The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(46)

She had felt it before in the zenana in Chandigarl. There it had been covert and subtle; here it practically flooded the hall. She sensed the magic of kystrels coming from multiple sources. Her hand lowered to the hilt of one of her swords, and her eyes scanned the room, searching for the danger she felt but could not see. Then she noticed that all the women in the room had strange tattoo-like markings on their throats and faces, even the servants. From the kystrels, she realized in a spark of intuition. It was a sign of the magic’s taint. It had to be.

“This way!” Martin bellowed over the din, directing them through the crowd. “The king is the one carving the stag on a spit with the knife,” he said back to them in a lower voice. “He’s rarely sober. He won’t even notice you.”

Trynne glanced back at the man with the knife. His reddish-brown beard contained flecks of meat and glistened with sweat. For a moment, she saw Drew Argentine in her mind and blinked rapidly to banish the image. This king was nothing like hers. He was guffawing over something someone near him had said, and his exaggerated laughter made him seem silly and obtuse.

They were approaching the queen, and Trynne could smell not only the woman’s perfume, but also the power of her magic rippling beneath the surface as if she were Fountain-blessed. She was strong in the magic, Trynne could tell.

Her unease only increased when she got a clear view of her.

The first thing she noticed was the woman’s mass of golden curls and the filigree coronet nestled amidst them. She wore a black gown with a red bodice, and rich gold cloth formed elegant stripes down her arms, around her waist, and at her shoulders. One of her ladies-in-waiting, a plain-looking brown-haired girl, said something to the queen and pointed at them as they approached. The lady-in-waiting was heavily tattooed, the markings extending from her bodice up to her cheeks and reaching the corners of her eyes.

Trynne was trying to absorb the different culture and style of this world, but she felt she was a foreigner, a stranger, that she didn’t belong there at all. Every instinct screamed at her to flee with Fallon and find another way to Dahomey.

The queen turned to face them. Her lips were painted ruby red, and she too had the tattoo markings on her bosom, neck, and cheeks. The cut of her bodice would have been deemed scandalously low in Kingfountain. The whorl pattern of her tattoo had clawed its way up her breastbone and across her collarbone and neck. She wore an amulet around her neck—an eight-sided star fashioned out of gold, not a kystrel. Trynne sensed it was a mocking gesture. The queen looked past Martin and Trynne and her eyes lit up when she saw Fallon. It was a look of interest, almost fascination.

The queen was older than they were, probably as old as Genny.

Trynne felt a surge of possessiveness, but she tamped it down. Still, she took a step closer to him to be within arm’s reach.

“One of my ladies has taken a fancy to you,” the queen said with an alluring voice. “I think I can see why.” She gazed at Fallon in open admiration, arching her eyebrows. The coronet on her smooth, unwrinkled brow fanned out like a large maple leaf. She had an imperious, haughty look, and her pose was one of confidence and command. “You think she is pretty, do you not?”

As the words were spoken, the queen’s eyes began to glow silver.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Frozen Heart


Trynne shuddered with dread as she felt the queen’s control reach out to smother Fallon’s heart. An oily sensation filled the air as the power rolled off the queen like dirty smoke. It did not come from a specific source, certainly not from the medallion twinkling in the torchlight, but exuded from the woman like Fountain magic, and it was just as powerful.

Fallon would have been struck by the full brunt of it had Trynne not been standing nearby. Instead, the magic parted and sliced to either side of them.

“Passably pretty,” Fallon answered with a hint of boredom in his voice, “but she pales in comparison to you, my lady.” He gave her a formal bow.

The queen’s eyes narrowed slightly; her nostrils flared a little.

Was she surprised by his reaction? Her eyes were eerie and otherworldly, burning with an inner darkness that made Trynne sick inside. There was another pulse of power, another rush of magic that sought to entangle Fallon. But again it sloughed off, unable to touch him.

“Was there a reason you wished to see me, my lady?” Fallon pressed, very formal and composed.

“My lady-in-waiting saw you in the courtyard today,” the queen answered, her voice a little waspish now. “So, you have joined the ranks of my guardsmen?”

“Aye, my lady,” Martin answered for him. “He beat Sir Peter with hardly any effort.”

“Sir Peter is not my best knight,” the queen said condescendingly.

“No, he is not,” Martin said. “These two new recruits are both talented swordsmen. They are going to sail with us to Dochte Abbey.

If it be your wish.”

She gave Fallon another long look, taking in his physique and presence. Her tongue darted down to her bottom lip and another jolt of magic slammed at them. It felt like the brunt of a hurricane. Trynne kept her awareness of the magic to a minimum, seeking to hide her ability from the queen and growing more anxious by the moment.

“What is your name, Sir Knight?” the queen asked in a sultry tone.

“Fionan,” he answered with a slightly mocking tone, bowing slightly. “It is my pleasure for my cousin and I to serve you.”