The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “All right,” Leif replied, although he preferred to speak of dragons. He doubted this Elvinor had much interest in him, after all—if he did, the elf would have made himself known before twelve years had passed.

  Master Morgan handed Leif a hunk of bread smeared with huckleberry jam. “Before you meet Elvinor, I think it’s only fair you know the circumstances of your parents’ relationship. While elves in days of yore did occasionally engage in… amorous encounters with mortals, it was usually the females who tended toward this sort of dalliance. And this was in the old days, before they took sanctuary. But not so many years ago, Elvinor made a secret journey through the Valeland to meet with his cousin, Celaidra.”

  “Celaidra? I’m related to one of the sorceresses on the Tribus?”

  “Patience, my boy. Let’s stick to one topic at a time, shall we?”

  Leif bit his lip. “I’m sorry, master. I’ll try not to interrupt again.”

  “Yes. Well. While passing at night through Tonis Vale, Elvinor chanced upon your mother gathering wild fennel in the forest. It was Midsummer’s Eve, you see. He claims she enchanted him. Who can say, on such a magical night? In any case, he was struck with yearning for her, and of course there’s no resisting elvish charm. Your father spoke of how they lay for hours in each other’s arms beside a lake luminous with moonlight. At dawn, he bade her farewell and never saw her again, although he would always remember her. He had hoped there would not be a child, since those born of such unions are often outcasts, teased for their unusual appearances—pointed ears and whatnot—or their quicksilver natures, which make them particularly unsuited for the tedious lessons humans force upon their young.”

  Leif’s face burned as he recalled Master Warren and the taunts he’d endured from the other children because of these very traits. He saw now how lucky he’d been to have his grandparents’ loving support, and he wondered if they’d ever suspected his elven roots.

  “Is there some way we could let my gran know that I’m… all right?” he asked.

  The wizard shook his head. “I’m sorry, my boy. I know it seems cruel, but it’s for the best.” He patted Leif’s shoulder. “Now. Your father is eagerly awaiting you. He only recently learned of your existence, and he’ll be very proud to learn you are Rhiandra’s choice.”

  “What’s he like?” Leif asked. “My… Elvinor?”

  Master Morgan sipped his tea before answering. “Elvinor is descended from the most august line of high elves. He’s a serious and just soul, dedicated to song and music, and to preserving elven lore so that it won’t pass from the world. He has a fine tenor voice. Oh, to hear him sing The Lay of Lerindar!” The wizard closed his eyes in remembered pleasure. “And,” he added nonchalantly, “he’s Mithralyn’s king.”

  Leif felt his jaw drop. “He’s their king? Why, that means I’m—”

  “You are his bastard son, Leif, and a half-elf,” said the wizard bluntly. “You’ve no claim to the elven throne. Aenissa, Elvinor’s niece, is next in the line of succession.”

  “My father has no other children?”

  Master Morgan shook his head. “Alas, no. He and his wife, Ystira, have not been blessed with a child.”

  Leif took a moment to digest this. “Was Elvinor already married when he… met my mother?”

  “No,” the wizard reassured him. “But he wed Ystira soon afterward.”

  Leif was sorry to learn he had no elven siblings, but he brightened at the thought of a cousin, for he’d always regretted being the only child of an only child. “Master, what made the elves and all the other magical creatures decide to hide themselves from us in the first place?”

  The wizard sighed. “Alithin’s breath, Leif! Your mind veers faster than a hare before hounds!” He shook his head. “There’s no simple answer to your question. When the human race began to turn on itself, courting conflict throughout the Known World, the other folk saw the Golden Era that had been theirs waning. They were gravely disappointed by the avarice of men, their lack of regard for the welfare of the less fortunate, and the wanton destruction of nature. But I’m afraid we must continue this discussion another time. We are awaited.”

  Master Morgan rose abruptly to his feet, took hold of Holly’s bridle, and led the pony from the cave.

  Leif hurriedly rolled up his sleeping rug and followed his master out into the chill morning air. He found the wizard rummaging in the saddlebags.

