The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)

She had concealed it at the sanctuary of Our Lady at Penryn. No one knew where it was except for her.

Biting her lip, she gazed at the ships at harbor, all the Genevese trading vessels that came in and out. Part of her own fleet was anchored in the tranquil bay. The sight of all those ships made her think of her mother. Sinia had been sent to the Deep Fathoms—the great unknown—and yet she’d accepted the Fountain’s summons with calm fortitude. Trynne felt none of her mother’s serenity.

She tugged the window open by its handle, letting in the fresh ocean breeze to caress her face. She closed her eyes, listening to the trills of birds and the distant noise from far below. Easing herself onto the bench, she sat for a moment, enjoying the stillness, her mood contemplative.

She’d not been sitting there long when she heard the distant rumble of thunder from a cloudless sky. A pit opened in her stomach.

Rising from the window seat, she walked briskly to the other side of the room. The view on that side looked down on the sacred woods.

A layer of clouds had suddenly appeared on the horizon, overshadowing the trees. The pit in her stomach began to suck everything inside it. Her temples throbbed and her pulse quickened with fear. The magic of the silver bowl had just been summoned.

Without pausing to consider the implications, she stalked from the audience hall and hurried to the fountain she used to travel the ley lines. As she briskly strode, it felt as if some inner voice was howling for her to run, not walk.

“My lady?” one of the serving girls asked.

“Find Thierry,” she ordered. “Tell him I’m going to the grove.

Something’s wrong.”

The maid bobbed quickly and rushed away. Worries began to cascade through her. When the bowl was invoked, the guardian of the grove was summoned. Captain Staeli had been gravely wounded in the Battle of the Kings, but he had healed with help from her magic. He was the one who wore the ring of the grove and would be summoned to defend the place. If he was defeated, the ring could be claimed by another person. This thought, this fear, was what made her stop her determined walk and break into a run. Servants stared at her in concern as she rushed past them. The knights stationed at the fountain looked at her worriedly as she stepped inside.

“My lady?” one of the knights demanded.

“Send knights to the grove,” she ordered. “At once. I fear something awful has happened.”

With the message still on her lips, she thought the word of power to cross the ley lines and felt the magic engulf her, as if she’d plummeted off a waterfall.

She arrived in the grove instantly. Chunks of ice as big as fists crashed down all around her, the hailstorm creating a cacophony.

There were soldiers all about, some huddled under shields, arms raised to deflect the bombardment. Most were sprawled on the muddy ground that was thick with frozen shards of ice, bleeding from the impact of the jagged chunks.

Her father had brought her to the grove long before he was attacked there. He had shown her how to summon its magic and what it did. The storms summoned by the silver bowl had always terrified her, but the magical assault never lasted long.

“Aspis!” she cried, creating a shield around herself and those nearby. She gazed through the pelting storm, trying to find someone she recognized. The aura of Fountain magic was everywhere. The air tingled with it.

The hailstorm ended abruptly, and in the wake of its commotion, she heard the groans of the survivors. People had collapsed everywhere. There were no horses. They must have all bolted away.

The sounds of pain were dissonant with the angelic song of the birds that suddenly appeared on the limbs of the denuded oak tree.

The hauntingly beautiful chorus had always wrung tears from her eyes in the past. But today she was desperate to find her husband and her friend, to help them and the wounded men.

Lord Amrein was lying on the ground, a jagged wound on his skull and blood covering most of his face. He looked like a dead man. Trynne gasped with shock, but she could not absorb what her eyes saw.

The presence of another Fountain-blessed drew her gaze to the cleft of the riven boulder, and she caught the swish of a pale-colored silk skirt. It looked familiar and she squinted, trying to make out the shape as the person disappeared into the cave beyond the great rock.

She took a few steps and then saw Gahalatine struggling to sit up. His big shoulders were trembling with weakness and he pitched forward again. She felt the throb of his Fountain magic, but it felt wrong—like a bubble that popped each time it attempted to coalesce. Hurrying to his side, she knelt in the melting ice, soaking her skirts.

She looked at his face, his brow twisted into a rictus of pain.

There were chunks of ice in his hair, along with a matting of fresh blood. She wrapped her arms around him and invoked a healing word, pouring some of her magic into him.

Some of the soldiers were upright now, gazing at the tree and listening to the anthem from the beautiful birds. But only a few had managed to stand. Most lay still. Many, she realized, were unbreathing. Marshal Soeur was among the dead. Her breath hitched, but she would not let herself cry. Where was Reya?

“Where am I?” Gahalatine muttered, wincing, staring around the grove in shock and confusion. Her magic was working through him, repairing the injuries he’d sustained during the hailstorm.

“You’ll be all right,” she said soothingly, choking on the words.

She stroked his shoulder and then wrapped her arms around him, wanting to both give comfort and take it. “You weren’t meant to come to this place. Why did you come here?”

He turned his head, gazing up at the skies as if afraid of them.

He looked shaken and fearful. Then he looked at her, his eyes tracing her features. There was no anger or hatred in them now. Just fear and worry and confusion. He struggled to sit up and was successful this time. She couldn’t stop holding him.

“What is this place?” Gahalatine murmured, gazing at the silver bowl chained to the stone plinth. At the riven boulder, at the oak tree that was now full of leaves and glistening mistletoe. The magic of the grove always revived it following the storm.

“It is a sacred place,” she answered, gazing around for a sign of Captain Staeli. Where was the grove’s defender? The magic was supposed to summon him in the case of intruders. “Why did you come here, my lord? Why didn’t you go straight to the palace with Reya?”

She saw Lord Amrein’s chest rise and fall and nearly sobbed with relief. She noticed that another body lay crumpled beside Lord Amrein. It was her friend’s small form.

“I don’t know,” Gahalatine said, shaking his head. “I don’t remember coming here.” His eyes searched her face, as if he wanted to say something to her but was ashamed.

The song of the birds vanished and the birds with them. She rose and hastily went back to Lord Amrein, sinking back down to her soaked knees. Judging by the scene laid out before her, the Espion master had protected Reya with his own body and borne the brunt of the storm. His life seemed to be ebbing before her eyes. Trynne touched him, invoking the same words of healing. His wound was more grievous than Gahalatine’s had been, so she had to pour more of herself into him, draining her stores of magic. Then she saw the Wizr Albion, sprawled out on the ground. She hadn’t sensed his magic, and the reason was instantly clear. His face was pale, his eyes frozen open.

He was dead.

Keeping her hand on Lord Amrein’s back, she continued to feed magic into him, fusing his crushed skull. His wounds were mortal.