The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(42)

The soldier snorted. “You mean the queen’s army,” he said with a chuckle. He nodded to Fallon’s sword. “Can you use it? Can you prove it?”

Fallon shrugged, his cheek muscles hardening. “I’m all right with a sword.”

The soldier dumped some coins into Nellic’s greedy palm, and the tradesman left with a final mocking wave that reminded Trynne of Dragan. Then the soldier brought his fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle. “Cap’n!” he shouted.

A graying middle-aged man approached with a frown. “Two more? What Hundred are they from?”

“Dunno. They volunteered.” He bared his rotting teeth in a grin.

The captain hocked and spat. He sized them both up, giving Trynne special attention. She was tempted to use the Tay al-Ard to escape. She reached behind her back, but Fallon gave her a subtle gesture and a warning look.

“We take lads as young as twelve. Your brother?” he asked Fallon, nodding at Trynne. She bristled inside but kept her expression carefully controlled.

“Cousin,” Fallon answered, a hint of humor in his voice. Trynne nearly elbowed him in the ribs for that.

The captain’s brow furrowed. “Get them some tunics, a pass to bear arms, and bring them to the castle for training. The queen’s ship departs soon, but they’ll have to train for two months before going to the cursed shores.”

“Thought so,” the soldier responded. “Thank you, Cap’n.” Two months? They certainly couldn’t wait that long. They’d have to figure out a way to get on the queen’s ship.

“Be back sharp, or I’ll flog you.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

The soldier escorted them inside the gate to the barracks. It was crowded and noisy, and everywhere Trynne looked, older men —and very young ones—were being arrayed in armor and given

weapons from barrels full of swords and pikes. There were a few who looked to be their own age, but it was conspicuous that the older youths and young men had already been taken.

The soldier brought them past the weapons to a series of trunks stuffed with tunics. The tunics all looked the same, dingy gray with the cross symbol she’d seen on the tunics of the men who’d attacked them on the road. The soldier handed a larger one to Fallon and a small one to Trynne. As she took the rough wool from him, she noticed the scrubbed-out bloodstains and the stitching that had closed the gashes made by weapons. How many other soldiers had worn this tunic? How many had died in it? There were so many trunks, such an excess of swords, pikes, shields, and helmets. This was a land perpetually at war. Such a desolate place . . .

Her insides gnawed at her as she drew the tunic over her head.

She had to find her father and get him away.

It was midafternoon and the city was warm, the air heavy with smoke. There were fountains at the major crossroads. Trynne noticed that each had a sculpture with a stone face carved into it, like the ones she had seen elsewhere in this place—and in Gahalatine’s pavilion. She could barely sense the faint whisper of Fountain magic emanating from them. The fountains were not spewing water, and she watched as men carried buckets of water to refill the fonts.

There were long, winding lines of women approaching the fountains with pots and smaller buckets waiting to receive. She sensed, intuitively, that the sculptures could summon water—but no one was left who could summon it.

As they reached a gatehouse to the castle, not the main drawbridge but a porter door, the soldier spoke a few words to the sentries, one of whom motioned for Fallon and Trynne to follow him.

As they crossed beneath the arch of the hulking wall, it felt as if they’d entered a prison. She gave Fallon a worried look.

The impression quickly changed as they entered the inner grounds and found that the yard was better maintained than the city beyond it. The pathway crossed a splendid garden with smaller fountains, trimmed hedges, and brushed pathways. The soldier took them to a greenyard that was full of men going through a series of drills. The clang and battering of weapons could be heard, as well as the barked orders of the commanders assigning the drills. There were archery butts and lines of peasants standing with bows trying to hit the marks. Trynne observed the crowds. It appeared a culling was taking place—those inept with bows were sent to train next with staves.

“You’ve got blades, that says something, but we’ll see if you can use them,” the sentry said gruffly, leading them past the bowmen to where the swordsmen were practicing. “The pay is better if you can.”

He sized up Fallon and ignored Trynne. “How did you escape the summons so long?”

“I wasn’t trying hard enough, it seems,” Fallon quipped.

They were thrust to the end of a line of would-be swordsmen, all waiting to face the sword master at the front of the line. He was a knight by the look of him, one trained with a weapon from a young age. The people in line were sent against him, one by one, and he disarmed them each in quick fashion. Then he’d bark a command and they’d be taken away, replaced with the next person. No one lasted longer than a few seconds and the line quickly shortened.

Those who were sent away joined another group where instructors were holding drills on stance and technique. Captain Staeli would have felt right at home.

Trynne gave Fallon an arch look. “He’s decent,” she murmured, nodding to the knight.