by Jeff Wheeler
“It is you,” Gahalatine said. “I’d not suspected. Yes, I will discuss terms with you. After vanquishing your king’s champion, I was going to insist he send you out to discuss terms of surrender.”
Trynne gave him a glowering look. “We have no intention of surrendering, my lord.”
A reckless sort of smile shone on his mouth. “Then treat with me, Tryneowy. My sister is your king’s hostage. Come back to my pavilion with me, and we will broker a truce between our kingdoms. You and I. If we cannot come to terms, then I will exchange you for my sister and we will continue this war. But I believe—I dare even hope—that one word from you will resolve this. Will you come?”
Trynne lowered the sword deliberately and looked back at King Drew, seeking his orders.
There was a new look of hope in Drew’s eyes when he met her gaze. “I empower you, Trynne Kiskaddon, to negotiate on my behalf.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Submission
It was like a river current was tugging her away. The scene was almost unreal. Captain Staeli on the floor, unmoving, his face turned away from her, his tunic soaked with blood. He was lost to her. Fallon was also one of the fallen, gripping his wounded knee as he stared at her in horror. He knew she was being swept away from him. Morwenna looked broken, defeated. Trynne gazed at them, one by one, and then walked to Drew and handed him Firebos. The king looked vulnerable, but there was still hope in his eyes. He was depending on Trynne to find a way to stop the violence from spreading further.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and then turned back and crossed the hall to Gahalatine, who stretched out his hand to her. His sister had risen, her armor broken and split from Trynne’s attack. Her eyes were fierce and angry, but she had accepted her brother’s decision. She remained behind.
When Trynne reached him, Gahalatine took her hand in his, gazing down at her with concerned but eager eyes. “Albion,” he said to one of the Wizrs, “take us to my pavilion.”
“It will be done, dread sovereign,” the Wizr replied meekly. He withdrew a Tay al-Ard from beneath his tunic and rested his hand on Gahalatine’s shoulder.
The rushing motion felt like falling, but it only lasted an instant. The dawn’s light revealed the spacious and luxurious tent. The curtains were spun of a golden cloth that nearly glowed. There were embroidered curtains inside, separating the enormous space into rooms, well-appointed changing screens wrought of iron and plated with gold leaf, and camp chairs arranged around tables heaped with grapes, pears, and fruits with speckled skins that she’d never seen before. Garlands of flowers hung from poles, and there was even a monkey, tethered to an ornate padded pole, calmly eating one of the grapes. There was a throne-like chair in the middle of the room, showing this to be a makeshift audience hall. It was immaculately clean. The pavilion made her feel like she was in Chandigarl, but the air was cold and the wind gusted through invisible cracks.
Trynne felt a rush of vertigo and started to sway, but Gahalatine strengthened his grip on her hand to steady her. He turned to the Wizr and spoke, magic swelling behind his words.
“Albion, order a halt to the attack. Draw the warriors back to the outer wall and have them stand guard. Send the royal surgeons into the castle at once to tend to the wounded. There are many. Have them obey King Andrew in every whit. Send word immediately to Shigionoth to forestall his attack on the Grand Duke of Brugia. If the attack has already begun, cease hostilities and withdraw. Obey me, Albion. I don’t know where Rucrius went or what mischief he may be up to, but if any of you defy me in this, I will have your heads.”
The Wizr looked affronted. “I don’t know where he is, my lord. He disappeared during the siege.”
“He is dead,” Trynne said in a low, meaningful voice.
The Wizr Albion stared at her as if she’d just uttered something beyond belief. His face twisted into a rictus of horror.
“He tried to flee the bailey, and I followed him through the ley lines. I will tell you where I left his body later.”
Albion blinked, his cheeks growing pale. “You . . . you killed him?”
Trynne nodded.
Gahalatine looked pleased. In fact, he even looked relieved. “By the Fountain,” he murmured. Then his eye grew sterner. “Secure the wards on the pavilion, Albion. No one comes in here unless I command it. On pain of death.”
