by Jeff Wheeler
A strange, queer feeling bubbled up inside her chest. Wind from outside tousled her hair, bringing in the beautiful scent of flowers from the planter box beneath her window. It was a long way down the cliffside. A shudder went through her. Something felt . . . wrong.
Trynne listened carefully, trying to understand what she was feeling. The dread made her want to move away from the window, and so she did. There was a shuddering feeling in her heart, a pulsing, agitated sensation that made her fretful and worried. What was this feeling? She stared at the room and saw the thickening shadows of evening. She was alone, but it didn’t feel like she was alone. Trynne took a few steps toward the door, searching one way and then another. Was someone hiding in there?
With both of her parents gone, a slice of fear ran down her stomach to her toes. Her parents had gone to Kingfountain together before. Yes, it did feel awkward and strange when they left without her, but it had never felt like this before. It was probably her imagination, but she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was in danger.
Trynne decided to go back to the solar, feeling a little silly and foolish, but walking helped calm her heart. She was acting, moving. Was this sensation what the Fountain magic felt like?
That was the last thought she had before pain exploded blindingly on her face.
When Trynne awoke, there were faces hovering over her. She was lying on her bed, head propped up with pillows, and her nose and her upper lip were throbbing and swollen. After blinking a few times, she could see better.
There was Lord Amrein, looking sick with worry, and Fallon, watching her with scrunched-up eyebrows and his mouth twisted into a wince. The palace surgeon was waving something sharp-scented under her nose. She jerked her head, and her nose ached even more. Trynne’s maid, Yvette, was wringing her hands.
“Tryneowy?” the surgeon asked. “Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can,” Trynne said, but her voice sounded wrong in her ears. Her nose was so swollen and puffy, but when she reached to touch her face, the surgeon caught her hand. “What happened?”
“We were hoping you would tell us,” Lord Amrein said gravely. “Who did this to you? Did you fall?”
Trynne blinked. “I don’t . . . remember,” she said, feeling suddenly nervous. “Are my parents still gone?”
The surgeon nodded. “Yes. They left earlier this evening. Your mother may not be back until morning. You say you can’t . . . remember?”
“No,” Trynne said, growing more worried by the moment. “It hurts.”
“I’m sure it does,” he said. “I can give you some herbs for the pain.”
Trynne nodded, but the motion made her head hurt even worse. “Did you bring me the pie?” she asked Fallon, smiling broadly. Her mouth felt distorted. “I should have gone with you.”
The look on Fallon’s face startled her. His eyes were wide with . . . was that fright?
“What’s wrong, Fallon?” she asked.
The boy looked at the doctor in obvious confusion. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know, lad,” the surgeon said.
“What do you mean? It hurts, but I’ll be all right,” Trynne said. She tried to sit up, but the doctor pushed her back down.
Fallon was still staring at her worriedly. “Your mouth isn’t moving. On that side,” he said, pointing at the left side of her face.
Her left eye also hurt a lot, and she realized that she hadn’t blinked once since awakening.
“Her smile . . . it’s gone,” Fallon whispered, still pointing.
In that moment, Tryneowy Kiskaddon realized that something truly terrible had happened to her.
Life teaches us through contradictions. If you don’t get what you want, you whine; if you get what you don’t want, you suffer; even when you do indeed get what you want, you grieve because you cannot hold on to it. The mind wants to be free of change, free of pain, free of the obligations of life and of death. But change is law and no amount of pretending will alter that reality. Change is the great teacher. Pethets refuse to be taught.
Myrddin
PART I
Wizr
CHAPTER ONE
The Royal Wedding
Trynne stared at herself in the mirror, tortured by what she saw there. No amount of healing, no amount of magic, not even her father’s prized scabbard had been able to restore the smile she had lost. In the six years that had passed since that night in Ploemeur, her smile had never fully returned. And she had never felt the loss so keenly as she did on the day of Genevieve Llewellyn’s wedding, standing in the dressing room of the beautiful woman who was to become the Queen of Ceredigion that very afternoon.
