by Jeff Wheeler
“He didn’t!” she seethed, and snatched it from Lord Amrein. She glowered, trying to find him in the crowd, but he was already with his family. Raw fury boiled inside her. She wished she were a poisoner and could get her revenge in any number of interesting ways.
But Trynne’s rage vanished when she saw her mother approaching them swiftly, tears streaming down her cheeks.
CHAPTER THREE
The Ring Table
Trynne had never seen her mother so distraught, and it was worrying because she knew that Sinia could see the future. The worry was a tangible thing that writhed inside her, and it only made it worse when her father told her in a curt command to take her brother to the palace and wait for them there. Gripping her little brother’s hand, she escorted Jorganon away from the sanctuary of Our Lady.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked her brother, but he looked miserable and pale. He shook his head and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
The walk to Kingfountain passed in a blur as Trynne’s mind whirled through the many possibilities. There was no way she could guess at the news, which only made her discomfort worse. Gannon, as she sometimes called him, was too young to be hounded for information. Although he was still sick, he was curious about everything and started tugging on her hand, eager to approach a vendor with a string of sausages. She reined him back and continued her hurried pace toward the palace.
“Is everything well, my lady?” asked a voice at her shoulder. It was Davyn Staeli, her Espion bodyguard. He wore no badge or insignia marking him as the duke’s man. His brown hair was balding on top and his beard was trimmed. Two swords were belted to his waist, a long sword and a shorter one, and he used both with equal proficiency. The buckles on his leather tunic front were cinched and proper. He was a meticulous man, her own personal shadow. Though he usually kept a discreet distance, he must have sensed her grave mood, her hurry.
“I don’t think so, Captain Staeli,” she murmured, casting him a worried look. “Father wouldn’t tell me.” He frowned at her words, his dark eyes brooding, and then dropped back a few paces. Still, he followed her more closely, a hand on the hilt of his short sword. She saw him make a few surreptitious nods, which indicated the presence of other unseen Espion.
Her parents had insisted that she have a personal guard after the attack. Sometimes it bothered her that she was watched night and day, but at such a vulnerable moment, she was grateful for Captain Staeli’s reassuring presence.
When she and Gannon reached the palace, there was much noise and celebratory commotion in the king’s hall. Gannon shrank a little from the tumult and started to cough. The corridors were thick with servants bustling through with trays of meats and a variety of cheeses. Pitchers of wine and mead were also brought forth in a constant flood, giving the air a sour smell amidst the scent of the crushed pine needles strewn about.
While the festering worry would not allow her any peace, Trynne still felt a thrill of excitement as she entered the king’s hall. There was no mistaking its transformation. She had come to Kingfountain many times throughout her childhood, but this was a massive change. The dais and throne were gone, and an enormous table stood in their place. Gannon tugged on her hand, wanting to get closer, eyeing it with great interest, and she let the lad drag her over to it.
As Trynne approached the gleaming polished wood, she realized that she was staring at the round of a massive tree. The circumference was not a perfect circle because of the irregular bends caused by the natural growth of the tree over time. It defied her imagination that a tree of such width could exist in nature. Three grown men could have lain on the table, end to end, and there still would have been room for a child at the farthest point. How tall must the tree have originally been? The visitors of the palace were all gathered around it, mesmerized by the sight. Twelve straight-backed chairs were arrayed around the table.
“Trynnee, can I climb on that chair?” Gannon asked, reverting to a pet name he used to call her when he was younger. He tried to yank his hand free of hers, but she kept a firm grip.
“Not now, Gannon. Shhh! Wait until Father arrives.” She knelt down by him and put her arm around his shoulder.
“Trynnee?” ghosted a voice over her shoulder. She glanced back, only to see Fallon’s sardonic smile.
In no mood to banter with him, she straightened and then punched his arm as hard as she could. “Stay away from me, crepe master,” she said with a snarl and then tugged Gannon’s hand and walked around to the far side of the table. She was furious and worried at the same time and felt ready to snap like a dog if anyone came near her. She tried to distract herself by tending to her brother.
