The Silent Shield (The Kingfountain Series Book 5)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Trynne had taken Genny into her confidence, and when her friend had asked Fallon if he was part of a conspiracy, not divulging her source, he had admitted to her that he’d donned the outfit that night to try to draw out the conspirators. He’d even told her that the Painted Knight had humiliated him and taken the mask away. His words lined up with Trynne’s version of the events, which she was relieved to hear. But she didn’t know if he was still dabbling with his Espion contacts or traveling in secret with Morwenna.

  She could only hope he was not.

  “Are you asking me to reach out to him?” Trynne asked with a wince.

  Genny shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t burden you with that. He should make the next move. I just hope that you wouldn’t spurn his efforts to reconcile, even if they’re clumsily made.”

  “Well said, Genny,” Trynne replied with a small laugh.

  Genevieve hugged her again. “We should learn more about this zenana. Are there true Oath Maidens there, the kind Myrddin taught you about? Or does it serve another purpose? I might send you there, Trynne. My heart says there is more for us to learn. Gahalatine must have a weakness. All this power, all this force. There has to be something we can use to turn the tide in our favor. We’re running out of time.”

  Trynne nodded resolutely.

  One of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting pulled aside the curtains and appeared on the balcony. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but a visitor has arrived. The Grand Duke of Brugia.”

  Genevieve looked surprised. “He wishes to see me?”

  The girl dimpled. “No, my lady. He came to see Lady Tryneowy.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Elwis

  Upon leaving the balcony, Trynne found the young grand duke of Brugia talking pleasantly with Sureya. His demeanor had transformed over the last year. Her first impressions of him had not been favorable. He had been rude and conceited, and the outfit he’d chosen for the king and queen’s marriage was distinctly—and pointedly—Brugian in style: a fancy black tunic with white ruffs at the neck and cuffs. In the past, Elwis had always sported a sour frown while in Kingfountain, and he’d never acknowledged others as his equal. But his attitude had abruptly changed after his father was slain in the Battle of Guilme. He had come close to losing his precious kingdom, and it had not failed to make an impression on him that Drew’s men had died in the effort to save his city.

  He was courteous, though still a bit aloof at times. But he tried harder to be agreeable, and he’d tried exceedingly hard to be agreeable to her.

  When Trynne entered the room, a small smile appeared on his mouth, one that reached his eyes. Leaning against the wall near the window seat, arms folded, he concluded his conversation.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Rani Sureya. It has been a long while since I have seen fashions from the East. You speak our language exceedingly well. I bid you welcome to Kingfountain.” He bowed graciously, and Sureya dimpled and smiled back in return.

  How he had changed.

  He was tall, his hair so blond it was nearly white. His rugged face still bore the fading scars he’d earned in the battle.

  “I’m grateful I caught you ere you departed for Averanche,” he said warmly, walking up and giving Trynne a formal bow. “I only just heard that you were at the palace.”

  He made no attempt to hide his regard for her. She was flattered by his attentions, naturally, but uncertain about how to respond to them. Her broken heart still pined for Fallon, even though her head told her that it was not to be. She had tried to wrest details from her mother about the man she’d seen Trynne marry in her vision. But Sinia had always refused to say more. It did nothing to comfort Trynne that her mother’s look always had an edge of disappointment when they spoke about her future husband.

  “I did not intend to stay for long,” Trynne said, trying to be pleasant. “It is good to see you, Elwis. What brings you here?”

  They were both members of the king’s council and had seats at the Ring Table, so it was appropriate for them to discuss state secrets. Elwis glanced back at Sureya and lowered his voice.

  “You brought her?” he asked. “I’m presuming you trust her.”

  “I do. Her father is an honorable man.”

