The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Aksel’s expression shifted to one of hurt surprise. “Come,” he urged. “Sit. Reider! An ale for my cousin.”

  Aksel attempted to take his arm, but Jered stepped out of his reach, then waved away the mug Reider offered. “I’ve no time for idle talk! I need to speak with the yarl. Now. For the last time, where can I find him?”

  Aksel pressed the thumbs of his clasped hands to his thick lips and exhaled heavily. “Your father isn’t here, Jered.”

  “But Ydlyia—”

  Aksel laid a hairy hand on his arm and tried once more to lead him to the chair. “Sit—I beg you. Then I will tell you what I must.”

  Jered felt a finger of dread curl through his veins. “Tell me what?”

  “It would be better—”

  “Out with it!”

  Aksel recoiled, then returned to the chair he’d vacated and lowered his head. When he looked up, Jered felt his jaw clench at the hollow expression on his cousin’s face.

  “I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Aetheor Yarl walks among us no more.”

  These terrible tidings slammed home like a punch to Jered’s gut. With a low groan, he braced himself on the table between them. “No. It… it cannot be!”

  Aksel sighed. “I’m afraid it is so. Your father died a good Helgrin death, Jered, along with his men, fighting against our cursed foes of the Isle.”

  “Along with his men?” Jered sank into the chair he had only just refused. “You mean, all of them? Seventy of Restaria’s longboats sailed with you to raid Drinnglennin! That’s over a thousand men lost!”

  Aksel spreads his hands as if he too could scarcely believe the cost in lives. “What can I tell you? The gods were not with us that day. A freak storm along the coast of Lorendale separated my fleet from your father’s, and then a dense fog closed in. Aetheor must have run right into the midst of the Drinnglennian armada. By the time we made our way back to support him, the Ydlyia and her sister ships had been boarded, with all hands put to the sword. Thank the gods we were able to drive the Drinnglennian rats off, and at least recover the longboats.”

  Jered slammed his fists against the oaken boards. “The longboats? My father and our people all were slaughtered, and you’re thankful to have saved the ships?” He heaved himself to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “It was your idea, you bastard—this raid together with my father on the Isle! You led Aetheor Yarl to his death!”

  Reider lurched toward him, tugging at his own blade, but Aksel signaled him back.

  “Cousin, I share your grief—truly I do. But it was not the gods’ will that the yarl and his men survive the day.” He slid the untouched mug of ale closer. “You’ve suffered a shock, lad. Drink.”

  Numbly, Jered lifted the tankard and drained it.

  Aksel took the mug from his hand, then refilled it. “There’s something more you must know.”

  “We’ve lost a thousand Helgrins, butchered by the swords of Drinnglennians. What more is there to know?

  “It’s about your brother.”

  “Fynn? He died in a Drinnglennian raid on our—”

  Aksel cut him off. “No. No, he didn’t. He survived the attack on Restaria, and was taken captive. I know this because one of my men saw him—alive—during our raid on the Isle. He was in the company of a wizard.”

  Jered shook his head to clear it. “You know about the raid on Restaria? How?” Before his cousin could explain, he demanded, “Are you telling me Fynn was taken captive? That he still lives?”

  “I am, and I know where he’s being held. I’ve been approached by his captors, in your father’s absence, for a ransom. He’s at Cardenstowe Castle, in the west of Drinnglennin. I know you’ll want to retrieve him as soon as possible. I shall be more than happy to provide you with the ransom, and men and ships to do so.”

  The hope of recovering his young brother was a small glimmer in the gloom of Jered’s desolation. “My father’s longboats are all here; I have no need of yours. But I will take you up on your offer to man them.” He rose to his feet, a lust for vengeance already swelling in the newly turned soil of his grief. “Right now, I need to inform my men of the yarl’s death, and of the deaths of their kinsmen. After I’ve cleansed myself, we can gather for the rites. Where are my father’s remains?”

  Aksel bowed his head once more.

