The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “I don’t intend to find out.” Borne raised his eyes to the towering spires. “I have a feeling those dedicated to Priscinae have a penchant for sharp, pointy things.”

  But Borne was not destined to avoid the monks after all. For when they halted in the path of Latour’s party, the marechal signaled Borne, Halla, and Nicu to his side.

  “As foreigners who will go before the king,” Latour said, “you three are required to follow the Path of the Goddess through our great temple. This passage is for purification, and will lead you to the east gate of the palais, from which you will be taken to where you can refresh yourselves. I will send word to my sovereign that we have arrived, then return for you.”

  Latour spurred his horse forward without waiting for an answer. Borne and his companions dismounted and surrendered their mounts to a stable boy’s care.

  But Magnus proved to be problematic.

  “The dog cannot enter the temple!” cried a fuming monk when the hound started after Borne up the temple steps.

  Halla called to one of Latour’s party. “Jules! Can you see that the commander’s hound is returned to him after we make our progression?”

  Jules, a young knight with a mop of blond curls and a wicked grin, made Halla a slight bow from his saddle. “It shall be as the demoiselle requests.”

  Borne hesitated a moment, then sent Magnus after Jules and turned to Halla. “Thank you for so quickly coming up with that solution,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Jules owed me a boon. I beat him in a wrestling match last week, and I’d forgotten to collect it.”

  Borne should have been surprised, but nothing about this unusual girl could be too far out of the ordinary to believe. He glanced over at Nicu, whose dark-lashed eyes surveyed Halla with an amusement tinged with admiration.

  The three of them passed through the doors and into the temple, which was as magnificent on the inside as out. Ribbed domes, inlaid with bright silver, were supported by massive columns that branched out at their crowns like great stone trees. At the base of each pillar the Goddess Priscinae was represented in one of her incarnations: Mother of Mothers, Light of Hope, Sword of Faith, and Heart of Love. The statues were sculpted of some exotic stone more luminescent than pearls, and each pair of the goddess’s ultramarine eyes stared coldly down at them as if in judgment.

  Borne found himself wondering how such a colossal structure had been erected by human hands. What sorts of mechanisms must the builders have employed? He imagined these same artisans would be capable of creating devastating engines of war; it was a puzzlement that King Crenel had not pursued this means of keeping the Helgrins at bay.

  Nicu’s hand on Borne’s arm broke his train of thought, and he looked down to see a treacherous opening in the floor at their feet, offering a glimpse of a gilded crypt.

  “The former kings and queens of Gral, no doubt,” Nicu murmured as they stepped carefully over the breach.

  At the midpoint between the entrance to the temple and its exit at the east gate, another, wider hole gaped in the floor, exposing a macabre mountain of blackened skulls. Borne recalled that it was here, in the bowels of the Mother Temple, that the zealous Tertulite monks had cast the heads of all those they had murdered during the Purge. His stomach turned when he saw that among these desiccated remains were many smaller skulls, of both children and animals.

  Nicu swore fiercely beneath his breath, no doubt sharing Borne’s revulsion. The truly evil had not been those who wielded magical powers, but the religious fanatics who had annihilated them.

  Borne raised his eyes to the nearest statue—Priscinae holding aloft a white sword tipped with crimson. Silently he cursed this cruel deity who had demanded the blood of so many innocents in exchange for her protection.

  Halla flicked her head toward the exit ahead, and made a gesture that left Borne in no doubt of her opinion of the temple. He swallowed the laugh that bubbled up inside him, and they covered the remaining length of the aisle swiftly, the sooner to escape the goddess’s stern scrutiny.

  “Give me the old gods any day,” Nicu muttered as they stepped out into the summer air. “I feel no nurture from this cold Mother.”

  “And no cleaner either.” Halla wiped her hands on her tunic in distaste. “Priscinae has a cruel appetite for a goddess demanding purity.”

  A gate of golden filigree spiraled up before them, crowned with the fiery sun of Gral. The sentinels guarding it stared straight ahead, as if oblivious to their presence. Borne was about to remark on this, when he saw the reason why.

