by Jeff Wheeler
“I think it’s time for me to go,” Trynne said, pushing away from the table.
Fallon shrugged. “If you must.” His eyes burned with repressed anger.
Trynne stood, wanting to shove him backward in his chair and knock him on the floor. He had no idea what she was capable of. He believed that in teaching her to rebel against her parents, he would be helping her gain some freedom. She would have thrilled to spend time with him alone. But it felt wrong.
“I wish you luck in the Gauntlet, Fallon,” she told him, trying to hide the quaver in her voice.
“If you think I need it,” he countered. His brow furrowed with displeasure.
Trynne swallowed and stepped away from the table, her insides writhing with disappointment. It was not how she had hoped things would go between them.
As she walked away, she heard him sigh with anger. Morwenna murmured something back to him. A jolt of jealousy went through Trynne’s heart, but she stifled it. She should not be jealous of the beautiful poisoner. Yes, she was graced with beauty and certain freedoms and gifts. But Trynne would not have wished for her familial disadvantages for all the world. The poisoner had grown up in the shadow of her father at Glosstyr. Her mother spent half of the year at Kingfountain, sometimes more. There was sadness that was a part of Morwenna’s life that Trynne didn’t understand.
“Shall we go, lass?” Captain Staeli asked in a low voice. He glanced over her shoulder at Fallon, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” she answered solemnly.
“I’m proud of you,” Staeli said, giving her a small, approving smile.
She raised an eyebrow. “You heard?”
Staeli said nothing, only gave her a wise look and escorted her back to the door.
The sun had begun to lower in the sky, but the city of Marq was far from being ready to sleep. For the rest of the day, Trynne wandered the streets and bridges with Captain Staeli, developing a feeling for the beautiful land of Brugia. Without a gondola, the only way to cross from one section of the town to another was over the bridges. Each bridge was distinct and shaped to meet the need and size of the crossing. Most of the homes were two-story dwellings, packed close together, but there were also many parks and sculpted tree lanes adding shade and variety to the landscape. It was like being in a living maze.
She would have preferred to spend the afternoon with Fallon, but after the way he’d reacted to her refusal, she was glad she hadn’t gone with him. He was used to getting his way, used to his parents’ indulgence, and clearly didn’t handle disappointment well. He was also too impulsive and didn’t think through the possibilities of his actions. The whole city was looking for him, so going out on a gondola ride with her would have been fraught with risk. Why couldn’t he see that?
There was much she had admired about him when they were children, but he was changing in ways she wasn’t sure she liked. Staeli was not a very talkative companion, and she had a lot of time to ruminate on the encounter and play it over and over again in her mind. She wished that she could have parted with Fallon on better terms, but she was angry at him for being so spoiled and haughty, for making such uncharitable assumptions about her motivations. She deserved better than that.
As dusk neared, Trynne and Captain Staeli approached the central island, where the Gauntlet event was being held at the duke’s palatial manor. When they got to the bridge protected by the duke’s men, she found a bathhouse to change in. She emerged shortly thereafter, her dress bundled up in her pack, which she handed to Captain Staeli. She was more comfortable in training clothes, the kind she wore in her practice sessions in Ploemeur. As her mother had noticed, she had deliberately had her hair trimmed shorter and shorter over the past months, and it was tied back in a queue.
The final bit of her disguise she had planned for months. She knew it was a tradition in Atabyrion for warriors to paint parts of their faces with paste made from blue woad. She had applied it over the nonparalyzed part of her face. The vibrant color would help guarantee her anonymity. She had always been short and lean, and her training had given her muscle where it counted.
Captain Staeli smirked at her disguise after taking her bag. “Well, lad,” he said with a wink. “Do us proud, eh? Show these Brugians what you are made of.”
“I will,” Trynne answered, giving him one of her rare smiles.
“The guards yonder have been blocking out all but those who will compete. The Gauntlet must be kept a secret, so no witnesses are allowed over the last bridge. I’ll meet you back here when you are done.”