“It’s cut from a tree,” she explained to him, bending low to speak into his ear over the commotion. “See this dark ring? It’s the bark. Then there’s a lighter ring. I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s part of the growth layer. Each ring in the wood marks a year of growth.” She reached out with her finger and touched the glossy surface of the table. It had been varnished and stained and sanded to a marble shine. There were splits and cracks in the inner rings, but there were so very many of them—perhaps more than a thousand. She rested her palm on the smooth, cool wood, allowing herself to feel the wonder of the thing.
The table was at least a foot thick and held up by stump-like struts. It would have taken fifty men to carry it, and only magic could have brought it into the throne room.
The twelve chairs surrounding the table could only be the work of master craftsmen. Each chair had its own personality, and to her eyes, they almost looked like wooden Wizr pieces.
Her lips parted with admiration and wonder. It was the original Ring Table from the legends of King Andrew. It had to be. Myrddin had brought it back. She’d never imagined that it was carved from a living tree or that a tree could grow so big.
“But they do,” said Myrddin in his strange accent. “Trees, that is.” With all the commotion, she hadn’t noticed him sidle up next to her and Gannon. He gripped his gnarled staff, resting both of his hands on it. He had tufts of hair growing from his nose that she could see all too well as she stared up at him. She hated being so short.
“Where did you hide this table for so long, Myrddin?” she asked him politely.
“Pfah, far, far away, sister. It’s been in an abandoned castle in the mountains that no one knows of and no one can get to. It was never from this world, child. Do you know why the king will sit here instead of a throne? What do you think, little sister?”
It was amusing that he always called her “sister” despite being centuries older than her parents, but she’d grown accustomed to Myrddin’s ways. “Because he will be equal with the others,” she answered, looking up at him again. Sometimes his breath smelled very bad, but it wasn’t offensive this time. He was thousands of years old, according to her father, so perhaps he couldn’t help it.
“True, true,” he said, clucking his tongue and gazing across the table. There was a strange look in his eye, a sadness. “How like men to elbow their way to glory, eh, little sister? Most men are pethets.” He pursed his lips and frowned. “Always seeking to grab something that isn’t theirs simply because they want it.” He reached into a pouch at his waist and withdrew an apple that was a curious color. She was used to juicy red apples, but this one had streaks of gold and pink in it. Myrddin handed the apple to her brother, and Gannon’s eyes lit up as he crunched into it.
“Mmmmm!” the boy mumbled around a mouthful of fruit. Trynne smiled and tousled his hair. The thought that Fallon might be watching her from across the room, ready to mock her, flashed through her head, and the smile faded.
“My mother is here, Myrddin,” she said, looking up at him. “She just arrived.”
“I know,” he answered, nodding sagely. Then he winked at her and rocked on his sandaled feet. “I saw it on the Wizr board,” he whispered.
The magic Wizr board was King Drew’s most secret and powerful weapon. It was the means by which Trynne’s
father had defeated King Severn before she was born. The pieces on the set represented real people, each playing a role in a game of kingdoms that had been underway for centuries. The stakes of the game were terrible, for if a king forsook the ways of Virtus or was defeated without any heirs, their kingdom would be swallowed up by the Deep Fathoms as surely as Brythonica would be if the Montforts failed to renew the protection invocations. It had happened to ancient kingdoms like Atabyrion and Leoneyis. The point of the Wizr game wasn’t to defeat and destroy enemies. It was to maintain a dynasty for as long as possible. The game was being played by the Argentine family and had been played for several hundred years. No one knew how the first Argentine king had acquired the board. Some said that his wife, the Queen of Occitania, had stolen it from her first husband and given it to him. There was no mention of the Wizr set in the histories. Yet its power controlled fate.
The wedding of King Drew and Queen Genevieve would mean that the game would be able to continue. But there were others who were determined to see it end.
