The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(64)

“I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered. “So much has happened. So many troubles.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” he said gently. “Not knowing yourself is such a torment. Yet I felt I had a family somewhere. There was an ache inside of me that is finally starting to mend. I can’t explain it, but I have been guided. Led, even, to this place. When I saw you kneeling by the Leering”—he laughed softly—“something about you spoke to me. I knew I needed to find you. To understand who you were.”

She looked up at his face, saw the awakening tenderness there.

He had accepted and believed her words. His memories had been stolen from him, but not his sense of discernment.

“We will get your memories back, Papa,” she promised, squeezing him hard. “And if not, then I will tell you all the stories you once told me. Of Ankarette Tryneowy, the queen’s poisoner, and how she saved your life. Of your childhood with Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer. Of how you fell in love with my mother, Sinia Montfort. Of Severn Argentine, the king you served and then deposed.” Her heart twisted with anguish. “Who died defending his rival, our true king. Of Severn’s daughter, Morwenna, who betrayed us all.” A spike of red-hot anger jammed into her mind at the thought of the poisoner.

Owen pulled away from her, cocking his head slightly.

“What is it?” she asked, her hand going for her sword hilt.

“The king’s come back,” Owen said.

Moments later, the tent door ruffled and Dieyre stalked back inside, his face a mask of anger. He gazed at the guard sprawled on the ground, at Trynne standing beside her father, her hands free of bonds.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, drawing his sword. “Where did the other one go? Are you helping them escape?

Answer me, man!”

“This is my daughter,” Owen said evenly. “I must leave your service.”

“Impossible. You cannot leave me,” Dieyre said, shaking his head, stepping forward in a defensive stance. “I can’t win this fight without you, Stiev.”

“I’ve given you all that I can,” Owen said. “My mind has been in a fog. Now I know why.”

“I need you!” Dieyre shouted angrily. He looked at Trynne with resentment. “Where did you come from? What land do you hail from?”

“I am not from this land. And neither is my father,” Trynne answered. “We owe allegiance to another king.”

“Oh? And what king is that?” he spat. “The King of Comoros?

His will has been twisted into knots by a hetaera. So have the others —even my own mind was corrupted until I met him,” he said, trembling with rage and pointing his sword at Owen. “Until he came.

My mind has been cleared at last. He’s the only thing that has broken my wife’s grip on me. That scheming she-devil and the lost abbey she’s building! She cannot control me when he is near. So no, you aren’t going anywhere.” There was violence in his eyes.

Trynne drew her blades.

“You think I’m afraid to kill a girl?” Dieyre said with disdain. “I once had a girl thrown into a pit of flames. I’ve watched the innocent burn. I have no compunction against killing my enemies. I’m the best swordsman in all the realms. Even better than your father.” He glared at them both, his eyes cruel and dark.

Owen put his hand on Trynne’s shoulder. His other hand gripped the hilt of his own sword. He shook his head no.

“Trust me, Father,” she said, looking at his face. “Captain Staeli, the man you assigned to protect me, has trained me well.”

She knew Dieyre had a penchant for cheating—one of many flaws that assailed him. He relied not only on his reputation to instill fear in his opponents, but also on subtlety and deception. In other words, he cheated.

She stepped away from her father and invoked the ring to alter her appearance. She assumed the guise of the Maid of Donremy, whom she had seen in her visions of the Oath Maidens of the past.

Dieyre looked at her in confusion. Then she shifted again, becoming the Painted Knight, half her face colored blue.

“What trickery is this?” Dieyre snarled, brandishing his sword.

Trynne shifted her appearance to that of Morwenna Argentine.

Dieyre looked on in fascinated confusion, his eyes darting from her to her father, as if expecting the ruse to lead to a feint attack. He flourished his sword, but he did not attack her.

“You’ve disrespected women all your life,” Trynne said. “You think them beneath you.” She shifted again, invoking the face of the woman she’d seen in the king’s mind. The one he had loved and then lost.

Dieyre’s composure broke completely. “Ciana!” he hissed, as if seeing an apparition inside the tent. His arm started shaking. She saw his mind was completely overcome. She’d struck him at a primal level, and his body reacted despite his years of training.

Despite the fact that he knew it was a trick.

Dieyre lunged at her to try to stab the ghost image of his beloved to death. She’d been counting on that, for her power was always strongest when she was on the defense. The magic came to her aid. With reflexes faster than a snake strike, she stepped aside from the lunging thrust meant to skewer her and trapped his wrist against her body with her elbow. She stepped forward, twisting as she moved, and smashed him in the cheek with her forearm.