The Forsaken Throne, page 28
part #6 of Kingfountain Series
Trynne was trying to breathe and finding it difficult because her heart was beating so fast. In the mirror, she saw Reya speaking to Mariette and wished that she could have a moment alone with her mother before being hurried away to the ceremony. After the wedding, Trynne would take her husband by the ley lines to Dundrennan, where they’d have a feast to celebrate the evening. But that was not all. Trynne also planned to take Fallon to Marq for a gondola ride, and together they’d visit the other places she’d longed to see. She caught her reflection smiling at the thought.
“It’s almost time,” Sinia said, patting her shoulder.
“You are going back to Brythonica tomorrow?” Trynne asked, turning her head and gazing up at her mother.
She nodded. “I’ve had another vision. The ships will be arriving soon. It’s been three months since the flood.”
Trynne nodded. The treasure ships were coming for refuge and safety.
“What was your vision?” Trynne asked her. Sometimes her mother told her about them. Sometimes she did not. One thing she’d learned about life was that there’d always be mysteries. She noticed the strange iron key dangling from her mother’s girdle, still sheathed in magic. No one could see it except for Trynne’s father and herself. Her mother had said she would tell her later where she’d gotten it and what it meant, but the time had not yet come. The last month had been a whirlwind.
“I’ve seen the solution to the problem of the ships,” Sinia answered, stroking a finger through Trynne’s hair.
“What is it?”
Her mother smiled. “You’ll hear about it soon enough. All the world will hear of it when it happens.”
“Can you tell me?” Trynne asked eagerly, but she didn’t push further.
There was a gasp of surprise and a flurry of outrage as Fallon appeared through a secret Espion door and entered the room in his wedding finery.
“Iago Fallon!” Lady Evie thundered. “You aren’t supposed to see her yet!”
“Since I already did see her, does that mean the silly tradition no longer matters? This is a quiet wedding, not a state affair. There should be some leeway for rules to be broken here and there. Out, out—all of you. This is taking far too long. Give us a quiet moment ere the bedlam begins. Go on, Mother, you know I love you, and you and Genny outrank me, but do obey your son on his wedding day. As a personal favor? All of you, go! I’d have a word with my bride-to-be and her mother.”
There were protests and more commotion, but Fallon had his way in the end, and soon the ladies were escorted away, all save Trynne and Sinia. The room was quiet and peaceful after the door closed behind the last lady. Trynne thought Fallon looked rather handsome in his wedding clothes, which were not ostentatious, but more in line with the solemn traditions of the North.
Fallon stood there, arms folded, gazing at Trynne with a look of admiration and appreciation. “Well now, my love. That gown suits you exquisitely. Exactly. Unequivocally. My sister has great taste.”
“It’s against tradition to see me before the ceremony,” she pointed out.
He laughed. “When have I ever been a servant to tradition?” Then his smug look softened. “Actually, I figured you would want some time alone with your mother, and all the other hens were still fussing over you.” He shrugged. “My first wedding present to you. Lady Sinia.” He bowed to her respectfully. “You have always been a second mother to me, ever since I was a boy growing up in Ploemeur. I hope it will not offend if I begin to address you by that title. You have another son, but I do hope to be considered one of yours.”
Sinia strode up to Fallon and embraced him, pulling down on his neck and kissing his forehead. “You’ve always been family to me,” she said, patting his cheek. “As I knew you would be long ago. When I prepared on my wedding day.”
Fallon was abashed by her compliment and turned to escape out the secret door again.
Trynne called him back. “Fallon?”
He stood there, head cocked slightly, listening to her with quiet respect. He didn’t ask her what she wanted. He already knew.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling that the happiness in her heart at that moment was just a taste of what she could expect in the years to come.
