The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Maura dipped into a graceful curtsey. “My lord, I am Maura…”

  When she hesitated, Sir Glinter spoke up gallantly. “Our late King Urlion dubbed you a Konigur, my lady. As such, it is your name by rights.”

  “As a matter of fact, Maura is kin to you, Whit, and me,” Halla explained to Fynn. “Your father’s younger brother was her father.”

  Fynn released Halla to offer his hands to Maura as well. “Then I’m very happy to meet you. If you’re not too overtaxed by your recent escape, please join us. We’re all eager to hear what you’ve learned in Drinnkastel. I fear since the Nelvor didn’t intend to honor his agreement, we’ll not see again the documents we handed over to him.”

  “We all saw them,” Whit declared, and a chorus of ayes rose up in stanch agreement.

  Maura had started toward one of the chairs, but at the sight of Grinner she stopped short and released a small cry of surprise.

  Fynn looked to Grinner, whose cheeks were blazing. “Don’t tell me you pulled a knife on her, too?”

  “He did,” Maura said, “and then he held it to my throat.”

  Grinner scrambled to his feet, looking horrified. “A thousand pardons, m’… m’lady.”

  “Granted,” Maura said. “Your apparent improved health and circumstances relieve me of a burden of guilt I’ve carried over concealing you in the first place.”

  “And when was all this?” Fynn asked.

  “Right after he stabbed me,” Borne said cheerfully, drawing up to stand behind Maura’s chair.

  Grinner hung his head. “I said I were sorry.”

  Borne laughed. “And I accepted your apology. It’s the last time the incident will be mentioned.” He looked around at the others. “Unless someone else here has had a close encounter with Master Grinner’s ready blade?”

  “Don’t add to his torment,” Maura scolded, although her tone was gentle. “I regret I never learned your name, master.”

  “This is Grinner,” Fynn said. “My most loyal friend.”

  Grinner’s cheeks flamed even redder, but whether this was because of Fynn’s declaration or Maura’s dancing eyes, Halla wasn’t sure.

  With the introductions made, Halla and Maura proceeded to share what they had gleaned from the argument between Princess Asmara and the maid Llwella. The gathered lords were aghast upon learning that a Tribus member was one of Lazdac’s supporters.

  “But how can Princess Asmara and this… this maid have come by such information?” Lord Ennius said. “No one knows the identity of the Tribus members.”

  Halla glanced uncertainly at Whit.

  “They know about the elves,” he reassured her.

  “I met Celaidra, an elven sorceress who serves on the Tribus, in the elves’ hidden realm,” Maura said, “and she brought me to Drinnkastel, then gave me over into my aunt’s keeping. As for how Asmara came by the knowledge of Celaidra’s true loyalties… Although she lives in cloister, the princess ventures out often and… hears things. Quite a few things of import, I suspect.”

  The lord of Valeland continued to look skeptical. “So you believe your aunt—or did you say her maid—intended to barter you and Lady Halla in exchange for protection from Lazdac?”

  “Does it matter?” Halla said. “They can’t now. I think we need to focus on our plan for dealing with Roth.”

  “We have one, but….” Whit’s voice was oddly flat.

  Fynn ran a hand over his dark hair. “It’s not of my choosing, but it has the support of the lords, and I feel obligated to accept it.”

  “Lord Roth proposed that the right to rule Drinnglennin be decided by a trial of single combat,” explained Sir Wren. “The winner takes the throne, the loser forfeits his life, with amnesty granted to any who supported him.”

  Halla looked around the table, aghast. “And Fynn has agreed to this? Despite the fact that the Nelvor is a famed—”

  “The trial will be between Roth Nelvor and myself,” Borne said.

  Maura drew a sharp breath, but Halla sat back, relieved. She’d never seen Roth fight, but with the possible exception of Latour, Borne was the best swordsman she’d ever seen in action. Still, she voiced the thought that sprang to her mind.

  “If Borne should fall against the Nelvor, can we trust Roth to keep his word, and offer amnesty to all who follow Fynn?”

  “No!” Both Maura and Whit answered with equal vehemence.

