The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(60)

Esquivel held up his hand and Trynne saw the black beetle-shaped ring on his finger. The Tay al-Ard wrenched from her hand and flew into the man’s outstretched palm. He caught it deftly.

“Actually,” Esquivel said in a cunning tone, “no.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Quivel


Quivel chuckled to himself as he saw their immediate consternation.

“You’re both gifted with weapons, no doubt. You could choose to stay here in the woods. You could try and kill some of these soldiers— they’re quite good—but if you survived, it wouldn’t do you much good. A very wicked and frightening monster that hunts this blighted land would make a meal of you. Nasty business, that. I, for one, would prefer using this”—he wagged the Tay al-Ard—“to bring some of us back to the king’s camp tonight and discuss things further over a succulent roast boar smothered in honey and treacle glaze. I believe that was what I saw roasting on the spit.” He scratched his neck, and the illusion dissolved. Tattoos sprouted up from the skin he was scratching, entwined in patterns that reached all the way up his face.

“You’re one of the Dochte Mandar,” Trynne said, her mind working furiously.

“And you are also Fountain-blessed,” he replied, gazing at her pointedly. “No use denying it. We can sense each other. Come now, put the blades down. Let’s be civilized, unlike these barbarians who cannot understand a word we’re saying. They only know Dahomeyjan. If you prefer a long, bloody battle, go ahead,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll use this Tay al-Ard to come back later after they’ve subdued you.”

Trynne wrestled with indecision. The soldiers were closing in like a net. Between her and Fallon, they might succeed. But it would drain Trynne’s magic. She could ill afford to lose all her reserves.

Threat and mate.

“Not interested?” Quivel asked. “Very well. Have it your way.”

His true face had finally been revealed in full. He had a long nose and a set of bushy eyebrows, which he lifted with expectation.

Fallon let his sword fall to the ground and it hit the marsh grass with a heavy thump.

Trynne sheathed her blade in its scabbard.

Quivel smiled. “A good choice. Come, sir. Sheathe your weapon. Let’s not leave it behind. Swordsmanship is highly prized where we’re going and you both look capable.” He motioned with encouragement for Fallon to retrieve his sword and sheathe it, which he did.

“There. Let me see. If I bring the two of you, plus me, and maybe four others, that should drain the Tay al-Ard enough for it to be thoroughly unusable until morning.” He wagged his eyebrows. “I do know how these work, after all. Clever invention. And some cuffs for your wrists. That will give me more assurance.” He turned to one of the soldiers and uttered the command in his language. Trynne understood what he was saying— tie up the prisoners—and felt a pang of gratitude for her mother, who’d encouraged her study of the words of power. Xenoglossia had been vital for both her and Fallon on this voyage.

Quivel waited as both Trynne and Fallon’s wrists were bound behind them with chains and cuffs. The soldiers, all dressed in the wine-red tunics fringed with black, fell in all around them. They were hardened men, each bearing scab marks on their faces, and some afflicted with oozing sores. Fallon’s jaw was clenched and his eyes blazed with fury, never veering from the Dochte Mandar.

“Wait here for my return,” Quivel told the remainder of the soldiers after choosing four to accompany them. “The Leerings will protect you from the Fear Liath so long as you stay near this one. If you leave the grove, you will die. Is that plain enough? Good men.

Now, let us be going.”

Trynne gazed at the Tay al-Ard, her soul in turmoil. It had been stripped away from them so easily . . .

Was it her father’s cunning that had trapped them? She had never beaten him in a game of Wizr. Not once.

The roar of a massive beast emanated from the misty woods, followed by an ominous snuffling noise. Some of the soldiers rocked from foot to foot, looking around nervously.

“Sunset,” Quivel said with a satisfied nod. “The hunt begins.

Shall we?”

He held the Tay al-Ard close to him, and the soldiers gripped Fallon and Trynne’s arms before reaching out to touch Quivel’s arm, the one that possessed the magic. There was a swirl of motion, a dizzying spin, and then they were inside a pavilion that smelled strongly of cedar. It was spacious and decorated for comfort with stacks of chests, a table with a map and measuring tools, and several large pillows on the floor. There was a Leering in the center of the pavilion and Trynne felt Quivel’s magic brush against it. The eyes started to glow red and it produced light and heat.

“Two of you stand guard outside,” Quivel said. “The other two, stand over there and keep watch. If either of these two attempts any murder, you may beat them at your leisure. Understood?”

The chief soldier nodded and they assumed their positions.

“I thought we were brought here to see the king?” Fallon asked, looking around the otherwise empty pavilion.

“Not yet.” He stuffed the Tay al-Ard into his belt and then motioned them toward the Leering. “Sit down there. I have questions before you see the king. Go on. Sit.” He gestured with a slight frown of impatience.