He smiled at her. “Don’t keep me waiting long,” he said with an impish smile. “We’ve been waiting long enough.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
One of the things that I’ve always admired about Jane Austen’s writing is her ability to flesh out believable characters, flaws and all, and especially caddish villains such as Wickham and Willoughby from Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. When I created Fallon’s character, I wanted to cast him in their mold, yet give him an ending that showed a person can change. Both Trynne and Fallon go on incredible character journeys during this series. I was rooting for him the whole time.
I also had an enormous amount of fun with this series blending in themes and crossing over into my other worlds. Astute readers will recognize the nods from both of the Muirwood series (Lia’s kitchen, Dochte Abbey, kystrels, etc.) to Whispers from Mirrowen (the Tay al-Ard, the Dryad trees, the Bhikhu) and even to my Landmoor series (Rucrius with his reflecting eyes was a Shae if you noticed that, and the Everoot that helped heal Trynne at the end). Blending different aspects of my worlds together in this series made it so fun and delighted my editor when I pitched the idea to him. I hope you’ve been delighted as well.
The reaction to the Kingfountain series has been such an honor and very humbling. Thank you for being part of my journey as a writer. I have so many stories still left to tell. Every time I get a book idea, I send myself an e-mail with the details to store it in a folder to look at later.
By the time you get this Author’s Note, I’ll have already decided what I’m doing next and will likely have written it and been done. But at this moment, the future is a blank page.
It’s like that for all of us. What we do tomorrow starts with a thought. Truly the best way to predict your future is to create it. Wise words from Alan Kay at Xerox PARC.
Until we meet again.
P.S. If you are still hungering for more in the world of Kingfountain, I have written another stand-alone novel, which tells the origin story of Trynne’s namesake, Ankarette Tryneowy. Watch my website for the announcement of The Poisoner’s Enemy in early 2018!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes a special kind of person to endure suffering cheerfully. As always, my sister Emily endures the pangs of suffering week by week to read my books as I write them. My daughter Isabelle joined in this time and has been a source of encouragement and support and a tireless advocate for Fallon. I also let one of my good friends and early readers, Robin, give it a try after she asked to read weekly, but eventually the strain proved too much and she begged me to stop sending her chapters until it was done.
I’d also like to thank my awesome editorial team for their continual support and suggestions. Jason Kirk: editor, shark lover, and partner par excellence, Angela “Eagle Eyes” Polidoro, and Wanda Zimba. Their capacious memories often save me from myself. Thanks also to my wonderful early readers who see these books before you all do and are still my friends after cliffhanger endings: Robin, Shannon, Karen, Travis, and Sunil.
AN EXCERPT FROM JEFF WHEELER’S
THE WRETCHED OF MUIRWOOD
There is a difference between a wretched and an orphan. An orphan is literally a child whose parents are dead. It is a pitiable state, to be sure, but the child still knows, by means of relations or guardians, who their parents were and what Gifts they have inherited. The necessary rites can or already have been performed for them, binding them through the Medium to their ancestral forebears and the consequences appertaining to them.
A wretched is like an orphan. They have no family, no relations, no one willing to own them or care for them. Their parents may be alive or dead. They are often born in secret, with no one aware of their coming into this second life, except for the unlucky souls who find them abandoned on Abbey steps in the dark of night. After laboring and searching the most ancient references, I have thus concluded that the original meaning of the word is this—a wretched is someone deserving pity. And by this definition, I say that those children found in this state are appropriately named.
—Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
CHAPTER ONE
Cemetery Rings
Lia lived in the Aldermaston’s kitchen at Muirwood Abbey. More than anything else in the world, she craved learning how to read. But she had no family to afford such a privilege, no one willing to teach her the secrets, and no hope of it ever happening because she was a wretched.
Nine years before, someone had abandoned her at the Abbey gate and that should have put an end to her ambitions. Only it did not. One cannot live in a sweet-scented kitchen without hungering after pumpkin loaves, spicy apple soup, and tarts with glaze. And one could not live at Muirwood Abbey without longing to learn the wisest of crafts—reading and engraving.
