by K. C. Julius
Lord Marlin welcomed them graciously enough, but it was clear he was ill at ease, and he escorted them in silence to his main hall, where his allied countrymen had already assembled. Roth stood front and center, surrounded by the lords of Tyrrencaster, Lorendale, and Nelvorboth. Lord Vetch was also there, along with the petite woman who had been identified to Fynn as Princess Grindasa, the Nelvor’s mother.
All weapons were sheathed, but tension all but crackled in the air. Fynn waited until his own liege lords were ranged around him, then made the first move, taking care to keep his tone even, as Aetheor had always done when addressing overly excited men.
“My lords,” he said, “you asked us here today to parlay. To what purpose?”
To his dismay, it was one of his own supporters, Sir Nidden, who called out in answer. “The Nelvor has the audacity to show his face after his dishonorable attack on your champion, my lord. I’d say our purpose here is clear. He should be clapped in irons, along with Tyrrencaster and Lorendale.”
Lord Vetch slid his sword from its scabbard. “You’ll not lay hands on our anointed High King, traitor!”
Lord Grathin slid his own blade free. “Fynn Konigur is the rightful heir to the Einhorn Throne!”
“My lords!” Lord Marlin demanded. “Put up your blades—I will have no blood shed in my hall!”
When his lords and Vetch continued to scowl at one another, their host crossed to stand between them. “Put up!”
Vetch looked to Roth, then, receiving a curt nod, sheathed his sword.
“My lord,” said Fynn, addressing the Nelvor directly, “we gave you, in good faith, the documents proving I’m Urlion Konigur’s lawful son. Since you refused to abdicate nonetheless, we agreed to decide the matter by a duel, which you lost. You then used treachery against the man who defeated you, and he now lies poised to make the Leap. There may still be a chance to save him, and yourself, if you tell us what poison was on your blade.”
“Poison! More foul play?” cried Grathin, amidst echoing shouts of outrage. Princess Grindasa spewed forth a stream of Albrenian, to which Halla responded in kind. It didn’t require much imagination to determine they weren’t exchanging compliments.
The clamor died down when a door near the hearth opened and three tall, shrouded figures entered the hall. The Tribus. When they reached Roth’s side, one of them wrenched off her shroud, provoking a collective gasp. Not only was her revelation against the Law, but it was also clear she was of elvenkind. The woman’s beauty was that of legend, though it had a cold, otherworldly quality.
Whit strode two paces toward her. “You of the Tribus have much to answer for. What sort of servants to the throne are you, to continue to support this murderer?”
The sorceress narrowed her eyes at Whit. “Cardenstowe, isn’t it? Morgan’s protégé?” She started to lift her hand, but the tallest Tribus member caught her wrist and murmured something.
“I disagree,” she retorted, pulling away. “There was never a better time, Audric! Now that he is coming, we can give free rein to our powers.” She tore off her companion’s shroud, revealing him to be a very old man.
“You will all bear witness,” the sorceress announced. “We, the members of the Tribus, shall no longer live in the shadows.” She turned to the third of their council. “Unveil yourself, Selka! It is time we are released from our seclusion.”
Roth, however, was frowning. “You can’t just decide that on your own,” he protested. “You’re sworn to serve me for life, and it’s for me to set the terms of that service.”
“Do not fear that we will abandon you, my son,” said Audric. “I promise you will remain on the throne. I will always be at your side to help you rule wisely.”
Roth raised his chin. “You make it sound like you would be regent, Master Audric. I don’t need your help to rule my realm.”
“Every son needs a father’s advice. Since I am yours…”
Roth gave a choked laugh. “You are what?”
The petite woman at Roth’s side bristled. “How… how dare you!” she sputtered. “You shall burn for this outrageous lie, master!”
Master Audric spread his hands before him. “‘Heart of my heart,’” he crooned, in a low, altered voice, “‘tonight we shall make a child who will reign over this land in the years to come.’ Do you not recall these words, dear lady?”
The queen went deathly pale as she backed away from the old wizard. “How—how could you know those words? They were spoken to me by Urlion, in the privacy of his bedchamber…”
Master Audric lifted his hand and ran it slowly over his face. Grindasa’s horrified cry was echoed by the lords around her as the wizard transformed his appearance into that of a handsome, dark-haired man.
