The Forsaken Throne, page 19
part #6 of Kingfountain Series
Was it her father’s cunning that had trapped them? She had never beaten him in a game of Wizr. Not once.
The roar of a massive beast emanated from the misty woods, following by an ominous snuffling noise. Some of the soldiers rocked from foot to foot, looking around nervously.
“Sunset,” Quivel said with a satisfied nod. “The hunt begins. Shall we?”
He held the Tay al-Ard close to him, and the soldiers gripped Fallon and Trynne’s arms before reaching out to touch Quivel’s arm, the one that possessed the magic. There was a swirl of motion, a dizzying spin, and then they were inside a pavilion that smelled strongly of cedar. It was spacious and decorated for comfort with stacks of chests, a table with a map and measuring tools, and several large pillows on the floor. There was a Leering in the center of the pavilion and Trynne felt Quivel’s magic brush against it. The eyes started to glow red and it produced light and heat.
“Two of you stand guard outside,” Quivel said. “The other two, stand over there and keep watch. If either of these two attempts any murder, you may beat them at your leisure. Understood?”
The chief soldier nodded and they assumed their positions.
“I thought we were brought here to see the king?” Fallon asked, looking around the otherwise empty pavilion.
“Not yet.” He stuffed the Tay al-Ard into his belt and then motioned them toward the Leering. “Sit down there. I have questions before you see the king. Go on. Sit.” He gestured with a slight frown of impatience.
Fallon glanced at Trynne and she nodded. She could free them from the chains in an instant. It would only take a single word of power. But it would be best if Quivel didn’t know she’d trained as a Wizr. Outside the pavilion, she heard crackling cookfires and soldiers milling around talking and complaining about the quality of the rations. Smoke lingered in the air, making it hazy. Trynne eased down next to the Leering and Fallon joined her.
Quivel looked satisfied by their act of submissiveness. He lowered his voice and approached them in a very candid manner. “Very well, I’ll get to the point. I need to get off this world. Things are going from bad to worse. I was told a man would be sent to take my place. A thief lord. Where is he? Do you know of him?”
Could it be?
Fallon turned his head and looked at Trynne. “You mean Dragan?” he asked.
Quivel’s eyes brightened. “Yes! That’s the one. He’s supposed to be here collecting the treasures, not I.”
“He was captured,” Trynne said, keeping her voice steady.
“Blast it,” Quivel muttered, and began to pace. “That explains why he wasn’t with you. Everything is going wrong. The plan is unraveling. These people are on the verge of slaughtering each other. Three armies are marching here right now. If we don’t get away soon, we’ll all die here. So, perhaps we can cooperate. Dochte Abbey is burned. That was to be the signal that the final war was starting. I saw you both”—he said, wagging his finger at them—“standing near her. Queen Ereshkigal, that is. Nasty creature. I wasn’t there, but I saw you through the Leering in the cell. When you vanished, I knew you had a Tay al-Ard. So, let us help one another, shall we?” His voice had a desperate edge to it. “You don’t want to be trapped here any more than I do. I think Rucrius intended to abandon me. Too much time has passed since I last heard from him.”
“And you won’t,” Trynne said, trying to understand the maze of words. “Rucrius is dead.”
The news struck Quivel like a blow. His cheeks twitched with dread. “No,” he gasped. He continued pacing, shaking his head in wonderment. “It’s worse than I feared. We need to get away. Dieyre is luring the other kingdoms here for a final conflict. The strategy is elegant and simple. He’ll get them all to fight each other through treachery and deceit. You see, the curse in these woods takes its toll on everyone who enters. His camp is shielded from it for now. Ereshkigal wants everyone dead, so she’ll never withdraw. Not even if her men are dying in droves. There will be no one left. Is Morwenna still waiting to bring you back? Does she not have the ring still?”
So he knew about the ring. And he was allied with Morwenna and assumed the same was true of them. Trynne adjusted herself into a more comfortable position, trying to come up with a strategy.
“Do you think she would let it go willingly?” Fallon asked with a snort. “We were sent to get Kiskaddon and bring him back. Help us, and you’ll be helped.”
