The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  If the elves are gone, what will become of this treasure trove of knowledge?

  He closed his eyes, fighting against the despondency that threatened to overwhelm him. He was tired—so very tired.

  Back at the bower, he found a jug of mead and some waybread with which to refresh himself, then sat with his chin propped in his hands, trying to make sense of what had happened here. There was no trace of violence or resistance—and yet, it seemed a terrible tragedy had indeed come to pass.

  Morgan bowed his head, tears spilling down his cheeks, and mourned the disappearance of Elvinor Celvarin and all the beautiful, blithe folk who had inhabited Mithralyn. He could not bear to consider yet what it portended for the rest of the Known World.

  * * *

  Before the daylight was lost, Morgan struck out into the forest, hoping to find some clue as to what had befallen the elves. He had not gone far when a sharp curse rent the air, from the direction of the pavilion that housed the scrying stone.

  An elven woman, her back to him, stood outside it, shaking her fists at the sky. At Morgan’s call, she lowered her face into her hands with a sob, then turned toward him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Thank the gods you’ve come, master!” Aenissa ran to him, but stopped short of an embrace. “My uncle… all of our folk… they went into the forest to deal with the faeries, and none returned!”

  “Slowly now,” Morgan said. “Tell me what exactly they went to ‘deal with.’”

  “We must hurry! Please say that you will help me find them?”

  “I will do whatever I can, my lady, but first I must know more. What happened with the fae?”

  Aenissa pressed her hands against her heart. “I’m not exactly sure. Elvinor left in such haste, and bade me wait here.” She looked at him with shimmering eyes. “Forgive me, master. I can see you are travel-worn.” She drew a vial from her sleeve and offered it to him. “This will refresh you.”

  Morgan took the vial, but he did not drink. “Why?”

  Aenissa’s smooth brow creased. “Why? You mean, the trouble with the faeries? I fear whatever it is, it was a long time coming. Drink,” she urged with a soft smile, “and then we can be off.”

  “Does it not seem futile for just the two of us to go to the faeries, if Elvinor and all your kin could not control them?”

  Aenissa stared at him. “But we must at least try… try to convince the fae to free them! As Elvinor’s heir, I will make Tarna listen to reason!”

  “Free them? Are you saying you think your folk are being held captive by the faeries? By what power? Elvinor’s magic is far stronger than that of the faerie queen’s.”

  “I… I don’t know.” Aenissa wrung her hands. “But we’ve no time to wonder. Please, master—we must go. Refresh yourself while I summon elks for our journey.”

  Her eyes flicked to the vial. Morgan had still not lifted it to his lips; he had seen the pendant at her throat, and as he lifted his gaze, she covered the ornament with her hand.

  “Tell me what you have done,” the wizard said.

  The princess’s eyes widened. “Done?”

  “What have you done with Elvinor, with your niece, and all the rest?”

  She took a step back. “You’re not making any sense, master. The journey seems to have addled your brain.” She started to turn away, but Morgan seized her wrist.

  “That sigil at your throat—it’s the symbol of Chaos, is it not? What have you done, my lady?”

  The elven princess shook free of Morgan’s grasp, then passed a hand over her face, lifting the illusing glamour she had placed there to disguise herself from him. And though Morgan had long suspected the possibility of her betrayal, seeing her beautiful visage—now blazing with a terrible triumph—cut like a knife through his heart.

  “I have taken what is rightly mine,” Celaidra said, in a voice as cold as iron.

  “What was yours? By that, you mean as queen of the elves?”

  Celaidra lifted her chin. “I am the elder. The crystal scepter and elfstone belt should have been mine once Beluar passed from this world.”

  Morgan gave a sad shake of his head. “You know as well as I do that elven succession is not based on primogeniture. Your folk decided Elvinor was the best choice to lead them—and in any case, you never expressed any desire to take on this role. You always told me your greatest desire was to live among mankind, which you have done in the highest position of service a mage can hold, as one of the Tribus.”