She did not often gaze at her own reflection. There were no mirrors in her room because she didn’t wish for the constant reminder. Staring at herself now, she tried to focus on her other features—the blue-green eyes that were more her mother’s, and the chestnut curls that favored her father. Still, there was no denying that at thirteen, she was short, thin as a rail, and decidedly unbeautiful. At least that was how she saw herself.
“Trynne?” Genevieve asked, snapping her attention back to the moment. The queen-to-be’s mother, Queen Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Llewellyn—called Lady Evie by the Kiskaddon family—was also standing behind the princess’s chair, scrunching up her face at the handful of hair she was working into intricate braids. That critical function would not be trusted to servants, not on such an occasion.
“Yes, my lady?” Trynne asked.
Genevieve smiled prettily at her. “Don’t be so formal. We’ve known each other far too long. You must still call me Genny, even after the coronation.” She reached over her shoulder to clasp Trynne’s hand. “Your mother isn’t coming to the wedding, correct?”
Trynne nodded. “My little brother is still rather sickly,” Trynne said, thinking of the coughing six-year-old she’d left behind several days ago. “She didn’t want to leave him with our grandparents. If he rests and starts to feel better, she will try to come for the ceremony at Our Lady.”
Genevieve smiled again. “I’ll not forget the first time I went to Our Lady,” she said with a sigh. “I fell in the river and Lord Owen saved my life. I still shudder to think of it.” There was a slight tremor at her words, and Trynne could not resist the urge to smile. It was such a natural thing, so normal for most people. Her eyes darted to the mirror again, and she saw the right side of her lips had quirked up, revealing her teeth. But the left side was flat, unresponsive, giving her a mischievous look. Her heart throbbed with anguish at what had been stolen from her.
The Queen of Atabyrion’s hands were working feverishly at the braids, but she had glanced up and seen the darkness fall on Trynne’s countenance. “I understand from Owen that they never discovered for certain who attacked you,” she said with compassion in her voice.
Trynne shook her head. “Everyone believes it was a thief named Dragan. Lord Amrein found a note that had been tucked into his luggage after he’d arrived in Ploemeur. ‘A daughter for a daughter’ was all it said.” She smoothed the beautiful fabric of Genevieve’s dress, feeling the ripples of tiny seed pearls and the smooth, elegant brocade. Dragan’s own daughter, Etayne, had been the king’s poisoner years before. Trynne didn’t know all the details, only that the woman had died saving Owen’s life.
“And he’s your father’s sworn enemy,” Lady Evie said with a serious tone. “I know the Espion have been hunting him for years. It’s difficult finding a man who can become invisible.”
“Indeed it is,” Trynne said. “We don’t know for certain, of course. I never saw anyone, but I felt something was wrong. The Espion and I are good friends now,” Trynne said with another half smile.
The queen’s eyebrows lifted in curiosity.
“She’s accompanied by them day and night,” Genevieve explained. “Who is your favorite? I love Clark the best. He’s quiet and unassuming, but he’s quite funny.”
“Funny?” the queen said with a sh
ort laugh. “He hardly says two words together.”
“Only because you never stop talking, Mother,” Genevieve teased.
“Don’t be impudent, dearest,” said Lady Evie with a laugh. “Even though you will outrank me after today, it doesn’t give you liberty to be rude to your mother.”
“I would never dream of it,” Genevieve said with a laugh.
A question bubbled out of Trynne’s mouth before she could stop it. “Do you love him, Genny?”
The princess’s smile shone with a radiance too great for words, and her eyes sparkled with warmth and excitement. There was no doubt in the world how the girl felt. Oh, to smile . . .
“I do, Trynne,” Genevieve said with a sigh. “And not just because he’s a king.”
“The most powerful king in all the lands,” Lady Evie added wryly.
“He is that too,” Genevieve said, laughing. “We’ve known each other since we were children, Trynne. I was half in love with him when I was practically a baby. We didn’t rush things, and some people gossiped that he was biding his time for a political match. With Atabyrion already as an ally, he could have looked farther afield. Some whispered that perhaps the Brugian king would sire a daughter, or that Drew could marry another lady from that kingdom.”
