by Jeff Wheeler
Trynne nodded, and Staeli turned and opened the door to the great hall. It was full of soldiers, both wounded and hale, and it was absolute mayhem. Some of the injured knights of the North were drinking from cups pressed into their hands, before rising once more to continue the fight. Groans and murmurs filled the hall, and Trynne saw King Drew talking to one of the maidens, giving instructions and pointing. He turned and saw her and his fierce expression wilted into relief.
“Get these doors barred!” Staeli ordered. “Use those water barrels, I don’t care if they’re full. They are going to fight us for every inch, by the blood. It’s almost dawn. Hold steady. Hold steady.”
As she hurried toward Drew, Trynne saw Fallon leaning over Morwenna, who sat slumped on the floor. The poisoner nodded her head slowly, her face ashen, as he took a cup from her. Then she caught sight of Trynne walking toward them, and she covered her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with the power of her sobs. Fallon looked over his shoulder to see what had caused the reaction and then leaped to his feet.
He rushed up to Trynne, gazing at her like she was a ray of sunlight. “Where have you been? I’ve had everyone looking for you. Some said you never made it in from the courtyard. I’ve been worried to death you were trapped out there in the blizzard!”
“I used the ley lines,” she told him, feeling pleased that he had worried, grateful to be back with him. Still, even though she knew Morwenna needed a friend now more than ever, she could not lie to herself. It bothered her to see them together. “I’m all right.”
“Trynne!” Drew sighed, reaching them. He gripped her arm tenderly.
“I’m all right,” she repeated. A part of her wanted to tell them what happened in Pisan, but she also wanted to block the memories forever.
“I have word from the Espion that Grand Duke Elwis and his army are on the march. They are rushing to Dundrennan. They bid us to hold fast. They’re coming.”
“I don’t know how long we can hold out,” Trynne said, shaking her head.
“My lord, they are coming!” someone shouted.
“Keep blocking the doors, then!” Staeli yelled. “They don’t have battering rams.”
There were three external doors leading into the hall. One of the far doors shuddered as something heavy struck it. Then something began to pound against the second door. The third led deeper into the castle, where the inhabitants of the city were hunkering down.
Drew turned and drew his sword. “This is where we stand and fight. This is where the honor of Kingfountain rests. Do your duty. I can ask no more.”
Trynne’s heart churned with worry. Should she take Drew somewhere else? If the Chandigarli soldiers broke through, should she flee with the king and leave Dundrennan to its fate? Leaving . . . Fallon? Captain Staeli? Her maidens? She covered her mouth, not knowing what she should do.
Then she spied Morwenna again, still slumped on the floor, gazing sullenly at the doors. The poisoner had helped them defend the castle during the storm Rucrius had summoned. Her reward had been to watch her father die at his hand. Although Trynne’s feelings for the Argentine girl were complex, she did pity her.
Without thinking, Trynne left the king and Fallon and approached Morwenna. The dark-haired girl looked up at her, nearly cowering with shame and misery.
“You killed him,” Morwenna said in a thick, haunted voice. Her eyes were red from crying. “You killed your father.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The King’s Champion
Morwenna’s words cut Trynne to her heart. It was her greatest fear that she would be responsible, inadvertently or not, for her father’s death. The struggle to control and contain her emotions was challenging, but although the words had filled her with worry and misery, they did not ring of truth. There was no confirming whisper from the Fountain. Trynne dropped lower, putting her hand on Morwenna’s shoulder.
“I don’t say it out of envy or spite,” the poisoner said with tears. Her face was ravaged with grief. “Rucrius left orders that Lord Owen was to be dispatched. Gahalatine doesn’t know this. He’s never known.”
“Do you know where they were keeping him?” Trynne asked, letting herself hope. “Is there a chance to stop it?”
Morwenna covered her face. “I’m sorry, Trynne. It’s all my fault. When I was at the poisoner school, I found a copy of The Vulgate. I told you this already. What I couldn’t tell you is that Rucrius planted it there, seeking someone like me.” She raised her tearstained eyes.