Fynn gasped as well, for it was like looking in the mirror at his future self. He realized that this was the face of his dead father.
“Lazdac promised me Drinnglennin, you see,” Audric said, “if I could get my heir on the throne.” He turned from Roth to Fynn. “As to the poison on the knife, there is no antidote. It was actually meant to be used on you.”
As Fynn digested this, Roth gaped at the old man. “But… but you can’t be my father. I’m sprung from the seed of kings!”
Halla smirked. “It seems not.”
“If Master Audric is indeed your father,” said Whit, “this disqualifies you as heir to the Einhorn Throne.”
“On the contrary,” Celaidra countered. “Strigori blood runs through Roth Nelvor’s veins, making him eminently qualified.”
It didn’t seem possible that Roth’s mother could look any more horrified, but at the mention of the long-reviled wizard’s name, her mouth twisted.
Master Morgan, who had until then stood hidden at the back of the Konigur entourage, came to Fynn’s side. “Save Lazdac,” he said, “no Strigori is known to be living.”
“You!” Celaidra hissed, retreating a step. “How is it possible?”
The wizard called out a warning as Celaidra hurled a killing curse across the room in a blood-red jet. With a sharp crack, Whit’s staff spun out of his hands and skidded out of his reach. The sorceress curled her fist to cast another spell, but Whit was faster, and in response to his green blast of light she was forced to employ a magical shield instead. As Whit’s magic struck it, a shock wave reverberated through the chamber, bowling over the frightened spectators, upending benches, and knocking tapestries from the walls.
Celaidra’s dark eyes widened, and she whirled toward Master Morgan. “He can work magic without his staff, and knows the Hud Twyll? I underestimated you, Mortimer. Still, this callow youth is no match for our combined might. Audric, Selka—together!”
There was another flash of vermillion light, and Fynn raised his arm against its blinding glare. When he lowered it, he was amazed to see that Whit was still standing. Master Audric, however, lay sprawled on the floor, his face once more his own, and the third Tribus member, her shroud now cast away to reveal a raven-haired sorceress, had her staff pointed at the old wizard.
“Enough!” she cried. “You’ve bullied and blackmailed me all these years, Audric. If what Celaidra claims is true—that you are Strigori—then I shall do all in my power to see that you don’t succeed!”
Celaidra’s face paled. With a roar of fury, she flung a spell at the door, and great splinters of wood cartwheeled against the walls. In an instant the sorceress vanished, and Audric hurled himself forward to grasp Roth’s arm, then cast his shadow over them and disappeared as well.
“No!” Grindasa fell to her knees with a wail. “My son!”
Lord Vetch gently lifted her to her feet, while all around them the lords of Drinnglennin began to shout.
“Silence!” Master Morgan thundered. He was instantly obeyed. “My lords, we have been informed that Lazdac Strigori’s fleet of ships has made landfall on the Lorendale coast. Lady Selka!
”
The sorceress, who had been moving toward the door, froze.
“I would ask that you remain here with us, my lady. Do you, perchance, have in your possession the marriage certificate attesting to Urlion Konigur and Georgiana Fitz-Pole’s union?”
The sorceress’s eyes widened. Wordlessly she withdrew a scroll from her sleeve and gave it to Master Morgan.
The old wizard looked around at the assemblage. “It’s time we lay aside our differences, my lords,” he said, “and unite in common cause. Any who are not prepared to swear allegiance to Fynn Konigur, Urlion Konigur’s legal heir and Drinnglennin’s rightful king, may leave with your lives this night, but your titles and lands will be forfeit, and you and your families must depart the Isle. You must choose now—Will you serve Fynn Konigur, Urlion Konigur’s chosen heir?”
The lords who had supported the Nelvor king exchanged glances in the uneasy silence that followed. Then a lean man with a pointed black beard stalked toward Fynn. Halla’s hand slid to the hilt of her sword, but the man unbuckled his sword belt, dropped to one knee, and laid his weapon at Fynn’s feet.