  A dozen armed guards had appeared and closed ranks behind them. One of them, a pinched-faced man with a short, pointed beard, saluted Borne, then swept a disdainful gaze over his two friends, although they wore the uniforms of Latour’s army as well.

  “Commandant,” said the man, “before you come into the radiant presence of His Majesty, I must ask you and your”—he scowled—“companions to surrender your arms. They will be returned to you once you leave the Chambre du Sol.”

  Borne had expected as much. He and the others unstrapped and handed over their swords.

  The pinched-faced guard waggled his fingers impatiently at Nicu. “I’ll take the knife you have in your boot as well, cachon.”

  With a growl of fury, Halla’s knee connected with the man’s groin. The officer crumpled to the ground with an anguished groan, and with a clatter of steel, his men drew their swords.

  “Hold!”

  Latour was stalking across the courtyard toward them. He thrust his way through the soldiers and saw the felled man.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  A guard with a pitted face pointed at Halla. “The… the woman—she attacked Ser Purvis without provocation!”

  “Without provocation?” Halla hissed in her now impeccable Gralian. She attempted to kick Ser Purvis again, but Borne forestalled her. “Tell him what you called our comrade, cur!”

  Latour shifted his attention to the injured knight, who had regained his feet with the help of his men. “Well?” said the marechal.

  Ser Purvis, still doubled over, attempted a bow. “I… Marechal, I had no idea he was one of your party,” he said, untruthfully. “I…”

  “He called me cachon,” Nicu said.

  The marechal’s face darkened, and he brought the back of his hand across Ser Purvis’s face with force. “You will apologize for this insult to one of the king’s most ardent defenders, and I will have your sash for violating the code between brothers at arms.”

  Ser Purvis wiped the blood from his torn lips. “But… but, Marechal! The man is a—”

  “He is a respected member of my company.” Though Latour spoke quietly, his expression was thunderous. Ignoring the wounded man’s stammered apology, the marechal addressed the other Gralians. “The rest of you—sheathe your weapons at once!” Then he spun toward the gate, and the sentinels leapt to open it.

  As the doors swung wide, the marechal turned to Borne. “We shall speak later about the girl,” he said, then strode ahead.

  Nicu looked unfazed, but Halla was still smoldering, prompting Borne to lay a hand on her arm. “I suggest you put on a more amenable face, Halla. You’re about to meet the most high, the most powerful and excellent prince, His Majesty Crenel Etiene Fralour Du Regis, King of Gral.”

  “Do you tell me?” Halla replied, between gritted teeth. “Well, if he’s expecting a curtsey, he’ll be disappointed.”

  Nicu took hold of her other arm. “Come now, Lady Halla. Can you not reprise the brilliant role you played in the markets of Altipa? I feel certain it will be better received than the one you felt you had to assume just now to defend my honor.”

  “He called you a dirty pig! What would you have me do?”

  “Nothing. I’ve been called much worse.”

  “Nicu’s right, Halla,” said Borne. “We’
re guests here at Lugeneux, and the best impression we can make is none at all. More importantly, we represent the first company of å Livåri to ever legally bear arms, and as such we must conduct ourselves with the utmost decorum. Latour put his faith in us, and I know none of us wishes to risk losing his good will.”

  Halla looked between them, sudden doubt in her eyes. “Is that what I’ve done?”

  Borne started forward, leading her along. “I don’t think you’ve done anything,” he said, “that a gracefully executed curtsey can’t rectify.”

  Chapter 12

  Halla

  “Blearc’s blood!” Halla glared over her shoulder at the skinny maid attempting to lace her into the implement of torture she had reluctantly donned. “If you pull any harder, I shall pass out cold!”

  The mousy girl gave her a reproving look. “If you wish to fit into the gold gown, my lady, you need the corset.”

  Halla grabbed hold of the offending garment, pushed it down over her hips, and kicked it aside. “In that case, I’ll wear the silver.”