“What do you mean?” Trynne said, raising her voice. The noise from the besieged doors, shuddering on their hinges, was growing louder. Rows of knights and maidens were positioning themselves before them, preparing to defend the king.
“I was so fixed on it,” Morwenna said, staring down at her knuckles. “On seeking revenge against your father. For his treason against mine. I think . . . somehow . . . my thoughts brought Rucrius to me. He was powerful. He taught me the ways of the Wizrs, even more than your mother did. But before he would teach me, he gave me a ring.” Her eyes grew haunted. “A ring that would bind me to him, to keep me from betraying him. After I put it on, he . . . he had control of my mind. He could make me say things. He could compel my actions.” She quivered and trembled. “He was arranging for me to marry Gahalatine. It would have given me everything that I wished for. But I fought against him the first chance I got. In the first surge of the battle, his will was so focused on his magic and maintaining the whirlwind that I broke free of his control and sought to counter him. He”—she swallowed miserably—“he murdered my father as punishment. When you killed Rucrius, I felt his control over me break. His thoughts faded like echoes. I’ve lost everything. Everything.” Morwenna bowed her head and began to sob.
Trynne closed her eyes, her heart aching for the deceit and the manipulation. The eastern door cracked with loud snapping noises as the wood gave way.
“Stand fast!” Captain Staeli shouted. “Encircle the king!”
Trynne reached out with her magic and sensed that Morwenna’s store was still empty. It was as if her cup had shattered and she was recognizing that Trynne’s had not.
“You are powerful,” Morwenna whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.
The door pieces came crashing down and the enemy warriors began wading through the debris to get inside.
Protect the king.
Gratitude welled inside her. The Fountain had whispered for her to defend the king, not spirit him away.
Trynne rose and reached her hand down to Morwenna. “Now is not the time to be enemies. Defend your brother.”
Morwenna looked at her in startled surprise. “Do you trust me?”
Trynne chuffed. “No, not very much. But we’re short on allies at the moment. If any Wizrs come through those doors, go for the neck.” She drew her own dagger and handed it to Morwenna, who accepted it and then took her hand and allowed herself to be pulled back up.
Trynne’s throat was raw from thirst and her arms were weary from fighting. Both doors had been breached, but every time the Chandigarli soldiers tried to enter the hall, the knights of North Cumbria and the Oath Maidens of Averanche drove them out again. The sun had finally risen, but the situation had not changed.
Captain Staeli barked orders and improvised during the attack, constantly shifting the tactics and directing his maidens. His brow had been slashed by a blade, but he hadn’t let the blood dripping down his face slow him. His leadership and fearlessness had inspired everyone.
There was a pause after the latest attack had been repulsed, and everyone was breathing and gasping for air. Trynne had watched Morwenna fight with all the savage fury she could muster. Though unarmored, she alone had killed over a dozen knights. Fallon had also performed feats of bravery and skill, showing the outcome of his training. Yet even King Drew, with the blazing magic of Firebos, had been unable to stop the relentless flood of attackers continuing the assault of the fortress. A biting cold wind came through the demolishe
d doorways, speaking of the blizzard still raging outside. Drew’s thoughts continued to power the storm that would unleash a mountain of snow on them.
“They’re coming,” Staeli warned, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. “They’ll run out of soldiers ere long. Keep up the fight.”
Drew’s voice was ragged. “I don’t know how much more we’ll be able to take,” he gasped to Trynne.
She sensed the presence of other Fountain-blessed in the corridor. She recognized Gahalatine’s presence. When she had first seen him at the Battle of Guilme, she had sensed his enormous store of magic—it was unmistakable. But his efforts to embolden his warriors to continue the fight during a ferocious blizzard had drained him. His magic was diminished, but his force of will was still incredibly strong. There was another with him . . . no, at least two other Fountain-blessed with him. How many Wizrs had he brought?
“I see them,” Staeli snarled. He was in the front of the ranks alongside the maidens. “The emperor’s come himself. How grand.”
