by K. C. Julius
“Indeed, I do,” Rhiandra replied. “It is a flight I will never forget.”
Leif looked back to make sure Syrene and Elvinor, with Naga, Franir, Diona, and Lada, the golden dragon’s hatchlings, still followed in their wake. Ystira and Isolde flew to the bluewing’s left, while Aenissa and Una, and Frandelas and Ciann, brought up the rear of their dragon fleet.
As Amueke rose up to meet them, Leif spied a group of riders making their way along a serpentine trail toward the ring of standing stones set on its peak. Awaiting them all was Emlyn, crouching by the round bronze-plated tomb at the circle’s center, with Halla at her side. They had apparently been the first to arrive.
At Maura’s request, Ilyria had been lain to rest here, so that her bindling might look to the mountain whenever her thoughts turned to the beloved friend who had passed from this world. Today, at the turning of the year, the dragonfast were gathering to say their final farewells.
But it seemed not only the dragons and their dragonfast had made the journey, for Leif counted four additional riders in Maura’s company. One of them had to be Borne, and Leif recognized Master Morgan’s tall figure astride his trusty pony Holly. Leif felt certain he knew who the others must be as well.
The dragons circled into their descent, and came to ground one by one in a flurry of fresh snow. As Leif slid off Rhiandra, Halla ran to greet him.
“The bronze work is beautiful,” she said, embracing him. “The elves have captured Ilyria’s likeness magnificently.”
The dragons, elves, and mortals gathered in a circle round the gravesite. At Leif’s side, Halla bowed her head as the High King, Whit, and Grinner joined the ring to honor the bronze dragoness who had made the greatest sacrifice of all to protect the Isle.
Isolde, as the eldest, spoke for all of them.
Leif knew Maura had learned only some of the Old Tongue, so he translated the dragoness’s words softly for her.
“Ilyria, our sister, was the best of us. She braved the barriers that had kept dragonkind in grim exile for so long, to bind again with a mortal. Only Rhiandra, the youngest among us, recognized the wisdom of Ilyria’s decision and fled Belestar with her. We who remained have much to regret in not heeding our sister’s pleas, for not doing so created the great chasm between us. Now that she is gone, she leaves behind her a void that will never be filled. But we can honor her memory by vowing, here and now, to strengthen and hold fast to the ties between dragon, elves, and mankind, as in the days of the Before.”
Isolde’s siblings spoke in unison to complete the eulogy: “May our sister soar in bright skies beyond.”
Syrene broke the long silence that followed. “Let us not forget how terribly different things might have turned out, had Leif and Maura not had the courage to make the first bindings.”
“Our friend Master Morgan shares the credit,” Rhiandra said. “It was he who first urged us on this course.”
The old wizard bowed his head. “It is to all our benefit that the wisdom of dragons has endured. May we never again see dark days like those that threatened to drive dragonkind and elves beyond the Known World.” His eyes swept over the gathered mourners. “We have made a good beginning, but we must remain ever vigilant against the ignorance from which fear and superstition arise. Each of us must do our part to serve as links in this chain of deep, abiding friendship, so that it can never again be broken.”
Maura’s hand crept into Leif’s, and he turned to see her smiling through her tears.
Then she lifted her chin and began to sing, her high, clear notes as bright as the scales of the bronze dragon for whom they grieved. And one by one, the dragons of Drinnglennin lifted their heads to release their fiery breath into the sky—silver, white, sea and forest green, gold and blue.
* * *
“On darkest days, we sing against
the dearth of winter’s light
reviving summer’s memory
with merry music bright.”
Avis scattered a handful of grain on the floor of the coop as she sang. “’Twon’t be long ’til spring now, Gertrude,” she told the hen clucking at her feet. “The birds were chattering this morning like tittle-tattles at market, and there’s buds sprouting on the old apple tree.”
She couldn’t recall how the rest of the song went, so she hummed a few more bars. “Lira used to sing that—do you remember, Gertie? She taught Pren to play it for her.” Then she sighed. “I always wish I’d asked her where she’d learned it.”