  “When we retook Ydlyia,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow, “Aetheor’s body wasn’t aboard. I myself said the words to speed him on to Cloud Mountain, then threw his sword after him into the sea.”

  Jered swiped at the tears spilling from his eyes. The gods had denied him even this—the right, as Aetheor Yarl’s eldest son, to send his father off to the Sky Hall. Too overcome to speak, he bowed in turn to Aksel, who had performed this duty in his stead.

  His cousin came to him swiftly and laid his hand on Jered’s shoulder. This time Jered let it lie. “We shall avenge Aetheor, Jered. I swear it! I will sail with you, and together we will destroy those who took him from us.” Aksel struck his fist against his chest to seal his oath. “You must wish to be alone for a time with this new grief. Unfortunately, your father’s chambers aren’t habitable at present. There was a small fire—a candle left unattended—and the reek of smoke still lingers. My rooms are not as spacious, but I beg you to avail yourself of them.”

  For the first time, Jered wondered if he had misjudged his cousin all this time, for it was clear he was deeply mourning their common loss. “That’s… that’s kind of you, but I will go first to my men. They need to hear this news from me.”

  And with that he left, his heart heavy as stone, to tell the hird—his hird now—that Aetheor, Yarl of Helgrinia, and all who sailed with him, would revel for all time in the Sky Hall.

  Chapter 28

  Borne

  Why?

  The question reeled over and over through Borne’s mind. Why had Maura come across the Known World to intrude on the future he was carving out for himself?

  When he’d demanded in the stables to know on whose behalf she was in Tell-Uyuk, under an assumed a false name and insinuated into the Basilea’s household, Maura had denied she’d been sent to Olquaria by anyone. Anger flared in her eyes when he took hold of her arm as she attempted to leave, but he didn’t release her.

  “I’ll escort you back to the palace—after you tell me the truth. Did your husband send you?”

  “I owe you no explanation,” she replied coldly, “especially since it appears you’ve already jumped to a ridiculous conclusion. I’ll only repeat what I said before: my being here has nothing to do with you.”

  “I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

  Maura gave a little laugh. “Yes, I expect you do. But everything is not about you, Ser Herald. As for my husband—”

  The stable door banged against the wall. Two panting merchants filled its frame.

  Borne thrust Maura behind him, his dagger spinning through the air and hitting the wood an inch from one man’s ear. “The next one will be through your heart,” he vowed. “Back away, now.”

  Needing no further encouragement, the men bolted, and Borne, who’d by then mastered his anger enough to realize this wasn’t the setting for the conversation that had just been interrupted, took Maura’s elbow, intent on leaving the Censibas at once. She maintained a steely silence as he steered her across the arena and out through its imposing gates. But as soon as they entered the crowded streets, she slipped free of his grip and melted into the throng in the market.

  Borne considered chasing after her, but thought better of it. She was clearly in a temper, and although he desperately wanted answers from her, she wasn’t likely to oblige him in her current state of mind. In addition, their little escapade in the Censibas had cost him time he didn’t have to spare. He had to hurry back to the barracks. The Basileus had returned from his pilgrimage the previo
us day, and had invited Borne to a private dinner at the palace.

  He stalked across the training grounds without a glance at his men, who fell silent as he passed. D’Avencote dropped the hand he’d lifted in greeting and removed himself from his commander’s path. Borne slammed the door of his spartan chambers behind him, then snatched up his training shield and sent it crashing against the wall. He sank on his cot and buried his head in his hands until his breathing slowed. But all the while he was donning fresh garments, Maura’s violet eyes haunted him. Even hardened against him, those eyes still stirred him.

  “Damn her!” he muttered as he adjusted his herald’s sash, frustrated that the door to his feelings for the woman would not remain closed.

  He made a vow, then and there, to lock it for good.

  * * *

  Upon his arrival at the palace, Borne was ushered into the same private chamber where he’d met with Empress Shareen before. The Basilea stood by the doors opening onto the gardens, looking every inch a queen. She was dressed in a scarlet tunic and full white trousers in the style of her native land, both garments heavily embroidered with gold. Her ebony hair, crowned with a filigreed coronet, was knotted over her shoulder, its tail spilling past her slender waist.