  The maid made a face. “But this gown’s design is in the latest style! The silver dress is from last season.”

  Halla raised her arms and waggled her hands impatiently. “I don’t care if it’s from the Before. Just get me into it so I can go to dinner. I’m starving!”

  With exaggerated regret, the girl lifted the shimmering sheath from the bed and helped Halla pull it over her head. The maid’s sour reflection in the looking glass left Halla in no doubt of the fashion blunder she was committing. She snorted loudly at the thought, which clearly did nothing to improve the maid’s assessment of her.

  In truth, Halla’s assessment of this version of herself wasn’t much better. For days now she’d been playing the part of Lady Halla, and it wasn’t agreeing with her any more than the overly rich food served at Crenel’s table. But she’d had no choice. After the incident with Purvis, Latour had been insistent that she assume the tedious existence of a noblewoman. Not only had the marechal’s censure been stern, but he’d even gone so far as to suggest that were she not to confirm her noble status, she might face charges.

  So Halla had exchanged her sword, hose, and boots for borrowed gowns and slippers, and she’d been formally received by the ladies of the court—which entitled her to many tiresome hours of embroidery, music, and singing in their company. At first, most of the ladies gave her a cool reception and then chose to ignore her. Others made no more than the thinnest of efforts to disguise their disdain of the Isler in their midst—Lady Mineux, chief among them. Widespread tittering ensued when the pernicious raven-haired beauty, disparaging Halla’s height and the size of her feet, wondered aloud if the demoiselle was, in fact, truly one of their fair sex. After months in the country, Halla had a good grasp of Gralian, but the venomous lady either did not realize or care that Halla understood her rude comments. The only bearable part of this dull routine was the scandalous gossip Halla was now privy to, for it revealed the true nature of these calculating women and kept her on her guard.

  But the unpleasantness ceased the day the Comtessa Didriana singled Halla out for conversation. Didriana was the king’s mistress and the most powerful lady of Crenel’s court. When she observed how Halla shrugged off Lady Mineux’s insults, the comtessa decided to bestow her favor on the foreign girl, and suddenly Halla found herself everyone’s darling—which was arguably a worse fate, for it placed her in His Majesty’s inner circle.

  King Crenel, a short, bandy-legged man, rested his speculative gaze on her with disturbing regularity. Halla already knew from the wagging tongues of the court ladies that Crenel had slept with most of them. When he learned that she had recently turned a year older unheralded, he seized the opportunity to make a spectacle in her honor. Halla, fearing he would demand something of her in return, attempted to discourage the idea, but the king would hear nothing of it.

  “Here in Gral, when a demoiselle turns seventeen,” Crenel insisted, “she is introduced into society. Your debut must not be neglected. We shall have a fête, my little rose!”

  Halla laughed inwardly at the sobriquet, for she was a head taller than the king.

  That very celebration was to take place this evening—hence the intensity of the maid’s remonstrations over her choice of attire. Halla’s mood was petulant. She glared at herself in the mirror while the maid slowly plaited her hair, then lost patience after only a few tiny braids had been completed and abruptly dismissed the girl.

  No herald had as yet appeared to escort her to the celebration, but Halla decided she didn’t care to wait on him either. She stalked through the palace halls on her own, reasoning that if she arrived at the ballroom early, perhaps she could avoid a scrutinized entrance. But as she approached the Grand Chambre, the rumble of voices punctuated with laughter informed her that she would not be the first guest.

  Steeling herself for an evening in which she would be the center of unwanted attention, she drew a deep breath and entered the crowded gallery. She saw in a glance that the hall had been lavishly decorated, even by Gralian standards. Crimson wall hangings descended from the high ceiling to the floor, tied at intervals with golden tasseled cords. Candelabra lit the gilded mirrors and chandeliers with sparkling light, and the expensive scent of vanilla bean emanated from flickering tapers. Halla’s stomach rumbled its disappointment when she saw that there were no tables laid; it was to be dancing first and dinner after, in the strange Gralian style.

