The Hollow Crown (Kingfountain #4)(47)

There was much she had admired about him when they were children, but he was changing in ways she wasn’t sure she liked. Staeli was not a very talkative companion, and she had a lot of time to ruminate on the encounter and play it over and over again in her mind. She wished that she could have parted with Fallon on better terms, but she was angry at him for being so spoiled and haughty, for making such uncharitable assumptions about her motivations. She deserved better than that.

As dusk neared, Trynne and Captain Staeli approached the central island, where the Gauntlet event was being held at the duke’s palatial manor. When they got to the bridge protected by the duke’s men, she found a bathhouse to change in. She emerged shortly thereafter, her dress bundled up in her pack, which she handed to Captain Staeli. She was more comfortable in training clothes, the kind she wore in her practice sessions in Ploemeur. As her mother had noticed, she had deliberately had her hair trimmed shorter and shorter over the past months, and it was tied back in a queue.

The final bit of her disguise she had planned for months. She knew it was a tradition in Atabyrion for warriors to paint parts of their faces with paste made from blue woad. She had applied it over the nonparalyzed part of her face. The vibrant color would help guarantee her anonymity. She had always been short and lean, and her training had given her muscle where it counted.

Captain Staeli smirked at her disguise after taking her bag. “Well, lad,” he said with a wink. “Do us proud, eh? Show these Brugians what you are made of.”

“I will,” Trynne answered, giving him one of her rare smiles.

“The guards yonder have been blocking out all but those who will compete. The Gauntlet must be kept a secret, so no witnesses are allowed over the last bridge. I’ll meet you back here when you are done.”

Trynne shook her head. “No, meet me back at the sanctuary. I can feel a ley line from here to there. It’ll be faster. I don’t plan on staying long afterward.”

“Good luck,” he said, clapping her on the back as he would a son.

Trynne straightened a bit and then marched confidently toward the bridge.

As she approached the guards, she sensed Fountain magic ahead. She was not using any herself, but she felt its subtle ripple. The guard wearing Grand Duke Maxwell’s badge frowned at her.

“Are you fourteen, lad?” he asked her sternly.

“Sixteen,” she responded, adding some husk to her voice.

He wrinkled his brow. “It’s your skull. Go on.”

Trynne passed the guards and walked across the narrow bridge. There were archers posted on the other side, armed with arrows with black shafts and silver heads. The men wore colorful garb, purple and yellow, along with frilled Brugian neck pieces and pointed helmets. Trynne followed the sense of the Fountain magic. On the other side of the bridge was the entrance to the manor, guarded by more men.

“Any knives? Weapons?” one of them said as he examined her.

Trynne shook her head. Combatants could bring in nothing but a sturdy pair of boots and the clothes on their back. The guard quickly searched her, examining her boots mostly, and then waved her through the doors. Her stomach thrilled with excitement.

The feeling of the Fountain magic swelled as she entered the manor, accompanied by the noise of jumbled voices. Trynne gazed at the decorations of the hallway, impressed by the huge gold-framed paintings of regal figures, presumably previous rulers of the Brugia. She recognized one of the subjects as an Argentine, the dowager queen who was Severn’s sister. Looking into her eyes, Trynne felt as if the matronly woman were watching her.

She was ushered into a room filled with other participants. It was a cavernous space, made more so by the vaulted ceiling. Guards wearing the duke’s colors were stationed everywhere, probably thirty in all, and each held a polished black staff. The combatants were of all sizes and shapes, but most were big and young and they were talking and jostling each other as young men tended to do.

She cast her gaze around the room, feeling out of place and strange. Slowly, she walked around, seeking the source of the Fountain magic. The feeling came from a tall, gawky lad who was probably sixteen. He had straw-blond hair, ears that stuck out, and a narrow face that was quite ugly. The gangly look was almost comical.

And she realized, almost at once, that it was a disguise. It was as if the waters of the Fountain parted around her. Upon a closer look, she noticed the ring on the young man’s hand. She could literally feel the magic burning from it; it was the source of both the power and the feeling.

The lad was Fallon.

Almost as if in answer to the thought, the young gawky man looked at her, his eyebrow lifting. Had he recognized her? Her stomach shrank and she kept moving, not giving him a second look. She cursed herself as he started to approach her. It was Fallon. She was sure of it.

“From Edonburick?” said a voice behind her in a thick brogue. It was Fallon’s voice.

Before she could answer, a loud gong sounded, sending ripples of noise through the hall. The chattering and nervous voices stilled at once.

“His Excellence, Prince Elwis Asturias!” shouted a voice, followed by a ribbon of trumpets.

Trynne couldn’t see well amidst the throng, but she recognized the prince’s voice. “Welcome to Marq. Welcome to the Gauntlet.” He sneered the words as he walked forward, casting his eyes over those assembled. “Only some of you will actually be able to compete this evening. The rest are going to end up at the healers with broken bones. But you are here now, and it is too late for you to back out. To compete in the Gauntlet, you will need a black staff. Try to wrest one from one of my guards. Now!”