Trynne shook her head. “No, meet me back at the sanctuary. I can feel a ley line from here to there. It’ll be faster. I don’t plan on staying long afterward.”
“Good luck,” he said, clapping her on the back as he would a son.
Trynne straightened a bit and then marched confidently toward the bridge.
As she approached the guards, she sensed Fountain magic ahead. She was not using any herself, but she felt its subtle ripple. The guard wearing Grand Duke Maxwell’s badge frowned at her.
“Are you fourteen, lad?” he asked her sternly.
“Sixteen,” she responded, adding some husk to her voice.
He wrinkled his brow. “It’s your skull. Go on.”
Trynne passed the guards and walked across the narrow bridge. There were archers posted on the other side, armed with arrows with black shafts and silver heads. The men wore colorful garb, purple and yellow, along with frilled Brugian neck pieces and pointed helmets. Trynne followed the sense of the Fountain magic. On the other side of the bridge was the entrance to the manor, guarded by more men.
“Any knives? Weapons?” one of them said as he examined her.
Trynne shook her head. Combatants could bring in nothing but a sturdy pair of boots and the clothes on their back. The guard quickly searched her, examining her boots mostly, and then waved her through the doors. Her stomach thrilled with excitement.
The feeling of the Fountain magic swelled as she entered the manor, accompanied by the noise of jumbled voices. Trynne gazed at the decorations of the hallway, impressed by the huge gold-framed paintings of regal figures, presumably previous rulers of the Brugia. She recognized one of the subjects as an Argentine, the dowager queen who was Severn’s sister. Looking into her eyes, Trynne felt as if the matronly woman were watching her.
She was ushered into a room filled with other participants. It was a cavernous space, made more so by the vaulted ceiling. Guards wearing the duke’s colors were stationed everywhere, probably thirty in all, and each held a polished black staff. The combatants were of all sizes and shapes, but most were big and young and they were talking and jostling each other as young men tended to do.
She cast her gaze around the room, feeling out of place and strange. Slowly, she walked around, seeking the source of the Fountain magic. The feeling came from a tall, gawky lad who was probably sixteen. He had straw-blond hair, ears that stuck out, and a narrow face that was quite ugly. The gangly look was almost comical.
And she realized, almost at once, that it was a disguise. It was as if the waters of the Fountain parted around her. Upon a closer look, she noticed the ring on the young man’s hand. She could literally feel the magic burning from it; it was the source of both the power and the feeling.
The lad was Fallon.
Almost as if in answer to the thought, the young gawky man looked at her, his eyebrow lifting. Had he recognized her? Her stomach shrank and she kept moving, not giving him a second look. She cursed herself as he started to approach her. It was Fallon. She was sure of it.
“From Edonburick?” said a voice behind her in a thick brogue. It was Fallon’s voice.
Before she could answer, a loud gong sounded, sending ripples of noise through the hall. The chattering and nervous voices stilled at once.
“His Excellence, Prince Elwis Asturias!” shouted a voice, followed by a ribbon of trumpets.
Trynne couldn’t see well amidst the throng, but she recognized the prin
ce’s voice. “Welcome to Marq. Welcome to the Gauntlet.” He sneered the words as he walked forward, casting his eyes over those assembled. “Only some of you will actually be able to compete this evening. The rest are going to end up at the healers with broken bones. But you are here now, and it is too late for you to back out. To compete in the Gauntlet, you will need a black staff. Try to wrest one from one of my guards. Now!”
At his command, the guards with the black staves came rushing toward the middle of the room, striking the young men with the very weapons they had been charged to take.
In a moment, all was mayhem.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Gauntlet
Each of the realms under the sovereignty of Kingfountain had their own Gauntlet, and each was given the right to conduct it as they saw fit. Trynne was shocked to see this one begin in such a brutal manner. The guards went after the foreigners first, but they were soon wrestling with all the contenders for their weapons. She heard the crack of wood against bone and watched people slump to the ground only to be trampled on in the melee.
