The Hollow Crown (Kingfountain #4)

As she walked with Staeli through the busy streets, seeking the bookmaker’s shop her mother had described to her, Trynne remembered one of her father’s lessons. He had once traveled in disguise as a knight of Duke Horwath, and it had taught him how much appearances matter. Wearing the badge of another duke, looking the part of a household knight, had changed the way people treated him. Whereas he was usually the focus of attention when he traveled as the Duke of Westmarch, he had been ignored as a household knight, and it had allowed him to operate undercover. The principle was on display before her. No one paid her any special attention because her style of dress matched that of the other young women her age.

How strange her magic had become after taking the oaths. Its power had grown so vast, and it roiled inside her. She felt unstoppable, full of potential.

“I think that must be the shop,” Staeli said, gesturing to a bookmaker’s shop. Trynne paused at the grimy window and peered inside. The shop was crowded, and the wonderful smell of old books exuded from it. There it was in the window—an old text with a battered leather cover. Her mother had told her to look for the red ribbon sewn into the spine. It peeked out at her.

Trynne went into the shop. She wasn’t concerned about speaking to the owner. She knew the word of power to master languages and whispered it before entering. Xenoglossia.

The owner was an excessively chatty man in his midthirties with dark hair and a self-confident demeanor. He insisted each book in his shop was a particular masterpiece, citing to Trynne how many days each one had cost him in labor and materials, and seemed almost reluctant to part with any of them. When she pointed to the one in the window, he confessed he hadn’t made that one, that it was expensive because it was so old, and few people could read the ancient script anymore. Only a collector would want it.

“It would be valueless to a young thing like you,” he said breezily. “It’s full of old tales of lords and ladies and the like written by some gout-ridden deconeus, I imagine. Are you sure you want it? I have a newer version over here that was translated by Tibbet. I printed it myself, so it’s of the finest craftsmanship. It will cost far less.”

“No, I like the antique look of it,” Trynne said, turning the book over in her hands.

“It is an antique,” the owner said, taking it from her and rubbing his palm across the cover as if it were a beloved friend. “I don’t even know why I put it in the window yesterday. I hadn’t planned on selling it. Are you sure you want it? It is nearly unreadable. I think you’d like Tibbet’s translation of The Vulgate better. Really, lass, I’m not sure I want to part with it.”

Trynne felt annoyed that he was playing such games.

“Well, I think I saw an older-looking book down the street,” she said, glancing at Staeli. “Maybe I’ll spend my coins there instead.”

“Don’t be hasty, don’t be hasty,” the proprietor said, flashing her a cunning grin. He bobbed his head a few times as he continued to stroke the book. “Since you really just want it for a decoration, as I fancy you do, then perhaps I could be persuaded to . . . I’m not sure . . . perhaps around thirt— twenty florins?”

A sudden feeling prickled in the air, nearly drowning out the man’s words. There were other patrons in the shop as well, poring over books and waiting for a turn to haggle with the owner. But Trynne sensed that Fountain magic was approaching the store from the outside. Even though the streets were crowded with people and their dogs, she sensed the disruption in the current. That feeling was getting closer.

Trynne frowned, feeling suddenly vulnerable. Had her arrival attracted unwanted attention? Had her use of the magic in changing languages alerted another Fountain-blessed that she was there?

Her stomach thrummed with worry. She gave Captain Staeli a warning look and watched his hand drop to the hilt of his short sword.

“Was it thirty or twenty?” Trynne demanded, feeling harried to be done.

“Which can you afford?” he pressed.

“How about twenty-five, or I’ll leave without purchasing anything,” Trynne shot back.

“I’m sure your father can afford five more florins?” he said, nodding to Staeli.

Trynne felt the presence of the magic press up against the window of the bookstore. She felt her insides writhe with worry.

“Thirty, then,” Trynne huffed. She dug into her purse and produced the proper coinage. The shop owner took the money and then handed her the book.

“A pleasure, lass,” he said, wrinkling his brow as he looked over her shoulder at the window.

Trynne felt someone watching her. She could sense someone who was Fountain-blessed standing outside, beyond the glass, looking in. She knew that they could sense her just as she could sense them. Angry at being discovered, she turned to the window to see who was staring at her.

There was no one there.





Revenge is drinking poison. One who is injured ought not return the injury, for on no account can it be right to do an injustice; and it is not right to do evil to any man, however much we have suffered from him.

Myrddin





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Dragan




Fear struck Trynne’s chest like a javelin. She could sense the presence of another Fountain-blessed, as clearly as if he were standing before her, but there was no one visible. Almost a decade after her attack, she still remembered the sensation of being a little girl alone in her room, sensing that someone was there. Her father only knew one man who had such a cursed gift from the Fountain. The thief known as Dragan, her father’s mortal enemy.

For a moment, she was transfixed with terror, reliving the experience of the pain and trauma that had not only stolen her smile but had made her afraid of the dark and of being alone. She had worked hard to conquer those fears and disappointments. And she was an Oath Maiden, not the helpless youngling she had once been. He would not get the best of her again.

“What is it?” Captain Staeli said in a growl, noticing her altered state. He followed her gaze to the window.

“Apokaluptis,” Trynne breathed in a low, quavering voice, invoking another word of power. It was the word used to unmask a disguise, to reveal the true nature of something hidden. She felt the pulse of Fountain magic in her mind, as if a large boulder had been catapulted into a lake. The ripples shot out from her in all directions, totally unnoticed and unfelt by those around her.

But there was suddenly a man standing at the window.

Her father had described Dragan as a handsome man, though riddled with pox scars, with long sideburns and a hawkish nose. The sideburns had grown to a short beard flecked with gray. He wore clothes that would have marked him a nobleman except for the abused, patchwork quality of them. His eyes, though—his eyes were like staring into death. They were haunted, menacing, and utterly ruthless. They were staring at her with such hatred it made her insides turn oily and weak.

“Dragan,” Trynne whispered hoarsely, still in shock from having encountered him in the city of Marq.