A disquieted murmur rippled through the hall. Trynne still tried to catch her breath, but she felt that the moment was coming. The fate of the kingdoms was about to be decided. She had no idea what it would be.
The Painted Knight must stand ready.
The thought throbbed in Trynne’s mind—insistent—and she released the magic of her ring just as Gahalatine and his group came into sight. All eyes were focused on the doorway.
Gahalatine’s fox-fur robe was thick with snow. He wore his armor and held a greatsword with one hand. Even though the ancient Wizr set had been destroyed, his presence in the castle filled her with the strange sensation that one of the pieces was moving across the board. There was something mysterious at work here, some magic she could not comprehend.
Gahalatine led the way, but this was not another wave of the attack. Not yet. Next to him was the same armored warrior that she had seen at Guilme. It was Gahalatine’s champion, and he glared balefully at the enemies arrayed before him. There were two Wizrs behind Gahalatine, and when Trynne reached out with her magic, she saw that both were spent. They each had staves and rings and other magical trinkets to draw power from, but they looked haggard and weak.
Gahalatine paused at the threshold of the chamber. He looked at them in a condescending way, as if they were a group of children who had been caught at some mischief, and he—the ever-patient parent—had come to scold them. It made Trynne bristle with outrage.
“My lord of Kingfountain,” Gahalatine said with a deferential nod to Drew. “You’ve fought bravely. You’ve summoned a winter storm that is as formidable as it is tedious. My men are cold and most have taken refuge in the town, where the greater bulk of my army is at their ease, eating and drinking and awaiting their turn to besiege the castle. You have withstood me with courage and honor, my lord. It does you credit. I came prepared for a winter siege, knowing the history of the crown you wear. You have surprised me many times, which does not happen very often.” Then his voice turned more dangerous. “I come with this final plea to end the violence. You have an army marching here under the command of Grand Duke Elwis. Your snows have prevented them from reaching you, and I’m afraid he came unprepared for the inclement weather. I have an army awaiting his arrival and another one marching behind him. He’s trapped either way. He cannot reach you and he cannot retreat. You are down to your bravest and most loyal supporters, and I tell you, my lord, that if I summon all my strength from the town, as I intend to do after breakfast, we will smite down this castle. You have no hope of victory. Yield to me, my lord. You’ve proven yourself both valiant and determined, and I will reward you for such competence as my noble guest in the Forbidden Court. We will fetch your wife and babe from the sanctuary of Our Lady, and together you may live out your lives in peace and prosperity.”
His words hung in the air, crackling like icicles ready to fall.
Drew stared at Gahalatine, his cheeks flushing. “The Fountain gave me this crown,” he answered thickly. “And it will help me maintain it. If you would have it, come take it from me.”
Gahalatine looked disappointed but not surprised. He sighed and gestured to the armored man next to him. “So be it. You had your chance.”
The armored knight charged into the room, his armor exuding a dustlike smoke as he moved. It was Fountain magic, and Trynne sensed the speed and agility it gave the warrior despite its bulk. He engaged Captain Staeli first, making Trynne’s heart leap into her throat. Staeli, who had been fighting all night, was physically exhausted, yet he leaped at the warrior without hesitation. But the moment Staeli’s sword struck the man’s armor, the blade went red with cankered rust and then shattered. The impact made Staeli’s face go slack from shock right before the knight backhanded him across the face with an armored gauntlet. As he struck the ground, the knight plunged his sword into Staeli’s stomach, the blade shearing effortlessly through the hauberk. Staeli’s legs began to twitch and then he went limp.
“No!” Fallon roared, rushing forward past the ring of Oath Maidens. The knight turned his hateful gaze on him, and Trynne felt her world tipping over like a huge vase, about to crash down.
Fallon did not repeat Staeli’s mistake. He feinted with his sword and then kicked the knight in the chest. Fallon’s boot shoved the man back a few feet, but it did not unleash the strange dustlike smoke. The knight returned and started swinging deliberately at Fallon, who countered with his own sword and gave ground to the opposing warrior’s superior skill. Fallon focused on deflecting the blade and not counterstriking against the warrior. Trynne’s hand clenched the pommel of her own blade, feeling helpless as she watched the knight come after Fallon.
