The Silent Shield (The Kingfountain Series Book 5)

by Jeff Wheeler

  He noticed her prodding immediately and rushed up to the bars, gripping them with his hands.

  “You dare test me?” he growled, his face contorted with anger.

  Trynne was grateful he was in a cage. He had no weapon, but her instincts told her that he was dangerous.

  Even so, she ignored his angry remark and continued to prod him. His reserves were still depleted, but they were growing again. Somehow, though he was doing nothing more than pacing in his cell, something was feeding him.

  Trynne stood apart from him, far enough that she was out of reach. His eyes went from gazing hotly at hers to glancing down her body to the cylinder in her girdle. His eyebrows twitched with fury as he stared hungrily at it. He wanted it back with a fierce desperation. She had no doubt he would kill her to get it.

  She wondered what sort of power his access to the magic gave him, but doubted he would reveal the truth to her intentionally.

  “Where did Gahalatine strike? You said last night he would strike in four places at once. Brythonica obviously. Where else?” She knew about Legault, of course, but she wished to see if he would be truthful.

  His hands squeezed the bars until his knuckles were white, his brows narrowed scornfully. “Connacht in Legault, Marq in Brugia, and, of course, Edonburick. I tell you this not because I am disloyal to Gahalatine. I am not. I say this because it takes your kingdoms pitifully long to communicate, and you will undoubtedly hear this same news later.”

  He was trying to provoke her, and she knew it. “Then no doubt news of your defeat will also travel quickly.”

  His teeth clenched and his body trembled with rage. “You will not have power over me for long. Do you intend to execute me? You would be wise to release me. If you give me that scroll, I can be of greater service to you than you can possibly imagine.”

  “I doubt you would keep your word,” Trynne said. “I have some questions for you.”

  “Give me that scroll,” he said more intently. She felt a push of magic, but it was no more forceful than an infant tugging on her arm.

  “I think I’ll keep it,” she answered. “Do you know where they took my father? Do you know where Owen Kiskaddon is being held? I know he’s alive.”

  She saw it in his eyes. There was knowledge, there was truth, there was the information she desperately sought. But the low, cruel smile he gave her told her that he would never reveal it to her. That he would rather die than help her.

  “Why should I know such a thing?” he said. “My lord Gahalatine did not abduct him. How dare you suggest it.”

  “I didn’t suggest that Gahalatine did. I asked you a question.”

  “And what would you do to get the answer?” he said smoothly, his voice full of cunning. “Would you betray your king?”

  His words cast a shadow on her soul. She wanted to save her father, and she believed that Rucrius knew where he was. But she could do nothing to force him to tell her.

  “Tell me,” Trynne said, barely able to control her anger.

  “I can bring you to where he was taken,” Rucrius said. “Hold out the Tay al-Ard. We will both touch it together. You cannot go there alone. But I can. I know the way. I will take you there. Hold out the scroll.”

  Again, she felt his thoughts pushing against her. They were pushing stronger this time.

  Their silent stalemate was broken by the noise of steps coming down the corridor. Trynne turned and saw her father’s herald approaching rapidly.

  “My lady. Morwenna Argentine is here.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Revenge

  When Trynne reached the audience hall, she found Morwenna walking amidst the debris of cracked floor, gouged pillars, and detritus from the battle with the three Wizrs. The king’s poisoner had a look of wonder and astonishment as she surveyed the damage to the once-tranquil room. None of the palace servants had begun cleaning yet—all their focus had been on rescuing the survivors along the shore.

  Morwenna’s hand stretched out and touched one of the fragments of broken stone on the floor. After hefting it in her hand, she set it down and turned as Trynne approached.

  “You’re safe,” Morwenna breathed out with a sigh of relief, reaching out and embracing her. “When you did not come to Kingfountain straightaway, the king worried that you too had been abducted. He and the queen bade me to bring you back to the royal castle if you were here.”

  Trynne caught her meaning immediately. “Too? Who else has been taken?” She still harbored doubts about Morwenna’s loyalties after seeing the maps and was more interested in gaining information than in sharing it.

