The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)

Trynne caught herself nodding off during the loquacious speech given by the ambassador of Genevar. She bit the inside of her lip in the hope that a little pain would revive her, but the endless meetings, petitions, and reports weighed her down and sapped her strength. In the six months since lightning had struck the Forbidden Court, she had grown ever more weary of her new responsibilities.

She had never wanted to bear the burden of the two most powerful duchies of Kingfountain. Her grandfather had been a capable and wise counselor in Ploemeur, and now that he was gone, killed in the same carriage crash that had taken her younger brother and her grandmother, the duties of the bureaucracy rested on her shoulders. The things he had handled were brought to her and she was beset day and night. Emissaries from Tatton Hall were getting more and more demanding for a piece of her time, and Thierry was in a constant state of agitation as he tried to prioritize the endless tasks for her.

Trynne’s only solace was rising before the sun and taking the ley lines to Averanche to train with Captain Staeli and the Oath Maidens. As soon as the sun crested the wall of the training yard, she hurried back and was assaulted immediately and relentlessly with her duties until well after midnight each night. She was young, but the toll felt heavy enough to break her.

So did six months without word from Gahalatine. Six months with the torture of not knowing.

“My lady, I think my words are boring you,” the ambassador said with a tone of reproof. “I will not take any more of your time.”

Trynne realized her eyes had drifted shut and she snapped them open. “I’m sorry, Ambassador,” she said, shaking her head.

“Please go on.”

“How much from my report should I repeat?” he said, his bald head dripping with perspiration. He mopped it with a sweaty kerchief and then put his hand on his hip in a belligerent posture.

“I think we’ve heard enough for the day,” Thierry said. “Return tomorrow morning, please.”

He grunted. “I had hoped to be on my way to Genevar with the tide.”

“By all means, leave if you must,” Thierry said in an offhanded way. “You are dismissed.”

Trynne felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment as the ambassador gathered up his papers.

“Clear the hall,” Thierry ordered.

People began shouting for their turn for an audience with Lady Trynne, but her pikemen herded them out of the audience chamber.

It took several minutes before the noise abated and the doors shut with an ominous thud.

Trynne pressed her fingers into her temples and rubbed circles.

Her mind felt lost in a fog of misery and regret. “I’m sorry, Thierry,”

she apologized. “I think we’ve offended the ambassador.”

Thierry sniffed and approached her. “Come, my lady. Let’s take a walk on the beach. Even your mother, with her prodigious patience and the assistance of your father and his father, was taxed by the demands on her time. And her emotions. The sea air will do you good.”

His tenderness brought tears to her eyes. After rising, she followed him out of the rear doors of the audience hall. Accompanied by a detachment of guards to protect her and keep the crowds away, they strolled to the beach and climbed down the stone steps leading to the sand. The noise of the surf crashing against the rocks and hissing on the shore, the smell of the breeze, and the feeling of sunlight on her face as the huge orange orb dipped down the horizon —all helped soothe her. All reminded her of her mother.

“Your mother always came here for solace,” Thierry said gravely. “I miss our walks together. She sought my counsel, even though she is much wiser than I could ever hope to be. Would you hear my counsel, Lady Trynne?”

“I would welcome it,” she answered, clasping her hands behind her back, feeling the tickle of her hair as the wind blew it against her neck. The feeling of the sand changed as they approached the shore, the fine grains now mixed with beautiful colored beads of glass that had been pummeled and trampled by the waves for centuries. The colors were vibrant and dazzling. A family of curlews chased along the beach looking for little crabs.

“You are carrying too much on your shoulders,” Thierry said.

“The ambassador from Genevar should be making his report at Kingfountain, not Ploemeur. The land disputes in Westmarch should be postponed for a year. Refuse to hear them.”

Trynne gave him a serious look. “I am being kept in suspense, but that does not require that everyone else should suffer the same way.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Then you must empower someone else to make the lesser decisions for you.”

“I am waiting until my mother returns,” Trynne said, gazing at the sea. There had been no word for months. Each time Trynne invoked the magic of the protections, she silently prayed to the Fountain that Sinia would return. Until then, Trynne was trapped in Ploemeur, a hostage to her own promise and the fears and concerns of her people. Every time she returned from Kingfountain after consulting with Drew and Genevieve, the people looked relieved. No, that word wasn’t strong enough. They were absolutely terrified whenever she left. If something happened to her, they knew Brythonica was doomed. It would be drowned by the Deep Fathoms just as the kingdom of Leoneyis had been before it. The evidence of that fate lay beneath their very feet. The beautiful beads of polished glass had been stained-glass windows once, in the kingdom that had long since been destroyed.

“She may not return for some time still,” Thierry said. “Might I make a suggestion?”

“Please, Thierry. I am so busy of late that I do not have time to think of solutions to my problems. As you clearly saw this afternoon, I’m drowning.”

“We all see it,” he answered sadly. “Running a duchy was always a burden meant for two. For one person to run two?

Unthinkable. And since your . . . your husband”—she could hear the disapproval in his voice—“has been too preoccupied with his problems to visit you, you must call upon capable, trustworthy people. Take your aunt Jessica, your mother’s lady-in-waiting. Her husband is a sensible man and a proud Brythonican. Lady Jessica has served your mother well, but she is also a Kiskaddon. Send her to Westmarch and let her and her husband stay at Tatton Hall for the time being. Let her hear the cases brought to her and she can give her recommendations for solutions that serve both duchies.

“Your mother put great power and trust in Marshal Brendon Roux in ruling the realm. His family was most experienced in the arts of war. Most do not know this, but his father was the squire of the Maid of Donremy during the wars between Occitania and Ceredigion. You need someone like him, my lady. But we cannot simply wait for such a person to appear.” He paused and met her gaze. “I would humbly ask that you let me share this burden with you. I know how your mother thought and the way she would decide.

The only reason I have not mentioned this before was because I feared it would be presumptuous on my part to recommend myself.”

She hugged herself, feeling a shiver run through her. After her family’s combined duties and responsibilities had fallen on her shoulders, she’d felt the need to perform them on her own. But to what end? The work was wearing her down to the point of exhaustion. She would much rather be searching for her father than listening to boring speeches and reports of the latest conflicts

between the relief ships sent to Chandigarl and the Mandaryn. The Mandaryn had seized all the cargo and wouldn’t dispense the goods to the suffering people unless the goods were brought in on treasure ships bearing their own flags. Their machinations infuriated her.