  “You may have lost track of time on the road,” said the wizard, “but today is an especially auspicious day for you to meet your father and your other elven kin.”

  “It is?”

  Master Morgan held out a small packet with a little flourish. “Happy birthday, Aeleif Elvinor! In most parts, thirteen is when a boy leaves childhood behind.”

  Leif blinked in surprise. He accepted the gift, trying to ignore a tinge of sadness as he realized it would be his first birthday without one of his gran’s delicious honey tarts. Thinking of her made him remember his manners.

  “Thank you, master,” he said.

  “Well, go on! Open it!” said the wizard, rubbing his hands together.

  The packet was made of some sort of gauzy material that had no seams. Leif held it up to the sun’s light, and it grew suddenly warm. “Oh!” he cried, nearly dropping it. “Is it… alive?”

  The wizard chuckled. “Open it and see!”

  “I’m not sure… There doesn’t seem…”

  Leif turned the packet again, and gasped as the gauze wrapping evaporated into thin air, leaving a silver box in his palm.

  Cautiously, he lifted its lid. Inside was a stone made of some sort of crystal. When he touched it, his fingers glowed with comforting warmth.

  “It’s lovely,” he said, smiling shyly up at the wizard.

  Master Morgan beamed. “It’s a solaric stone. Quite rare, actually, originally from Helgrinia. It stores heat from the sun to draw on when you need a bit of extra warmth. It has other qualities, but you’ll need to unlock those yourself.”

  “Unlock?”

  “All of life is the acquisition of knowledge, Leif. And you recall the runes over my lintel. You’ll need the might of learning in the next few months, and you’ll learn more than most men do in a lifetime. This gift is one of your lessons.”

  Leif closed the lid and tucked the box into the inner pocket of his cloak. “I’ll treasure it, master.”

  The wizard’s seamed cheeks flushed pink. “So very pleased you like it.” Then he clapped his hands and said, “Now, let’s be off! I’d like to arrive at Mithralyn in time for supper. The elves are famous for their splendid fare, you know. The last time I dined with Elvinor, he served a heavenly gossamer cream pudding!”

  With the prospect of pudding to come, they set off down the meandering trail with light hearts.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when the elven kingdom at last came into view. The fog through which they’d descended all day drifted away to reveal a sight that took Leif’s breath away. A vast forest, still arrayed in autumn’s finery, spread before them, and between the trees, he could see a series of structures—castle-like turrets and flying arches so artfully melded with their setting that they seemed to have grown out of the natural world. Most of the buildings were of filigreed wood, and as they drew closer he could hear the cascade of water and smell divine fragrances wafting from hidden gardens.

  “Here lies the land of your father, my boy,” announced the wizard.

  Leif gazed in wonder at the golden light sifting through the blazing trees. Great dragonflies with ruby bodies and silver-laced wings floated in the air, and a scurry of creatures scampered across the path. They had tufted ears and the bushy tails of squirrels, but their downy coats shimmered blue, and their glowing feline eyes were a startling yellow. Overhead, what he had thought to be rustling leaves suddenly took flight; a flock of tiny bir
ds, feathered in autumn’s hues, flittered around his head before darting off into the forest. The air was scented with moss and damp earth, and Leif was stirred by an unaccountable longing.

  Forgetting his vow, he gave Holly a light nudge with his heels.

  “Yes,” chuckled the wizard softly, “I, too, feel the allure of Mithralyn.”

  “What am I meant to do here, master?” Leif asked, as his eyes followed the mesmerizing shimmer of the golden leaves.

  “After the introductions and lunch, you mean? Why then, my boy, then you will set that quick mind of yours to learning, as you have all these past months. There is much to know, and little time, for I fear Drinnglennin’s direst hour approaches. And so you must learn, and learn quickly.”

  Leif was startled by the wizard’s words, and his next question died forgotten on his lips. In silence, they crossed into the secret elven kingdom of Mithralyn.