Thunder boomed above Muirwood Abbey, and water drenched the already muddy grounds. Lia’s companion, Sowe, slept next to her in the loft, but the thunder and the sharp stabs of lightning did not wake her, nor did the voices murmuring from the kitchen below as the Aldermaston spoke to Pasqua. It was difficult waking Sowe under any circumstances, for she dearly loved her sleep.
Running drips dampened their blankets and plopped in pots on the kitchen tiles below. Rain had its own way of bringing out smells—in wet clothes, wet cheeses, and wet sackcloth. Even the wooden planks and the eaves had a damp, musty smell.
The Aldermaston’s gray cassock and over-robe were soaked and dripping, his thick, dark eyebrows knotted with worry and impatience. Lia watched him secretly from the shadows of the loft.
“Let me pour you some cider,” Pasqua said to him as she fidgeted among the pots, sieves, and ladles. “A fresh batch was pressed and boiled less than a fortnight ago. It will refresh you. Now where did that chatteling put the mugs? Here we are. Well now, it seems someone has drunk from it again. I mark these things, you know. It was probably Lia. She is always snitching.”
“Your gift of observation is keen,” said the Aldermaston, who seemed hurried to speak. “I am not at all thirsty. If you . . .”
“It is no trouble at all. In truth, it is good for your humors. Now why did they stack those eggs that way? I ought to crack one over the both of their heads, I should. But that would be wasteful.”
“Please, Pasqua, some bread. If you could rouse the girls and start the bread now. Stoke the fires. You may be baking all night.”
“Are we expecting guests, Aldermaston? In this storm? I doubt if a skilled horseman could ford the moors now, even with the bridges. I have seen many storms blow in like this. Hang and cure me if any guests should brave the storm tonight.”
“Not guests, Pasqua. The rivers may flood. I will rouse the other help, maybe even the learners. If it floods . . .”
“You think it might flood?”
“I believe that is what I just said.”
“It rained four days and four nights nigh on twelve years ago. The Abbey did not flood then.”
“I believe it may tonight, Pasqua. We are on higher ground. They will look to us for help.”
Lia poked Sowe to rouse her, but she mumbled something and turned the other way, swatting at her own ear. She was still completely asleep.
The Aldermaston’s voice was rough, as if he was always trying to keep himself from coughing, and it throbbed with impatience. “If it floods, there will be danger for the village. Not only our crops chance being ruined. Bread. Make five hundred loaves. We should be prepared . . .”
“Five hundred loaves?”
“That is what I instructed. I am grateful you heard me correctly.”
“From our stores? But . . . what a dreadful waste if it does not flood.”
“In this matter, I am not seeking advice. I am impressed that we should prepare for flooding this evening. It is heavy on me now. As heavy as the cauldron in the nook. I keep waiting for it. For the footsteps. For the alarm. Something will happen this night. I dread news of it.”
“Have some cider then,” Pasqua said, her voice trembling with worry. “It will calm your nerves. Do you really think it will flood tonight?”
Straightening his crooked back, the Aldermaston roared, “Do you not understand me? Loaves! Five hundred at least. Must I rouse your help myself? Must I knead the dough with my own hands? Bake, Pasqua! I did not come here to trifle with you or convince you.”
Lia thought his voice more frightening than the thunder—the feeling of it, the heat of his anger. It made her sink deep inside herself. Her heart pained for Pasqua. She knew how it felt to be yelled at like that.
Sowe sat up immediately, clutching her blanket to her mouth.
Her eyes were wild with fear.
Another blast of thunder sounded, its force shaking the walls.
In the calm of silence that followed, Pasqua replied, “There is no use yelling, Aldermaston, I can hear you very well. You may think me deaf, by the tone of your voice. Loaves you shall have then. Grouchy old niffler, coming into my kitchen to yell at me. A fine way to treat your cook.”
At that moment, the kitchen opened with a gusty wind and a man slogged in, spraying mud from his boots with every step. His hair was dripping, his beard dripping, his nose dripping. Grime covered him from head to foot. He clenched something in his hand against his chest.
