The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  In answer, Roth spurred his horse onward, passing by Fynn without giving him a glance.

  Borne brought his own horse to a halt before his king and lowered his head respectfully. “I shall strive to defend your claim as best I can, sire.”

  Fynn clasped his arm warmly, although his face bore the marks of sleeplessness. “I’m sure you will, Sir Borne. Just, please—stay alive. In fact, that’s a command.”

  Borne nodded, then trotted his grey over to where Roth awaited at the center of the ring. The two combatants dismounted, and their squires came forward. Roth’s bore with him a pair of finely crafted rapiers.

  “You may choose your blade first,” Roth said, his smile confident.

  Borne accepted one of the rapiers, then tested its balance with a slash that came menacingly close to Roth’s right ear.

  The Nelvor’s smile vanished, and he snatched up his own weapon. “That’s the nearest your sword will come to me this day.”

  While they waited for the signal to turn and cross swords, Borne sought out Maura in the still crowd. Her cheeks were shining with tears, but the smile she sent him was radiant. He hoped she could read in his eyes the depth of his love and gratitude. If he was to die this day, at least it would be as a whole man—a man who had at last found the courage to risk giving his heart completely. Along with this joy, he carried with him the blessings of Taqui-Rash and Alima Nina, all that he’d learned under the patronage of the generous-hearted Lord Heptorious and the training of Latour, and the spirit of his brothers, Mir and Cole.

  Cole. Borne’s blood burned hot, armed as he was now with the bitter truth of his friend’s murder, but he quelled the resurgence of his rage. Today he was fighting for stakes so much higher than quenching his own personal thirst for vengeance. Indeed, if Master Morgan was to be believed—and Borne very much believed him—the preservation of the Known World rested on Fynn Konigur’s ascension to the Einhorn Throne. And to achieve this end, Borne had to emerge the victor of this trial against Roth.

  A horn blared, and the two men faced one another. At once, Roth pivoted toward Borne, swinging his weapon in a lightning-fast arc. Borne sprang back as he parried the strike, then was forced to retreat further as Roth executed a series of slashes at blurring speed. Under this punishing advance, Borne could do no more than block the blows. The two blades sang as the Nelvor swung first right, then left, then jerked his sword up, slicing through Borne’s tunic.

  Borne felt the warmth of his blood welling up under the padded cloth, and a woman’s cry rang out.

  He was forced to give more ground as Roth came at him again, but this time when the bigger man lunged, Borne spun away and swung his sword up on Roth’s exposed side. Roth recoiled, then danced forward to deliver his next blow, which Borne blocked with a daring counter-strike that forced the Nelvor once more into retreat.

  Borne closed in with a thrust, but Roth set it aside with the flat of his blade and struck back with its edge. Sidestepping, Borne lunged again, forcing Roth’s rapier high and bringing them so close Borne could see the beating pulse in his opponent’s throat.

  With a roar of fury, the Nelvor grabbed Borne’s shoulder and shoved him away, then slashed at him as Borne stumbled back and fell to one knee. Borne had just a fraction of a second to throw up his blade in time to repel Roth’s savage follow-through. As Roth lunged again, Borne rolled away, the Nelvor’s hungry blade driving into the space he’d just vacated.

  But Borne landed on his back, and Roth closed in with a triumphant growl, his blade raised over his head. As it descended, severing the air, Borne twisted and kicked out his legs to scissor Roth’s knees. His leg-lock brought the Nelvor crashing down on top of him, and Borne seized the opportunity to slam his knee up, hard, into Roth’s groin. Groaning with pain, Roth rolled off him, then staggered to his feet.

  A dagger had materialized in his left hand.

  A gasp rose up from the assembled lords at this breach of the rules of combat. But Borne merely laughed as he rose as well. “How very predictable.”

  Roth began to circle him, and when he closed in in a rush, Borne was ready. He grabbed hold of Roth’s wrist and thrust his rapier up to meet the Nelvor’s own. Steel clashed against steel, and Roth came at him again, the Nelvor’s teeth set in a lurid grin as he cut hard and fast, driving Borne slowly but steadily back.