  The court ladies were dressed in the most elaborate costumes Halla had yet seen. Their low-necked gowns were of the finest silks and satins, worn over frilled petticoats that peeked out from their full skirts, and their gems winked and sparkled in the candlelight. Comtessa Didriana wore a priceless cluster of diamonds and rubies at her throat, and the other demoiselles were only slightly less richly adorned. All the women wore their hair piled high, the better to display both their jewelry and their high-bodiced breasts.

  And the men were every bit as decoratively attired as their ladies. Halla thought their lace ruffled shirts and puffed embroidered sleeves looked rather silly, as did the skirted velvet waistcoats they wore over them. When she’d first arrived in Lugeneux, she’d burst out laughing at the exaggerated codpieces that protruded from their hose, and had had to pretend to a coughing fit. Overall, the gentry of Gral seemed inordinately preoccupied with the appearance of things. She found this reprehensible in light of the poverty their peasants were forced to endure.

  Still, passing among them, Halla felt a moment’s misgiving at having left her hair unbound. The only ornament she wore was the ring Bria had given her, hanging from a slender chain around her neck. Nevertheless, she walked toward her host with her head held high, as her mother had taught her. She wished she had someone at her side, but she knew better than to seek Nicu among the guests; he’d made it clear he had no interest in the ball.

  She could guess where he was instead.

  Ever since their arrival, the ladies of Crenel’s court had taken an extreme interest in both Borne and Nicu—especially Nicu, who, as an å Livåri, was viewed as an exotic amusement. Halla admired the adeptness with which Borne deflected the ladies’ attempts at flirtation—and did so without causing them loss of face—but Nicu clearly reveled in the attention, and Halla would have to have been incredibly naïve not to know where the bold repartee he exchanged with the demoiselles would eventually lead. She’d even overheard the women placing bets as to who would succeed in bedding him first.

  She found herself burning with jealousy at the thought of Nicu in the arms of another woman. But she’d learned long ago that å Livåri men and women moved freely among sexual partners until they were wed, and she wasn’t fool enough to think her lover would be any different in this regard. He’d certainly never promised exclusivity. Still, she hadn’t been prepared for the hurt his dalliance was causing her.

  Occupied with these glum thoughts, sh
e didn’t become aware of the hush around her until she reached the royal dais. Latour, seated beside King Crenel, gave her an approving smile, and she became aware that the eyes of other guests were equally appreciative. Perhaps her attire wasn’t so unfashionable as her pert maid believed.

  Flushing, she dropped into a deep curtsey. When she straightened, it was to see that the king had descended the dais and was holding out his hand.

  “You shall do me the honor of the first dance, my dear,” Crenel declared.

  At once, the players stuck up a juliana, the graceful, swaying dance that was the current favorite of the court. Halla far preferred the daring churi of the å Livåri, or the lively leaps of the elven leandera, but at least the steps of the juliana were simple to follow. She wouldn’t embarrass herself or, far more importantly, the king.

  The king was a practiced dancer, and led her through the steps so skilfully that she didn’t even have to think about them. But when the juliana came to a close, Halla saw that she would have no rest, for he released her to partner with a seemingly endless flow of his courtiers, and she soon lost count of how many men whirled her around the ballroom.

  As yet another partner released her with a courtly bow, Halla saw the portly Comte Flaseur stepping forward to claim her for a second dance, his hennaed curls bobbing around his shoulders like fat sausages, the musk with which he’d doused himself preceding him. Halla’s heart sank. His clumsy footwork had almost crippled her the first time round, and she wasn’t sure her toes would survive a second assault.

  But before the comte reached her, someone took hold of her hand from behind and she was spun into the arms of a tall, blond gentleman. It took her several seconds to recognize her savior as Borne. She had only ever seen him in uniform, or garbed in the simple black tunics he wore when not on patrol, but tonight he was dressed like a prince. A handsomely cut blue coat covered his simple silk shirt that opened to reveal his powerful neck, and his matching hose showed his muscular legs to advantage.