The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)

There was a washing bowl, a pitcher of water, and a smoking brazier that warmed the space. The hearth was empty, but a soot-stained, dead-eyed carving at the back had a lingering air of Fountain magic.

She could sense its ability to summon fire. Fallon stepped out from behind the changing screen, dressed in a new clean tunic that bore a richly embroidered symbol of Comoros on the front. Martin had also given them shoulder armor and capes before leaving them to change.

Trynne had washed the dirt and grime from her face and was worried now that she looked too much like a girl. As she cupped water in her hands, she remembered the ring that could disguise her.

But if there were any Dochte Mandar in the castle, they might be drawn to its power.

She stared at herself, wiping her mouth, and the delay festered inside her. Even a few days seemed too long to wait.

“Can we trust Martin?” Fallon asked, adjusting his sword belt on his hips. He looked gallant and darkly handsome in his new uniform.

The tips of her ears began to burn and she looked away.

“Trust is a stronger word than I’d use,” Trynne answered. “The delay weighs on me too. But if Martin can help us get to Dahomey faster, it’s worth being patient.” Feeling bashful, she paused and then added, “Let me change next.”

He nodded and she took her tunic and armor and slipped behind the changing screen. She had not felt this self-conscious while they were traveling in the woods, but the room was so cramped and sparse in comparison.

“My first instinct is that he is trustworthy,” Fallon said, his voice ghosting over the partition. “If they had an Espion in Comoros, he would be part of it. He’s highly trained, probably even better than Staeli. His accent reminds me of home. You?”

“I noticed that too,” Trynne said, tugging off the chain hauberk and wincing as it rattled. She hurriedly put on the tunic and was amazed at the quality of the velvet. The design was much more flamboyant than the ragged tunics they’d been given in the barracks.

“That probably puts you at ease.”

“I was always more at home away from Edonburick,” he admitted. “Someone is coming.”

She had noticed the sound of rapid footfalls as well. Working fast, she lashed her sword belt around her waist.

Martin barged right into the room, huffing and muttering. “You were seen,” he grumbled.

“By the queen?” Fallon asked with concern.

“No, by one of her handmaids. By the time the queen went to the window, we were gone. She has just asked me to bring you both to her.” He did not sound pleased. “Och, this doesn’t bode well for either of you.”

Trynne stepped around the side of the changing screen, working on the shoulder-guard strap. “Why not bring us to the ship bound for Dahomey now?”

Martin rubbed his eyes. “No, that would be unwise. The hunter is patient. The prey is careless. The handmaid nearly swooned,” he said, eyes flashing daggers at Fallon. “You’ve roused my lady’s curiosity, and she . . . the queen is a hetaera. Have you ever been in the presence of one before, lad?”

Fallon looked chagrined by the compliment the lady-in-waiting had inadvertently given him, but he managed to look humble instead of proud. “Yes. Does she wear a kystrel?”

Martin shook his head. “No. The king wears hers. He’ll do or say anything she bids him to. He’s a jealous sort, but he’s impotent against her power.” He gave Fallon a respectful nod. “You’re not as wet behind the ears as you look.”

“Thank you, grandfather,” Fallon said provokingly.

Martin chuffed, folding his arms across his chest as he started to pace. “Well, delaying your meeting will only heighten her anticipation. Best to get it over with quickly. Like setting a broken bone.”

Fallon approached Trynne and patted her back softly, his hand thumping against the Tay al-Ard she had secured to her belt beneath the cape. The reminder that they had a ready escape route only made her feel marginally better. He gave her a knowing smile and gestured for her to go first.

The corridors were lit by torches to dispel the evening gloom.

The palace looked tranquil, something that was belied by the tension in the air. Their boots clicked against the smooth marble tiles—a noise that was drowned out as they approached the sound of music and laughter. The guards stationed there opened the doors for them, and a raucous peal of laughter escaped—the sound setting Trynne’s teeth on edge.

The air was thick and hazy with smoke. The room was full of nobles and ladies wearing fancy doublets and ceremonial swords that were so thin they would likely shatter if struck against metal.

Titters and giggles from painted faces flooded Trynne’s senses. But a sickening feeling permeated the room, one that was instantly recognizable.

She had felt it before in the zenana in Chandigarl. There it had been covert and subtle; here it practically flooded the hall. She sensed the magic of kystrels coming from multiple sources. Her hand lowered to the hilt of one of her swords, and her eyes scanned the room, searching for the danger she felt but could not see. Then she noticed that all the women in the room had strange tattoo-like markings on their throats and faces, even the servants. From the kystrels, she realized in a spark of intuition. It was a sign of the magic’s taint. It had to be.

“This way!” Martin bellowed over the din, directing them through the crowd. “The king is the one carving the stag on a spit with the knife,” he said back to them in a lower voice. “He’s rarely sober. He won’t even notice you.”

Trynne glanced back at the man with the knife. His reddish-brown beard contained flecks of meat and glistened with sweat. For a moment, she saw Drew Argentine in her mind and blinked rapidly to banish the image. This king was nothing like hers. He was guffawing over something someone near him had said, and his exaggerated laughter made him seem silly and obtuse.

They were approaching the queen, and Trynne could smell not only the woman’s perfume, but also the power of her magic rippling beneath the surface as if she were Fountain-blessed. She was strong in the magic, Trynne could tell.

Her unease only increased when she got a clear view of her.

The first thing she noticed was the woman’s mass of golden curls and the filigree coronet nestled amidst them. She wore a black gown with a red bodice, and rich gold cloth formed elegant stripes down her arms, around her waist, and at her shoulders. One of her ladies-in-waiting, a plain-looking brown-haired girl, said something to the queen and pointed at them as they approached. The lady-in-waiting was heavily tattooed, the markings extending from her bodice up to her cheeks and reaching the corners of her eyes.

Trynne was trying to absorb the different culture and style of this world, but she felt she was a foreigner, a stranger, that she didn’t belong there at all. Every instinct screamed at her to flee with Fallon and find another way to Dahomey.

The queen turned to face them. Her lips were painted ruby red, and she too had the tattoo markings on her bosom, neck, and cheeks. The cut of her bodice would have been deemed scandalously low in Kingfountain. The whorl pattern of her tattoo had clawed its way up her breastbone and across her collarbone and neck. She wore an amulet around her neck—an eight-sided star fashioned out of gold, not a kystrel. Trynne sensed it was a mocking gesture. The queen looked past Martin and Trynne and her eyes lit up when she saw Fallon. It was a look of interest, almost fascination.

The queen was older than they were, probably as old as Genny.

Trynne felt a surge of possessiveness, but she tamped it down. Still, she took a step closer to him to be within arm’s reach.

“One of my ladies has taken a fancy to you,” the queen said with an alluring voice. “I think I can see why.” She gazed at Fallon in open admiration, arching her eyebrows. The coronet on her smooth, unwrinkled brow fanned out like a large maple leaf. She had an imperious, haughty look, and her pose was one of confidence and command. “You think she is pretty, do you not?”

As the words were spoken, the queen’s eyes began to glow silver.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Frozen Heart