  He felt the bite of Roth’s blade in his forearm, and saw the light of victory blaze in the Nelvor’s pale eyes. But Borne anticipated the next thrust—this one aimed at his heart. He parried it deftly, then leaned into the block, binding Roth’s blade and turning his wrist.

  Roth’s sword spun out of his hand into the air, and in the split second it took for the shock of his disarming to register, the tip of Borne’s sword was at his throat.

  “Now,” Borne said, “drop the knife.”

  The disbelief in Roth’s eyes was replaced by fury.

  As the two men faced one another, their chests heaving, their gazes locked, a murmur rose up from the crowd and the sound of running footsteps brought Fynn and Halla to Borne’s side.

  “One of the Tribus is coming,” Halla said. “Finish the bastard off before he gets here.”

  “Wait!” cried Fynn. “If I send you into exile, Lord Roth, would you swear never to return to the Isle, or to take arms against her?”

  Before the Nelvor could answer, the shrouded Tribus member reached his side. He placed a hand on Roth’s shoulder. “The young man has made you a generous offer. You must drop the blade, my son.”

  Borne’s sword was still at the Nelvor’s throat. “You heard him.”

  Slowly, Roth opened his hand and let the blade fall.

  Borne lowered the point of his rapier and stepped back. “Now,” he said, steel in his voice, “you mentioned something earlier about kneeling, as I recall. My king shows you great lenience, so before you accept it, let all present witness your concession of the Einhorn Throne to Fynn Konigur, its rightful occupant.”

  When Roth didn’t move, the shrouded man spoke again, “Once it is over, my son, all must honor the outcome.”

  The Nelvor slowly sank to one knee, his golden head bowed. In the next instant, a handful of grit flew into Borne’s face. Blinded, Borne lurched backward, and Halla’s cry coincided with a stabbing pain in his heart. With trembling hands, he found the hilt of Roth’s dagger buried in his chest, just before his legs buckled under him.

  Chapter 50

  Maura

  The physikers had done all they could, but to no avail. Borne lay in fitful sleep, his breaths shallow, his skin the color of marble.

  From the far side of the bed, Maura viewed the masters’ bleak expressions with dread, and she slipped her hand into Whit’s as Master Tergin made his pronouncement.

  “The blade missed his heart,” he said, moving away from the bed and drawing them with him. “But there’s something else at work here.” He met Maura’s eyes briefly, perhaps recalling their first curt meeting at her late uncle’s beside, before exchanging a silent look with Whit.

  Maura shook her head. “I don’t understand. Are you saying there’s magic involved?”

  “It isn’t magic,” Whit said gravely. “I would know.”

  Master Yonnik, the younger physiker, bowed his head. “I’m sure you would, my lord. We fear there must have been poison on King Roth’s dagger.”

  Maura’s hand flew to her lips.

  “Where is the blade?” Whit demanded. “I would examine it.”

  “It isn’t here, my lord,” Master Yonnik replied. “After we drew it out…” He looked down at his clasped hands.

  “I ordered it disposed of.” Master Tergin took a quick step back when he saw the expression on Whit’s face. “Master Yonnik,” the old man added hurriedly. “Can you try to locate the servant who attended us here? I don’t recall his name… or for that matter…” He paled.
r />   “You’d never seen him before? Is that what you were going to say?” Whit looked as if he might strike the man, but then a low groan came from the bed.

  Maura rushed to Borne’s side. “Hush, my love,” she murmured, taking up one of his hands. It was cold, so cold, yet his brow was damp and feverish. “You must rest and get well.” She choked back a sob, then looked back at Master Tergin. “What can we do for him?”

  The physiker raised his empty palms to the heavens. “We can pray, my lady.”

  Whit made a sound of disgust. “You,” he said to Master Yonnik, “come with me. We need to find that knife.”

