by Jeff Wheeler
“Stop! Fallon, stop!” she shrieked breathlessly, and he set her back down on the ground before staggering back a few steps in his own dizziness and falling down on the lawn. He was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, and Trynne took the opportunity, dizzy as she was, to grab another seed pod and throw it at him.
“Truce! Truce, Cousin!” he said amidst his fit.
Gratified by his surrender, Trynne flopped down on her knees next to him to wait for the world to stop whirling. She had to dig her fingers into the grass to steady herself.
“You . . . are . . . terrible!” she panted. “Were you trying to make us both sick?”
“I hadn’t thought . . . much further than pegging you with the magnolia fruit,” he admitted, rubbing his forearm across his eyes. He was still laughing. “Reminds me of when we were children.” He tried to sit up and failed, which made her laugh. “I think you ate one of the seeds when I goaded you to.”
She looked at him, the world still spinning. “You goaded me to do it? I don’t remember that part.”
“Of course not. I was far too subtle back then. And you were three, I think. It was a long time ago. I used to climb up these trees to hide from you because you were always following me like a little nuisance. Things haven’t changed. You’re still following me.”
She punched him on the arm. “I didn’t know you were here!”
“Truce! Remember the truce!”
She fumed, but it was pleasant being with him. Alone. Well, except for Captain Staeli, who could see them from his vantage point. He did not look pleased—but then again, the man rarely did.
“Why did you come to the garden?” Trynne asked him.
“I was going to sneak away from my parents and claim sanctuary at Our Lady,” he said in a conspiratorial voice. “I was supposed to get on the ship for Edonburick, but part of me doesn’t want to leave.” He lifted himself up again, leaning back on his elbows, and gazed at her. “Wouldn’t it be fun, Trynne?” He wagged his eyebrows at her. “We could claim sanctuary together and join the thieves and miscreants!”
“You are already a miscreant, Fallon Llewellyn,” she chided.
“And you like to spoil all the fun, Tryneowy Kiskaddon. How did you know I was hiding there?”
“I heard you,” she said with a superior tone.
“I forgot about that,” he said with a grin. “You’re like your father. You can hear any noise out of place, no matter how small.” He cocked his head at her. “When do you go back to Ploemeur?”
She plucked up some strands of grass. “This evening. I’ll be home before you are.”
He pursed his lips. “Your mother’s powers are impressive. I mean, she’s a Wizr, like Myrddin. I’d love to be able to travel from place to place like she can. It’s so boring to travel by ship. Are you excited to begin studying with her? You’re of age now.”
Trynne looked down at her hands.
“Why the pout, Cousin? You aren’t excited to become a Wizr?”
She breathed in through her nose. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He pulled up the rest of the way and then sat cross-legged. “You’re right, I don’t. Think of what a privilege it is to learn that magic. In the stories of old, female Wizrs always had great power and influence. I mean, I could understand why you wouldn’t be excited about embroidery or managing the household ledger, but what you’ll be learning is rare and priceless knowledge. I’m jealous.”
“Well, I’m jealous of you, Fallon,” she answered. She could see he wasn’t in a joking mood at the moment, which was rare. “All my life, I’ve been told that this is what I’ll be doing. I’ve always been more interested in my father’s powers than in my mother’s. Gannon would be a better Wizr. I’d rather learn how to fight.”
“Why?” Fallon exclaimed. He looked genuinely surprised. “You’ve always talked about it. We used to whack each other with sticks when we were children.” He nodded toward the nearest tree. “I just thought you were trying to . . . to mimic me. I don’t know.” He raked his fingers through his unruly hair. In doing so, he put a stripe of green grass there.
Trynne was tempted to leave it there, but she reached over and plucked it out.
“Not you,” she said, shaking her head. Her voice fell even lower. “My father.”
He crinkled his eyebrows. “So you wish you were his son?”
She shook her head. “No, I just wish that women were given the same opportunities. You heard Myrddin’s prediction. An enemy force is coming to invade us. We’ll need every boy and man to help defend our realm. What if we need more than that? What if this war is so terrible that we’ll need every girl and woman too?” She stared down at her lap, the secret she carried burning inside her soul like a hot coal. She wouldn’t let her father be killed. She had to save him.
He was quiet for a long while. When she looked up, he was staring at her, and the look of respect in his eyes made her blush.
“Well, Trynne, I for one wouldn’t want to face you in battle,” he said at last. “You are the fiercest, most stubborn . . . determined little girl that I know. I may be older than you, but I’m not wiser than you.” He gave her a sidelong grin. “I’m glad you’re on our side.”
She started to smile, then caught herself and stopped.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he said with a sigh.
“Done what?”
“Why did you stop smiling?” he demanded.
She stared at him, feeling a sickly cold go through her, ruining the warmth of the moment and souring his compliment. “You know why, Fallon,” she whispered, shuddering. “You were there when it happened.”
“I know I was there, Trynne. And I wish it never had. I wish you’d gone with me to fetch those pies.” He pressed his knuckle against his nose. “But it did happen. You can’t change the past.”
