The Silent Shield (Kingfountain #5)(30)

The thought in her mind was so soft, so fleeting, she wondered if it were her imagination. The thought brought a measure of comfort, but it was so small compared to the vastness of her grief. She stroked the blanket tenderly and walked around to the head of the canoe. Bending down, she pressed a gentle kiss where his forehead was.

“Go in peace,” Trynne whispered, her voice choking on the words. She stood back and nodded to the pallbearers. It was the hardest thing she had ever done.

The pallbearers climbed down the wooden steps leading to the edge of the platform and gently set the canoe onto the water of the pool. With its feathery tendrils of water, its verdant smell, and its lush greenery, Mortain Falls cast an idyllic scene. This was a gentle place, much more appropriate for her gentle brother than the violent rushing of a massive waterfall.

Thierry approached her as she watched the current drag the canoe away. He had doted on Gannon more than her. But the look of anguish in his eyes was tempered by pity.

He stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back, his gray hair combed forward in the Occitanian fashion. “I stood nearby when Lady Sinia watched her father put her mother to rest in the Fountain.” His composure started to waver. “And I was there when Lady Sinia did the same for him, the grandfather you never knew. This peaceful grove has seen its share of sorrows, child. It is fitting and proper that we should weep for the loss of those who die. It hurts because we loved them so much.” He sniffed, trying to maintain his composure. “I loved that little boy. It was not your fault, Lady Trynne. I will do everything in my power to continue to serve the Montfort line. You are the last of that line. You are the only thing standing between Brythonica and annihilation. Take care of yourself. We look to you as our savior.”

Trynne already felt the awful weight of that burden. She turned her head slightly. “I will do my best to deserve that trust.”

Thierry nodded, rocking backward on his heels. “Lady Sinia told me of her vision. That you will soon marry.”

She turned to him, startled. “Soon?” she asked with an edge of panic in her voice.

Thierry nodded. “Praise the Fountain,” he said, then kissed the edge of his forefinger. “Would you like to be alone for a while?”

“Yes, Thierry. Send the others back to the castle.”

She gazed up at the ivy-covered shrine to Our Lady—a stone arch suspended over the waters—and then, making her decision, took the small side trail leading up to it. The falls looked almost like white bridal veils. She ascended the path slowly, climbing the rocky steps. The ferns brushed against her skirts, and she parted some of the taller ones with her hand in order to pass. As she crested the top of the hill, she saw the stream that fed the falls.

Walking around the little shrine, she ran her fingers through the tangled ivy, feeling the waxy petals glide against her fingers. Grief came in waves. It was subsiding, but she knew it would swell again.

As she circled around the back of the shrine, she saw someone standing at the edge of the pool below her. Someone who hadn’t left with the others.

Her breath stopped when she recognized that it was Fallon Llewellyn. He was dressed all in black, looking almost like Severn Argentine. He was staring up at her, his expression full of sympathy. After their eyes met, he began to ascend the steps, taking them two at a time with his long stride.

He was before her in a moment, up near the shrine. His face showed the torture of his emotions. He was suffering deeply, and it moved her.

“How are you even here?” she asked him, shaking her head in confusion. “Morwenna?”

Fallon shook his head no. “I came as soon as I heard. I was in Blackpool, so I took the first available ship.”

“But how did you hear so quickly?” she asked him.

His lips pressed together. “I have a man in Ploemeur,” he said softly.

Trynne bristled with anger. “The Espion are only permitted as messengers,” she said.

He shook his head, and she could see him grow defensive. “He’s not part of the Espion, Trynne,” he said, holding up his hands. “I grew up here, remember? There are people in Ploemeur who still remember me as a boy.” He licked his lips. “He knew that I would want to know about Gannon’s death, so he sent me word.” His voice was thick. “I’m so sorry, Trynne. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling. I just wanted to . . . I wanted to comfort you. I knew you’d be hurting.”

It was exactly what she needed to hear. She rushed to him and buried her face against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. He hugged her back fiercely, protectively, holding her and swaying until it felt like she was floating. Another swell of grief started to build, coming at her with all the intensity of a tidal wave.

“Oh no, oh no,” she started to wail as the feelings slammed into her. She sobbed against him, her shoulders shaking, squeezing him so hard, digging her fingers into his tunic, clinging to him as if he were driftwood and she were drowning. She couldn’t breathe, the veil was stifling her, and she yanked it away.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, stroking her hair. His presence was such a comfort, and she was grateful she did not have to stand against these crushing waves all alone. His chest felt so warm, his hands gentle and soothing. She wished deeply that it could be some other way, that he could have been hers.

The pain started to recede, much sooner than it had in the recent past. Fallon had helped lighten the burden. Squeezing her eyes shut, she listened to the murmur of the waterfall, and then she heard the even softer sound of his heart beating.