  “I’ll stake my good name that he won’t,” Sir Nidden growled.

  Halla folded her arms. “Then I say we’d do well to heed an old proverb of my father’s. Enter a bear’s den with a drawn blade.”

  “Th’ å Livåri have one too,” Grinner chimed in, a sly twinkle in his eye. “A wolf might dress in a lamb’s skin, but ’e still has ’is teeth.”

  Fynn grinned. “Ljúdi tun rífur rétt manns, falið blað gley sanns.”

  The å Livåri slapped his hand on the table. “Ye have th’ right o’ it there!”

  “What does it mean?” Halla asked.

  “A lying tongue strips a man of his rights,” Whit translated, “but a hidden blade strips him of his life.”

  Fynn got to his feet. “We should be ready, just in case.”

  Chapter 49

  Borne

  “You don’t have to do this,” Maura insisted.

  Borne brushed a loose curl off her brow. “Have you so little faith in me?” he asked teasingly.

  Maura laid her hand on his cheek. “Of course I have faith in you! But I don’t trust Roth Nelvor, and I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

  Borne tapped her lightly on the nose. “I’ve no intention of being bested by Roth.”

  She shivered and drew her cloak closer around her throat against the chill wind sweeping over the Tor. They’d ridden out to steal a few precious moments alone, secure in the knowledge that somewhere in the clouds overhead, Ilyria circled, keeping watch.

  Borne bent to pluck a purple blossom, one of the last of the season, and tucked it behind her ear. “It’s exactly the color of your eyes.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Maura scolded, then sighed. “Oh, why couldn’t I have fallen in love with someone like… I don’t know… Wat Payne? He’d never be asked to fight for a throne!”

  Borne choked with laughter. “That skinny boy who helped his father at the fish weirs? He’d blow over in this breeze.”

  She gave him a chastening look. “Wat was a sweet fellow… just terribly shy. He used to bring me nettles for my lapins and could barely bring himself to speak with me.”

  Borne composed his features. “Am I to take it,” he asked solemnly, “that he’s a contender for your affections?”

  Maura glared up at him, and he captured her hand and brought it to his lips. “I beg of you, my lady, don’t be cross with me.” He glanced up to the sky. “I wouldn’t want Ilyria to think I’ve upset you and come swooping down to set me alight… I mean, right.”

  She cuffed him, none too lightly, on the shoulder. “She would never! And you needn’t be so formal. We both know where I come from.”

  Borne gathered her hair in his hands and kissed her deeply. “You are my lady.”

  Her ardent response stirred him before she pulled away.

  “What is it?”

  Maura blushed prettily. “It’s just… I’ve read that on the night before battle, a knight must preserve his… vigor.”

  Borne drew her back into his arms. “Whoever wrote that was grossly misinformed… likely some fusty old monter. It’s a well-established fact that love-making only increases a man’s power.”

  “Truly?” She moved closer into his embrace, and he lowered his lips to the sweet hollow of her throat.

  “I have it on the best authority.”

  * * *

  Lying with Maura’s head against his chest, the pale lig
ht of dawn seeping into his tent, Borne considered the strange turns his life had taken. After his parents’ death, cultivating a barrier between himself and his emotions had become second nature. Then he lost Cole, and that careful construction crumbled, leaving another gaping hole. And when his feelings for Maura flooded into it on that fateful day in her chamber, Borne, knowing he could never have her, fled across the Known World.

  But she had come after him. And after so many years of believing himself undeserving of happiness, that his could now be so complete was nearly unfathomable.

  How ironic, then, that today, whatever he had said to Maura last night, he might not have long to experience this unforeseen gift.

  He lightly kissed the top of Maura’s head, then eased from the bedroll and stepped out into the half-light. Threads of mist hung over the Tor, except where the early cookfires had burned them away. To the east, the sky was pinking. It would be a fair day for the duel.

  Hearing a rustling, he turned to see Maura standing behind him, arrayed only in her beauty. Magnus was at her feet, his tail slowly thumping. Borne drank in the sight of her, savoring the memories of the past night, the scent and taste of her, the satin of her skin.

  “Come back to bed,” she said softly, extending her hand.