She supposed she should see if anyone in Malgly’s family wanted the old lute. Her neighbor had been a good friend to her these past years, helping with the heavy work around the croft. There were times she’d been tempted to share with him her fears about what had really happened to Leif, but she just couldn’t bear to have Malgly, or anyone else, think ill of her grandson.
Avis took up her staff from against the shed wall, then shuffled across the crusted snow to the well. She dipped a ladleful of water from the bucket and drank deeply. The cold of it made her teeth ache, but at least she still had them all.
It wasn’t until she’d set down the pail that she saw the riders at her gate—two men, with greatswords at their sides, their faces muffled against the cold. Avis flicked her eyes toward the staff in her hand, but she dismissed the idea that she could put it to any use. Please don’t let them hurt Gertrude, she prayed.
One of the men pulled his scarf away, and she felt a slight relief to see that he was old, even older than Avis herself. And though her sight wasn’t what it used to be, she thought his eyes held a light that was vaguely familiar.
“Can I help you, sirs?”
“Avis Landril! Don’t you recognize me?”
A curious lightheadedness came over Avis, and she wondered if she was about to faint for the first time in her life. “Master Morgan?”
The other rider swung easily down from his horse and lifted the latch on the gate. As he stepped into the yard, he drew back his hood, and a grin lifted the corners of his mouth.
“Hello, Gran,” he said, taking something from his pocket. “I’ve brought you a meat pie—and this time, it’s still warm.”
Avis’s mouth fell open as he lifted her hand and placed the pastie in it. She
looked from the pie back to his glittering green eyes.
“Oh, my boy!” she cried, throwing herself into her beloved grandson’s waiting arms. “Oh, my dear boy!”
After a long embrace in which Avis couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying, Leif drew her to the bench at the front of the croft.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she said as she sank down onto it. “I thought it for sure.”
Leif’s brows knit above his extraordinary eyes. “I know, Gran. It was so hard for me to not be able to send you word, and it must have been much harder for you. I’m truly sorry.”
Then he proceeded to tell her the most amazing tale—of all that had come to pass since he’d left their croft after that fateful fire on the mountain. Master Morgan put a word in here and there, and since most of what the wizard added was about all that Leif had done in service to the Isle, by the time they’d finished, Avis felt as if her heart would burst with pride.
“So you see,” Leif concluded, “I’ve been on quite the adventure. But I missed you every day, Gran… and I came back for you as soon as I could.” He brought her hand to his cheek and covered it with his own. “I wish it could have been sooner.”
“I don’t!” Avis declared. “Well, what I mean is, I doubt any of us would be here at all if it hadn’t been for you going off with Master Morgan!” She drew her shawl closer with a shiver, and was surprised to see how far the pale sun had moved across the sky. “Why, we’ve been sitting here for hours!” she cried, taking up her walking stick and rising stiffly. “I’d better get some soup on if we’re to eat before bedtime. Master Morgan, you’ll stay for
supper?”
The wizard got to his feet as well. “I’m afraid I must take my leave now. It’s been an absolute pleasure to see you again, Mistress Avis.” He offered a polite nod, then turned to Leif. “I’ll be back for you at the end of the week.”
Avis didn’t like the sound of that, but she waited until Leif had built up the fire in the hearth before she asked the question that was hovering on her lips. “What did Master Morgan mean—he’ll be back for you? Are you not staying?”
“I’m afraid not, Gran. You see, Elvinor, the elven king I spoke of… well, he’s my father.”
It was lucky Avis was standing in front of the chair by the hearth, for she dropped into it like a stone. “That… explains a lot, I suppose.”
Leif grinned. “Yes, I suppose it does. So you see, Mithralyn is my home now. But it’s not complete—not without you, Gran. Would you… do you think you might go there with me?”
“Me! What about the croft? What about Gertrude?”