The Wizr touched his own lips fearfully. “My lord, the Mandaryn cannot allow you to be so unprotected. If this girl dispatched Rucrius, then—”
“I am not interested in your advice,” Gahalatine snapped. “Invoke the wards and be gone! I’ll have none of you eavesdropping while I negotiate with her.”
“My lord,” Albion said, shaking his head, but the fire in Gahalatine’s eyes was such that the Wizr bowed meekly and turned without finishing his sentence. He began muttering words of power, making subtle hand gestures as he did so, and Trynne felt a blanket of magic descend atop the pavilion. The murmuring of the camp became distant and then hushed into quiet, like snow piling atop snow in a blizzard.
Albion ducked out of the tent, and Trynne felt as if a darkness had been lifted.
Gahalatine was still holding her hand. He grazed her knuckle with his thumb and led her toward one of the veils blocking the deeper interior of the tent. He parted the curtain for her, but he needed to duck himself to enter. The floor was covered in a massive tangle of fur rugs and cushions, and there were chests to one side and an empty armor rack to the other. Gahalatine unbuckled his sword belt and hung it on the rack. When he released her hand, she felt suddenly cold and very unsure of herself.
“My lord, am I correct in supposing that you still desire . . . what you wanted before?” she said, trying to keep her voice from quavering. “What you told me when I was in Chandigarl?”
He unfastened his cloak and tossed it to the floor before turning to face her.
“We are not going to start our negotiations yet.” He gave her a lingering look and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “You’re utterly exhausted. Come sit over here. Let me tend to you.” He shut the lid of one of the chests and led her over to it by the arm, treating her with as much deference as a servant would. Though she was a little unsure of him, of the strange situation, she seated herself on the chest. He glanced around the room before retrieving a washbowl and carrying it over.
“Here, hold this in your lap,” he said, setting it there. Then he dipped a cleaning rag fringed with gold into the water and started wiping the woad from her face. She saw the smudges of blue, brown, and even red leach into the fabric. He dunked it again, squeezing it hard with both hands, and continued to wipe her face. He was on his knees in front of her, treating her with tenderness and gentleness. She felt the shudder come a moment before it happened.
“Are you cold?” he asked her with worry.
“The water is a little cold,” she said.
“It was warmer earlier.” Then he rose, taking the bowl over to a stone column. There was a face carved into the polished stone, and she felt a murmur of Fountain magic as Gahalatine held the bowl beneath it. She almost gasped when the carving’s eyes suddenly lit like red coals and steaming water began to stream out of them, as if the face were weeping hot tears, filling the bowl. It reminded her of the magic in the caves at the Glass Beach, the ancient crumbling faces carved into the rock that summoned light and protected the borders.
As Gahalatine carried it back to her, careful not to slosh the hazy water, she asked, “Is that magic from the Deep Fathoms?”
Gahalatine shook his head. “No, this came from another world. Useful, is it not? They are called ‘leerings’ there . . . after the word of power that summons light. Le-ah-eer.”
As he said the word, the carving began to glow, flooding the tent with more light.
“You know words of power?” she asked him, impressed.
Gahalatine knelt in front of her again and shrugged. “A few. When you are around Wizrs, you pick up on them.” He set the b
owl down on her lap. “Let me see your hands.”
She pulled off the battle gauntlets that were part of her armor and he set them on the floor. The black tunic beneath her armor went down to her wrists. He gazed at her hands and then helped them into the bowl, washing them with the rag and the warm water.
“Thank you for sending your surgeons to the castle,” she said, realizing that she hadn’t thought to say it earlier. “That was kind of you.”
She saw him smile in a self-conscious way. “Of course you would be worried. We will try to save as many as we can. I brought many surgeons with my ships for the purpose of healing your people after we’d defeated them.” He sighed. “I’ll admit that it was more challenging than I expected. A good fight. An honorable one.” He gave her a tender look and set the bowl on the ground.
