting begins, though.”
“Emlyn! She’s a favorite sister of Ilyria’s.”
“Speaking of whom, where is Ilyria now?”
“In Mithralyn. At least, I hope so.”
Halla picked up a figurine and tossed it idly in the air, catching it just before it hit the floor. “Well, you’ll need to send for her. Once I’m released, you can come back with me to the camp.”
Maura bit her lip, wondering how best to say what she must. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. I’ve tried to leave, but the door to the corridor is kept locked at all times.”
Halla raised an eyebrow, then got to her feet and stalked to the door. After confirming it locked, she returned and flung herself into a velvet-covered chair.
“Bloody bones!” she groaned. “I should have stayed where I was. At least there I could mingle with the court and perhaps learn something useful. Instead I’ve just swapped one prison for another even more confining. How did you end up here?”
Maura sighed. “I was brought to Drinnkastel by one of the Tribus. I trusted her because she’s elven, and cousin to King Elvinor, and she led me to believe she was taking me to Master Morgan and Lord Fynn. But as soon as we were through the Havard Gate, I opened the coach door to find Llwella, my aunt’s maid, awaiting me. She told me that unless I came with her, my aunt’s life would be in danger, then brought me directly here. Now, Asmara says I’m the one who need
s protecting.”
“And me as well, apparently. But if we don’t get back to Fynn Konigur with our dragons, many lives will be in danger.” Halla rose and stalked around the suite, examining the shelves upon shelves of books lining the walls. “What do you do all day here anyway… besides read?”
“Try to think of a way to get one of the keys to that door. I haven’t come up with anything yet, though I’m aware of two keys, in the possession of my aunt and her maid, which they both carry with them at all times.”
Halla brightened. “Then we shall have to relieve one of them of her key, and soon. Civil war’s about to break out, and you and I should be at the fore!”
The thought of going into battle didn’t hold the same appeal for Maura as it clearly did for her friend. But she was dragonfast, and would do her duty.
At the sound of a door slamming, they both fell silent. Maura peeked out briefly through her own door, then returned to Halla. “It’s Llwella, and she looks to be in a towering rage.”
Another door banged, after which Maura and Halla slipped back into the main chamber. Raised voices were coming from behind the princess’s door.
“You cannot mean that?” said Asmara.
“If there were any way to avoid it, I would,” Llwella replied. “But the Nelvor’s uncle is due to land his army in two days’ time.”
“You promised to support my nephew’s claim to the throne! What has happened to change your mind?”
“Celaidra has happened!” Llwella snapped. “Now that I know she’s thrown her lot in with him, even if Urlion’s son succeeds in taking the Einhorn Throne, he cannot hope to hold it.”
“But surely Audric and—”
“Against an elven sorceress and a virtuos?” Llwella’s laugh was cynical. “Lazdac prefers Roth to a Konigur on the Einhorn Throne.”
“That may well be, but I cannot believe you’re considering going along with this.”
“What choice do we have?”
The princess’s voice grew shrill. “We can stay cloistered here as we always have, and ride out the storm!”