Leif knelt beside her and caught up her hand. “You can bring Gertrude with you, Gran, if you like. She’ll enjoy the fat worms in Mithralyn’s gardens. And maybe your friend Master Malgly would look after the croft for you, in case you decide you want to come back.”
“You want to take me to live with elves?” Avis released a shaky breath, trying to get her head around the very idea. “I always did love your grandda’s tales about them best.” Then she shook her head decisively. “But I’ll not be asking Malgly to mind the croft.”
She could see Leif was trying to hide his disappointment—the boy had never been any good at dissembling.
“No, sirree!” she declared, giving the arm of the chair a little punch with her fist. “I’ll sell the croft to him, and for a fair price! I’ll not be wanting to come back here, my boy, not if I can be with you.” She hugged herself and laughed. “And elves!”
Epilogue
“Oy! I’ll take those, thank you very much.”
Clarie lifted the tankards from Grendel’s hands and made her way to the back of the pub, then continued on through the storeroom.
The merry sound of tabor and lute greeted her as she slid back the wall panel with an expert twitch of her generous hips and stepped into the private hall hidden behind it. She cast an appraising eye on the hearth to see if the fire needed tending, and when she was satisfied by the leaping flames, she circled the long table, trying not to stare at the handsome elves among the clientele. Even after a full twelve months of the elves’ reappearance in the Known World, Clarie always caught her breath whenever she encountered one. Alithin’s breath, but they were goodly creatures! A woman couldn’t help wondering what they were like in—
“Would you care to join us, Mistress Clarie?”
Clarie gave a little hop, her cheeks blazing as she realized she’d been standing and staring right under her employer’s eyes.
Gilly’s eyebrows were still raised in question, and when the old wizard beside him rose to his feet and gallantly offered her his seat, Clarie gave a quick shake of her head. She bustled on down the table, willing herself to keep her eyes on the goblets that needed filling.
“It seems the Basilea Yasiha is very popular with her people,” said the dashing elf seated beside Lady Maura, old King Urlion’s niece. “After her first husband died—some say of poison—she married one of the famed Companions. If the rumors are true, he’s the son of a Drinnglennian slave from the late Basileus Zlatan’s harem.”
“Oh, I can easily believe it.”
Clarie did look up then, for she recognized the voice of Borne Braxton, that utterly charming young man who used to be a frequent visitor at the Tilted Kilt. Seeing as he was holding the hand of Lady Maura, Clarie refrained from greeting him.
But he flashed his impossible dimples at her. “Mistress Clarie! So good to see you again!” Borne turned to Lady Maura. “This fine madam sent me packing home more than once from the Kilt in the weeks before I left Drinnkastel. As I recall, I was spending far too much coin on Gilly’s fine ale at the time.”
“And keeping far too much company with that scoundrel Roth Nelvor,” Clarie declared, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
“No, you’re perfectly right,” Borne assured her. “Indeed, I’d describe him in much harsher terms.”
“If ye ask me,” growled the å Livåri fellow who now served as the High King’s right hand, “Fynn were too easy on ’im, and his schemin’ mother, too.”
“No one asked you, though,” said the man next to him. Clarie, who’d been intent on filling his goblet, nearly poured ale into his lap. It was King Fynn himself, drinking right here in her pub!
“With Roth in prison, it’s far better to confine Grindasa to Nelvorboth, where Lord Belnoth can keep an eye on her,” the young king continued. “We’d have no way of knowing what she might get up to if she were to return to Albrenia.” He turned to the beautiful woman on his right. “Lady Selka tells me you and she are going on a journey, Princess Asmara.”
Clarie put her hand on her heart, scarcely able to believe that the fairy tale princess of her childhood was among the guests as well. The years had been good to Urlion’s sister, for she was still a beauty, and only the slightest threads of silver glinted in her dark hair.
“Yes,” replied the princess, “and we may be gone for some time. But you must keep your promise to call me aunt, Your Majesty.”