  Morwenna shook her head, looking saddened. “The Queen of Atabyrion.”

  “No!” Trynne gasped in shock.

  “Fallon knows,” Morwenna said with a suggestive tone. “He’s beside himself with worry. Gahalatine attacked Edonburick personally. The defenses were no match for him, and the heights were overpowered in short order by those flying troops of his. Queen Elysabeth was snatched away by one of the emperor’s Wizrs. She’s probably already been taken to the Forbidden Court.”

  Trynne felt as if her broken heart had been wrenched from her chest. “What happened to Iago?” she pressed.

  “He was taken aboard one of the treasure ships. There is a governor of Edonburick now, assigned by the emperor. He has brought gifts—more like bribes—to pay off the nobles. Some fled and returned to their own lands. With Iago and Elysabeth gone, only Fallon has a chance to rally any defense for Atabyrion. But he’s still at Kingfountain.” She reached out and touched Trynne’s shoulder. “He was chosen, you know. He’s the king’s champion.”

  The Gauntlet had been the furthest thing from Trynne’s mind. So Fallon had won after all?

  “I’m glad for him,” Trynne said, her feelings still very conflicted.

  “Yes, there was hope that someone else would compete. You know the people keep talking about the Painted Knight.” She gave Trynne a conspiratorial smile. “They were surprised he didn’t come to Kingfountain.”

  Did Morwenna know? Trynne kept her expression guarded, but suspicion writhed inside her like a nest of snakes. Had Fallon told Morwenna?

  “I had not heard the latest news. Thank you.”

  Morwenna looked around at the rubble. “When I arrived, I was surprised to hear that you were not also captured. They must have sent someone to take you?” Her tone urged Trynne to confide all her secrets.

  “Yes, and they learned that Brythonica was not as helpless as they had supposed. We were not easy prey.”

  Morwenna looked startled. “I am impressed, Trynne. The king will wish to hear of your success from your own mouth. Shall we go now?”

  Trynne had the feeling that Morwenna was more surprised than she was letting on. Despite the bonds of the past, she felt more wary of her than ever. Severn’s daughter was a dangerous person, a Wizr in her own right, and Trynne’s own stores of magic were perilously depleted. If Morwenna’s loyalties lay elsewhere, she would be walking into danger if she left with her.

  “I will come shortly,” Trynne said, deciding to trust her instincts. “Please tell the king and queen that I am safe. Ploemeur is unconquered, and our navy is still intact. There is other news I must bring them as well.” Trynne wasn’t going to share what she had learned with Morwenna. Nor was she going to tell her that Rucrius was being held in the dungeon.

  Morwenna looked at her eagerly, her eyes wide with interest.

  Trynne patted her arm. “Thank you. Tell Fallon that I’m sorry about his parents. He must be very worried.”

  “I will,” Morwenna said, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.

  It was nearly midnight and the fire burned low in the hearth. Trynne sat on one of the couches in her bedchamber, her legs tucked beneath her. She still hadn’t changed out of her gown, and it was tattered and filthy from the events of the day and preceding night. Weariness had made her nod off, the Tay al-Ard still clutched in her hand. She had examined it, trying to
understand how it worked and the magic that had formed it. If only she had her mother’s memory. No doubt there was some ancient legend divulging the history of these magical devices. She brushed some hair behind her ear and chewed on her lip, deep in thought.

  An idea had been simmering in her mind since Morwenna had returned to Kingfountain. She was so tired, she wasn’t sure her plan was particularly wise. She tapped the cylinder against her palm. When Gahalatine thought someone was useful to him, he took that person directly to the Forbidden Court. He had done so with King Sunilik. The Wizr who had brought him to Chandigarl had used the Tay al-Ard to do so. It sounded like Queen Elysabeth had been moved the same way, to the same city. That meant Gahalatine respected her and thought she might prove useful to him. Iago had been put on board a ship, which meant he was of little value to the emperor. Gahalatine had also sent three Wizrs to Ploemeur to capture Trynne. Perhaps they’d feared Sinia would return to defend her ancient duchy. Or maybe they’d feared Trynne.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose to try to stay awake. She’d never felt so tired and spent. Hundreds had perished in the attack on Ploemeur. But most of the deaths had been among the invaders, who were now stranded in Brythonica. The Chandigarli leaders she had spoken to throughout the day had been humbled by her mercy and generosity. They didn’t see Trynne as an enemy. They had set sail for Kingfountain under the impression it was a benighted realm with corrupt leadership. That the people were living in misery.