“I know that,” she countered, feeling defensive. “But I also can’t pretend that I’ll ever be pretty like Morwenna. I know that people pity me. They look at me . . . as if I’m cursed or something. I can’t make my mouth smile. It’s lost.” There was that familiar sadness again, that bleak feeling that rose up inside her whenever she thought about the attack. Why were they talking about this now? It was ruining the moment they had just shared!
Fallon shook his head slowly. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear it.
“What’s done is done,” he said with a sigh of regret and then got to his feet. He reached down and offered his hand to help her rise. She accepted it, noticing how warm it was against hers.
“I’m going to miss this place,” he said, gazing around the garden. “It may be years before I come back. But at least I know I will see you again. You see, I am determined to win the Gauntlet. So I will be coming to Ploemeur and competing for the badge from Brythonica. Try not to make the test too easy for me.”
“It’s a test of wits as well as stamina, Fallon,” she reminded him. “You’ll be at a disadvantage.”
“Ouch, cruel barb!” he said, planting his hand on his chest and grimacing. “I’m reminded that being in your company is akin to dwelling amidst hornets. There’s a strong likelihood of getting stung. Well, let me claim my prize from the garden. It’s spring and the magnolia flowers are truly a precious thing that I will miss.” He reached up and plucked one from a low-hanging branch. “This one is for you, Cousin. And I’ll claim the better one, here, for myself.” He snapped off not just the flower, but also part of the branch. “Don’t eat the seeds,” he said. “They’re poisonous.”
Trynne cupped the large flower in her hands and gazed at it. “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice. There was much she wished she had the courage to say.
But she did not.
Fallon lifted the flower to his nose. “I’m eager to face the challenges of the Gauntlets, despite your jests. I intend to master them all. I hope you will cheer for me, on occasion, from the galleries?”
She gazed up at him, conf
licted, all the while wondering how she could find a way to face them herself.
PART II
Knight
Where there is reverence, there is fear, but there is not reverence everywhere that there is fear, because fear has a wider scope than reverence. We fear what we cannot see. We fear what we do see. We fear what we cannot know. We fear what we do know. We fear what may not happen. We fear what does happen. Death may be the greatest of all human blessings. If only because it finally puts an end to fear.
Myrddin
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ley Lines
Sometimes it felt as if Trynne’s heart were slowly twisting in half. She was exhausted all of the time, but pushed herself to succeed even though it felt as if her mind and body would be sundered by the double life she lived. In the two and a half years that had passed since Drew and Genevieve’s wedding, she had taken to rising before the sun each day so she could train as a warrior under the tutelage of Captain Staeli. She climbed ropes fastened to rings in the walls. She lifted and hurled heavy sacks of grain. She could handle weapons ambidextrously after the constant practice, though she had been surprised to discover she was slightly better with her left hand than with her right. The training was rigorous, frustrating, and she ended each session with the determination to do better the next day.
She was equally determined to continue keeping her parents in the dark about it.
Once she had bathed and changed from the clothes of the training yard into the silks of a duke’s daughter, she lived a completely different life. She accompanied her mother on her noble responsibilities as Duchess of Brythonica, and also spent hours each day poring over books that held the secrets of becoming a Wizr. They were tedious and difficult to translate, and the work did not come naturally to her at all. She often found herself daydreaming about being in the training yard and thinking of a new way to deflect and parry blows with multiple weapons. When she caught her mind wandering, she’d get frustrated at herself and redouble her efforts to learn the arcane text. But her heart was not devoted to it, and she yearned for the simplicity and innocence of her childhood.
It was a tug-of-war, in a way, between the personalities and styles of her parents. She loved them both deeply. She worried every day about her father, and that worry drove her to throw everything she had into each side of her double life. Still, she knew where her talents lay—and where they did not. Sinia’s approving smile was more often earned by Gannon’s efforts with his storybooks than her own with the Wizr books.
She realized she was lost in thought again, having been sitting at her desk for hours on a wooden chair. The library also boasted a comfortable couch, but she found the softness—and her early rising—made her fall asleep too easily. The daylight was streaming in through the curtained window, and she rubbed her forehead, wishing she could descend down the cliffside on the rope-and-pulley system that was used to transport supplies from the town below. It was much faster than taking a carriage down the winding switchbacks, so she’d be roaming the streets of Ploemeur all the sooner, just as she’d done as a little girl. At fifteen, she had much more responsibility, and the weight of it constantly pressed on her shoulders. The room smelled of dried lavender, a pleasant scent that mixed with the musty books on the shelves. A globe on a circular table attracted her eye, but while she was tempted to go study it and imagine visiting all the different realms, she knew how much time she would waste if she did.
Trynne sighed and stared back down at the thick leather-strapped book in front of her. The book was called The Vulgate. It was a collection of tales and fables relating to the original King Andrew, written in a once popular language that had died away centuries ago, a relic of the past. It had taken her months to learn to read the proud, archaic script. As a child, she had read translations of The Vulgate and had been entranced by the stories of King Andrew and his knights. She hadn’t realized at the time that there were sixty volumes of such tales and she would be required to read them all in her studies.