Trynne had seen the Wizr board in its ancient chest—her parents had shown it to her—but she did not know where it was hidden.
“Do you know why my mother came?” she asked Myrddin.
“Aye, lass. I do.”
“Will you tell me?” she pleaded.
“Should I tell you, little sister?” he answered, arching one of his shaggy eyebrows.
She frowned, conflicted. “I wish you would. Maybe I can help?”
The Wizr chuckled to himself. “Maybe indeed, little sister.” He sighed. “Maybe indeed. It might be best to let things run their course. A lot has changed since I last walked these dusty roads. The faces are new, but they are the same. Like that one,” he said, dipping the end of his staff forward. “The Prince of Brugia. Now he is a pethet.” He shook his head. “Look at how he swaggers. Never satisfied.” He sniffed. “He considers himself diminished because his father swore fealty to the king. He is still the heir of his father’s lands, no? He still wears his thallic clothes, the preening sop.”
Trynne’s eyes found Elwis in the crowd. Arms folded, head cocked to the side, he bore the expression of a man who believed himself above his company.
“You can hear all of our thoughts, can’t you?” she asked.
Myrddin’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Aye, little sister. Though sometimes I wish I could plug my ears with wax and be done with this gift from the Fountain!” He shook his head. “He chafes and he bubbles and he stews. He deserves better than to swear homage to another man. Bah!” Leaning toward her, he pitched his voice for her ears alone. “But where would the king be now if Grand Duke Maxwell had won? Why, he would have been lashed to a boat and fed into the river to drown in the Deep Fathoms. What that lad considers an injustice is actually mercy.” He shook his head. “Sadly, he cannot see the truth of things. That’s why he’s a pethet.”
Trynne noticed Drew and Genevieve approaching them and felt a whir of excitement inside her. They were holding hands and looked so radiantly happy it made her a little envious.
King Drew cut a fine figure in his royal regalia. He wore the hollow crown, another relic infused with Fountain magic that tied the kingdom’s weather to the ruler’s moods and temperament. He must have been very happy about the wedding because the day could not have been nicer outside. He flashed Trynne a smile.
“I don’t mean to intrude on your conversation, Myrddin,” he said, putting his hand on the Wizr’s stooped shoulder. “But I think everyone is here now. Hello, Trynne. Your parents just arrived. Over there.” He nodded toward the door leading to the corridor closest to the chapel. Relief settled over her; her parents would explain what was happening and all would be well.
Trynne looked down and saw that her brother was crunching into the apple’s core, eating even the seeds. “Gannon!” she said with a laugh and tugged his arm.
Myrddin touched her shoulder, startling her.
“I know you’ve wondered why the Fountain’s magic hasn’t fully healed you,” he said in a low voice. “Just remember, little sister, that it could have. Sometimes the greatest blessings are those that are withheld from us.”
That made absolutely no sense to her, but she tried to suppress a spasm of resentment. To avoid responding to him, she took her brother’s hand and started to escort him toward her parents. His fingers were sticky from the apple he’d devoured.
“If you are ready, Your Highnesses?” Myrddin said with a bow and flourish, shifting his attention to the young couple.
“As ready as we can be,” King Drew said. He winked at Trynne as she walked away and then turned to face the hall. It quieted instantly, as if a spell had been cast on it.
Trynne threw a worried look at her parents as she approached, hoping for a comforting nod or reassuring look. Her father’s face was pale, his mouth tight with worry. Her mother’s eyes were red from crying, and as soon as Trynne came within reach, her mother pulled her into a fierce embrace and kissed her brow and her hair. Then Sinia reached down and pulled Gannon closer, as if she were clinging to both her children to prevent herself from drowning in sorrow. Trynne glanced up at her father, but he was looking worriedly at the king.
“Father?” she whispered in a pleading tone.
He shook his head.