  “Indeed, he is,” Elwis said. “King Sunilik has a strong reputation among the spice traders of the desert. He is someone we’ve heard a lot about this past year. I was just very surprised to find her here. I came because we heard from a Genevese merchant that the fleet of treasure ships was seen at harbor in Jevva. They are coming for us once again. There can be no doubt of that. The Genevese captain is a canny man. He said the winds and currents put them about a month from our shores. I’ve tripled the numbers of archers in my realm. If they start falling from the sky again, you can be sure we will make it difficult. I came to relay this information to the king, along with other news.”

  “What news?”

  “I learned that two years ago, when Gahalatine finished the work on his new capital, the Forbidden Court, he commemorated the celebration by inviting the rulers of the hundred kingdoms he’s purportedly conquered. They were brought by his treasure ships and feasted and celebrated along the journey as well as in the capital itself. The ships were then stuffed to the bilge with trading goods for them to return to their kingdoms. Silks, jade, beautiful vases, plants of many varieties. Listen to this. The way Gahalatine does tribute is very different. People don’t pay him for protection. He pays them. This Genevese captain I met said that there are over a hundred and twenty scholars in the Forbidden Court learning every spoken language so that they can be sent to negotiate terms of tribute. The scholars of Chandigarl have studied the stars for centuries and have maps more accurate than anything we possess. He saw the fleet at Jevva and was allowed to tour the vessels and gain this knowledge firsthand. They were boasting of their superiority.”

  Trynne’s stomach turned sick with dread. “Can nothing stop them?”

  Elwis looked equally helpless. “This Genevese captain asked the admiral of the fleet why Kingfountain had not been invited to the celebration. Do you know what he said?”

  Trynne shook her head.

  “He said we were too far beneath their notice. That we were nothing but a squabbling, rebellious land in need of a benevolent master.” His voice bristled with anger. “I’m growing heartily sick of this Gahalatine fellow.” She could see the depths of rage in his eyes and knew he still harbored revenge in his heart for the way his father had died.

  “Thank you for sharing the news with me and not waiting until the council meets,” she said. Worry had tied her up in knots. If only Myrddin were there to advise them. If only her father were.

  “Of course,” he said, waving aside her gratitude. He glanced at Genevieve and Sureya, who were standing over the baby’s crib, before continuing. “When can I see you again?” he asked in a lower voice.

  She blinked with surprise.

  “I don’t mean to startle you.” He sighed, looking a little chagrined. Then he gave her a self-conscious smile. “Let me try to explain this delicately. I’ve been told that Averanche is inundated with suitors seeking to impress you. A veritable flood, as if the Deep Fathoms were trying to drown you. I have not, quite deliberately, attempted to press you in that way. But I did not want you to suppose I’m being inattentive either. You are not . . . like other women I know. Far from it. You are . . . I’m making a rather bloody mess of this, aren’t I?” He laughed at himself, looking flushed and embarrassed. “Forgive me. All the little speeches I’ve rehearsed in my head have fluttered away like butterflies. I’m not very apt at wooing, Trynne. What I mean to say is that I would cherish the opportunity to spend more time with you.” For a moment she thought he would touch her hand, but he didn’t. “I would have no qualms about meeting you in Averanche, assuming I could get past all your suitors without being stabbed by one of them, or Ploemeur if you would prefer. You also have an open invitation to come to Marq. I’ve imagined taking you on a gon
dola ride and showing you the rich history of my state. There. I have said it. Clumsily, but there it is. I am far more confident with a sword.”

  She was touched by how flustered he was, how difficult it was for him to say such things to her. She did not have feelings for him, not the kind of feelings she had harbored for Fallon for so many years. But she respected him. Still, she could not help but wonder if Elwis was motivated more by her prospects than by her.

  “I do have many visitors, it is true,” she said. “Probably not as many as you fear. I’ve told them all the same thing. This is not the season to woo and marry. We are at war. I’ve also told them that if they seek my regard and notice, they should apply themselves more to their training. As you have.” She gave him one of her crooked smiles.

  Elwis took her compliment with a relieved grin and backed away from her. “As always, your counsel is wise. I’ll not detain you further. By your leave.” She could tell he wanted her to accept his invitation to visit. But he did not press her, which showed admirable restraint on his part.