Quivel’s mouth turned into an angry frown. “You intend to leave me behind. I don’t think so. I will not be stranded here. There are two of you, so who was—”
Fallon leaned forward, his voice rising angrily, “If you hadn’t drained the Tay al-Ard, we could all be back at Muirwood right now. I know the plan for leaving. You don’t. I know the password. You don’t. Now bring Kiskaddon here and release us. Don’t be a fool, Quivel!”
The Dochte Mandar stopped pacing. He glared at Fallon. “You will not leave me behind. I figured out Rucrius’s plan long ago. Gather up all the gold in Comoros, Dahomey, and everywhere else in this cursed place. The plague is killing everyone anyway. The dead do not need wealth. We can do it without him. We’ll bring the gold back to Chandigarl through the treasure ship sent to take Brythonica. Crisis averted! There’s no need for Gahalatine to defeat the people in this world, they’re too busy defeating themselves!” He began muttering to himself. “So Dragan was captured and now I’m to be left behind.” Finally, he stopped pacing. “I’ll frustrate Morwenna’s plan,” he announced. “I can get Kiskaddon and the gold. At least enough of it to make this disastrous mission worth our while. But I need a way out of here. I want more than promises. They’ll all be dead within a fortnight. Mark my words. The disease is ravaging every city and still the rulers squabble like beggars over dried figs.” He snorted.
“Then let us strike a bargain,” Fallon said. “None of us want to be trapped here. I know where they are keeping Dragan. He wanted to come here.”
Quivel gave Fallon a sharp look. “Who are you?”
“The truth? I’m Fallon Llewellyn. Head of the Espion. Morwenna has seized the throne.”
Quivel’s nostrils flared. He looked from Fallon to Trynne and then back again. “And you have the ring? You can get me out of here?” he asked.
The pavilion door rustled and one of the soldiers poked his head in. “My lord, the king is coming.”
Quivel straightened. “Here?”
“Yes!”
Trynne sensed the approach of two Fountain-blessed people coming toward the tent. She squirmed beneath the chains, feeling the mounting tension in the air.
Fallon ground his teeth. “Take these chains off, man. Let me help you!”
“There’s no time,” Quivel snapped, looking more agitated. “Just tell Dieyre that you are defectors from Comoros come to join him. We captured you and brought you here. Why is he coming now? This makes no sense!”
A voice grunted from outside the tent. Trynne sensed the presence of the two Fountain-blessed just beyond the thick material. Sweat gathered at her brow and beneath her arms. Her mouth went dry with anticipation.
The tent parted and a man ducked inside. He wasn’t someone Trynne recognized, but he was a handsome fellow with unruly dark hair and a close-trimmed beard. His jaunty attitude reminded her of Fallon if she were being honest. From the way he glared at the soldiers who had blocked the entry, she could tell he was very self-assured, very accustomed to being obeyed. He wore a royal tunic that was travel stained but still impressive. It was the same color as the tunics worn by his soldiers, except an oak tree was emblazoned on the front in silver thread.
Arriving just behind the king was her father. Her heart lurched seeing him, wearing the same garb she had seen in her vision at the Leering. He looked stern and serious, his eyes full of distrust for the Dochte Mandar.
“Your Majesty!” Quivel said, bowing obsequiously. “You do me honor to visit my humble tent! Surely I would have come to you!”
“How long were you planning to wait before telling me you’d arrived with the prisoners, Quivel?” the king said. “Stiev was right, as ever,” he said, nodding toward Owen. “He said you’d interrogate them yourself before bringing them to me as ordered.”
Quivel’s eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth gaped open, quivering as if he was seeking the words that would earn the king’s forgiveness.
“I’ve never had a more cunning or clever man serve me,” the king said. “Faithful. I’ve never seen the like. Well, not since all the mastons departed!” he added with a chuckle. Then his eyes narrowed angrily. “Get out.”
“My lord, let me—”
“Get out!” Dieyre snapped.
Quivel looked like a beaten pup as he skulked out of the tent with his two guards, the Tay al-Ard still stuffed into his belt. Trynne turned and looked at her father, saw him staring at her. His magic reached out and swelled around her, probing her for weaknesses, for information. He could sense her power, just as she could sense his and the king’s. She saw his eyes narrow slightly, but he looked at her with an utter lack of recognition. As if she were a stranger with no connection to him at all.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She feared she’d not be able to speak. Here, at last, was her father . . . and he didn’t recognize her.