“First, you must eat and rest,” he said. “In keeping with our traditions, I’d offer to bathe you completely, but I understand that your traditions and sensibilities are much different, and it would more likely embarrass you than do you honor.”
Her cheeks flushed crimson at his suggestion and he laughed softly. “I thought as much. You will rest in here. I will bring you some food later, and then we can discuss terms.”
She shook her head. “I am not going to rest while my people worry in anticipation. We will discuss terms now. We may well be at an impasse.”
His brow wrinkled. “Surely not,” he said. He put his elbows on the chest and looked up at her. “I’ve won the day, Tryneowy. Another quarter hour and every man . . . or woman . . . defending your king would have been struck down, except yourself. You were not counting on Grand Duke Elwis to save you? Or the soldiers in the mountains? They’re both cut off from you, and I have even more reinforcements on the way by sea. Your king has my sister as a hostage. And I have you. I don’t believe you are going to slay my sister any more than your king believes I’d slay you. As if I could! You are the prize I wanted, Tryneowy.” He took her damp hand and brushed his lips against it. It sent shivers of fire up her whole arm.
He rose and pulled her up with him. “Rest. You are weary and tired. I don’t want you to regret your answers. I don’t want you to say later that you didn’t have your full wits when you promised to be mine. That you were forced to be my wife, my queen, my confidante.”
She looked him in the eye, seeing the earnestness in his words. “I will not have you,” she said.
“Do not say that,” Gahalatine said, shaking his head. “What must I do to earn your consent? I know you surely will not accept me without terms. I am prepared to make them.” He stabbed his chest with his finger. “It was you at the Battle of Guilme. The Painted Knight. The king’s best-kept secret. You are not just a wise maiden, but you are a warrior too! Do you not understand how intoxicating I find that? How much you intrigue me? Very little does that anymore. I wish to join with you, for you would shape me into a better man, I know it.
“I have faults and flaws, but a lack of honor is not one of them. I would never take you by force. Tryneowy, I am dazzled by you and all that you have accomplished. You’ve earned my respect and admiration. I had heard about your disfigurement, but in truth, I find you very attractive. Being with you right now is tormenting me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.” He turned away from her, perhaps to conceal or control his emotions. “I’ve been caught in a trap the Wizrs set. Brought perilously close to submitting, for there was no other choice. They sought to force me to marry another, the king’s sister. Someone they could control. They promised me that she would be everything I desire in a wife. You are my chance to be free of them.”
He pivoted on his heel to face her again. “I knew of you previously, of course. The Mandaryn said marrying someone from Kingfountain would help secure the peace quickly. I wished to marry you and invite your father to serve me, but they took him away. They’ve hidden him from me . . . from us.
“It was Rucrius’s doing. He led the Mandaryn. They have more power than you can understand. Every emperor before has been controlled by them, but I will shake off the yoke. With our gifts merged together, we can do it. Now, do not tell me that you will not consent. I cannot accept that answer. What would it take to win you? Name it, Tryneowy. I would give you half of my kingdom. But truly, it is yours anyway! Name your terms and I will accept them. Only be mine.”
His tone was pleading and passionate. There was ambition in his eyes, but it was not the only thing she saw there. There was open fascination in his gaze, as if everything about her intrigued him. She’d always felt so marred, so flawed. Morwenna was infinitely more beautiful. Yet he professed to feel passion for Trynne. But did he truly know her? They had only spoken twice. Was he in love with the idea of her? A conjuring of his own imagination?
He was so handsome, so self-confident. She was neither impressed with his wealth nor impressed by the opulence of his court. She could not imagine herself being the emperor’s wife.
But this was the moment. Her heart told her this was what her mother had seen in a vision.
Gahalatine’s look was so intense and imploring that she gazed down at the rugs beneath their feet.
“I cannot live apart from Brythonica,” she said haltingly. “I have a duty to protect the people in my mother’s absence.”