  Shareen swept toward Borne and seized both his hands in hers, raising him from his low bow.

  “Kurash has requested an audience with the Basileus tomorrow morning,” she said in a rush. Her dark eyes held unmistakable urgency. “Hence, I asked the Basileus to invite you here tonight. You cannot delay if you wish to save my niece from a dismal fate. You know what is at stake—for her, for you, and for Gral.”

  For a heartbeat, violet eyes occupied Borne’s mind, but with an effort of will, he banished them.

  “I—”

  A scratch sounded on the door, and the empress placed a silencing finger on his lips. Without a further word, she slipped out the garden door, leaving Borne to open the other on the escort waiting to collect him for the dinner.

  Borne was taken to an unfamiliar part of the palace, and he surmised he had entered the private residence of the Emperor. He was ushered into the royal presence through a set of tall doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Only after he had performed the obligatory bows and Zlatan Basileus bid him rise did Borne see that Shareen had arrived there before him, and their eyes locked for a brief moment before her gaze shifted to the fourth person in the room.

  Yasiha, radiant in a curve-flattering pale yellow gown, lifted her dark eyes, and as she offered Borne her hand, he caught the fragrance of the single string of jasmine braided into her long, sleek hair.

  “Join us, ser,” the Basileus commanded from the low couch upon which he lounged. “We will dine en famille, as it pleases us to do with those close to us.” He waved Borne toward the divan where Yasiha had already seated herself.

  Borne bowed to the emperor once more, acknowledging the honor done him, then to the Basilea, who reclined on the opposite end of the Emperor’s couch. She rewarded him with a sweet smile, a triumphant sparkle in her eyes.

  He turned to Yasiha, who blushed charmingly as he lifted her fingers to his lips. “Khadin,” he murmured. “It is always a pleasure to see you.” He had kept his greeting deliberately formal, although there was only one plausible reason why Yasiha had been included in this intimate party.

  Settling beside her on the divan, Borne attempted to order his thoughts, and then inquired after the Basileus’s journey. He was surprised when Zlatan, after speaking briefly of his time of prayer and reflection, reopened the subject of the Jagar.

  “We hope, Ser Borne, that we have laid to rest your concerns regarding these barbarians.”

  “I wish I could affirm this, sire,” Borne replied evenly, “but I’m afraid I don’t share the hazar’s view that the Jagar pose no threat to Olquaria. They’re far better armed than we had been led to believe, and their new vaar, whoever he is, commands their fear, which is a powerful weapon in itself. With all respect, I would offer the same counsel as I did upon our return from Nalè: a significant force should be garrisoned there, and regular scouting parties sent out to ensure that the Jagar, or these creatures they spoke of, are not massing just over the border.”

  The Basileus frowned. “We thought we had offered sufficient explanation as to why there is no need for this.”

  “The Albrenians’ assurance?” Borne gave a rueful smile. “King Crenel learned the hard way not to put trust in King Jorgev’s promises. The Albrenian king has demonstrated many times in the past that he cares only for his own realm’s interests, even to the detriment of a supposed ally.”

  “Gral’s and Albrenia’s differences are as old as the age,” Zlatan pointed out, his tone decidedly cooler. “Their border disputes are likely to carry on until the end of time.” He selected an olive from the dozen dishes spread before them, then gestured for the others to commence eating. “And the Gralian king is well known to be… unorthodox in his approach to diplomacy.”

  Borne bowed his head in acknowledgment of this, and also of the Basileus’s unspoken warning: Do not think to compare my dealings with Albrenia to those of that fool Crenel.

  “I was told you were at the Censibas today, Ser Borne,” Shareen said, artfully changing the subject. “Do you think all will be in order for the yaraket exhibition in two days’ time?”