“And so here you are,” the king said, sauntering up to them and grinning with conceit. “You were both seen at the Leering marking the trail. Stiev told me, of course. He always tells me things. My quiet warrior. A young man and a young woman lost in the woods, following my trail of Leerings.” He crouched down near Trynne, looking at her profile, at her face. He had a familiarity about him, as if he normally treated everyone as though they were long-lost friends. “You could almost pass for a boy, but I have a discerning eye. You’re a lass in disguise.” He scrunched his nose. “Are you come to warn me that my kingdom is about to be destroyed? Or did you simply miss boarding the ships with all the other mastons?” He offered a small, resentful chuckle, but he didn’t look like he wanted or expected an answer.
Trynne did not understand what he meant. But she used her magic to test him. To lay bare his soul. He was skilled with the sword, much more so than most of the champions of the Gauntlets back home. He was proud of his skill, proud of his reputation. His body was lean and hard and muscled. He had cat-quick reflexes and a penchant for fighting unfairly. But his greatest weakness was inside his mind. He had tried to win a woman’s love and she had spurned him, even though she had loved him in return. The regret was a bruise on his soul that couldn’t heal. In Trynne’s mind, she could see the girl’s face emblazoned in Dieyre’s thoughts like a burning torch. He still pined for the girl. He would do anything to get her back.
“Quivel said he saw you through the Leering in Dochte,” Dieyre said, straightening and folding his arms imperiously. “How is Hillel? The imposter queen. I know who she really is—a wretched, nothing more.” He smirked as he said it. “I remember the first time I met her. Poor waif. So tongue-tied. Though women usually are around me. Have these two brought to my tent, Stiev. We need to find out why Quivel was being so sneaky. I’d bash in the faces of every Dochte Mandar if I could, only I need them.” The last bit was said resentfully.
“I will, my lord,” Owen said. The king exited the tent, leaving two guards behind.
Trynne’s father came and knelt before her, studying her with wary interest. He reached for her arm to help her rise. His touch brought so many feelings swimming through her.
“Father,” she breathed softly, willing him to believe her, to trust her.
To remember her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Discernment
Owen’s hand froze, his eyes widening with shock at her whispered word. Father. Trynne felt the Fountain magic stirring with her, a spark of it moving unbidden to his hand, still holding her arm. He gasped, his eyes staring at her face. Not with recognition, but with hopefulness, with eagerness.
“Do you know me?” he asked tremulously, his voice husky and soft.
“Know you?” she said with tears catching in her throat. “You are my father. And we have come a great distance to find you. To save you from this place.”
His hand still loosely grasped her elbow, and magic flowed more freely between them, binding them together. She felt it emanating from the Leering she leaned against. Somehow the magic was confirming her words, enabling her to speak the truth with convincing power.
“Who am I?” he whispered huskily, his expression rife with desperation and relief.
“Your name is Owen Kiskaddon,” Fallon said with deep respect. “You were practically a father to me as well. This is your daughter, Tryneowy. But you always called her Trynne.”
“Trynne,” Owen said in bewilderment. As he said her name, a series of chills rushed down her spine and she trembled.
“Papa,” she said, letting the tears come, letting them wet her lashes and streak down her face. She wanted to hug him, but her wrists were still bound in irons.
One of the soldiers who had been guarding the tent door slipped outside and walked away quickly.
Owen glanced over his shoulder, watching the man go, and then quickly rose, his face darkening. He let go of her arm but then turned back and looked at her.
“Why can’t I remember?” he asked in desperation.
“Your memories were all stolen,” she replied. “What name did the king call you? Stiev?”
He nodded slowly.
“You were raised in a place called Dundrennan,” Fallon said. “Under the tutelage of the duke of the North, Stiev Horwath. My great-grandfather. Just as I was raised under yours. You are not from this world. You were brought here by treachery, by the deepest treason. We came to fetch you home.”
