by Jeff Wheeler
Owen nodded and held up his hand. “We all must return to the Deep Fathoms some day, my friend. I think it’s a blessing from the Fountain to know my fate early.”
“You’re bearing the news better than I,” Lord Amrein said in a husky voice. He patted Owen’s shoulder and then abandoned the solar, leaving Trynne alone with her father.
She was unwilling to accept her mother’s vision as a blessing from the Fountain. No, she would fight her father’s fate with everything she had. She turned and leaned back against the window, watching her father as he stared vacantly into the distance, as if trapped in some long-ago memory.
“Father?” she called after a moment of silence.
He slouched in his chair, stroking his bottom lip thoughtfully. His eyes shifted up to meet her gaze. His eyebrows lifted, as if that was all the strength he had for a reply.
“I spoke to Severn’s daughter today,” Trynne continued. She walked up and planted her hands on the table. “She told me she’s going to Pisan.”
“Did she?” Owen answered, looking back down at the table and sighing. “That was supposed to be a secret.”
“I helped her out of an uncomfortable situation with Prince Elwis. Maybe she assumed I’d know because I’m your daughter.” She emphasized the word.
“I hope that’s the case.” He looked up at her. “Your tone of voice implies you question the wisdom of such an action.”
Trynne shrugged and stifled a smile. Her father knew her well. “It’s just that she’s . . . she’s Severn’s daughter.”
Owen smiled and sat up higher in the chair, seemingly grateful for the change in the conversation. He likely didn’t want to brood on his future any more than she did. “You remember the stories I told you about Dominic Mancini, don’t you?”
She nodded, recalling several of the episodes concerning him.
“He once said—keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer. Now, I’m not saying Morwenna is our enemy. But Severn is not exactly a friend. Glosstyr is a different duchy with him ruling it. They are more isolated from the rest of the realm. More insular. I’d wish it were otherwise, but it is what it is. Losing a throne is hard on a man. I know he still resents it . . . resents me.” Owen rubbed his mouth. “We’ve tried to get Morwenna more involved at court, but she has no interest in fitting in here. And, to be honest, the other girls haven’t treated her in a friendly way.”
“I’ve tried,” Trynne said. “We spent a good portion of the afternoon together walking around the palace. She’s never had a friend.”
Owen nodded at her and smiled approvingly. “Her father is her closest companion. She is fiercely loyal to him. Bear that in mind, Daughter. But I’m proud of you for trying. The idea to send her to Pisan came from her mother, actually, who suggested it to me. And based on what Lord Amrein has told me, Morwenna has an aptitude for spying and has, over the years, managed to root out the Espion we’ve planted in Glosstyr. Obviously we replaced them when their covers were compromised. Maybe her gift is intrigue?” he mused.
“She was more interested in talking about politics than dresses or fashion,” Trynne said. “Actually, I enjoyed talking to her. I wish she weren’t going now. Did you talk to Mother about her becoming a poisoner? Has she had any visions?”
Owen smoothed his hands across the polished wooden table. “Yes. Your mother saw her at the poisoner school and then working as an agent for her brother. It is a difficult life and a dangerous one.” His eyes tightened with memories of the past. “But ultimately it was the king’s decision.” He glanced up at her. “It’s spring and so the daylight has lingered, but it is getting late, Trynne. I have much work to do this evening still. I’d best get to it.” He leaned forward and rose. The weight of the news had aged him, and it made her ache inside.
“Father?” she asked again as he was turning.
“Yes?”
She tried to keep her voice as casual as she could. “I don’t think it’s fair that only the boys get to use the training yard. May I have your permission to practice wooden swords with Captain Staeli tomorrow?”
He chuckled to himself. “That’s how Evie felt as well,” he said. He pursed his lips and then shrugged. “Just don’t make a nuisance of yourself, Trynne. After Myrddin’s warning today, the training yard was overcrowded with boys hoping to earn a seat at the Ring Table. That was one of Myrddin’s hopes, actually. By creating a goal to strive for, the king will inspire a generation of boys into practicing hard.”