  Yasiha lowered her eyes to the enameled plate before her, confirming Borne’s suspicion that Maura had told her of their encounter in the city. There was no good reason for this to anger Borne, but it did.

  Nevertheless, his voice was steady when he replied. “The course appeared to be complete, Your Majesty.”

  A small lull in the conversation ensued as dinner commenced. Borne had no appetite, but he politely tasted each of the dishes—salty white cheese, fiery peppers with walnuts, thick yogurt with garlic and mint, stuffed grape leaves and fennel-filled squid, skewers of spiced lamb, grilled trout, tangy green olives, smoky aubergine paste, and tiny snails cooked in hot oil and wine, all served with steaming, charred flatbread. After the flaky honey and cinnamon-infused nut pastry had been sampled, Borne was relieved to finally set his plate aside.

  A servant whisked the dish away, and another glided forward to replenish the crisp, floral wine in his goblet, though this too he had barely touched. While the Basileus issued instructions for a different wine to be brought, Shareen leaned toward Borne.

  “The moonflowers are opening in the garden,” she murmured. “If it pleases you to see them, Yasiha will be happy to show you.” She raised her eyes to her husband. “With your permission, my lord?”

  Zlatan waved his hand with an indulgent smile. “A night such as this is a gift from the gods.” He took up Shareen’s hand and drew her into the crook of his muscular arm. She looked like a fragile flower cradled there, but Borne had little doubt of the influence she wielded over her husband.

  Yasiha strolled beside him into the soft evening air. He felt the slight trembling of her fingers against his sleeve, and covered them with his hand. He guessed that she knew her fate was to be decided in the coming moments.

  They followed the scent of the moonflowers, whose pale white and yellow petals had opened to fill the garden with their alluring fragrance. Before the raised flowerbeds, Borne drew to a halt, then turned to face the princess. “Yasiha—”

  She reached up and placed a slender finger against his lips. “Please—before you say anything—may I speak?”

  ”Yes, of course, my lady.”

  She lifted her chin and gave him a brave smile. “We both know what is expected of us. Before we return to my aunt and uncle, a decision must be reached. And I know that—as yet—you don’t feel the same… way about me as I do about you.”

  “I—”

  “No—please hear me, I beg you, my lord. There’s no need to deny this. But I want you to know that I have fallen in love with you. If you wi
ll accept me as your wife, I will do all in my power to make your life a dream of pleasure. I shall serve you faithfully, and bear you many sons, who will grow up strong and brave like their father, and whose children will comfort us in our old age.” She caught up both his hands and brought them to her lips.

  When she raised her head from the kiss she had bestowed on them, her dark eyes glistened with tears.

  Borne caught his breath. “Yasiha, I can’t give—”

  “It doesn’t matter, my sarbon,” she whispered. “I have enough love for both of us. There will be no regrets—I promise you.”

  She tilted her face like one of the moonflowers seeking the soft light of the moon. “If you want me, I am yours.”

  She lifted her lips to his, and he did not refuse them.

  * * *

  Without quite knowing how he’d gotten there, Borne stood before Taqui-Rash’s door. But it was Alima Nina, not the great sage, who came to admit him.

  “Taqui-Rash is out,” she said, beckoning him through the door, “but perhaps I can help you?”

  So it was that he came to be seated across from the gentlewoman, a cup of chay between his hands, telling her what had just transpired at the palace.

  Something in her steady gaze prompted him to then speak of Maura.

  “There was a girl… a woman… in my past. I thought I had put my feelings for her behind me, but unaccountably, she’s shown up here in Tell-Uyuk.”

  Alima Nina listened without comment until he finished recounting his long history with the woman posing as Melisa, Yasiha’s tutor.

  “You don’t appear to be surprised,” he observed.

  Alima Nina gave a little shrug. “Does it surprise you to know I was the one who got your Maura placed in the seraglio?” She sighed and set down her cup. “I wish that you’d come to us before you had entered into this contract with the Basilea’s niece. Still, it may not be impossible for you to renege on it, if you are willing to suffer the consequences.”