by K. C. Julius
Lady Selka surveyed Whit sternly with her dark, unfathomable eyes. “The rules of the Wizard’s Code are plainly stated. No wizard or sorceress may use magic against a fellow human, save in defense of his own life or of that of his sovereign. At the time of Sir Orvin’s death, Roth Nelvor sat on the Einhorn Throne.” She clasped her hands before her on the table. “However, I understand Lord Whit never swore allegiance to the Nelvor. In fact, my lord, your actions leading up to and at the time of the event had already established that you had declared for Fynn Konigur. As such, you were within your rights to defend him with magic, since no other means would have prevented his death.”
“Tha’s a fact!” Grinner declared, then covered his mouth again.
“In which case,” Egydd proclaimed heartily, “we must find you… not guilty of magical misconduct.”
Whit looked from one of them to the other, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “Do you mean… my hearing is concluded?”
“And just as well,” Egydd replied tartly, “as we’ve other matters to discuss. A great deal has transpired while you were convalescing.”
To Whit’s astonishment, the council then moved on to the next item of business. Half-fearing that at any moment his reprieve would be snatched away, while at the same time trying to keep an incredulous, giddy grin from spreading across his face, he sat in a daze for some time before he could focus on the conversation.
“We’ve received a report,” Fynn was saying, lifting one of the papers before him, “that the Albrenian armada was set upon by a Helgrin fleet on the Erolin Sea. Well, to be exact, they ran into two Helgrin fleets, one pitted against the other. In the ensuing battle, most of the Albrenian ships were lost. As for the Helgrin factions,” Fynn looked up at Grinner, his eyes aglow, “despite being heavily outnumbered, Jered Aetheorsen emerged victorious against Aksel Styrsen.” He scanned the report again, his expression now bemused. “It says here ‘a coven of witches, riding great black swans,’ came to the Restarians’ aid. The treacherous Aksel was killed, and Jered has since been proclaimed Yarl of Helgrinia.”
Fynn drew a deep breath. “And so—I’ve decided to go to Restaria, to thank Jered for saving the Isle from yet another invasion, and to propose that we sign a treaty ending hostilities between Helgrinia and Drinnglennin. It’s a peace long past due.” He cleared his throat, then turned to Whit. “While I’m away, I want you, Lord Cardenstowe, to serve as regent.”
Whit was certain now that there was something wrong with his hearing. “Me? I hardly know enough to run my own estate, let alone a nation!”
Fynn’s brows shot up. “And you think I do? We may both have Konigur blood running through our veins, my friend, but you’ve at least had the benefit of growing up as a peer of the realm. The other lords look on you with respect.”
“Actually,” Whit admitted, “Halla would be the better choice.”
“I said as much,” Selka declared, her dark eyes flashing, “but Lady Halla and her dragon have chosen to go with the å Livåri to finish off any last drakdaemons still in the Lost Lands and to rescue those of their people still stranded there.”
Whit assumed this meant he was second choice for regent. Once, this might have offended him, but now he found it didn’t matter in the slightest. Nothing mattered now, except that he was not going to be forbidden his magic. The grin that he’d been holding back split his face.
Unfortunately, it was misread as his pleased acceptance of the regency.
“Then it’s settled!” Master Morgan declared, slapping his palms on the table. “Are all in favor?”
“Aye,” said Egydd.
Selka gave Whit a piercing look. “Aye.”
Only Fynn seemed to sense that Whit was still hesitant. “It’ll only be for a few weeks,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice. “Will you accept?”
Whit straightened his shoulders. He had sworn to serve his king.
“I will.”
* * *
“Well, what do you think?”
Jered patted the impressive wall that was halfway laid around Fynn’s old home settlement. Beyond it, stone and brick buildings had replaced the old wooden ones of former Restaria. “The construction’s going well,” he said proudly, “even though we’ve done away with thralls.”
Fynn stopped in his tracks. “No more thralls? That’s wonderful news… but what prompted this?”