  As he turned to go, she called out to him. “Elwis?”

  He stopped and turned.

  “I have no plans at the moment for the Feast of St. Benedick. I should like to visit Marq again. Perhaps you can toss coins in the fountain at the city center until then?”

  “I shall,” he promised, looking at her fixedly. She gave him a nod.

  It was time to bring Sureya home.

  Averanche.

  Trynne loved the view of the sea from the upper balustrade. The wind fought to veil the view with her own hair, and she had to keep sweeping the strands away as she leaned against the stone railing, thinking about her conversation with the Grand Duke of Brugia. The sun was finally setting—the second time for her. She loved to watch the sun lower over the ocean, the majesty of the sight paired with the sound of the waves crashing so far below.

  Located on the border of Westmarch and Brythonica, Averanche was a city that had surrendered to Trynne’s father many years ago, after his successful surprise attack on the King of Occitania’s army. She’d heard so many stories about his exploits that it sometimes felt as if she had lived them too.

  Upon their return, she had given instructions for Sureya to be accommodated as befit her station. The girl was still adjusting to the change in climate, and the thin silks she’d worn in the oasis were not warm enough for Ceredigion.

  There had been so many duties to attend to that only on her evening walk did she have time to process the grand duke’s request to court her.

  She thought about her promise to visit Marq for the feast day. She had not yet shown favor to any of the young suitors who had come calling for her. Some of them were not even young, like the prickly Count Bastian from Legault, who was making a ruckus down below since she’d refused a private meeting with him. He had attended dinner in the hall, for it would hardly have been polite not to invite him, along with five other would-be suitors, but she had ensured they were all seated far away from her. She pushed the thoughts from her mind and returned to a more pleasant one.

  Elwis Asturias. It had taken years for her father to defeat his father, King Maxwell. Some wondered why Owen had hammered away at the defenses of Brugia’s cities rather than pressing for a more decisive battle. But Owen did not treat his soldiers’ lives rashly. He had known time was on his side. By besieging the cities, one by one, he’d strained Maxwell’s resources enough to make his people desperate for peace.

  Trynne wondered, in retrospect, whether her father had taken the long road in order to gain Maxwell as an ally. The Asturiases were a proud family. A quick victory would have caused more resentment than a hard-won fight.

  Her father had always played the long game.

  Perhaps she was destined to marry Elwis. If so, he would have to prove himself to her with consistency and determination—and not just because her heart still yearned for another. Trynne longed for adventure, and since her little brother, Gannon, would inherit both Westmarch and Brythonica, she did not feel the need to rush into marriage. She wished to visit all the places on her mother’s map, and all of those beyond it too, including the Forbidden Court of Gahalatine.

  There was noise on the battlement steps as the irate count jostled his way up the stairs. “I don’t care! Stand aside, you old badger! I will speak with her!”

  Trynne hung her head for a moment. Despite her position on the king’s council, people still tried to treat her as a child, especially the most persistent of her suitors.

  Count Bastian was a big man, at least thirty, attended by a whip-thin servant with groveling manners. The count was handsome and arrogant and very, very rich. He was also clearly used to getting his way.

  Her herald, Farnes, could not keep up with him as he launched up the rampart steps.

  Trynne turned and started walking toward them, bridling her anger.

  “Ah, there you are!” Bastian said. He had clearly abandoned his composure down below. He threw up his hands. “I find it highly offensive that you have not only ignored me, but refused to see me, Lady Trynnwy. I’ve called for my carriage, and I will depart this miserable town at once. You did wrong to treat me so discourteously.”

  The beetle-eyed servant looked at Trynne with open hostility. Farnes, panting, finally reached the top of the steps. “How dare you address the Lady Tryneowy in this manner,” he huffed. “If you do not leave at once, I will summon Captain Staeli—”

  Trynne gave him a covert gesture to remain silent and he did.