  “I sought the seat on the Tribus to be with you!” Celaidra retorted. “But then you proved to be a fool and lost your powers. You left me to languish in the doldrums of a dreary existence, ever isolated from others.”

  “For the pain my poor choices caused you, my lady, I am deeply sorry. But do not punish your kin for my long-ago mistakes.” He lifted the vial. “I will drink this, Celaidra, if you will swear to forsake this dark path you’ve chosen. Let your hunger for vengeance die with me.”

  The sorceress’s smile was bitter. “Noble Mortimer,” she scoffed, “always so righteous! And every bit as much of a fool now as you were when you agreed to a blood-binding with Lazdac Strigori. Do you think I mean to kill you with that potion? I’ll derive much more pleasure from the knowledge that you shall linger on after the last dragons are destroyed and he and I hold dominion over all who persecuted us!”

  Her open declaration of allegiance to the Strigori made Morgan’s blood run cold. Still, he attempted to reason with her. “This grievance with the dragons derives from a thousand-year-old wound. Surely it has scarred over.”

  “Ah, Mortimer, I always thought your ability to forgive was a sign of weakness. And truly, look where it’s gotten you.”

  Sensing she would soon tire of this exchange, Morgan tried a different tack. “I’ve heard Lazdac has found a way to create life. How did he achieve magic of such magnitude?” It pained him to see the admiration leap up in her eyes, but as he’d hoped, she warmed immediately to the subject.

  “I see no harm in telling you, since very soon you will never again see the light of day. Lazdac discovered that King Rendyl never destroyed the dragon Chaos’s eggs; instead he hid them deep in the Lost Lands. Ironic, isn’t it?” She studied his face with her luminous eyes. “If it hadn’t been for you, Lazdac might never have discovered their hiding place. After you injured my lord in your reckless duel, Lazdac fled there to heal. He learned from the Jagar there was an old tale about a cache of dragons’ eggs in the desert, then spent years searching for them. When at last he found them, they provided him with the means to conjure on a scale never before imagined.”

  “He used dragon eggs to create his foul creatures?”

  Celaidra’s eyes glowed with triumph. “Once he’d conjured his daemons, he fed them a dusting from the ground-up eggs, then bred them again and again, until he’d created the ultimate weapons of war.”

  Morgan schooled his face to hide his horror. “And what role do the å Livåri play in Lazdac’s grand scheme?”

  “Ah.” Celaidra lifted her chin with pride. “Lazdac’s first attempts bred only the basest of beasts, dull-witted and untrainable. In order to perfect them, he needed bearers—human bearers, and a lot of them. He couldn’t risk having his work revealed, so he sought those who wouldn’t be missed if they suddenly disappeared. The å Livåri were the perfect choice.”

  Morgan hoped the towering anger her explanation had provoked in him was not evident. “And now that the Strigori has succeeded, he’s bringing this army of daemons to Drinnglennin? With what aim in mind? To take the Einhorn Throne?”

  Celaidra laughed. “His ambition is not so bounded.”

  “No, of course not. Which brings us to the elves.” Morgan was aware he had to tread carefully here. “Lazdac knew Elvinor would prove a dangerous adversary, so he enlisted your help. What did he promise you, Celaidra, in exc
hange for betraying your kin?”

  Her eyes flared. “They betrayed me when I was passed over.”

  “Ah… so Lazdac has told you he will make you his queen? Have you not considered that once you’ve served your purpose, he might see your own considerable powers as a threat? The Strigori are infamous for their self-interest, Celaidra.”

  “You know nothing of Lazdac Strigori,” Celaidra hissed. “I shall rule over my own domain. As you will see. Now—drink.”

  * * *

  The dank scent of earth. The trickle of water. Cold stone beneath him. Morgan registered each of these as the potion Celaidra had forced upon him wore off. He pushed himself to a sitting position and peered into the faint light from high above. He was in a cavern, and before him rose the façade of a grotesque palace hewn from the rock.

