The Hollow Crown (Kingfountain #4)

The destination wasn’t far from her own tent, she realized. There was another tent settled in the copse of eucalyptus, without a banner or watchmen guarding it. The fabric glowed from a light inside, but it was too thick for her to make out any shapes other than bulky shadows. The tent was tall and round, with an iron spike protruding from the apex. The hooded man ducked into the entrance of the pavilion and disappeared.

She was standing off the main road, perfectly visible to any passersby. Inside the tent, she thought she heard a muffled voice. What should she do next? Wait for the man to come out? Should she go inside and challenge him? Try to find a way to warn her father?

The sounds of the camp wafted in on the night breeze. The grinding of steel on stone. The shared laughter of comrades eating dinner. The rustling of the leaves. The wind also brought the smell of smoke and the briny scent of the sea. It reminded her of home. She didn’t know what to do, and the hesitation only increased her trepidation.

Better to confront the trouble directly. Time was not an ally at the present.

Steeling her courage, she gripped the hilt of one of her twin swords and marched up to the tent. She tried to be quiet, but the cracking of twigs and hiss of the tall grasses announced her well before she got there.

The tent was still, no murmuring noise. She reached out with her magic probe for danger, letting it ripple from her. There was only one person inside who was armed, and he was standing to the side of the tent opening with a sword in a defensive posture, clearly expecting trouble.

She drew her sword and then barged into the tent. If the man attacked her, she was ready to defend herself. The Fountain magic whirled up in a cocoon around her. She would wait to be attacked. Her power was strongest then.

There was a small brazier and a lamp at the center of the tent, but her eyes immediately flew to the right side. Fallon stood by the entrance, sword held upright as if he were going to strike her on the head with the pommel.

Fallon.

But he hesitated when he saw her. Trynne walked deeper into the tent so she could turn to face him. She avoided the center pole that kept the tent from collapsing. Immediately, she invoked the ring on her finger and disguised her features, giving herself a slightly altered appearance of a soldier with a woad-painted face.

“Sir Ellis?” Fallon said in surprise, lowering the sword.

“Prince Fallon,” Trynne said in her lower voice. Warily.

Fallon wore a boiled-leather tunic over his hauberk. Why did he not wear the badge of the Pierced Lion marking him as a man of Dundrennan?

“What are you doing here?” Fallon demanded in confusion. “You are the young man I met in Marq, are you not?”

“I am, my lord,” Trynne replied, trying to understand what was going on. Where was the man with the silver mask? She realized instantly that Fallon was alone. He must have been wearing the disguise, and confusion and distrust began to swell inside her heart.

“And why are you here? Why did you come armed into my tent?”

“I didn’t know it was yours, my lord,” Trynne replied. “I was . . . following someone.”

The wary look began to subside. “Ah. You were following someone, you say? Who? I’m quite alone, as you can see. Well, except for you.”

Trynne felt the presence of another Fountain-blessed approaching the tent from higher up the hill. Was it her father? Morwenna? Was she close enough to their camp that they had felt her using her power? She needed to leave immediately.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” she apologized and started for the tent door, but Fallon quickly stepped into her path.

“Why the rush?” he asked in a distrusting way. “I never did thank you properly for helping me during the Gauntlet. You’ve painted your face, but you’re not from Atabyrion, are you? You said your name was Fidelis, but are you faithful to the true king?”

The presence was drawing closer. Trynne’s nerves ached to knock Fallon down so she could run from the tent. Then she spied a rumpled black cloak on the floor where Fallon had discarded it.

“The true king?” Trynne asked suspiciously.

“Yes, the true king of Ceredigion,” Fallon said. “You said you were following someone. What did he look like? You seem so familiar to me. Are you part of the Espion?”

“I am not,” Trynne answered. “Stand aside, my lord.”

“But we have so much to talk about still,” Fallon said, giving her a meaningful smile while continuing to block the exit. He was stalling her. Deliberately. “I don’t think your name is Ellis. It’s a disguise. Who are you, truly? Maybe we can help each other.”

Trynne’s heart was sinking at the evidence before her. Had Fallon told her about the rebellion against King Drew to hide the fact that he was a part of it? Was this true king he spoke of Severn Argentine? His words were all buried beneath layers of nuance, but they hinted at treason. How could Fallon have gotten himself so mixed up in the intrigue? Because he wanted to be important. He wanted to be useful. If he could not be useful to Drew, perhaps he’d found a new master to serve who was willing to give him more power. Or it could be that he’d gotten so caught up in playing his game of Espion that he didn’t realize the danger to himself.

His expression changed, twisting with something like guilt. He stared at her, unable to see through the magic, but his senses were screaming at him.

“You do remind me of someone,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “Who are you?”

“Stand aside, my lord,” Trynne warned for the last time, taking a step forward.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t let you go this—”

His words were cut off when she suddenly kicked him in the stomach, knocking him backward out through the tent flap. She snatched up the cloak from the floor and felt something hard underneath it. Assuming it to be the mask, she tucked it all under her arm and stormed outside the flap. Fallon was standing again, gripping his stomach, and he leaped at her with a look of rage in his eyes. Below them there were shadows and trees and laughter and smoke, but no one was close enough to notice them. Trynne dropped into a front roll, and Fallon sailed over her, grunting as he smashed into the bark and earth. She spun and then whacked him upside the head with the bundle containing the silver mask.

He slumped to the ground again, groggy and stunned, but not unconscious.

Trynne sheathed her sword and marched partway down the hill, releasing both the magic of the ring and her own power, letting it dissipate into the wind. Then she cut another angle and hid in the brush, hoping to overhear what happened back in Fallon’s tent.

She heard Morwenna’s voice first, her tone full of worry and concern.

“Fallon? What happened? Who struck you?”

Trynne squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to blot out the memories of everything they had shared for so many years. Memories that threatened to sting her eyes with tears. She felt betrayed. The possibilities jumbling inside her mind frightened her. Had Morwenna told Fallon about Trynne’s feelings? Were they both trying to use and manipulate her somehow?

“It was that lad from the Gauntlet,” Fallon said heatedly, stifling a groan. “The painted one. I told you about him.”

“He’s here?”

“Down the road yonder.”