  After Whit had swept the younger man from the room, the older physiker lingered. As the silence lengthened, he muttered, “I was only following my orders.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Maura said.

  Master Tergin lifted his chin. “I speak of the melia berries I administered to your late uncle, King Urlion.”

  Maura wondered what had prompted him to raise this long-ago bone of contention between them.

  “You never revealed whose orders, “ she said at last.

  “Why, the Tribus’s.”

  Maura rose to face him. “No one but Urlion ever spoke with his Tribus members.”

  “No one except Master Morgan.” Master Tergin’s tone held a note of slyness now. “Perhaps it was his idea to recommend this treatment for King—”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment!” Maura retorted. “You took an oath, as a physiker, to do no harm to those you treat. If you’re seeking absolution, you can save your breath, master.” She drew a deep one of her own to calm herself.

  Anger lit the old physiker’s eyes. “If there is nothing else you require,” he said stiffly, “I will take my leave. I will pray for the soul of your… friend. May his Leap be peaceful.”

  Get out! Maura wanted to shout, hearing the insincerity in his voice. Instead she turned her back on him in cold silence.

  When the door closed behind him, she returned to Borne and lay her cheek against his icy hand. “Please don’t leave me, my love,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “We only just found one another. And now I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

  She couldn’t help but wonder what might have transpired between them if she’d returned his kiss in that little secret garden in Dorf. Would he have come to Fernsehn and asked permission to court her? Would they already be wed, perhaps with a child on the way? The image of a small, golden-haired boy with a dimpled smile flitted through her mind, and she felt her heart break for what would now never come to pass.

  Through the long vigil she kept at his bedside, thoughts of what might have been continued to plague her. If she hadn’t gone in search of Dal, Borne would have likely died in the meadow after Grinner stabbed him. He would have never gone to Drinnkastel and met her brother on the night of Dal’s death. Perhaps then Dal would still be alive.

  No matter what choices we make, she thought, there will always be loss.

  But this was one she didn’t think she could bear.

  Turning Borne’s hand in hers, she stroked his long, elegant fingers and brought her lips to his palm. “I’m here, my love,” she murmured, and prayed he knew this. Then she brushed his damp hair from his brow and began to softly sing.

  Lu lu li lu li lah leh

  sweet child, lay down

  your tousled head

  and I’ll sing of clouds

  sailing ’neath your bed.

  Chapter 51

  Morgan

  The elves’ misery wrenched at Morgan’s heart. It had been six days since Celaidra had cast the wizard below the earth to join these fair folk, and while he experienced a growing melancholy, the elves could barely rouse themselves from their lassitude to eat or drink. The fae had fared no better, having worn themselves out flying at the cleft in the cavern ceiling, only to be repeatedly rebuffed by whatever magic Celaidra had used to seal it. Morgan feared for these creatures of light and air in this dark and dreary place.

  The wizard had scoured every crevice and seam of the Unseelie Court’s former prison seeking a way out—and had found none. Now, leaning back against the cold stone, he closed his eyes to the mournful faces around him, but he couldn’t banish his guilt. If not for him, these gentle folk wouldn’t have fallen to this fate. Had he trusted his instincts and challenged Celaidra when he first suspected her leanings, elven songs and music would still be filling Mithralyn’s bowers with gaiety and light. Instead, Morgan had heeded the elven sorceress’s advice to stay away from Drinnkastel—and in hindsight, he couldn’t help but feel it was that choice that had led all of them here.

  He had failed the elves, and they were not the only victims of his ineptitude. He’d failed to protect the young dragonfast, he’d failed to properly support and nurture Whit’s incredible talent, and now, in Drinnglennin’s hour of need, he’d failed to honor his last promise to Urlion. In foolishly falling prey to Celaidra’s trap, he’d abandoned Fynn and all who followed him.

  His only crumb of comfort was that they’d likely all be better off without him.

  It seemed a cruel but fitting punishment that he would never know what became of them now. He would end his days in this dreary cavern, tending to the dying elves. If the fae survived him, Tarna would see him laid to rest, and perhaps one day, she and her folk would find their way back to the world above.