Trynne’s magic rushed in without being summoned. The murmur of waterfalls in her ears guided her through the haphazard violence. She identified a guard, the strongest, who was bringing down a man with almost every stroke, and chose him to disarm. Keeping her eyes fixed on him, she ducked a blow aimed at her forehead and prepared herself to strike. The guard saw her approach, grinned viciously, and swung the staff down in an overhand arc. She twisted sideways, feeling the wood hiss in front of her. When it clacked on the stone ground, she grabbed the quivering pole with both hands and used it to absorb her weight. She kicked the guard in the knee and then the groin, and wrenched the pole from his hands as he bowled over in pain. Whirling the staff over her head, she brought it down on his neck to stun him before kicking him in the chest to knock him down. Through her efforts, she felt her store of magic draining rapidly.
The gawky blond who could only be Fallon had already seized a weapon and was charging through the only open door. She hesitated a moment, wondering if she should go after him or help some of the others struggling in the room. Was this a contest of brute strength or a test of the principles of Virtus?
Another competitor had managed to grab a staff, but he was bleeding profusely from his scalp. So many had crumpled onto the floor, where they were writhing in pain, befuddled by the blows they had received. Very few would be competing in the rest of the Gauntlet, it appeared. Trynne struck a guard behind the knee and then whacked him upside the head. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to jar him. Another guard saw her do this and rushed at her. She kept the staff at the ready and then parried his blows effortlessly before countering with a sweep that knocked his legs out from under him. Curiously, using the magic for defense only sapped a little from it. A cheer rose up from the mob—people had seen her stop to help. The man with the bleeding face rushed past her to follow Fallon. Trynne tried to subdue her anger. She wanted to stay and humble all of the guards, but the delay would cost her later, especially if her power vanished before she made it through the other obstacles.
Trynne watched a smaller fellow grab the fallen staff of the guard she’d just injured. He gave her a grateful nod; after nodding back, she fled down the path.
The corridor was lit with fluttering torches and lined with tapestries, which made shadows wriggle and dance on the walls. She heard the sound of bootsteps rushing up a set of stairs and hurried to follow, feeling her heart thrum with excitement in her chest. The corridor took a sharp turn ahead, and she reached out with her magic to search for any obstacles. She sensed a bar had been fixed to the wall, about chest level, meant to surprise and harm someone running recklessly. Prepared to meet the challenge, Trynne ducked as she went around the bend, keeping her staff parallel to the floor. She dodged the bar easily, not losing her stride, and rounded another corner, where she found a cramped stairwell leading up to one of the manor towers. The sound of a slamming door came from above.
Trynne could hear the sound of boots from behind her as well, so she hastened up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She was grateful for her training with Captain Staeli. Her endurance was more than a match for the challenges she’d faced so far. When she reached the top of the stairs, there was a heavy iron door blocking the way. She remembered hearing it slam, which seemed odd until she noticed the pulley mechanism next to it, tied to heavy sandbags positioned above. Blinking quickly, she deduced that opening the door triggered the trap that would apply sudden pressure to the door. That meant there was something dangerous on the other side. Reaching out with her magic, she sensed that the tower led outside in a precipitous drop. She realized the drop below led to the moat.
Every use of her power diminished it, and she felt the edges of it shrinking, which made her stomach quiver with worry. What if it ran out when she needed it most? But there was no time to fret. The person coming up behind her would reach the landing soon, so Trynne heaved on the door. As she wrenched it open, she felt the wind and saw two torches hanging from sconces on the wall, the flames hissing in her face as they were drawn in by the wind. The moat was indeed below. Did that mean she needed to swim? Her eyes caught two iron bars extending down from just above the door, almost like rails that went down at an angle. She couldn’t see the moat in the darkness of night, but she could smell it, and she heard someone splashing in the water below.