“Lord Lewin DuBleres of Tyrrencaster, my lord. I did not countenance Roth Nelvor’s perfidy after the duel. Because of this, and now, knowing his antecedents, I can no longer, in good faith, follow him. I promise, by the light of the Elementa, that I will now, and for all time henceforth, serve you faithfully, and I pledge my sword and the swords of my vassals to protect you from harm.”
Fynn raised Lord DuBleres to his feet. “I gladly accept your oath, Lord Lewin. May you live long in service to Drinnglennin.”
One by one, other lords came to kneel and swear fealty to Fynn. When Lord Belnoth of Nelvorboth arose from his pledge, Fynn clasped the sandy-haired knight’s arm. “I don’t know if you’re aware that you’ve already done me a great service, my lord. You rescued someone dear to me—a young woman whom you escorted to Bodiaer Castle.”
Lord Belnoth’s face lit up at the mention of Teca. “I’m happy to hear it, my lord.”
Still, several Nelvorbothian and Lorendale lords hung back, and Fynn sensed they were waiting to see what Lord Vetch would do. With a face of stone, the Nelvor’s former Lord Commander walked slowly over to stand before him.
“I don’t expect mercy,” Vetch declared proudly.
“But you will receive it nonetheless,” Fynn replied evenly. “I wouldn’t wish eight months in Toldarin’s gaol on anyone, but because you put me there, I found a best friend and discovered the truth about my parents. So, even though you didn’t mean to, you too did me a service.”
“My lord is generous,” Whit remarked, his eyes on Vetch as cold as steel, “considering this man and Roth sent me to kill you. What do you choose, sir? Will you bend the knee to your rightful king or go into exile?”
The commander’s stern expression did not alter. “I’ve served Nelvorboth all my life, and since Lord Nandor made the Leap, my fealty has been to his widow, Quee—Princess Grindasa and her son. But if Roth is not a Nelvor, I will serve him no more.” Slowly, he dropped to one knee and bent his head.
“I wouldn’t trust him,” Whit muttered.
But Fynn remembered that Aetheor had once told him to keep his enemies close. “I accept your oath of service, Lord Vetch. Please rise.”
After that, the remaining lords came forward. When Lord Nolan rose from his oath, Fynn was happy to see him go to his sister, before whom he knelt again to beg her forgiveness. Halla pulled her brother to his feet, although she punched him—hard—in the shoulder afterward.
Only Roth’s mother hung stubbornly back, but Fynn had no intention of making the distraught woman kneel to him.
Master Morgan signaled to a young squire, who came forward with a silken bundle.
“Gentlemen,” the wizard called out, “in the little time we have before we must fight for the future of our Isle, I suggest that we formally declare Fynn Konigur our High King.”
A roar of approval rose to the rafters from Fynn’s side of the hall as Master Morgan drew a ruby-studded crown from the sack.
“Our wizard knows how to seize an advantage,” Halla murmured approvingly to Fynn. “The wily old fox thinks of everything.”
Master Morgan turned to Fynn. “My lord, will you kneel before your people?”
Fynn swallowed hard. “I will.” He dropped to his knees.
The wizard held the crown over Fynn’s head and intoned, “Fynn Konigur, son of Urlion Konigur and Georgiana Fitz-Pole, his lawfully wedded wife, will you promise to govern all people of Drinnglennin justly, wisely, and equally?”
Fynn experienced a sudden pang of doubt. He knew nothing about ruling. But from the corner of his eye, he caught Grinner’s firm thumbs-up, and he straightened his shoulders.
“I will.”
The wizard lowered the crown, and as the weight settled on his head, Fynn rose and accepted the jeweled scepter that had also come out of the sack. Then the wizard stepped back and lifted his arms high, his voice ringing through the hall as he proclaimed, “My lords! I hereby present unto you Fynn Konigur, your undoubted High King. What say you?”
“Long live the High King!”
“Long live Fynn Konigur!”
Fynn’s cheeks burned as more cheering ensued, and he blushed even more when he held up his hand and a hush fell over the hall. In his mind’s eye, he saw Aetheor standing outside the Kaupanger Inn, the yarl’s glass raised after Fynn’s leap over the Midsommer coals. Emboldened by the memory of his one-time father’s pride, Fynn addressed his subjects as their king for the first time.