Jered appeared to consider the question carefully. “In some ways, you did. After all, your mother would have been a thrall if my father hadn’t claimed her, and then you would have been born one, too.” He gave an incredulous laugh. “Instead, you’ve gone from being the yarl’s bastard to becoming High King of the Isle.”
Fynn laughed. “You’re not the only one who finds it hard to believe.”
They walked on in companionable silence to the courtyard of Jered’s new longhouse, where a sultry woman was supervising three boys hanging out the wash.
“Is she one of the freed thralls?” Fynn asked quietly.
“No,” said Jered, an admiring gleam lighting his eyes. “Emphatically not. Hinata comes from Mazarine.” He dropped his voice. “She’s… she’s a witch, actually, as are most of the women here in Restaria. They appeared out of the blue—literally—on their great swans and helped us defeat Aksel and the Albrenian armada. Without them, we wouldn’t have won the day. After the battle was over, when Hinata and her sisters learned that all our women had been either killed or captured, they asked if they might come back with us here for a time.” He lowered his voice further. “They haven’t promised to stay, but a man can hope. They’re the other reason we no longer keep thralls. One of the conditions the witches set before they’ll consider remaining was to abolish the practice.”
“I heartily approve. What other terms did they require?”
Jered grinned, his eyes caressing Hinata as she handed one of the lads a silken sheath. “Nothing that we didn’t readily agree to.”
Fynn wondered if having boys share in what had always been women’s work was one of these terms, but he didn’t pursue the topic. It was time to do what he’d been putting off since he’d arrived in Helgrinia.
He released a long breath. “I’m grateful, Jered, that there will be peace between our lands. If we had to be enemies—well, I couldn’t bear it, not with you. I know we don’t share any blood ties, but—”
Jered held up his hand. “I regret ever saying that. You’ll always be a brother to me, Fynn.”
His stout avowal made it even harder for Fynn to say what he must. Before he lost courage, he blurted out, “There’s another reason why I had to return to Restaria. I made a vow—a Midsommer’s vow— before Wurl and all those who revel on Cloud Mountain, that I have failed to keep.”
Jered sobered. “I see. Well, it’s not for me to judge you, brother. Only the gods can do that.”
Fynn nodded. “I know. I’m going to the Grove now, and will accept whatever punishment they send me.”
Jered clasped his shoulder. “And I will go with you.”
* * *
The sanctuary was smaller than Fynn remembered, but the great oak at its heart rose up as massive as ever. He dropped to his knees beneath its ice-sheathed branches and bowed his head.
“Oh, Great Wurl, hear me! I’ve come to confess that I failed to keep the vow I swore before all who dwell in the Sky Hall—that I would become the greatest hero the Helgrins have ever known. I seek the gods’ forgiveness, and am prepared to accept whatever punishment I am due.”
He wasn’t sure how long he knelt in the snow, but he was shivering when his brother pulled him to his feet.
“I… I must wait for a sign, Jered.”
“You’ve already received one.” Jered threw his arm around Fynn’s shoulder, patting him to warm him. “Or at least, I did, on your behalf. You didn’t fail, Fynn.”
“But�
��”
“Consider this,” Jered said, turning Fynn toward the river to lead him from the Grove. “Our Flipper, Helgrin-born and bred—and that you were, brother—sailed to the Isle and took the Einhorn Throne.” He slapped Fynn on the back and let out a hearty laugh. “Now I ask you—what greater glory could a Helgrin hero possibly win?”
* * *
“She only started crawling yesterday,” Halla said, “and now I can barely keep up with her.”
She and Vesel squatted beside Alegre on the forest floor, and the boy held out his hands to the baby. “I can keep up with her,” he said. “Come to me, little sister.”
Alegre scrambled over to him, and he scooped her up and held him possessively against his chest.
“I’m not taking her away again,” Halla assured him. “Not any time soon, at least. And when I do, you can always see her whenever you want.”
Vesel smiled down at the baby, and Halla’s heart skipped a beat as Alegre gazed up at him, her glittering eyes reflecting a wisdom beyond her years.