“Thank you, Father.” She kissed his cheek and left the solar. As she started down the hall, she spied Captain Staeli following her, faithful shadow that he was. She turned and gave him a serious look. “Tomorrow before dawn. Meet me at the training yard.”
There was a wariness about him, but his only answer was a curt nod.
Sweat dripped off the tip of Trynne’s nose. Her body was trembling with the exertions of the morning. The torches they had used for light had nearly burned out, and the birds were chirping up a ruckus in the woods surrounding the Kingfountain palace. The sun had yet to show itself, but the world was pale and drowsy, and smoke lifted in puffs and plumes from the many chimneys. From her vantage point in the training yard, she could see the poisoner’s tower—the windows dark. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, and panted.
“I thought we were . . . going to use”—she gasped, shaking her head—“the wooden ones!” Her hair was tied back with a strap of leather. She wore a page boy’s clothes and was skinny enough to be mistaken for a boy. Her entire body was dripping and her muscles felt pushed past all endurance.
She had hoped to spend the morning drilling in the techniques of the sword with wooden blades. Instead, Captain Staeli had had her practice swinging iron pokers from the blacksmith forge. For a long while he had pushed her, walking around her in a circle, not exerting himself in the least. He’d had her repeat the same drills over and over again until her shoulders throbbed and her forearms hurt. She’d dropped the pokers noisily several times, earning a frown of disapproval from him whenever it happened.
Captain Staeli shook his head and stifled a yawn. “If you want me to teach you, then you will learn the way I did. If you don’t quit before a fortnight is through, then maybe we’ll get started with the wooden ones.”
“Maybe?” Trynne gasped despondently.
“A wooden sword keeps you from cutting yourself, ’tis true,” he said. “But they don’t build up the muscles you need. That will take time. A lot of time. Again.” He gestured for her to continue even though her arms were whimpering in relief over the brief rest. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to brush her own hair later that afternoon.
She gave him a determined look. “I’m not going to quit, Captain. Count on that.”
“We’ll see,” he said with an unconvinced sniff. “Girls are made of softer stuff than men.”
His words sent a shock of outrage and anger, giving her a new burst of strength. But she realized almost as quickly that he had said it on purpose to goad her into working harder. After giving him a black look, she continued. She had been given two pokers, one for each arm. Captain Staeli had told her that most men were trained to favor one arm and use the other with a shield. He had been trained with two weapons equally and found advantages in being able to attack with two. It would give her an advantage that might compensate for her smaller size and frame.
And so she drilled with the heavy iron poles.
And she drilled.
Until she vomited.
Then, after pushing her that far, it was enough and the lesson was over. She wiped the spittle from her lips, sitting on her knees, shaking all over. Then she saw him smile. Just a small one.
Trynne found Morwenna later that day and the two resumed their conversation as they walked through the palace together. The day before, they had been hesitant with each other, unsure of how much to share. But after talking with her father, Trynne felt better about developing a connection with Morwenna, who was
despised because of her own father just as Trynne felt shamed because of her palsied face. As they spoke, they shared more and more about their life experiences and found in each other a sympathetic companion.
“What I don’t understand,” Morwenna said, shaking her head, “is your parents both are Fountain-blessed. Could not they heal you?”
“They tried to,” Trynne said, feeling the familiar taste of bitterness once again. “Many things are possible with Fountain magic, but nothing they tried worked. Perhaps it was because they did not use their magic straightaway. Perhaps it was because it wasn’t what the Fountain willed to happen.”
Morwenna frowned at that. “You speak of the Fountain as if it were a person.”
“I’ve—my father has heard it speak to him,” Trynne said, catching herself in time. “The magic is benevolent. It is aware of us and our circumstances.”
Morwenna smirked and shrugged. “It has its favorites, then,” she said with a gleam in her eye.
“Those who serve it tend to be favored,” Trynne pointed out. “But not all who do are Fountain-blessed. If one is capable of practicing the principles of the magic, it will respond to them, regardless of their motives.”