Owen nodded as Fallon spoke, his look one of bewilderment but acceptance. He rubbed his wrist as he gazed down at them. “My only memories begin in a dark cell. I was kept drunk and masked. I used to have a ring on my hand. The callus is still there. Did I . . . did I have a wife?”
“Yes!” Trynne said, her chest throbbing. “You still do. Her name is Sinia. She’s not been the same since you vanished.”
“The ring you wore,” Fallon said urgently, “allows its wearer to pass between the two worlds. The ring was stolen from you, but I retrieved it. With it, we can get back home.”
“I must return to the king,” Owen said.
“No,” Trynne said, shaking her head. “I won’t let you out of my sight again.”
“If I don’t leave now, the king will suspect me,” he answered. He started walking toward the tent door and Trynne uttered the word of power to unlock the shackles. They fell away instantly, clattering to the ground. The remaining guard stationed at the door looked over at her in startled surprise. Suddenly Owen struck him on the temple with the hilt of his dagger and then caught him before he collapsed. He dragged him away from the door and lowered him to the ground.
Trynne was about to summon the word of power to open Fallon’s cuffs when she saw him stand, the cuffs dangling from only one of his wrists. He grinned at her.
“An Espion trick,” he said wryly as he removed the other cuff.
Owen smiled. “Take his tunic,” he said, motioning to the comatose soldier, “we’ll move around easier. Now we just need to find one for you,” he finished, looking at Trynne. She invoked her magic ring and suddenly her tunic was transformed to the wine-red one. He jolted when he saw the transformation.
“This will work,” she said. Fallon gave her a smile and then hurried over to the soldier Owen had knocked out. Moving quickly, he removed the man’s belt and tugged off his tunic.
“We need to find Quivel,” Fallon said as he cinched his sword belt over the tunic.
“I know where he is,” Owen said. “He’s watching the tent.”
“I can sense him too,” Trynne said. He was nearby. His presence was so subtle that she hadn’t noticed it. She turned around and then pointed. “That way.”
“I’ve never trusted Quivel,” Owen said. “He’s the one who came for me in the cell in the dungeon. I knocked him out and changed places with him. He found me, and he’s been my shadow ever since I escaped. I’m not going back to that dungeon.”
“I’ll get the Tay al-Ard back,” Fallon said. “If either of you go, he’ll sense you coming. He won’t be able to sense me. Wait for me here. Once I have it, I’ll come back and slice a hole in the back of the tent.”
“Fallon,” Trynne said worriedly. She didn’t want him to go away either. “I’ll do it.”
He smiled confidently at her. “I’m actually better at this kind of work,” he said. “If you two stay here, it’ll keep his eyes fixed on the tent. I’ll be back soon.”
There was a wrenching feeling in her heart. She wanted to kiss his cheek and thank him, she wanted . . . but it wouldn’t be right. It wasn’t even right to entertain such thoughts. Instead, she steeled herself and nodded for him to go.
He slipped out of the tent, leaving her and her father alone together for the first time in a year and a half. She hugged him fiercely, even though he could not remember her, pressing her cheek into his chest. The tears welled up again when he patted her back and returned the hug. It was the hug of a compassionate stranger, but it was still a relief to have him again.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered. “So much has happened. So many troubles.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” he said gently. “Not knowing yourself is such a torment. Yet I felt I had a family somewhere. There was an ache inside of me that is finally starting to mend. I can’t explain it, but I have been guided. Led, even, to this place. When I saw you kneeling by the Leering”—he laughed softly—“something about you spoke to me. I knew I needed to find you. To understand who you were.”
She looked up at his face, saw the awakening tenderness there. He had accepted and believed her words. His memories had been stolen from him, but not his sense of discernment.
“We will get your memories back, Papa,” she promised, squeezing him hard. “And if not, then I will tell you all the stories you once told me. Of Ankarette Tryneowy, the queen’s poisoner, and how she saved your life. Of your childhood with Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer. Of how you fell in love with my mother, Sinia Montfort. Of Severn Argentine, the king you served and then deposed.” Her heart twisted with anguish. “Who died defending his rival, our true king. Of Severn’s daughter, Morwenna, who betrayed us all.” A spike of red-hot anger jammed into her mind at the thought of the poisoner.