“Done,” Gahalatine said with a snap of his fingers. “My dear, as you well know, our magic is superior to yours. You can return to Ploemeur instantaneously every day if you wish it. I must rule from the Forbidden Court, but there is nothing to prevent me from joining you or you from joining me. Distance is not an obstacle to us. Please, think no more of it. What else? What are your concerns?”
Her heart nearly revolted at that moment, conjuring Fallon’s face in her mind. She had loved Fallon for so long, even though she’d known they could not be together. Losing him permanently would be painful. She’d been preparing herself for it, but the moment was finally nigh. She pressed her face into her hands and breathed deeply, trying to quell the trembling of her limbs. She looked up at him, his expression so vulnerable. “You do not know me very well. There are many things we do not know about each other.”
A smile quirked on his mouth. “Teach me, Tryneowy, how to please you. I long to tell you stories of my childhood, how I had to flee for my life. How I retook the city of my fathers and outmaneuvered the Wizrs at first. How I earned each of my wounds and battle scars. I long to hear the stories of your youth. Of the mischief you made. Stories of your father and how he outmaneuvered King Severn.” He came closer and lifted her chin, gazing down at her. His thumb brushed against her mouth, at the frown that would not yield. “How this happened to you. And how you faced it with courage. You are so beautiful, Tryneowy, and you are even more desirable in your armor. What else do you fear? The fate of your king? You saw what I did with Sunilik. He is one of my greatest advisors. Surely I will honor such a man.”
His mention of King Sunilik shifted Trynne’s thoughts to Rani Reya. She had sent her to find Elwis and bring him and his men to Dundrennan. Was she trapped in the blizzard with him? Would she perish if Trynne did not come to terms with Gahalatine?
So many lives depended on her decision. The weight of it nearly suffocated her.
“What?” he said, growing concerned. His fingers stroked through her hair. “What concerns you? I cannot bear to see you in pain. Is it that you wish for King Andrew to retain his title? In most cases, I have replaced the rulers of the lands I’ve conquered. But that does not need to happen here. What are you worrying about? Tell me!”
She looked him in the eye and stepped away from him.
“Gahalatine,” she said, shaking her head. “You have waged this war unjustly. We did not provoke you. Your Wizrs have been spying on us, I think, from the poisoner school in Pisan. That is how they met Morwenna and hatched Rucrius’s plot. Our lands had united under King Andrew, and they saw we were becoming powerful, that we might, one day, pose a sufficient threat to the East Kingdoms. To their games. You are being used and manipulated,
Gahalatine. Your advisors have tricked you. They’ve encouraged even more lavish spending so that you’ll be beholden to them and their wishes.” She clenched her fists before her. “They murdered my little brother and my father’s parents in an attempt to destroy me. I saw Gannon plummet to his death and I had to commit his body to the Deep Fathoms. Rucrius admitted his hand was in it after I captured him.” She lowered her fists. His eyes were wide with surprise and horror, but she did not give him time to respond. She continued, her manner fierce and bold.
“If that is not enough to harden my heart, I’ve also come to learn that your treasuries are nearly void of coin. Your kingdom is built on sticks that will come crashing down in a strong wind. We will hold out against you. Dundrennan may fall. But I have the power to take my king elsewhere. And you will be forced to chase us from one corner of his realm to the other. You’ve bribed your way to victory thus far. But King Andrew will not yield the hollow crown. It was given to him by the Fountain. He is the rightful ruler. Not you.”
She swallowed, bolstering her courage. She looked him steadfastly in the eye, squeezing her fists until they hurt. “If you will kneel and swear fealty to him, to Andrew Argentine, as your rightful king and ruler, then I will marry you and help you repair the ruin you have nearly brought on yourself.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Uncrowned King
Gahalatine endured her words with shocked silence. She had broken his perception of himself as a wise and benevolent ruler. She was also demanding him to surrender his ambition, to kneel before a man whom he felt was his inferior, to admit defeat. It was obvious her words had struck him to his core. He stared at her, measuring what she had told him, his eyes flashing from one emotion to another in rapid succession. His cheeks flushed. Would he fly into a rage? Would he challenge what she had said?