  He could only obey.

  Afterward, they threw on their cloaks and ran to the river, diving in to come up gasping from the shock of the icy water. Maura scrambled onto the bank, breathless and shivering, and pulled on her cloak. Even dripping wet, she was beautiful.

  Borne climbed out after her, and had barely dried himself off before she pressed herself against him. She was trembling—and not, he suspected, from the cold.

  Gently, he held her away.

  She brushed away the tears brimming in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being selfish. But I’m… I’m so afraid.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Taqui-Rash once told me that all any of us have for certain is this moment. It’s a prize we shouldn’t squander on worry.” He turned her toward the sun, then rested his chin on the crown of her head. “Look at that sky—as rosy as the inside of a conch, just for our pleasure. And listen to the lark’s serenade—it’s singing for us.”

  Maura gave a little laugh. “You and your poet’s heart. You must be sure to keep it safe for me.”

  They both turned at the sound of Borne’s name being called. Whit stood on the rise, waving to them.

  It was time.

  * * *

  Roth rode onto the dueling grounds astride a coal-black destrier, accompanied by his full retinue, which included the Tribus’s carriage. The Nelvor was clothed all in white, from his snowy tunic and cloak trimmed with ermine down to his polished boots.

  He plays the part well, Borne thought grudgingly.

  Roth surveyed, with royal hauteur, the lords of the realm who were gathered under the Konigur banner. No doubt he was already plotting their punishments, despite the agreement of amnesty. Grathin of Morlendell, Ennius of Valeland, Sir Yintor—Lord Howhell’s son, representing Karan-Rhad—and Merrik of Palmador had all come to witness this momentous bout. Among those missing were Lord Wogan, who had yet to return from Fairendell, and the reputedly intractable lord of Glornadoor, Denzel, who waited in his craggy stronghold to see for whom the fair winds blew. Also absent was Borne’s one-time patron and friend, Lord Heptorious, Earl of Branley Tor. Although he hadn’t expected to see the old man there, Borne felt a pang of disappointment all the same.

  Fynn, mounted beside Borne, was dressed in Konigur red. The lad might not have been raised a prince, but his natural instincts and composure lent him a gravity beyond his years. Lady Grenville, who had made the long journey up from Langmerdor, rode to her grandson’s left, her head held high, and Borne couldn’t fail to note the resemblance between them.

  Roth was flanked by Lord DuBleres of Tyrrencaster, sitting astride a massive dark bay, and a youth around Fynn’s age, who had been identified for Borne as Nolan, Lord of Lorendale. At a word from Roth, the young lord trotted his horse forward, and after casting a swift glance at his sister’s glowering face, fixed his eyes on Fynn.

  “His Majesty Roth Nelvor, High King of Drinnglennin, bids you welcome.” The lordling’s voice trembled slightly in the stillness. “He asks that Borne Braxton, your chosen champion, join him in the pavilion for a prayer, before the duel begins.”

  Borne looked to Fynn, who nodded. Borne dismounted and followed Roth in silence to the pavilion.

  Once inside, Roth dropped not to his knees, but into a low chair. “Who would have thought,” he drawled, stretching his long legs out before him, “that you and I would find ourselves on opposite sides of this… whatever it is?” He gestured for Borne to sit opposite him.

  Borne remained standing. “Actually, I don’t find it surprising at all.”

  Roth gave him a rueful smile. “It cut me to the quick, you know, when you fled the Isle after I was proclaimed High King. I can’t fathom what prompted this rash decision, but you must believe I’ve always been prepared to offer you my hand in forgiveness. I’ve missed you, my friend, and could use your good right arm. Will you not join the men of my chamber as a trusted companion of the true king?”

  When Borne laughed, Roth’s brows shot up and a faint flush rose in his cheeks.

  “You find my proposal amusing? Your allegiance is owed to me as your liege lord.”

  Borne’s smile faded. “Before I left Drinnglennin, I owed allegiance to only one man, although he never asked it of me, and now would not have it. In Gral, I swore to serve King Crenel, but now that he has made the Leap, I’ve pledged my loyalty and my sword to Fynn Konigur.”