“Do you know how it happened that he chose you?” Lady Evie asked. “Did you know of Myrddin’s role?”
“No,” Genevieve said. “That man completely fascinates me. Doesn’t he fascinate you as well, Trynne? What did he say, Mother? Tell me if you please.”
“If you please, there we go. Much better than a command from Your Highness.” Having finished the braiding, the older woman set her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “I heard this from Trynne’s father, of course. When the king was almost eighteen, he asked his Wizr and Lord Owen for advice on whom he should marry. He said he knew his heart, but would be guided by their counsel. Not many a young man would take such a risk. But he trusted Lord Owen’s knowledge of the foreign courts and the impact his marriage would have. And he knew Myrddin was very wise. He’s traveled to other worlds, you know. There are distant realms where water comes gushing from stones. Places where men can fly by only taking a breath. Myrddin has traveled far and has many tales.”
“But what did he tell Drew?” Genevieve pressed.
“I was getting to it. Be patient.” She smoothed the fabric along her daughter’s shoulders. “Myrddin said”—and she changed her voice to match the Wizr’s interesting accent—“‘Well lad, if you are asking for my advice, I will tell you. You should—’”
Another voice broke in at just that moment, a young man’s voice that was also mimicking Myrddin’s tone. It was Fallon. “‘—marry Tryneowy Kiskaddon, that strange pethet from Brythonica. Bah, you can even call her “my queen” so you won’t have to pronounce her awful name! I hate speaking this language. It makes my tongue all itchy.’”
Everyone was shocked by his sudden arrival through one of the Espion doors. He was three years older than Trynne, and it showed. He had sprouted into a man since their younger days, and when she’d first seen him on arriving at Kingfountain, she had almost mistaken him for one of the palace knights. His dark hair and mocking eyes appeared from the doorway, and he was grinning in his dangerous way.
“Iago Fallon Llewellyn!” Lady Evie scolded. “If you are not the rudest child a mother could ask for. How long have you been skulking behind that spy hole?”
He sauntered up to his mother, gripped her shoulders, and then stooped to plant a noisy kiss on her cheek. “Mother, all this fussing and primping is taking ages! Poor Drew is pacing at the sanctuary of Our Lady right now, wondering if his bride will ever show up. Sister, you look uncomfortable in that gown. How hard did they yank on the corset?” He bent down with an exaggerated flourish and kissed Genny on the cheek as well.
Trynne bared her teeth angrily at Fallon as he lifted up and gave her a sly wink. It did nothing to hide the fact that she’d blushed six degrees of scarlet.
“What, no kiss for you, Cousin Trynne?” he said mockingly.
Being with Fallon made her stomach feel akin to a rag being wrung out. He was probably the handsomest man in Atabyrion, a willful flirt, and tended to trample on other people’s feelings without care. He deliberately teased her about her affliction, even though she’d told him how much it hurt.
“I am not your cousin, Fallon,” she said.
“Well, it feels like it,” he said, beginning to wander the room, touching and poking at everything he saw. He lifted a bottle of his sister’s perfume, smelled it with an appreciative nod, and then set it down and folded his arms imperiously.
“Sister, you’re the ugliest wench I’ve ever seen,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “I don’t know what Drew sees in you. But alas, his blindness is your blessing. Can we all come along now? The poor chancellor is fidgeting outside, debating with himself about whether or not he should intrude. They were going to send for Father, but I volunteered. You should have named me Farrel instead of Fallon, Mother. I am rather brave.” He puffed out his chest and made a dashing pose.
“They should have named you Feckless,” Trynne countered, arching one eyebrow.
He gave her a wry look. “It was either Fallon, which means ruler, or Fionan, which means—”
“Dung shovel?” Trynne asked, fluttering her lashes.
“You two,” Lady Evie said with exasperation. “Why can’t there be some civility between you? Not so long ago, you were thick as thieves. Fallon, tell them she’s almost done. Trynne, if you’d fetch the crown? I want to make sure it will fit well on this heap of braids.”