  They saw for themselves that it was not true of Brythonica. Was Gahalatine just as misguided? Or could he have knowingly given his people a false pretext for the invasion?

  Gahalatine was young and handsome, perhaps ten years older than her, full of energy and vigor. There was no questioning his ambition, and his successes and his power with the Fountain had emboldened him. He’d taken over the oasis despite knowing the king was good and true, something that bothered her, but he’d also shown signs of fierce intelligence. Nobility. Was he truly the enemy? Or were the men who were guiding him the problem?

  She remembered something her father had taught her years after the first lessons he’d given her in the game of Wizr. Father had told her that the enchanted Wizr set, the one whose pieces represented real people, had been a gift of the Wizrs of old to the King of Ceredigion. The Argentine family had been playing the game for centuries by the time Rucrius came to Kingfountain and destroyed it with his staff—the staff she now held. What was it her father had told her? She had only been a child, but the words had struck her even back then.

  Trynne felt a ripple from the Fountain magic, stirring her memory.

  The Wizrs of old had made the rules. They were the ones who had lived to witness the rise and fall of several kingdoms. They were the ones who had offered the magic game of Wizr to a man who was ambitious enough to rule.

  Her throat constricted, her eyes widening. That word described Gahalatine perfectly.

  Had the Wizrs of Chandigarl run out of patience with the Argentine family at last? Had the game gone on too long? The king piece was not the most powerful piece on the board; the Wizr was. But the game ended when the king was defeated. Perhaps they’d feared King Drew was becoming powerful enough to usurp them?

  She pushed her legs off the couch and rose. Little pinpricks of pain tingled in her feet. She feared falling asleep, afraid of what might happen to her land if she rested at a time like this. Rucrius was a dangerous man. She didn’t know what fed his power, but she’d sensed it growing even in captivity, faster than her own was growing. Knowing his powerful will, she had ordered that he be left alone, without being able to speak to his guards.

  After pacing a moment, she stuffed the Tay al-Ard into her girdle and opened the door of her room. The four guards on duty were startled by her sudden appearance.

  “My lady, you’re not abed?” one of them asked.

  “I’m going to the dungeon. Come with me.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The palace was quiet, but there were soldiers patrolling the corridors night and day. Torchlight shone off the mirrored floors. Someone had swept them after the events of the day. She shook her head in amazement at the diligence of the palace staff. When she reached the dungeon, the captain of the night watch bowed to her and unlocked the door. She was afraid that she’d find the cell empty. She dreaded it.

  “Wait here,” she bid the soldiers. “I’ll speak with him alone.”

  They looked at her with concern, but they obeyed. As she walked down the dimly lit corridor, she reached out with her magic. No, Rucrius was there. She sensed him as she approached, feeling the rippling well of magic seething behind the bars of his cell. He had been sitting on the cot, but he rose and walked to the door, his pale, strong hands encircling the bars and squeezing them. His eyes were full of wrath. They glowed in the darkness, reflecting the torchlight.

  “Your eyes glow,” Trynne said as she advanced, keeping well clear of him.

  “That is common for my race,” he said disdainfully. “I am not like you.” He still had not changed his clothes either. They stood facing each other, Trynne’s heart quailing in the face of his power. He’d been utterly spent that morning, and now it seemed like his power was filled to the brim. How?