“And who do you think you are to come in like that, Jon Hunter!” Pasqua said, rounding on him. “Kicking mud like that! Tell me that a wretched is found half-drowned at the Abbey gate, or I will beat you with my broom for barging into my kitchen. Filthy as a cur, look at you.”
Jon Hunter looked like a wild thing, a mess of soaked, sodden cloak, tangled hair with twigs and bits of leaves, and a gladius blade belted to his waist. “Aldermaston,” he said in a breathless voice. He mopped his beard and pitched his voice lower. “The graveyard. It flooded. Landslide.”
There was quiet, then more blinding lightning followed by billows of thunder. The Aldermaston said nothing. He only waited. Jon Hunter seemed to be struggling to find his voice again.
Lia peeked farther from the ladder steps, her long curly hair tickling the sides of her face. Sowe tried to pull her back, to get her out of the light, but Lia pushed her away.
Jon Hunter pressed his forehead against his arm, staring down at the floor. “The lower slope gave way, spilling part of the cemetery downhill. Grave markers are strewn about and many . . .” He stopped, choking on the words. “Many ossuaries were burst. They were . . . my lord . . . they were . . . they were all empty, save for muddy linens . . . and . . . and . . . wedding bands made of gold.”
Jon put his hand on the cutting table. His other still clenched something. “As I searched the ruins and collected the bands, the part of the hill I was on collapsed. I thought . . . I thought I was going to die. I fell. I cannot say how far, not in all the dark, but I fell on stone. A shelf of rock, I thought. It knocked the wind out of me. But when the lightning flashed again, I realized it was . . . in the air. Do you understand me? Hanging in the air. A giant block of chiseled stone. But there was nothing below it. Nothing holding it up. I was trapped and shouted for help. But then the lightning flashed anew, and I saw the hillside above and the roots of a withered oak exposed. There is nothing but a tangle of oaks in that part of the grounds. So I leapt and climbed and came.”
The Aldermaston said nothing, chewing on the moment as if it were some bitter-tasting thing. His eyes closed. His shoulders drooped. “Who else is about tonight? Who may have seen it?”
“Only I,” Jon Hunter said, holding out his hand, his mud-caked hand. There were several smeared rings in his filthy palm. “Aldermaston, why were there no bones in the ossuaries? Why leave the rings? I do not understand what I beheld tonight.”
The Aldermaston took the rings, looking at them in the flickering lamplight. Then his fingers tightened around the gold bands and fury kindled his cheeks.
“There is much labor to fulfill before dawn. The cemetery grounds are forbidden now. Be certain that no one trespasses. Take two mules and a cart and gather the grave markers and ossuaries and move them to where I shall tell you. I will help. I do not want learners to discover what you did. The entire Abbey is forbidden from that ground. Have I spoken clearly? Can there be any doubt as to my orders?”
“None, Aldermaston. The storm is raging still. I will work alone. Do not risk your health to the elements. Tell me what must be done and I will do it.”
“The rains have plagued us quite enough. They will cease. Now.” He held up his hand, as if to calm a thrashing stallion in front of him.
Either by the words or the gesture or both, the rain ceased, and only the water sluicing through the gutters and the plop and drip from a thousand shingles and countless shuddering oak branches could be heard. A tingle in the air sizzled, and Lia’s heart went hot with a blushing giddiness. All her life she had heard whispers of the power of the Medium. That it was strong enough to master storms, to tame fire or sea, or restore that which was lost. Even to bring the dead back alive again.
Now she knew it was real. Empty ossuaries could mean only one thing. The dead bones had been restored to the flesh of their masters, the bodies reborn and new. When the revived ones had left Muirwood was a mystery. Lia was eager to explore the forbidden grounds—to see the floating stone, to search for rings in the mud herself.
And at precisely that moment, the moment when she realized the Medium was real, with her heart full of thoughts too dazzling to bottle up, she saw the Aldermaston turn, gaze up the ladder, and meet her eyes.