  Chapter 8

  Maura

  The Lurker caught Maura easily. She knew he was a Lurker the instant he sprang from the shadows, because the hand he clamped over her mouth smelled of crennin, the dreamleaf these outlanders liked to chew, the same leaves she used in preparing salves for her lapins. Tight in her attacker’s grasp, she struggled, until she saw the knife in his hand. Then she grew still.

  The lapins, however, did not. No doubt scenting her fear, the lop-eared silky hares set to greening—emitting the shrill, almost human screams they made when in deep distress.

  Behind her, Maura felt her captor stiffen.

  “Make ’em stop!” he hissed in her ear. “Or I’ll slice ye!” He pressed the cold blade against her throat.

  Maura mumbled against the Lurker’s palm. She could do nothing without her voice. He must have realized this as well, for he removed his hand cautiously. She began humming a quieting song, and the greening died down.

  Swallowing hard, so as not to retch from the foul stench rising off the man, she asked, “What do you want?”

  “Shud yer trap! Get that sack o’er there and put some o’ them lapins in it, and mind they’re yer best ’uns!” The Lurker pushed her toward the pens. “Be quick, else I’ll bleed ye!”

  Maura was careful not to look at him. Perhaps if she didn’t see his face, he wouldn’t kill her. She knew it would do no good to cry out, for her parents had gone to market, and Dal was with the coilhorns in the pasture. None of them were expected back for hours. Fernsehn’s day workers had a week’s holiday, given leave to join in the winter festival during the lull after the wool-baling. She wondered bleakly if the Lurker knew she was alone on the farm.

  Then she wondered if he was alone.

  Picking up the sack, she hovered over the pen, wavering between her fear and her reluctance to part with any of her lapins. Who knew what this savage would do to them? She doubted he’d have the patience to comb their vivid coats to collect their coveted fur. He’d most likely sell them to the first bidder—to get money for more crennin.

  “Git on wit’ it!” snarled the Lurker at her back. “Ye heared me! Get them lapins in the sack!” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stab the air with the rusty point of his blade. “Gimme tha’ big grey buck and the one wit’ the green fur o’er there.”

  “You can’t put two males in the same bag,” Maura said carefully. “They’ll kill each other, and you’ll be left with carcasses. They’re worth nothing dead.” Despite her best instincts, she stole a glance at the man’s face, and was startled by the lurid blue tattoo covering half of it. His eyes were nearly black; he had been too long without his drug, which made him all the more dangerous.

  The Lurker looked momentarily flummoxed. “Pack up the uns’ll not fight, then!” he snapped.

  Maura reached into the pen and stroked the grey buck. Trin was generally docile, and he allowed her to lift him into the sack without kicking.

  “I said be quick about it! What about this ’un?” He snatched the sack from her and grabbed Glina, a white doe who’d just kindled the previous week, by her ears. Glina squealed in pain, and immediately the greening began again.

  The Lurker dropped the doe in surprise, then gritted his dark teeth and lunged at her. But the lapin was quicker. She sank her sharp incisors deep into his hand and held fast. Yelping, the man dropped the sack, and Trin sprang free. The buck caught the Lurker’s forearm between his fanged incisors, and the yowling grew louder.

  Maura seized the opportunity to dart past the intruder into the yard. Spying the manor door ajar, she made a run for it, all the while expecting to be tackled from behind. She flung herself into the kitchen, shoved the door closed, then slammed home slammed home the inner bolts. Without pausing, she flew around the lower floor, dragging closed and locking the shutters, her breath ragged in her ears. Then she raced up the staircase and made all the upstairs shutters fast as well.

  Her heart pounding, she huddled in the corner of her parents’ bedchamber. She willed her breathing to slow, and listened.

  Across the yard, the lapins were still greening in their pens. The Lurker had stopped his caterwauling, but this wasn’t necessarily a good sign—it could mean he was, at this moment, attempting to find his way into the manor. She thought again about the open door. Had she simply neglected to close it on her way to the pens? Or had someone else opened it and slipped inside while she faced the Lurker?

  Maura listened harder.