  She felt him reach out with his magic and test her, poking and judging her supply. A mocking smile creased his face. “You’re tired, Tryneowy Kiskaddon. Are you afraid to sleep? You have me locked in a cell. Why should you be troubled? These bars don’t make you feel safe?” His eyes flashed in the darkness.

  She felt her fear of him deep inside her bones, but she would not let it control her. “If you try to escape, my warriors have orders to kill you.”

  He pulled one hand back and examined his fingernails. “We both know that your soldiers cannot stop me from escaping if I choose, just as we both know that my Fountain magic is stronger than yours. I have permitted myself to be your captive. And I am certain you are clever enough to discern why.”

  She wished her father were there. He could match wits with Rucrius. She felt young and naive. But she was also determined.

  “You know where my father is,” she said.

  “And you took my staff and my Tay al-Ard. But even more important, Tryneowy, you are protected from my magic. Just like your father.” His voice was oily and cunning. “I didn’t know that you’d inherited that gift from him. How curious. What Gahalatine would do to know that . . . Do you know how powerful you are, Tryneowy? He has long wished to heave off the yoke of the Mandaryn. Do you even know what they are? I doubt it.”

  She felt chills shoot through her. The Wizr was toying with her, manipulating her, saying things to make her desperate for information.

  “Where is my father?” she asked, keeping her tone calm and measured.

  “You want to barter? How quaint. Give me the Tay al-Ard and I will take you to him.”

  “Assuming you have him imprisoned, then your offer to take me to share his prison isn’t acceptable.”

  He gave her a lazy smile. “We both have what the other wants. But time is on my side, Tryneowy. Your father wears chains and is being kept in the dark.” His face turned cruel as he spoke. “His face is sheathed in a hood that makes it difficult to breathe. He reeks of his own filth. And best of all, he has forgotten you completely. Yes, my dear. He cannot remember you. He cannot remember his wife. He doesn’t know his own name. You have no comprehension of the power that we possess. You will not find him on your own. And if anyone tries to free him, he will be killed without mercy. Even to attempt it risks his life.”

  He pressed his cheek against a bar of his cell, his glowing eye glaring at her like a cat’s. It made him seem inhuman. Everything inside of her wanted to react to him, but she tried to stifle her horror. Clenching her teeth, balling her hands into fists, she stared back at him.

  “Why?” she demanded hotly.

  “You might be wondering how I’ve managed to add to my store of power in this cell,” Rucrius said. “Reven
ge. You, my dear, deeply underestimate the force of that motive. I do not need to stack tiles. I don’t need to stitch or play a harp. Revenge is the power of thought. And you cannot stop me from thinking. You stole from me the only woman I loved. I tried to get her back. You will never live up to your potential, Tryneowy, until you embrace revenge in your heart and in your will. You’ve had so many chances to learn that lesson. That disgusting slack cheek of yours started it. You’ve shied away from the truth, but you’ll find that revenge endures forever. Like it or not, you are already becoming one of us.”

  He smiled at her through the bars and it made her sick.

  The infection of his words had begun to shake part of her loose inside, rattling her to break apart like a . . . like a wagon wheel. Her eyes widened with horror at the thoughts.

  “My brother,” she gasped.

  And the knowing look on Rucrius’s face made her shrink.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Fault Staff

  Not since taking the five oaths had Trynne been so tempted to break one of them. She wanted to punish Rucrius, to inflict pain on him and force him to reveal where her father was being held prisoner. But she would not. She knew she could not trust what he told her; his words were infectious and subtle, and she knew that he was trying to manipulate her and her emotions. So she left without a word, giving her guards the order that if he tried to escape, he should be executed immediately. His death would be in his own hands.

  But as Trynne fitfully tried to sleep that night, she could not purge the words that continued to haunt her mind. Her father had been stripped of all sense of himself. How could they do such a thing? Owen had always been immune to the Fountain magic of others. Perhaps it had been managed with another relic of the Deep Fathoms. It was hard to banish the image of her father in a cramped, dark cell wearing a mask. The memory of her little brother’s wagon going off the side of the cliff. The feeling of helplessness was anguishing.