Trynne went to obey, but Fallon darted impishly to the chest first, which made her anger flash to life. No doubt he planned to hold it over her head or something childish like that. She rushed over to the chest, her mind already conjuring a strategy to outwit him.
As their hands collided over the crown, Trynne stamped on his boot, distracting him with pain, and pulled out the crown first, watching as a look of wounded amusement spread across her adversary’s face.
“Trynne,” he complained. “I was just going to fetch it for you.”
“I’ll believe that when pigs fly, Fallon,” she countered. Then she handed the crown to Genevieve’s mother, who set it gently down on her daughter’s head. They all stared at the soon-to-be queen’s reflection in the mirror. Instead of opulent jewels, she had chosen a single gold-threaded necklace fixed with seven turquoise gems that Drew had given her for their engagement. The gems were symbolic of the Fountain and had been made by master craftsmen from Genevar.
The crown fit perfectly and Genevieve looked so happy and beautiful it made Trynne’s heart ache. She was exactly the sort of woman that a husband would want. She was kind but also quick to laugh; moreover, she invited confidences and made others feel comfortable. While Fallon had inherited a double portion of his parents’ impulsiveness, Genevieve’s experiences as a child hostage at Kingfountain had marked her differently. She was more sober-minded, much like her husband-to-be.
Fallon gave Trynne a curt look, still limping slightly, and then wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “It’ll do, I suppose,” he drawled. “It’s probably too late to send for something better.”
“Thank you, Fallon. That’s the closest you’ll come to a compliment,” Genny replied with sisterly affection.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Old king Severn was Fountain-blessed, they say, though he had a sarcastic mind and a barbed tongue. I treasure the thought that it will be my gift as well when the Fountain chooses me. It’s best to practice early.”
His mother sighed and shook her head. A tap landed on the door.
“Come in, we are ready at long last,” their mother said. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she bent over her daughter and kissed her fiercely.
“The siege has been broken!” Fallon said. He went to the door and opened it with a gallant bow.
It was a strange coincidence that Mor
wenna Argentine stood there, dressed in black and silver.
Trynne felt a shiver of worry go down her back. Had the girl overheard Fallon’s jibe about her father? Morwenna and Trynne were of the same age, both born within the same year, but they didn’t know each other and had never spoken. Morwenna was the only child born of the marriage of Severn and Lady Kathryn, King Drew’s mother. It made her a possible rival to her brother’s throne. She had the looks and coloring of the old king, paired with her mother’s beauty. Her hair was black and wavy and lusciously thick, and it was said that her smile could turn a boy’s head—if she ever flashed it. She was staring at Genevieve with a look that was difficult to describe. Could it be envy?
“My mother sent me,” Morwenna said with a bob of a curtsy. “The rest of the company has assembled in the courtyard of the palace for the escort to Our Lady. Shall I tell them you are ready, my lady?”
Trynne shot a quick glance at Fallon to see how he had reacted to the intrusion, but he was fiddling with flowers in a vase, not deigning to look at the girl at all.
“Yes, please,” Genevieve said, some of the brightness fading from her eyes. Morwenna was like a winter’s chill. Despite her beauty, coldness seemed to radiate from her eyes and skin like a blizzard. The effect rattled Trynne, who felt the icy tendrils try to wrap around her. The prickle of gooseflesh crept across Genevieve’s arms, and the soon-to-be queen unconsciously stroked them.
Trynne felt her own magic prickle in response. Just as she’d hoped as a young girl, Trynne had inherited her parents’ magic. The gifts of other Fountain-blessed could not affect her, or those near her, if she repulsed them. But the constraints were the same for her as for everyone with the power. Her reservoirs of magic had to be earned and stored, and she had found playing Wizr to be especially helpful in that regard. That and discussing politics with her father. As she stared at the other girl, Trynne exerted her influence on the room and suddenly the coldness sloughed away. The warmth from the braziers could be felt once again. The strange whispering feeling was silenced.