  He blinked, and when his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he gave a cry of horror. Bodies lay prone around him on the cavern floor. Morgan struggled to his feet and walked among them, pausing to touch a hand or caress a cheek, for they were all known to him: Frandelas, Vrillen, Hibiscus, Crisp, Haleno. The true elven princess, Aenissa, cradled in the arms of Ystira, Elvinor’s queen. They were all here. Or nearly all.

  Elvinor, the friend with whom he had most counted on spending the last of his days, was missing.

  Morgan made his way into the shadows of the ugly stone palace, where guttering torches lined the walls. Deeper into its bowels, he found a larder with stores of food and drink. In the main hall—a barren, cheerless place—the scarred boards were cluttered with crudely carved goblets, and bones and scraps of discarded food were scattered on the floor beneath them. At the rear of the high-ceilinged chamber rose a pavilion, draped in a tattered cloth embroidered with a sun and moon. And on its dais, slumped on a black throne, sat a shrouded figure wearing a broken crown.

  Elvinor.

  Morgan tore the shroud away, then wrestled with the cords binding the elven king to his perch.

  “Elvinor! Can you hear me, old friend?”

  Elvinor gave a low groan. “I can. Though I’m sorry to see you here, Mortimer, in this grim place.”

  “I’m in the best of company. But where is ‘here,’ exactly?”

  Elvinor winced as he shifted on the throne. “We are captives in the dark realm of the Unseelie.”

  “I thought as much. By what dark magic did Celaidra succeed in entrapping you and your folk here?”

  Elvinor’s eyes smoldered. “It began when the faeries failed in their sworn duty and abandoned their trooping around our borders. When we went to investigate, we discovered that Queen Tarna and her followers had been overwhelmed by the new Unseelie queen—a faerie named Cliodhna, whom Tarna had banished to that court. Some of Tarna’s folk joined Cliodhna, in exchange for their freedom, but most refused, and were cast down here. It was their cries for help that drew us into what proved to be Celaidra’s trap. When we entered this realm, she followed us. She ambushed me, and… I don’t remember anything after that.”

  He looked around the empty hall. “Where are my folk, Mortimer? Tell me they are not all lost, I beg of you.”

  Morgan helped him to his feet. “They all lie in the cavern, deep in enchanted sleep. I suspect they’ve been cast into a dream.”

  “Celaidra spared their lives? Then perhaps she is not beyond redemption. But she couldn’t have cast them into a dream. Only one witch has this power.” The elven king clutched Morgan’s sleeve. “Unless… has Celaidra broken the barrier to the dream world, and stirred the Cailleach?”

  “I fear it is far worse. Somehow, the Cailleach now exists in the waking world. Whit and I saw her not long ago. But what of Egydd? Do you know what befell him?”

  “I don’t, but I imagine Celaidra saw to him first. He would never have suspected her of treachery, although he always regretted her disdain for his potions. If Celaidra got to Egydd, Cortenus is lost as well, for he was staying with the mage to study his collection of books.” The elven king slumped against Morgan.

  “You must not despair, my friend. We are not entirely without the means to fight back.”

  “Means? If Lazdac and Celaidra are joined against us, how can we hope to overcome them?” Elvinor shook his head. “Trapped here underground, we elves will pass from this world. We are not like the dwarves, Mortimer. Without the light of sun and stars, the songs of wind and birds, without our music and books, we will soon perish in this dreary dungeon.” He heaved a mournful sigh. “Now I understand why the dark faeries, the boggarts and uisge, the shape-shifters, the goblins and all the rest, chose to live in this prison rather than flee the last Purge. They stayed because Celaidra promised them this day would come. She has set them free, Mortimer, to plague mortal men again.”

  “Then we shall have to find a way to contain them once more.”

  But Elvinor was not to be reassured. “How? Audric is old and failing, and who knows where Selka’s sympathies lie? With Egydd gone, your protégé Whit of Cardenstowe is now the only other wizard on the Isle. The lad may be a virtuos, but he is young and untested.” Sorrow shadowed his eyes. “As are the newly dragonfast. I should never have let Leif go to Belestar.”

  “You gave him the blessing he asked for, as a loving father should. Do not give up hope, my friend.”