Morwenna’s eyes narrowed on her. “Like my father.”
“I didn’t mean that at all,” Trynne said, shaking her head.
Morwenna shrugged. They continued to walk for a moment in silence, connected only by their clasped arms. Then the raven-haired girl spoke again. “Have you ever felt a sense that the Fountain knows your destiny?” She cast a sidelong look at Trynne.
Licking her lips, Trynne nodded. “Yes. I have.”
Morwenna nodded. “So have I. I feel it bubbling inside me sometimes. A huge and powerful certainty. That I am meant to do something. To be something.” She shook her head. “No one understands me. At least, no one did. Until now.” She gave Trynne a furtive look.
Trynne nodded to her, feeling her own secret writhing inside of her. Long ago, when she was a child, her father had told her that her namesake, Ankarette Tryneowy, had explained that secrets were like butterflies trying to escape the cocoon. The Fountain had trusted her with a secret. She was determined to keep it, especially from her parents. Especially if it could somehow help her save her father.
From the corridor ahead, Trynne spied Fallon walking toward them. He had a cocksure look on his face and was wearing a padded leather doublet that was scuffed and battered, the kind that was used in the training yard. His prince’s finery was gone.
“Be warned. He is very rude,” Trynne said to her companion in a low voice.
“The excessively handsome can afford to be,” Morwenna murmured back with a smirk.
“I was just on my way to the training yard,” Fallon said proudly. “Would you two ladies care to join and watch my heroic exploits?”
“Will there be any, I wonder?” Trynne pondered, arching her eyebrows and sounding indifferent.
Morwenna gave her a startled look.
“Come and see for yourself. Lady Morwenna, I don’t believe we’ve ever conversed. My name is—”
“Fastidious Llewellyn,” Trynne supplied for him. “He goes by the nickname Tedious, though.”
“Fallon, actually,” he said, giving Trynne an annoyed look. “It means featherbrained. Doesn’t it, Cousin?”
“It is nice to meet you, Prince Fallon,” Morwenna said, bowing her head respectfully and curtsying. “We would be happy to join you.” She glanced at Trynne. “Well, I would.” A little blush came to her cheeks.
“By all means, come along.” He offered his elbow to Morwenna, spurning Trynne, which made her growl inside with fury. They walked to the training yard, with Fallon talking the entire way about nothing important. Trynne realized that he was likely going back to Edonburick, and the thought of not seeing him for a while panged her. She regretted all the barbs that had passed between them since they’d been reunited.
Upon reaching the training yard, Trynne felt a flash of hotness come over her. Her forearms were still lethargic from the morning’s activities and the once empty yard was bustling with young men. Trynne had never seen it so crowded. There were young people everywhere, and the sword masters were all leading groups of boys and young men through different drills and exercises. Small rings of adults were also cloistered together, the older men sparring with wooden blades, the younger ones sparring with steel swords that clanged and tolled like bells as they moved. Trynne and Morwenna were not the only ladies in the courtyard, however. It seemed half the maidens from the palace had assembled to gawk at and encourage the men. The smell of sweat brought back more memories of the morning, making Trynne feel light-headed.
As they wandered in a bit, Trynne spied Prince Elwis with a crowd of young men from Brugia around him. They were wearing training gear as well, though the gear was more black than brown and full of buckles. Elwis was scowling at the noisy crowd, and his scowl turned into a sneer when he saw them. Trynne’s cheeks flushed.
“I don’t like him,” Trynne said under her breath.
“Who? Elwis?” Fallon said. “He’s a fop. He doesn’t know anything.”
“He insulted Lady Tryneowy yesterday,” Morwenna said softly, casting a wary glance at the stuck-up prince.
“How?” Fallon demanded, whirling and gazing at Trynne.
“It’s no matter, Fallon,” Trynne said, shaking her head. “Let it be.”
His lips curled into a snarl. “Tell me,” he demanded of Morwenna.
“He disparaged her looks in a manner not befitting a prince or any man,” Morwenna said. “He said she was ugly, which is not only discourteous, it’s also a lie.”