“The man who raised me always said that if you want to test a man’s character, give him power. It isn’t something I ever expected for myself—nor wanted, for that matter. But now that you’ve entrusted me with it, I’ll do my best to be worthy of it. I swear to honor the laws by which the realms have agreed to abide, and to strive in all things to be just and fair. I’ve got a lot to learn, I know, and I’ll expect you to let me know if I fail in any of my duties.”
Fynn handed the scepter to the wizard and lifted the crown from his brow.
“Now, my lords,” he declared grimly, “we must prepare to fight—together—for this, our Isle.”
* * *
Back in Drinnkastel, Fynn sat in counsel with Master Morgan, Halla, Whit, and Grinner in the Tribus’s room to review their next steps. The wizard had asked the sorceress Selka to join them as well. Fynn couldn’t help but notice that the hands she clasped before her were bloodless, and she paled when Master Morgan addressed her.
“You did Drinnglennin a great service today, my lady.”
Selka’s expression remained impassive. “We both know I deserve no accolades. I took an oath to serve King Fynn’s father, and instead I betrayed him. I bore Urlion Konigur no love, and with good reason,” she said, and for a moment her dark eyes flashed. “But I’ve carried a heavy burden since the day I broke my pledge to him.” She turned her gaze on Fynn, and he was surprised to see clear regret in it. “You see, I knew all along about Urlion’s marriage to your mother, and also that Georgiana Fitz-Pole was carrying you at the time of her disappearance. Urlion confessed all this to me the night he returned from that fateful procession in the south. He was drunk and maudlin at the time, raving and weeping over his young bride’s death. After I gave him a potion to help him sleep, I went in search of Audric to share this news.” She looked down at her entwined hands. “Audric made me swear never to tell anyone about the marriage. Then he cast his dark spell to make Urlion forget all about it.”
“But why did you agree to this treason?” Master Morgan asked. “Since Georgiana Fitz-Pole was believed to have drowned, what purpose did keeping their union a secret serve? Or the spell for that matter?”
Selka stared straight ahead. “I had no choice.”
“You do now.” A regally dressed dark-haired woman stoo
d on the threshold of the inner door. The lift of her chin reminded Fynn of someone, but he couldn’t place who.
Master Morgan and Halla both rose, then Whit, although it was clear he didn’t recognize the newcomer.
“Princess Asmara,” the old wizard murmured.
For the first time, Selka looked frightened. “Why are you here?” she cried. “Please—I beg you! Go back to your apartments and leave this to me, my lady.”
The princess ignored her, her eyes locked on Fynn as she dropped to her knees. “Your Majesty, I am your father’s sister. I’ve heard you are compassionate and fair-minded, and I pray it is so, for I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.” She glanced over at Selka’s stricken face. “For both of us.”
Fynn rose and held out his hand to her. “For what must I forgive you, Princess?”
She cast another glance at the sorceress, then rose slowly. “We are both to blame for your long exile in Helgrinia. We knew you were in Restaria, and we told no one.”
“You knew?” Whit cried, then turned to Selka. “How? Did you scry for him?”
Master Morgan sank down in his chair. “She didn’t have to,” he said slowly. “They had other, unassailable proof.”
Selka paled.
Asmara gripped Fynn’s hands. “I confess that I hated your father, but that’s not why we kept your existence a secret. The real reason—”
“No!” Selka cried. “Don’t—”
“She did it for me,” Princess Asmara said, tears spilling from her eyes. She released her hold on Fynn and circled the table to where the sorceress stood trembling. Then she took Selka’s face gently between her bejeweled hands and kissed her.
When their lips parted, Asmara faced them all, her head held high. “It wasn’t out of hate that we remained silent. It was out of love.”
She released a long, slow breath, as though a burden had been lifted from her heart.
“I was thirteen when my brother told me he planned to betroth me to Engerrand of Gral—an old, corpulent man. In despair, I ran to Selka, as I had done so often growing up, and begged for her help. She organized for me to take my vows to the goddesses, and then convinced Urlion to let me stay cloistered in the west wing of the castle.” She took up Selka’s hand and held it to her heart. “From then on, she also assumed an alternative identity in the role of my maidservant, so that she could watch over me. She concealed her true identity with a veil and a story of disfigurement.”