“And you yours to call me Fynn, Aunt Asmara.”
A little flutter kindled in Clarie’s heart, for when the young king smiled, he looked the spitting image of his striking father.
“I say, m’dear!” An enormous man with a shining bald head and a full red beard beckoned Clarie over. “Would you happen to have some grated ginger in the kitchen? This truffle stew could use a bit of spicing up.”
“Horace, really,” scolded the tiny woman seated next to him, then she smiled sweetly up at Clarie. “The stew is delicious, and we’re particularly fond of truffles, seeing as we were gathering them during the last Helgrin raid on the Isle. You might say they saved our lives.” She turned to a black-haired beauty who looked due to give birth at any moment. “Lady Teca, would you be so good as to pass the pepper? It should suffice to enliven my husband’s stew.”
The man who lifted the dish of pepper in the lady’s stead was another whom Clarie recognized—Sir Wren, who’d been on the Nor’er team in the last Twyrn. “My lady wife can’t reach that far these days,” he teased.
Lady Teca swatted at him. “And who’s to blame for that?”
Clarie pressed her generous lips together to smother her laughter, then moved on to the far end of the table, which was littered with empty jugs. A collection of å Livåri, elves, and—Ursaline’s tears—the famed Lady Halla of the Dragonfast, were seated there playing a drinking game. The Lord of Cardenstowe, the great mage who’d served as regent when King Fynn bravely went to tell those Helgrin ’cross the sea there’d be no more raiding the Isle, didn’t look as if he approved of the goings-on.
“You’ll all be sick as dogs on the ’morrow,” Lord Whit said, shaking his head at Clarie’s offer to refill his goblet.
“I won’t.” Lady Halla pulled from her pocket a vial of a liquid that gave off a faint golden glow. “Friend Leif’s provided me with this.”
Lord Whit frowned. “Honestly, Halla—elven elixir isn’t meant to be squandered on self-induced ailments.”
His lady cousin drained her tankard, then with a flourish, pounded it down on the table. “Lighten your purses, gentlemen!” she sang out, draping a friendly arm over Lord Cardenstowe’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, cousin. I’ll save some of this liquid gold for you. You’ve had, what—two tankards of ale, is it?”
“You do recall we’re leaving early on the morrow?”
“I do.”
Lord Whit cleared his throat. “And are you sure we don’t want to ride—”
“No.” Lady Halla cut him off. “You’ve already agreed to go with Emlyn and me. Otherwise we’ll never make it in time for Alegre’s name day. My daughter would be disappointed if I weren’t there, but she’ll be devastated if her favorite uncle were to miss it.”
Clarie’s ears perked up. This was the first she’d heard about Lady Halla having a child. Her ladyship was certainly the stuff of legend, right up there with Bjorn, Lila, and Obinon.
Clarie realized the music had drifted to a stop. As the talk died down, the old wizard got to his feet. Fearing Gilly might wave her out of the hall, she moved back against the wall, for there was far too much of interest going on here.
“I’d like to begin by thanking you, sir,” said Master Morgan, turning to Gilly, “for hosting this festive farewell, although I fear I shall spend the rest of my days seeking a truffle stew as savory as this.”
“You won’t find one,” Gilly barked, “so you’ll have to come back to us.”
“I hope to, one day.” The wizard sobered. “But my business on the Continent will require time and patience. Through our High King’s efforts, Drinnglennin has made peace with Helgrinia, and Gral, under the just governance of Marechal Latour, is now stable. But Albrenia has declared us her enemy, and we can expect more trouble from that quarter.
“The roots of prejudice still run deep across the Erolin Sea. It will take time to unearth them, and the first step is to prevent those who followed Lazdac Strigori from reviving the same fears and superstitions that led to former Purges. I’ve learned of the existence of a mysterious sorceress in Altipa, and I mean to discover more about her, but I’ll also be seeking out any others who possess magical powers they’ve been forced to conceal. We cannot let these souls fall prey to the lure of the dark.”