  With a sigh, Morgan struggled to his feet and went to seek Elvinor, whose queen was swiftly failing. He found the royal pair haloed by a thin shaft of light streaming from far above, Ystira cradled in Elvinor’s arms. The queen was ghostly white, and her eyes had the faraway look Morgan had seen before of those approaching the Leap. Not wishing to disturb them in their anguish, he started to turn away, but Ystira stirred, coming back from wherever she’d been.

  “Join us, master,” she whispered.

  Morgan lowered himself to the cave floor beside them, and Ystira laid her cold fingers on his. “I sense your grief is great, master. You must have no regrets.”

  Her compassion, in these, her final hours, was nearly Morgan’s undoing, and he had to blink back sudden tears.

  “It has been a good life,” Ystira murmured, “as you too will remember.” Her eyes fluttered closed.

  So as not to dishonor the queen’s kind intention, Morgan allowed his mind to open to the distant past, when he’d been a lad chasing a lolloping brown puppy through tall grass… Shadow, that was his name, dead now over a century. How he’d loved that hound. The scent of horse and hay in his father’s barn, where it had been Morgan’s job to soothe the horses brought in to have their hooves filed and shod. The feeling of wonder that had filled him near to bursting the day he first discovered his magic, and again the day when Master Audric arrived at their croft and offered to mentor him. The guilty relief he’d felt knowing then that he wouldn’t have to follow in his father’s footsteps and spend his days slaving over a hot forge. His secret pride when he was selected, over the old wizard, to join King Owain’s Tribus.

  It had been a good life. Until…

  Smoke. How it had nearly choked him as he raced through the Alithineum’s great brass doors, the inferno roaring in his ears as he tried to rescue that one book among the thousands in its fiery maw, only to find the ancient tome gone.

  His desolation when, in a cruel twist of fate, he was accused of setting the fire himself. Although the charge could not be proven, suspicion had clung to him ever since. And when in his arrogance he attempted to clear his name once and for all, instead he lost his powers, his position on the Tribus, and the woman he loved.

  And then, many years later, after he’d come to terms with the ruin of his dreams, Leif had come along to bring some brightness into his life. And now that ebullient boy, too, was no more.

  A tremor ran through the ground beneath the old wizard, and he opened
his eyes to meet Elvinor’s alarmed gaze. The elf had felt the shaking, too. Other elves and fae came streaming toward them, crying out in fear, helping along those who could not stand alone.

  The cave floor shuddered once again, and Morgan knew his life would soon come to an end in an avalanche of stone. To his surprise, he felt not fear, but a strange peace that blanketed him in its warmth.

  For at least he would die among friends.

  A stillness followed the reverberations, and as they waited for the next shock, Aenissa began to sing, her pure, silvery voice dispelling the fearful gloom.

  Against the shade of winter’s pall

  On darkest days, we sing,

  to fill Mithralyn’s merry halls

  so round it music rings.

  We chase away the shadows grim,

  our wild hearts filled with light

  So strike the tambour, strum the lute

  Let us make merry tonight!

  One by one, other voices joined in, until the cavern did indeed ring with song. Leave it to elves, Morgan mused, a smile curving his lips, to bring beauty even to such a bleak place as this, in the final hour of their Age.

  As the last note faded, another violent tremor rocked the cavern. This time, Morgan realized the shaking wasn’t coming from below. And no sooner had he come to this conclusion than the cave wall burst asunder, sending debris hurtling in every direction.

  When the dust settled, an elderly elf with nut-brown skin stood in the gaping hole, clutching a staff in one hand and attempting to brush the grime from his beard with the other.

  “Egydd!”

  Morgan’s delighted exclamation was lost in the joyous cries of elves and fae rushing forward to greet their savior.

  When at last the clamor died down enough for Egydd to be heard, the old mage said, “If you please, good folk, I would like to greet my king and queen.”