“I bid you welcome and greet you most warmly,” King Drew said in a firm, bold voice. “Today is a day of celebration.” He lifted Genevieve’s hand, still entwined with his, and kissed her knuckles. “I have hearkened to the counsel of the wise Myrddin and chosen our queen. Finally, we have peace in Ceredigion.” Trynne noticed Prince Elwis standing aloof, his eyes glittering with anger. “Peace is always a fragile thing,” Drew went on. “In the days of our ancestors, when King Andrew ruled from this fortress, he had his Wizr create the Ring Table.” At those words, the king gestured with his free hand to the magnificent table before them. He then rested his hand on one of the tall-backed carved chairs. “A circle has no beginning or end. No one part of it is above or beneath another. I am your king, chosen by the Fountain to draw the sword Firebos from the waters. But I am not above you. I was once nobody, and I remember what it was to feel powerless, afraid, and uncertain.”
Trynne had always admired the king’s way of speaking. He wasn’t proud or commanding. When he said he remembered a life before the throne, he meant it.
“One does not need to be Fountain-blessed to gain a seat at this table. One must only espouse the ways of Virtus—the courtly valor, grace, and wisdom that I have come to admire in all the lands I have visited. Those entrusted with a seat at the Ring Table will serve on my high council. Each seat is uniquely carved. Each who serves will be just as unique. My councilors will speak on my behalf and travel to the farthest points of this kingdom to dispense the king’s justice in my name. They will share in my authority and in my dominion. In a sense, they will be kings and queens themselves, sharing in our honor and in our grace.” He lifted his bride’s hand again.
“There will be one seat, however, that is different from the others,” King Drew went on. “Not my seat, for I am the most ordinary of men. So it was in days of old. So it will be again. Myrddin?” he said, making a gesture of invitation.
The Wizr, gripping his gnarled staff, began to walk around the circumference of the Ring Table, his sandaled feet slapping on the marble tiles. Trynne saw the eyes upon him. As the king had spoken, she had seen the ambition lighting everyone’s faces. She wondered if there was a single person in the king’s hall who did not covet a seat at that table. Her mouth was dry as she felt the anticipation begin to churn inside her. All of her dread and panic suddenly subsided as she sensed the magic of the Fountain rippling through the stillness.
The Wizr stopped at a singular chair. He reached up and rubbed his chin, gazing thoughtfully at the assembled crowd. His eyes stopped when he reached Trynne and her family. “This seat,” he said, his face stern and serious, “is different from the others. This seat is called the Siege Perilo
us.”
As he said the words, Trynne heard a voice inside her mind mimicking them: Siege Perilous. A flash of light blinded her momentarily, and then a vision stole all her senses. It was of herself, wearing a knight’s tunic with the symbol of a horse on it, sitting in that chair. When she surfaced, Myrddin was staring at her, his eyes riveted to hers.
“This chair,” the Wizr said in a loud voice, “is the chair of the king’s champion. His most trusted knight. The defender of his honor.”
Trynne felt her father’s hand on her shoulder, his fingers squeezing hard.
“Choose wisely,” the Wizr said to the king, his voice becoming suddenly grave and full of warning. “For I foresee a day when another king will come with a vast and unlimited host to take your place at this table. If your champion fails or falls, this rival will hack this table into firewood and place his own lieutenants in control of your fractious dominion. If you lords and ladies do not stand firm and united, then this table will be shattered and broken forever. At great cost to us all.”
The Wizr frowned solemnly. “Name your champion wisely,” he said in an almost threatening tone.
King Drew looked shaken by the Wizr’s pronouncement, but he answered him at once. “I name my champion Lord Owen Kiskaddon,” he said firmly. “He will sit at the Siege Perilous.”
You will sit there also, Tryneowy Kiskaddon, whispered the Fountain to her. Tell no one.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Vision
The prophecy of Myrddin had caused a ruckus. King Drew dismissed the assembly and the whispering visitors were ushered out of the chamber by the butlers and guards. The riotous noise was tamped down, though echoes of it could be heard throughout the palace until the massive wooden doors were shut and barred.