  Then she heard it: a slight scuffling noise against the west wall, onto which a window opened from this very room. She reminded herself that the shutters were latched, but her blood roared in her ears all the same.

  The scent of crushed greenery wafted into the room, and the trellis outside creaked and groaned. Someone was climbing it. But before Maura’s terror could overwhelm her, there was a rending of wood from wood, followed by a muffled cry, and the unmistakable sound of the trellis tearing away from the house and crashing to the ground.

  In the ensuing silence, Maura wrestled with her indecision. Should she stay where she was, in the presumed safety of the house, until her parents returned? But what if the Lurker lay in wait to attack whoever came next? How could she warn them? What if Dal arrived home first?

  The thought of the tattooed man’s knife at her younger brother’s throat finally prompted her to action. She crept into Dal’s room and found his bilang bat, a sturdy club of hardwood he treasured. Holding it before her, she returned to her parents’ chamber and levered open one of the shutters a crack, praying all the while that another Lurker wasn’t crouching above the eaves about to pounce.

  The wooden trellis lay sprawled across the side yard, a latticed lake of ivy. Lying under it was the inert form of the Lurker. She watched the man for some moments, but he didn’t move, and she couldn’t tell if he was even breathing. If he was feigning injury, he was doing a convincing job of it.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to be sure.

  She swung open the shutter, retrieved a few walnuts from her apron pocket, and took aim. The first fell wide, but the second struck the man squarely on the forehead. He didn’t so much as flinch.

  Satisfied he was truly unconscious, Maura went downstairs to the kitchen. She grabbed a sharp knife, a broom, some rags, and the coil of rope hanging just inside the pantry. Then she lifted the bolt from the manor door.

  She eased it open and stood for a moment, holding her breath. A breeze sighed in the pines, but otherwise all was still; even the lapins had fallen silent. She slipped outside, sidled along the manor wall, and peered around the corner. The Lurker still lay pinioned under the trellis.

  Maura shifted the knife decisively in her hand. She knew how to use it; every Valer child received instruction in self-defense in these uncertain times. Although the residents of Dorf lived by the law, times were hard, and more than one Branley Torer had been attacked in the pastures over recent years.

  “You there!” she called out.

 
The man didn’t move a muscle.

  She stepped cautiously toward him. She’d have to act quickly, and that meant first getting him out from under the ivy. “You would have to go and bury yourself, wouldn’t you?” she complained as she propped up the trellis with the broom and dragged him clear of the latticework. The vines scratched across his exposed skin, but the man was clearly out cold. His chest, hollowed by the malnutrition that was a common condition of the rusher, as crennin users were called, rose and fell with his shallow breaths.

  Once he was free of the ivy, Maura bound his hands and feet, and then sat back on her heels to take a good look at him. His skin was blotched with the angry sores of a user, and his artless tattoo further disfigured his coarse face, but he was younger than Maura had at first thought. She guessed him to be in his early twenties, only some half dozen years older than she was.

  Unable to repress her healing instincts, she cautiously explored the back of the Lurker’s skull. A large lump had formed where he’d struck the ground, but there was no bleeding from the ears, which was a good sign.

  “Well, it looks as though you’ll live,” she murmured, then jerked back as the Lurker’s eyes flicked open.

  “Margred?” he whined weakly, staring past her. “Margred, please! I’ll nae ferget again. Don’t beat me!” A tear rolled down his pocked cheek. “I’ll be a good boy, Margred! I swear… Don’t beat me!” Fear illuminated his dark eyes. “Noooo, Margred! Not Petra! Le’ her be, Margred, by the gods! Beat me, Margred, beat me!” He let out a piteous moan.

  Maura laid her hand lightly on the Lurker’s brow. “There,” she soothed. “There now, no one’s going to beat you.”

  The Lurker stared at her for a full count of five. Then he was straining against the ropes, gnashing his teeth in fury. “Lemme go, bitch!” he squealed. “Or I’ll bleed ye!” When he found he couldn’t free himself, he attempted to roll toward Maura, only to stiffen with a cry of pain.