A flush of anger spread over Fallon’s cheeks as he looked from Morwenna to Trynne. Then he whirled and started right toward Elwis.
“Fallon, no!” Trynne gasped, reaching for him, but he was already well on his way. Morwenna’s eyes were bulging with surprise as well.
Prince Elwis’s mouth tipped into a smirk when he noticed Fallon’s approach. His arms were folded across his chest and he looked as if he were about to start laughing.
“Hail Prince of Atabyrica,” Elwis said disdainfully, offering a meager bow. “You’ve decided to join us at last—”
His last words were cut off when Fallon punched him in the face and sent him staggering back into his companions, who gaped with surprise.
Fallon jabbed a finger toward him. “If you ever utter another insult toward any woman, Elwis, then I swear by the Fountain—!”
There was blood dribbling from Elwis’s nose and his lip was already turning puffy as he grazed it with his gloved hand. The look on his face turned from pain to surprise, then fierce anger. He dropped his hand to the wooden sword at his waist and pulled it out.
“Prince Fallon!” someone shouted and threw him a wooden sword.
Trynne clutched Morwenna’s arm as the two young men flew at each other with the wooden sabers. The swords were made of sturdy pieces and clacked against each other like battle staves. Fallon ducked as one sweep came toward his head and then countered with his own. Trynne’s heart nearly ruptured with fear as she watched the two young men collide, their size not that different, their aggression equally ferocious.
The fight lasted hardly a moment. Elwis trapped Fallon’s hilt, then stepped in and clubbed Fallon in the groin with his fist. As his adversary doubled over in pain, the Brugian prince brought his elbow up to catch his nose. Fallon toppled backward, stunned and in obvious agony. Elwis sneered down at him and then slapped the flat of the blade down against his unprotected head, hard enough that it cut his ear on a snag of wood.
Staring down coldly, Elwis lifted his weapon again to continue beating the helpless man. Without thinking, Trynne let go of Morwenna to charge in and block the blow, but another beat her to it.
It was Captain Staeli, who caught the attack on his own short sword. The wooden sword split apart like wood from an axe. Trynne’s protector stepped in and backhanded Elwis across the face
with his fist, sending the prince to the cobbles.
Then he drew his other blade and faced the young men of Brugia with defiance in his eyes. “’Tis not the way of Virtus,” Captain Staeli said in a low growl. “I mean that for both of you sorry cubs! Now get you gone ’fore I thrash you both!”
Looking mortified and repentant, Fallon obeyed. The Prince of Brugia’s face was a mess of blood, but he didn’t look injured, only angry.
Trynne saw that Fallon had just earned an enemy for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER SIX
The Gauntlet
Trynne could not remember ever seeing Fallon so surly and ill-tempered. His teeth were clenched, his arms folded, shoulders hunched. He’d changed back into courtly attire, but his entire form radiated the white-hot heat of suppressed anger. His mother had been steadily scolding him in a low tone and he looked ready to lash out at her in frustration. They were gathered in the great hall, awaiting the arrival of the king. King Drew, Trynne’s father, and Fallon’s father were discussing the mishap with Grand Duke Maxwell of Brugia in another room.
“What if he had pulled his dagger instead of the training sword?” Lady Evie said vehemently. “Neither of you were wearing hauberks . . . He could have shed your blood before Captain Staeli or anyone else intervened.”
Fallon glowered at his mother, clearly still humiliated by the outcome of his altercation with Elwis. Ever since the incident, Trynne could not stop thinking about how Fallon’s rash act had been motivated by Elwis’s insult toward her. She felt a certain guilty pleasure from it that was confusing.
Fallon’s mother held a bloodied rag to his torn ear, but he winced and lifted his arms to ward her off.
“Enough coddling, Mother!” he snapped at her.
She squinted in anger at her son and shook her head. “Don’t you blame me for this, Fallon Llewellyn. You weren’t thinking. You rushed into something without plotting out the consequences. It took four years to make peace with Brugia, and it was nearly wasted in a training-yard brawl.”