  Morgan willed himself to follow his own counsel, but that was easier said than done. He was sealed here under the earth, while up above, Lazdac’s forces moved forward with only the young Konigur to stand in his way. And even Fynn’s resistance was far from assured. The heir had the dragonfast at his side, but even with their support, and the backing of all the other realms, the outcome of a war against the combined armies of Nelvorboth and Tyrrencaster was uncertain. And if Fynn failed to seize the Einhorn Throne before defenses could be put in place in preparation for Lazdac’s attack on Drinnglennin…

  The Isle would be the dark sorcerer’s for the taking.

  Chapter 46

  Whit

  When the Havard Gate opened, only the Tribus’s coach rumbled out through it. Whit and Fynn exchanged uneasy glances as the door of the carriage swung open and Lord Vetch stepped down. He looked decidedly less composed than usual, which immediately put Whit on guard.

  “Where’s Halla?” Whit demanded.

  When the Nelvor’s commander didn’t immediately respond, Lord Lawton, Halla’s counterpart in this affair, uttered a strong oath.

  “We were expecting to exchange hostages, Lord Vetch,” Fynn said, and for the first time, Whit heard steel in his voice.

  Vetch pointed at Whit. “One of the Tribus wishes to speak with him. In the carriage.”

  Whit frowned. “Tribus members don’t meet with anyone but the king.”

  “There’s a partition inside so as to maintain the Tribus member’s anonymity.” Vetch remained at attention, staring straight ahead. “I’m only following my orders… sir.”

  “How do we know you don’t intend to spirit Lord Whit away once he’s in the coach?” Borne demanded.

  “I’m to stand surety while Lord Whit is in counsel,” Vetch said stiffly.

  Fynn drew Whit aside. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

  Whit suspected it could be, but he said, “We must make it clear we expect our demands to be met. The Tribus are in a position to help assure this. I’ll do it.” He tried to ignore the churning in his stomach. At one time in his life, he would have leapt at the opportunity to speak with one of the famed Tribus, but now he feared word of his killing spell had at last reached the council.

  With his heart thundering in his ears, he climbed into the carriage. Before he had even settled on the fine cushions, his unseen companion spoke from the other side of the divider that separated them.

  “Thank you for joining me, Lord Whit. I’ve heard much about you from your mentor, Master Morgan. I’m sure you’re aware of the unusual circumstances of this meeting, and I trust you
’ll accept what has brought me here, no matter how hard it may be for you to hear.”

  The man’s words struck Whit like a blow. It was just as he’d feared. “I… I know the law.”

  “I’m sure you do, but I assure you no harm came to Lady Halla by King Roth’s command.”

  Whit laid his hand against the partition. “What are you saying? Has something happened to Halla?”

  “I wish I could answer your question definitively. But the truth of the matter is, I don’t know. Your cousin disappeared the day she arrived in Drinnkastel, and an extensive search has turned up no trace of her.”

  “Disappeared?” Whit sputtered. “Surely, as your lord’s hostage, Halla was put under guard?”

  “Not at first, apparently. After Lady Halla was installed in her chambers, there was a brief interlude before the sentry was posted to her door, and the maid assigned to attend to the lady had been sent on an errand. When she returned, Lady Halla had vanished. I’d hoped to learn from you that she’d somehow made her way back here.”

  “Well, she bloody well didn’t!”

  “I see. We’ve determined that she hasn’t returned to Lorendale either.”

  “Lady Halla was under your care, master! Do you really expect me to believe you and your Nelvor king simply lost her?” Whit realized he was shouting, and with an effort, lowered his voice. “I didn’t trust your king before, sir, and now I have even better reason not to.”

  To his surprise, his companion’s reply was meek. “I understand.”

  Whit’s mind was spinning, seeking possible explanations for Halla’s disappearance. He supposed it was possible she had escaped—she was certainly resourceful enough—but if so, then why hadn’t she returned to Fynn’s camp or to her dragon, who had been circling Drinnkastel the past two nights?