  The corners of Roth’s mouth twitched. “You seem to persistently attach yourself to a luckless lot. Take your unfortunate friend, Cole. A pity that. Although I’m afraid I’m rather to blame for what happened to him.”

  Borne felt the blood drain from his face.

  “The night before the mob ball,” the Nelvor continued, watching Borne intently, “I was drinking with Lawton… who, by the way, you ought to release back to me, since Halla of Lorendale rides at your boy’s side.”

  “You were speaking of Cole,” Borne reminded him through clenched teeth.

  Roth’s smile widened. “And Lawton,” he pointed out. “You see, he was most put out because I hadn’t picked him for the So’thers’ side. I told him he wasn’t fast enough, and if we were going to win, I had to pick someone who was. Then Lawton swore that if a Northman scored first, he’d put an arrow in him. I suspect I laughed—I do recall clapping his shoulder, which he must have taken as encouragement.” Roth shook his head. “Too bad it was the young lord of Windend who had to die. You see, I was convinced that you would be the one to score. You’d become a bit of a thorn in my side, what with your chance success in the jousting at the Twyrn. And you appeared to be on entirely too good of terms with Urlion’s niece, for whom, at the time, I had plans. Yes… if anyone should have taken that arrow, it should have been you.”

  “You bastard!” Borne lunged forward and struck Roth full in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. Then he threw himself upon him and wrapped his hands around the Nelvor’s throat.

  “If you kill me now,” Roth choked, “the guards will cut you down for attacking me while we were at prayers. Is that the way you want this to end?”

  As much as Borne wanted to throttle the son of a whore, he knew the Nelvor had stated the right of it. With a furious oath, he thrust the man away, then got to his feet.

  The near-strangulation hadn’t convinced the Nelvor to stop his goading. “As I was saying, I initially sought a way to be rid of you, but after the death of your rash young friend, you eliminated yourself. So it all worked out for the best… at least for me.”

  Borne recalled then how Roth had kept him company after Cole’s murder, both on the sparring field and late into the ni
ghts during the rawest times of his grief. All the while, the bastard had been savoring his secret behind a feigned mask of sympathy.

  Borne turned to leave the tent. If he stayed another moment, he knew nothing would keep him from cutting the cur down here and now.

  “Where are the dragons?” Roth asked.

  Wouldn’t you like to know? Borne thought, not breaking his stride.

  “I realize you’re of common stock,” Roth persisted, “but even you should know you must wait to be dismissed when in the presence of your king.”

  Borne pulled aside the tent flap. “My king awaits on the field, where we should be as well. Now, I just want to blood my sword.”

  “Oh, there’ll be blood.” Roth pushed himself to his feet. “But before I send you into the Abyss, you’ll kneel at my feet and beg my pardon for your insolence.”

  * * *

  In the freshening wind, the pennants of the respective realms snapped and furled as the contenders commenced the ritual circle before the lords of the land. When they reached Maura and Halla, Roth brought his destrier to a halt, forcing Borne to do the same.

  “I see my father’s bastard niece is among the traitors,” the Nelvor said, sending Maura a mocking smile. “I’d steer clear of the wench, Braxton, if I were you—she comes of tainted stock.”

  Halla grasped her sword hilt. “It’s your house that’s tainted, Nelvor! Starting with your pig of an uncle, Palan.”

  An angry vein pulsed at Roth’s temple. “And how might you be acquainted with Palan de Grathiz?”

  “Once upon a time in Albrenia, he purchased me, thinking to make me his slave, but I escaped from the bordello where he had me held.”

  Roth gave a delighted laugh. “Why then! Once I’ve dealt with Braxton, I’ll be back to claim you as lost property in my uncle’s name. No doubt you were at Casa Calida. I was a frequent guest there while squiring for my uncle. I’ll wager you learned all manner of slut arts while you were whoring there.” He turned to Borne. “Have you had her?”

  Maura caught Halla’s arm before she could strike. “That’s what he wants you to do, Halla. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” To Roth, she said, “If you linger longer here, it will appear you’re stalling. Could it be you lack courage for this fight, sir?”