The Silent Shield (Kingfountain #5)(29)

With great respect,

Elwis

Trynne blinked, feeling a rush of relief. Elwis had calmed her worries about the visit in one simple note. There were little clues throughout his message that his feelings for her were deeper than he’d expressed them to be. But he was determined to woo cautiously and allow her behavior to guide him. So unlike the daft nobles who had pressed for interviews with her in Averanche.

She read the letter again quickly, admiring the steady hand and penmanship. Had he copied the letter several times to get it right? She assumed he had not delegated the writing of such an intimate matter to one of his scribes.

It made her smile, and she pushed away from the railing and turned to look over the city once more. A sunrise in Averanche. A sunset in Marq. She was so grateful to have the ability to traverse the kingdom in a mere moment. It would be a memorable day, an opportunity that would not come again now that the threat of war was on the horizon.

There was a cracking noise in the distance, followed immediately by the screams of horses. Trynne’s heart lurched as her eyes went to the source. A plume of dust churned into the air, and she watched in horror as the carriage carrying her brother skidded off the side of the mountain, dragging the terrified horses with it.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Mortain Falls




There were no majestic, towering waterfalls in Brythonica. But Mortain Falls was just on the outskirts of Ploemeur, nestled in one of the beautiful hunting woods preserved by the house of Montfort. It was forbidden to hunt in the woods except by leave of the duchess. The falls were a series of steplike rocks, full of moss and fern, down which water fell steadily, radiating a comforting sound. Part of the stream was diverted around a larger outcropping, breaking the falls into two, around a cluster of fern and gorse. An ivy-covered shrine dedicated to Our Lady sat at the head of the falls, but there was a wooden deck built lower in the grotto that permitted visitors to come and throw coins into the water. Tarnished coins sparkled in the depths.

Mortain Falls was where the bodies of the dead rulers of Brythonica were sent to rest in the Deep Fathoms. The woods were thick and teeming with life, but the birds sounded less exuberant than usual as they observed the silent throng assembled at the falls.

Trynne stood in mute agony, wearing a black gown and a matching veil. The small canoe bearing her brother, Gannon, was carried by pallbearers. The body was covered in blankets to conceal the injuries that had inflicted his death. Sometimes it felt like a nightmare. If only she could pinch herself awake. She was broken to pieces inside, a boulder that had fallen off a cliff and shattered on the rocks below. Her grief came in waves that left her drowning. She clung to the rites of the Fountain for comfort as she assumed the roles she had inherited from both her parents. She had two vast realms to rule because there was no one else.

The pallbearers stood at the edge of the wooden platform, overlooking the small pool that emptied into a stream that would carry the body away. They stood silently, awaiting her orders. A nod was all it required. But she could not bring herself to give it.

She clung to a desperate hope that the Fountain would intervene, that one of her parents would arrive at the last instant, sent by the Fountain to speak the word of power that could revive Gannon. Trynne knew the word just as they did, but her mother had taught her never to use it against the Fountain’s will. It wouldn’t work, and the effort would likely kill her. In her grief, she had nearly risked it. She had waited to fulfill the funeral rite for two full days, hoping the Fountain would send her the message she so desperately wanted to receive. Hoping that someone or something would intervene.

She could still feel the Fountain magic. It offered a measure of solace in her darkest hours. But it did not grant her deepest desire.

Her eyes were sore from crying. She felt hollow. Her father’s eldest brother, Gannon’s namesake, had been strapped to a canoe and executed by waterfall following the Battle of Ambion Hill years before. It felt as if that horrible legacy had come full circle.

Trynne’s grandparents had also both died in the accident. Their bodies were being taken to Westmarch to be mourned after by the people who had once honored them as rulers.

The carriage had been demolished in the fall, but there was evidence that someone had tampered with the rear wheel. Trynne had not been the only horrified witness. Many people had watched the carriage plummet off the downward descent as it was making a turn. The momentum had carried it over the edge, and the weight had pulled the horses with it. Her mind instantly went to the thief Dragan. Had he sabotaged the wagon? Was he still intent on punishing her house in another act of grim revenge? Oh, if only she had caught him that day in Marq. She hoped she never saw him again. She was afraid if she did that she would violate one of the five oaths she had sworn.

The pallbearers grew restless, but none of them dared look her in the eye. The stillness of the grove was impressive. A few insects clicked, and a snatch of birdsong sounded through the trees. Trynne approached the canoe bier one last time. Her mind flashed to the thought of facing her mother someday. The idea filled her with misery. She reached out and laid her hand on the foot of the bundle. She could see where his nose pressed against the fabric. She would have gladly given her life to summon his back. In her mind, she pleaded with the Fountain, begging it to take her instead.

She waited, listening to the silence, tears gathering in her stricken eyes.

All will be well in the end. You are needed here.