At first, she had groaned through the task. Obviously someone Fountain-blessed with the gift of reading would have fared better. For Trynne, deciphering the script was a chore, and the tales and fables that had once interested her seemed tedious and full of pointless details. They were so repetitive that she began to wonder whether there was any value to reading them. But then, after several months of poring over the words and growing more comfortable with her ability to translate them, she had been startled to hear the whisper of the Fountain in connection with a particular passage.
Trynne had discovered that day that The Vulgate held the secret words of power.
Her discovery had earned one of her mother’s approving smiles, as well as a hug and a kiss on her cheek and a hint as to where she might find another word of power.
The Vulgate began to make sense to her. It was tedious to read through so many pages about knights and damsels, tests of valor, and swords buffeting helmets. But every so often—in fact, it was painfully rare—she would discover another word of power. The word would whisper to her, and she would feel the magic of the Fountain bubble up inside of her, along with the knowledge that speaking the word aloud would unleash its power. Some words of power could break apart previous spells permanently. Others lasted only for a limited duration, the length depending on how much magic the Wizr poured into it. While many spells lost all efficacy when passing over water, others only worked in water. Sinia warned her not to trifle with the words or to play with them as toys. Some words, for example, could unravel the defenses that prevented the Deep Fathoms from drowning Brythonica. It amazed Trynne that words alone were preventing the sea from crashing past the glittering gems on Glass Beach and flooding the city. The thought filled her with awe and respect and even fear.
And yet it did not make her wish to be a Wizr.
In the two and a half years she had been painstakingly studying The Vulgate, she had come to realize that it would take a lifetime to read it all. She had scarcely read four volumes in all that time, and the rest seemed like a gargantuan task that she just didn’t have the heart to conquer. Why did sword fighting come more easily to her? Why was she reluctant to push her mind the same way she did her body? Every person had an aptitude for something. Trynne was different from her mother.
Realizing it was nearly the end of her study time, she marked the page with a ribbon and closed the book. She stretched her arms and then her back, feeling a little soreness in her ribs from the morning’s workout. After wandering over to the hearth, she removed two pokers from the rack and began twirling them into the hourglass pattern before ducking them behind her back in the flower drill. It was a drill she had performed hundreds of times and she could do it quickly with iron bars, swords, or even staves. Captain Staeli had taught her that speed could compensate for strength and size and had hammered into her mind that she needed to be faster than her opponents in all cases.
Because of her training and exercise, the iron skewers were easy to maneuver, and she loved the grace and simplicity of the twirling movement. The metal implements felt like an extension of her body. Her shoulders rocked back and forth as she twisted to complement the motion, listening to the swish and hum of the iron as it sped past her ears. It was a glorious feeling, and while she continued it, she felt the Fountain filling her, bringing a sense of wonder and thrill. She still loved playing Wizr, and the game still fed her power as well, but the early mornings in the training yard were special to her. She never dreaded going and she always pushed Captain Staeli to teach her more.
There was a sound at the door, and Trynne hastily returned the pokers to the rack as the latch clicked. It was not her mother, thankfully, but one of the palace servants sent to tell her that her mother was awaiting her at the chapel.
Trynne thanked her and rubbed her arms, feeling alive and giddy with the thought of her plans that night. She was to travel to Kingfountain to sup with her father.
The halls of the castle sped past as she hurried
to the chapel where Sinia would be waiting. Trynne hadn’t discovered any words of power in her studies that day, but she was so distracted it was likely she would have missed them anyway.
Upon reaching the chapel, she heard the gentle pattering of the fountain. It was a solemn place, and it inspired Trynne’s reverence. Her mother was indeed waiting there, standing by the stone plinth whereon a different book sat. The book was not kept in the library; when not in use, it was concealed inside the waters of the fountain, yet it never got wet or even soggy. Only someone who was Fountain-blessed could summon it, if they knew it was there, and draw it out of the waters.
Trynne approached on soft feet, anxious to get a peek at the page her mother was looking at. Her mother was impossibly beautiful, something Trynne knew she would never be. She loved her mother deeply and passionately, but she was a little awed by her too. Sinia was the epitome of womanhood, or so Trynne thought, and she could never compare. Her mother wouldn’t sneak into the training yard or spend hours fantasizing about a dream that could never be. No, her mother was a woman of profound responsibility.
Glancing over her mother’s shoulder, she spied the map with its maze of ley lines. The book was a priceless treasure, for few kingdoms had sufficient detail of their own domains let alone the domains of others. Trynne saw the jagged coastlines of the various kingdoms and spied the spiderlike scrawl of inky letters spelling the names of Brugia, Occitania, Ceredigion, Atabyrion, and Leoneyis. It was an ancient map, created before the latter kingdom had been flooded by the Deep Fathoms for failing to live up to the covenants of the magic.
What made this map different from ones Trynne had seen in the library were the ley lines. The map was not marked by a grid showing north, south, east, and west. Instead, there were ley lines drawn across the pages. At some points, like at Ploemeur and Kingfountain, there was a clustering of ley lines, like wagon spokes. Those clustering locations typically marked a place where the Fountain magic was the strongest. They were concentrated points of significance, usually on the borders between the sea and land.
