The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)

“The Pry-rian word for ‘faithful,’” the queen answered, raising her eyebrows. “Curious. Are you Pry-rian, then? That is my heritage.

My father was a mighty prince who was slain by the King of Comoros. As a baby, I was sent to Sempringfall Abbey to be raised a wretched. A nameless one. Unwanted.” Her voice betrayed deeper emotion. She paced slowly in front of Trynne, eyeing her guardedly.

“Even my name was stolen from me. I worked in the laundry as a lavender. I was called Hillel, but that was not my true name. Let me see your hand.”

Trynne frowned, feeling more and more uncomfortable. “My lady?”

“Your hand. Now.”

Trynne hesitated, but though she was fearful the queen would see what Martin had seen in her, she had no recourse other than to open her hand.

The queen gripped Trynne’s wrist and examined her palm, looking for something. The urge to pull away, and the knowledge that she could not, was maddening. The queen stroked her finger along Trynne’s palm.

“You have calluses like a knight,” the queen said. “But you are no maston. I thought you were.” She released her grip and Trynne pulled her arm back, feeling vulnerable and worried.

“I am not,” Trynne said, shaking her head.

“A pity, then. All the mastons have fled. They fear me, and rightly so. But where are they? Where did they flee to? It is a great mystery.”

The noise of bootsteps hurrying down the hall announced the arrival of another person. Trynne risked a glance back and saw Martin approaching, his eyes livid, his face twisted into a frown.

“You were attacked?” he said, his voice throbbing with concern.

“I was not,” she said disdainfully. “My new knights were there to protect me. You chose them well. They defeated both kishion.”

“Two?” Martin shouted in outrage.

“Yes, there were two. This one detected them.” She gave Trynne a pleased nod.

Martin gave Trynne a grateful look. “Well done, lad. One of them was carrying this,” he said, holding up a folded note. The seal was broken off. He handed it to the queen. “I cannot read this, my lady. You must.”

The queen frowned and snatched the note from his hand. Her eyebrows furrowed as she perused the contents. Martin gazed at her, a look of relief evident and naked on his face. It was not feigned; he looked as if he had truly been frightened for her safety. She

realized that Fallon’s instincts were right—something bound these two together.

The queen’s nostrils flared. “They were sent by the Aldermaston of Dochte Abbey,” she hissed, crumpling the letter in her fist. Her hand shook with rage. “The Aldermaston sought to kill me?” She started to pace, her expression that of someone who had been betrayed by a friend. “Condemned by his own hand. So he has betrayed me as well. So be it.”

Pure hatred flooded her eyes. “Ready my ship, Martin. I want to depart with the morning tide. We sail for Dahomey at once.

Tomorrow. Have someone rouse the king and get him ready. Carry him aboard if he’s too drunk to walk.” Her words were full of derision and venom. “If the Aldermaston has sided with Dieyre over me, then he will suffer the consequences. He will suffer as he made so many others suffer.” Trynne saw the tendons in the queen’s hand straining as she crushed the letter. “Rouse the castle, Martin. If I do not sleep, no one will. We must be under way at once.”

“Aye, my lady,” Martin breathed, bowing his head in submission.

The queen whirled and stormed back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

When Martin finally lifted his head, he gave a cunning grin.

“Soon enough for you?”

It surprised Trynne how quickly the queen’s orders were obeyed.

The entire castle was roused from slumber to prepare for the journey. By the time the sun was rising, Trynne and Fallon were on the deck of the flagship of the fleet, a hulking four-masted galleon that could have been a Genevese man-of-war. But it was nothing compared to Gahalatine’s massive treasure ships, nor was the fleet anywhere near as large.

The queen was finally bedded down in the royal suite. Her husband had literally been carried aboard and was too addled with cider to do more than moan in discomfort. Martin barked commands like a seasoned sailor, and the squeal of pulleys and the stretching noise of ropes mixed with the cries of the myriad gulls swooping overhead. The vessel lurched from the harbor and entered the wide river heading downstream toward the sea.

The crew was efficient and there was no work left for Trynne or Fallon after coming off their night-watch duty. Too agitated from the night’s events to rest, Trynne leaned against the railing and stared at the burned and charred remains of the quarter of the city on the other side of the river. The ruin of that part of the city had been complete. Only a few brick chimneys stood like sparse sentries over a vast wasteland. She wondered how the fire had started and why that portion of the city had never been repaired.

Fallon joined her at the rails, leaning down on his elbows and hunching his back. His tallness was a major part of his insufferableness.

“This place is devoid of good feelings, Fallon,” she murmured softly, gazing at the ruins. “The queen is terrible. Mighty, but terrible.”

“Quite a contrast to Genny,” Fallon said with a chuckle. Then he sighed, his gaze faraway.

“How I miss your sister,” Trynne said sadly. “I miss Reya. I miss home. Every time the sun rises, I grow more anxious to return there.

It’s only been a few days, but it feels much longer. What is happening at Kingfountain?

“I’m grateful for Martin’s cleverness. One of the sailors told me that we’ll reach Dochte Abbey by tonight if the weather holds. If there’s a storm, it can take days to cross the waters. I hope there’s not another delay.”

“We could try using the ring,” Fallon said, giving her a wink.

Both of them knew such an effort would kill him. “It will take Drew several days to muster his army. There’s no way he can compete with your fleet, Trynne. Even if many of your ships are still in the East. Ploemeur is safe by sea. At least for a while. He’ll have to bring his troops by land.”

She sighed, feeling her insides squirm. “Captain Staeli must detain them for as long as he can. How fast can Drew reach Brythonica once he marches?”

Fallon rubbed his chin. “If it were Severn leading, he’d be at your borders in five days. Your father? Maybe three.”

The mere mention of her father made her heart ache with longing. Soon, she told herself, soon.

“Look at the two of you, idle as princelings,” Martin scoffed, coming up from behind them so quietly they hadn’t heard him approach.

Trynne flinched, but Fallon merely looked over his shoulder.

“You came to chide us for laziness or just to eavesdrop, Captain?”

“To eavesdrop, lad, of course,” Martin said with a snort. “You’ve given me precious little to go on so far. But I make do.”

Trynne turned around, leaning back against the railing, and folded her arms.

“So now we have mention of a father,” Martin said, his eyes twinkling as he looked at her. “And certain names I’ve heard naught of. Bryth-won-wick. Didn’t quite catch it, but I know of no city by that name. And naught in Pry-Ree, for I know every hamlet there. Is it the place where the mastons have all gone, I wonder?”

He was pressing for information, trying to get them to reveal more about themselves. They needed to turn the tables.

“The queen said she was from Pry-Ree,” Trynne offered.

“Aye,” Martin said with a shrug. “The blessed shores. My homeland as well, by Cheshu.”

“She seemed particularly upset about that note you brought her,” Trynne continued. “That note you forged.”

A crooked smile flickered on the captain’s mouth, but not without a flash of ire. “You could say that there is no love lost between the Aldermaston of Dochte and myself.”

She wanted to ask what an Aldermaston was, but doing so would certainly be a mark of her ignorance of the world.