Fallon’s blade caught that of the other knight, their hilts locking together, and he kicked at the knight’s knee. From Fallon’s wince, the blow seemed to hurt him more than it did his competitor.
Fallon’s face contorted with anger as his opponent tried to leverage him back. Reaching out, he grabbed the front of the knight’s helm and yanked it sideways, trying to blind him. The trick worked, and Fallon managed to free his blade and retreat a step or two.
Gahalatine’s champion unstrapped the helm, pulled it off, and threw it down.
The knight was a woman.
She was tall, only a little shorter than Fallon, and as muscular and strong as any man. Her resemblance to Gahalatine marked her as a relation. Beautiful and fierce, she had dark hair that was shorn short and features that were a slight bit more delicate than the emperor’s. She came at Fallon and he defended, but Trynne saw the worry in his eye, saw how conflicted he felt about battling a woman to the death.
“He can’t win,” Drew whispered in despair. “He’s already lost.”
And then Gahalatine’s champion sliced Fallon’s leg at the knee, twirled, and brought her elbow into his nose. He teetered backward, trying to keep his footing despite the blaze of pain from his torn lip and the blood gushing from his knee. Then he went down, dropping his blade on impact. Trynne watched in horror as the knight maiden turned her sword toward his heart, gripping it with both hands.
Trynne saw what she must do. It opened in front of her like a vision.
“My lord, your sword!” she said to Drew, dropping her own and holding out her hand. She knew in her heart that Firebos would not be affected by the knight’s armor. It was the only weapon that could pierce it unharmed.
Drew’s eyes widened when he looked at her, seeing the smear of blue on her face, recognizing that she, Trynne Kiskaddon, was the Painted Knight. He obeyed her at once, handing the blade of the Maid of Donremy to her. Its magic felt familiar to her, as if she’d carried it into battle all along.
The enemy knight jammed the sword down toward Fallon’s heart as Trynne invoked the wellspring magic once again. The room seemed to still and slow, as it had before, and she spanned the space between them with a few lunging steps, swinging Firebos around to deflect the blade. The two swords met with a clash of sparks.
&nbs
p; Trynne continued her attack, driving the other knight backward, away from Fallon, back toward Gahalatine. Their blades met and rang, counter versus counter. Trynne did not limit her focus to the blade. She hacked at the other woman’s armor, each blow sending splashes of dust into the air, but Firebos was indeed protected from harm. There was a screeching noise as the woman’s armor was sheared open.
Trynne reached out with her magic, sensing for weakness, for vulnerability, and found plenty. The woman had trained in the arts of war for years, but she was so accustomed to the protection of her armor and her magic that she had mostly trained for attack, not defense. She was fearful now, recognizing that she was no match for Trynne’s skill with a blade. She was full of Fountain magic, but there was something different about it . . . that was when Trynne realized that Gahalatine and his champion shared their store of magic. They were siblings.
And now Gahalatine’s sister was in danger. Trynne attacked viciously, hitting her arm guards, shoulders, driving her back step by step, the shimmering blade of ancient kings like a storm in her hand. She felt the two Wizrs behind Gahalatine use their magic against her, but their spells simply shot past her, driven to the side. Trynne continued to push the woman farther and farther back and then made a quick strike at her wrist, sending her sword clattering to the floor.
“Stop!” Gahalatine shouted, his eyes blazing with panic as Trynne pressed her blade to his sister’s bare neck. His hand was outstretched. His shout came with all the force of his magic, but it could not sway her. He stared at Trynne, stared at the smudges on her face, and slowly his eyes widened in recognition and surprise.
Trynne yanked down her chain hood, revealing her face, her hair.
“Yes,” Trynne said to him, glaring at him. “It is I. Do you yield?”
An exultant smile spread on Gahalatine’s face. His worry at seeing his sister murdered was ebbing. Perhaps he believed Trynne wouldn’t kill her. He lowered his outstretched palm, but still held it out before him, as if coaxing friendship from an angry wolf.