“She’s getting heavy!” Vesel exclaimed, surrendering the baby to Halla once more.
Florian looked up from the dagger he’d been sharpening with a little laugh. “She eats well.” Then his expression turned somber. “We’ll have to find her a new wet-nurse, now that Nuri’s no longer…”
Halla nodded, tears welling in her eyes over the death of the gentle Nuri at Lazdac’s hands. Nuri had been found struck down in the forest, and Halla had no doubt the young woman had died trying to keep Alegre from the dark wizard’s clutches. It was a wonder that the å Livåri’s own baby, Padrain, had survived the attack.
“Come,” Florian said, rising. “The persoga is hot, and we would hear all that transpired in Drinnkastel.”
Vesel plunked down beside Halla and offered his finger to Alegre. “Did the dragons kill all the monsters?”
“No,” Halla replied, sitting back to hold his gaze. “In fact, the drakdaemons were destroyed by a brave army of å Livåri. You can be very proud.”
Vesel puffed out his chest. “Of course I am proud! I am å Livåri!”
When Florian held out a bowl of fragrant stew, Halla gently laid the baby on the ground so she could accept it.
“Will this victory truly change anything for us?” Florian asked quietly, settling beside Halla. “Old habits of mind are like ruts in a muddy track—hard to break free from.”
Halla blew on her persoga, savoring the warmth of it between her hands. “Fynn Konigur has already begun to see that they do. He has named Grinner, an å Livåri, a Guardian of the Isle.” She felt her cheeks grow warm as she added, “And he named me one as well.”
Florian’s dark eyes glowed with pride for her.
A woman could drown in those eyes, Halla thought.
“If our new High King puts such trust in you,” he said, passing her a flask of berry wine, “I can put mine in him.”
Halla felt his eyes on her as she drank.
“Are you really not staying long?” he asked.
“I can’t. I came to bring Alegre back to you, and to see my family before I head for the Lost Lands. You heard… about Nolan?”
Florian nodded. “He suffered the same fate as Nuri. I’m so sorry, Halla.”
Halla rested her chin on her knees. It was still hard for her to believe that her brother was gone. Their mother was taking his loss terribly hard, and held Halla accountable for it. Now that Lady Inis knew Halla had no intention of marrying Whit, she held her daughter at an icy distance. She’d inquired only once about her granddaughter, and upon learning of the arrangements Halla had made for Alegre’s care, had not asked again.
“Now that your brother Gray is Lord of Lorendale,” Florian said, “will we still be able to camp here in the warm months? As I recall, you and he aren’t close…”
“You needn’t worry as far as Gray’s concerned. He’s given me his word your people won’t be bothered, and my brother Pearce took pains to remind him that I’m now dragonfast, should Gray be tempted to go back on his promise.”
Alegre rolled over, and Halla set aside her bowl to lift the baby in her arms and bury her nose in her fiery, silken hair. “She’s growing so fast! I already feel like I’ve missed so much. Is she a happy babe?”
Florian stroked Alegre’s cheek. “She’s a quiet one, but as clever as clever can be. When a tale’s being told, those brilliant eyes never leave the teller’s face, and I swear she understands every word. One time she cried when Nuri tried to put her to bed before Menowyn had finished the story of Mataya and her birds, and she hardly ever cries.” He dropped his voice. “Sometimes, when she looks at me, I can almost believe she’s reading my thoughts.”
Halla’s brows shot up. “Oh, dear gods! I fear she might take after my cousin Whit then. If that proves to be the case, I suppose he’ll have to instruct her in the responsible use of her powers at some point.” She lifted Alegre over her head and gave her a little toss in the air, making her squeal. “But let’s see she has a good few years of wild abandon in the woods before her uncle gets her down to his books.”
* * *
Borne woke to the sharp, green scent of pine. Through the open window, sunlight glinted off the frozen lake, and a wood dove cooed with mournful insistence from the yew.
