The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)

“Cousin,” Fallon answered, a hint of humor in his voice. Trynne nearly elbowed him in the ribs for that.

The captain’s brow furrowed. “Get them some tunics, a pass to bear arms, and bring them to the castle for training. The queen’s ship departs soon, but they’ll have to train for two months before going to the cursed shores.”

“Thought so,” the soldier responded. “Thank you, Cap’n.” Two months? They certainly couldn’t wait that long. They’d have to figure out a way to get on the queen’s ship.

“Be back sharp, or I’ll flog you.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

The soldier escorted them inside the gate to the barracks. It was crowded and noisy, and everywhere Trynne looked, older men —and very young ones—were being arrayed in armor and given

weapons from barrels full of swords and pikes. There were a few who looked to be their own age, but it was conspicuous that the older youths and young men had already been taken.

The soldier brought them past the weapons to a series of trunks stuffed with tunics. The tunics all looked the same, dingy gray with the cross symbol she’d seen on the tunics of the men who’d attacked them on the road. The soldier handed a larger one to Fallon and a small one to Trynne. As she took the rough wool from him, she noticed the scrubbed-out bloodstains and the stitching that had closed the gashes made by weapons. How many other soldiers had worn this tunic? How many had died in it? There were so many trunks, such an excess of swords, pikes, shields, and helmets. This was a land perpetually at war. Such a desolate place . . .

Her insides gnawed at her as she drew the tunic over her head.

She had to find her father and get him away.

It was midafternoon and the city was warm, the air heavy with smoke. There were fountains at the major crossroads. Trynne noticed that each had a sculpture with a stone face carved into it, like the ones she had seen elsewhere in this place—and in Gahalatine’s pavilion. She could barely sense the faint whisper of Fountain magic emanating from them. The fountains were not spewing water, and she watched as men carried buckets of water to refill the fonts.

There were long, winding lines of women approaching the fountains with pots and smaller buckets waiting to receive. She sensed, intuitively, that the sculptures could summon water—but no one was left who could summon it.

As they reached a gatehouse to the castle, not the main drawbridge but a porter door, the soldier spoke a few words to the sentries, one of whom motioned for Fallon and Trynne to follow him.

As they crossed beneath the arch of the hulking wall, it felt as if they’d entered a prison. She gave Fallon a worried look.

The impression quickly changed as they entered the inner grounds and found that the yard was better maintained than the city beyond it. The pathway crossed a splendid garden with smaller fountains, trimmed hedges, and brushed pathways. The soldier took them to a greenyard that was full of men going through a series of drills. The clang and battering of weapons could be heard, as well as the barked orders of the commanders assigning the drills. There were archery butts and lines of peasants standing with bows trying to hit the marks. Trynne observed the crowds. It appeared a culling was taking place—those inept with bows were sent to train next with staves.

“You’ve got blades, that says something, but we’ll see if you can use them,” the sentry said gruffly, leading them past the bowmen to where the swordsmen were practicing. “The pay is better if you can.”

He sized up Fallon and ignored Trynne. “How did you escape the summons so long?”

“I wasn’t trying hard enough, it seems,” Fallon quipped.

They were thrust to the end of a line of would-be swordsmen, all waiting to face the sword master at the front of the line. He was a knight by the look of him, one trained with a weapon from a young age. The people in line were sent against him, one by one, and he disarmed them each in quick fashion. Then he’d bark a command and they’d be taken away, replaced with the next person. No one lasted longer than a few seconds and the line quickly shortened.

Those who were sent away joined another group where instructors were holding drills on stance and technique. Captain Staeli would have felt right at home.

Trynne gave Fallon an arch look. “He’s decent,” she murmured, nodding to the knight.

Fallon shrugged. “He’s bored.” His eyes were focused on the knight. “The question, though, is how good should we be?”

Trynne was itching to swing her swords. She was still angry at Nellic’s deception. “No use pretending.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Fallon said with a wink. “The better we are, the faster they’ll send us to Dahomey. Either way, we need to get on the queen’s ship before it leaves.”

“Agreed,” she said.

“Do you want to go first?” he asked her.

“You can. I’d like to watch you humiliate him.”

“I don’t plan on losing,” he said.

When they reached the front of the line, Trynne watched as Fallon drew his sword, which was a much finer make than the blades the others had carried. He marched into the open space and the knight sized him up.

“You are tall,” the man said, flourishing his weapon.

“And you’ve a gift for stating the obvious,” Fallon quipped in return. “Shall we?”

Trynne felt a pulse of excitement and restrained a smile. The knight approached, holding his blade in an upper guard, crossing his legs in a battle stance as he moved. Fallon replied in kind, showing a similar technique and a complementary pose.

“You know your footwork,” the knight said as they slowly circled each other.

“I know the sharp end too.”

Then the knight came forward, dipping the sword down while swinging his armored elbow around at Fallon’s face in a surprise move that would have knocked another man to the ground. Fallon didn’t fall for the feint and stepped back as the knight’s elbow went wide. He could have taken advantage of the opening to strike at the knight’s back, but he deliberately paused, letting the man regain his defenses. Trynne suspected Fallon was purposefully prolonging the fight a little so as not to utterly humiliate the man.

“You’re quick,” the knight said approvingly. “Who trained you?”

Fallon answered with a flurry of blows that the knight struggled to answer. The group of men assembled began to whoop and cheer, and Trynne felt like joining them. After multiple attempts, Fallon eased back again, letting the knight recover his composure. His eyes were wide with surprise, his mouth quivering with delight and fear.

He’d not been tested like that in some time, and Trynne could see that he was enjoying it, even though he was losing.

“You’re playing with me,” the knight said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth.

“Noticed that, did you?” Fallon answered smugly. He lunged in, the knight countered, and the two locked hilts. Then Fallon used his size to wrench the blades, and the knight’s weapon clattered onto the yard. A chorus of cheers began to rise from the mass of men and a big smile lit the knight’s face as he stared down at his fallen weapon.

“At last! You can have my job!” he said with a barking laugh.

Fallon bent down, fetched the knight’s sword, and handed it back to him. “I’d be wasted here. My cousin and I want to spill blood in Dahomey. Their king is quite a swordsman, I’ve heard. I’ve been practicing.”

The knight laughed. “To face him? Well, that remains to be seen. Well done. You go over there through that arch and see the captain of the guard.”

“My cousin comes with me,” Fallon said, motioning for Trynne to step forward.

“Every man must earn his place,” the knight said, shaking his head as he leveled a disrespectful look at Trynne. She stepped away from the crowd and drew both of her swords. The knight’s eyes bulged when he saw her do that.

“That’s fine,” Fallon said nonchalantly. “My cousin is even better than me.”