Then she understood. She could place the staff over the bars and then hang on to it as she went down. She couldn’t see where she was going or how steep it was, but it was better than—
Click.
The trap released the sandbag and the door closed behind her, shoving her out of the tower. She managed to reach out and grab one of the bars with her left hand and dangled from it over the dark pool below. Gritting her teeth, she swung the staff up and over the bars, then quickly snatched it with her other hand. Suddenly, she was gliding downward along the poles. Her stomach thrilled with the feeling of flying, but she couldn’t see where she would land. There was a lawn on the other side of the moat, lit with braziers and sputtering torches that began to loom ahead. The ironwork rods she glided down eventually came to an end on the lawn.
As she hurtled downward at an accelerating pace, she saw the iron poles curled into circles at the ends and were attached to two wrought-iron columns at the end of the lawn. The circles were designed to absorb her momentum, she realized, and when she hit them, her body swung up and around once in a full circle. She dropped to the grass gracefully, just as someone spluttered in the water behind her. Turning, she saw the man with the wounded forehead trying to climb up onto the stone, looking tired and worn out from the swim with the staff. He glared at her as he swung up his legs.
Trynne pulled her staff out of the rings and raced ahead. There was a series of stone obstacles she needed to evade to cross the remainder of the lawn. Some were benches of varying heights. Some were pedestals. A tall wall loomed at the end, about twice the height of a man. She blinked quickly, trying to discern a pattern in the debris. Fallon was scrambling to get up the wall, but as high as he jumped, he could not reach the top edge. It would be impossible for her, for she was much shorter than him. He stepped back, tossed his staff up and over the wall like a javelin, and started shimmying up two of the pillars, which were close enough to provide him with leverage. Trynne started through the maze, jumping over one obstacle, darting past another. By the time she reached the pillars, Fallon had managed to fall forward and catch the lip of the wall. He pulled himself grunting up to the top.
She started up next, mimicking his movement by throwing the staff over it first. She then jammed her hands and feet against one of the pillars, pushing herself up the other. The other man arrived as she reached the top of the pillars. Trynne fell forward and barely managed to catch the edge of the wall. She felt a hand grope at her boot and realized the man below was trying to grab her and pull her down. She brought up her knees and heard his hand slap on the stone. It
infuriated her that he was cheating!
The young man glared at her and then uttered an unflattering epithet in Legaultan at her as he started up the pillars himself. Was this the one they called Bowman?
Everyone who passed the Gauntlet earned a badge, but the one who came in first always won the champion’s badge and a hefty bag of gold. Others received lesser prizes. The money was intended to help a champion pay the costs of becoming a knight of the realm. This competitor was clearly willing to cheat to get the money and the fame. Trynne’s fingers burned and her arm muscles strained to hold herself up, but she had practiced for so long in the training yard that she knew what her body could do. She began rocking her hips and then pulled, swinging herself onto the top of the wall.
From that vantage point, she saw another competitor coming down the poles as she had while two more were trying to swim across the moat. Then from her position, she saw that the pillars were of varying heights. She could have jumped from one to the other across the maze, and a final leap would have brought her to the top of the wall.
So each challenge had a difficult way and an easier way to pass it. The bloodied man below swore under his breath and began shimmying up the pillars too. Trynne swung over the edge, lowered herself until she hung from the other side, and then dropped and fetched her staff. Lamps had been hung on iron poles lighting the path to an enormous hedge maze. As she ran toward it, she felt it waiting to swallow her up in darkness.
As Trynne entered the hedge maze, formed by a wooden trellis covered in thick jasmine vines, she heard rustling from the foliage. It was, she realized, the perfect hiding place for guardsmen. Suddenly a pole jabbed at her head from one of the clusters of leaves and Trynne ducked to avoid it, then raced ahead toward a crook in the maze. She had no idea which way to go, but somewhere ahead of her, she heard grunts, followed by a bark of pain.
Was it Fallon? After the way he’d treated her earlier that day, she wanted to win just to spite him.