He closed his eyes as the door creaked open, sending a slight draft over his face. A cool hand rested on his brow, followed by the brush of warm lips. When he opened his eyes again, his heart swelled at the sight of Maura, holding her brindled hair away so as not to engulf him in it.
He captured an alluring tendril that had escaped her grasp and gently tugged her down to kiss her once more.
“Now have I supped on ambrosia,” he whispered, “the honeyed nectar of the gods, and can die a happy man.”
Maura slipped down beside him on the bed. “No one is dying today.”
Dark smudges of grief still shadowed her eyes, and Borne suspected his physical wounds would heal more swiftly than those of her spirit. He’d brought her to Bergsehn, just over the mountains from where she’d grown up, hoping the familiar vistas of their childhood would help her broken heart mend.
Shifting on the pillows, he pulled her closer into the cradle of his arms, and they lay listening to the wind whispering through the branches of the firs.
“You had a visitor last night,” Maura murmured, “but he wouldn’t let me wake you.”
“A visitor?”
“Lord Heptorious came by. He left you a message—let me make sure I have it right: ‘Tell the lad that if he can forgive an old, gouty fool,’” she said in a gruff voice, “‘we’d very much like to see him at Windend, once he’s feeling up to it.’”
Borne’s throat closed as a sudden surge of emotion rose in his breast.
Maura, as ever attuned to his feelings, lifted his fingers to her lips. “He regrets ever having held you responsible for Cole’s death, and he told me this even though he doesn’t yet know the truth about Roth and Lawson’s part in it, which he should hear from you. In any case, he came in peace. The question is, my love, have you made peace with yourself?”
Not trusting himself to speak, Borne nodded, then laid his cheek against her hair.
She nestled closer. “His visit prompted me to go to Fernsehn early this morning… to make my own amends. But I was too late.” She released a shaky sigh. “Daera… my mother… died in childbirth shortly after I left Dorf.”
Borne brushed away a tear running down her freckled cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
“Before she made the Leap, Mother confessed everything to my father. My papa.” She turned her head to smile up at Borne through her tears. “He says I am still to call him this, no matter my bloodlines, and that I will always be the daughter of his heart. He introduced me as a sister to the little twins Daera delivered—Eryn and Dilan, who are as like as two puppies i
n a litter.” She gave a little choked laugh. “They led me around the farm and took me to see the lapins, then giggled with delight when the sweet creatures greeted me with hums and purrs.”
Her tone grew serious. “Papa says I’m to bring you over to Fernsehn tomorrow. It seems he remembers talk around the pub.” She propped herself up on her elbow so she could look at him, and lifted a faintly disapproving eyebrow. “You’ve quite the reputation in these parts as a favorite among the ladies.”
“That’s all in the past,” Borne protested. “My heart belongs to only one lady now, the fairest of the fair.”
“Flatterer,” she sniffed, but she pressed her hand against his chest as if to seal his words. “I wish I’d gotten a chance,” she said quietly, “before my mother died, to tell her I’ve come to understand about her and Storn Konigur… about how easy it can be to confuse love with a longing to belong somewhere. I nearly made the same mistake.”
“But you didn’t. For which I’m grateful every day.”
Keeping her in the circle of his arms, Borne sat up. Outside the window, tattered clouds were sweeping over the lake swift as swallows, casting their shadows like phantom ships skimming across the dark ice.
“We’re lucky with the weather,” Maura said. “If we’re to make the summit of Amueke in time for the spring solstice, we’ll need to leave in two days’ time. Are you sure you’re fit for the climb?”
“I’m sure.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Maura added, “that we should go to Mithralyn in the summer. We could ask Lord Heptorious along too, if he’s up for making the journey. Maybe my father and the twins will come as well.” She rested her cheek against his, and he felt the curve of her smile. “Just think how excited my little brothers will be to meet the dragons!”
* * *
“Wooohooo!” Leif spread his arms wide as Rhiandra soared over the Mynnyd Mountains heading for Amueke, the Isle’s highest peak. “Do you remember our first flight?” he called to the dragoness. “It was the first time I saw this range from overhead, right after I’d completed my binding.”