  “Captain Staeli,” Bastian sneered. “What can he do? I’ve seen your defenses, my lady, and they are woefully inadequate. You have perhaps a score of guards manning the entire castle. Twenty! I will not leave without taking what I came for.” He lowered his voice, the boastful outrage vanishing. “This man is a poisoner from Pisan,” he said, jabbing with his thumb toward the man, who had suddenly produced a dagger. “If you utter a word, he will kill your aged herald. And anyone who dares interrupt. I have fifty men concealed in the woods outside Averanche with orders to enter the city at nightfall. You are coming with me, Lady Trynnwy. Our women do not have such airs as you do. I’ve seen your little girls in the training yard.” He spat with disdain. “Believe me when I say that you are not prepared for the world of men. But I will teach you obedience. Now, you will come with me quietly or your friends will get hurt.”

  He reached out and grabbed her arm.

  She hit him in the fleshy part just above his throat so fast and so hard that his eyes bulged in shock and pain and he started choking.

  Instantly she released the wellspring magic that had been building up inside her during his little speech. She had waited for him to make the first move because her magic always worked better in defense than in offense. As an Oath Maiden, she could draw on the experience of other Oath Maidens from a thousand lifetimes.

  The poisoner gave her a startled look and dodged to the left to try to stab Farnes with the dagger. The poisoner’s dagger had flecks of powder on it, and she was wearing a gown rather than the chain hauberk she wore while training. Still, Trynne got between them in a rush, catching the poisoner’s wrist to stop the stroke. His elbow rocked back toward her chin, but she dodged to the side and kicked the back of his knee. He crumpled and then spun his other leg around to trip her, all while wrestling for control of the knife. She probed him with her magic, sensing for weakness. He was skilled with a dagger, very skilled, and he had the full accoutrements of a poisoner—vials, needle rings, and a cloth rag drenched with liquid that could instantly render someone unconscious. He was wire-thin but sturdy.

  Trynne avoided the sweep of his leg. Though he was still struggling to regain his breath, Bastian grabbed at her from behind in a bear hug. Trynne ducked low, shouldered him in the stomach, and then rocked him over her back, sending him down hard onto the stone. The poisoner lunged at her next, and she had to arch her back to avoid the dagger slicing through her shoulder. As soon as his blow went wide, she flipped
back up and kicked the poisoner in the face.

  He pinwheeled away, but Trynne leaped at him, kicking him again in the middle with enough force that the air gushed out of his chest in a wheeze. She torqued his arm until he released the dagger and then brought her arm around his throat until he collapsed, unconscious.

  Farnes stared at her in admiration, his knees wobbling, and gripped the balustrade for support.

  She picked up the dagger, examining the dust on the blade. Vicarum, a poison that paralyzed its victims for several hours. Turning the blade over in her hand, she looked at Farnes.

  “No more suitors,” she said adamantly. “Send them all away. I don’t have time for this nonsense. But put these two in chains. I think Captain Staeli will wish to talk to them.”

  I think the poison affects my mind. It stops me from remembering. It’s making me mad. My thoughts are muddled and sluggish. I’ve asked for water, but the jailor only gives me the sickly sweet drink. How can I stop drinking the cup? I think on it again and again. If I can figure out a way to stop drinking it, perhaps I will get my memories back. It’s difficult to focus. There is no sense of time. Yet a strange idea came to me while I was stacking my little chips of broken stone today. Where did the chips come from? So I felt around the wall and discovered a broken section. Someone has chipped away at the stone. Did I do it?

  As I felt the broken wall with my fingers, rough and jagged, I realized there’s a pattern to it. The pieces are at angles. I’m so thirsty. I’ve tried not to drink for two days, but I can’t die of thirst. It torments me. Water. I need water. I’m going mad. Because I hear water. Trapped inside the wall. It wants to come out so I can drink it. In my mind, I see a vision of a man with a crooked staff. A wild, ancient man. He hits a rock with the staff, and water gushes out. Water is in the stone. Water is in the stone.