The Silent Shield (Kingfountain #5)(86)

When Trynne reached him, Gahalatine took her hand in his, gazing down at her with concerned but eager eyes. “Albion,” he said to one of the Wizrs, “take us to my pavilion.”

“It will be done, dread sovereign,” the Wizr replied meekly. He withdrew a Tay al-Ard from beneath his tunic and rested his hand on Gahalatine’s shoulder.

The rushing motion felt like falling, but it only lasted an instant. The dawn’s light revealed the spacious and luxurious tent. The curtains were spun of a golden cloth that nearly glowed. There were embroidered curtains inside, separating the enormous space into rooms, well-appointed changing screens wrought of iron and plated with gold leaf, and camp chairs arranged around tables heaped with grapes, pears, and fruits with speckled skins that she’d never seen before. Garlands of flowers hung from poles, and there was even a monkey, tethered to an ornate padded pole, calmly eating one of the grapes. There was a throne-like chair in the middle of the room, showing this to be a makeshift audience hall. It was immaculately clean. The pavilion made her feel like she was in Chandigarl, but the air was cold and the wind gusted through invisible cracks.

Trynne felt a rush of vertigo and started to sway, but Gahalatine strengthened his grip on her hand to steady her. He turned to the Wizr and spoke, magic swelling behind his words.

“Albion, order a halt to the attack. Draw the warriors back to the outer wall and have them stand guard. Send the royal surgeons into the castle at once to tend to the wounded. There are many. Have them obey King Andrew in every whit. Send word immediately to Shigionoth to forestall his attack on the Grand Duke of Brugia. If the attack has already begun, cease hostilities and withdraw. Obey me, Albion. I don’t know where Rucrius went or what mischief he may be up to, but if any of you defy me in this, I will have your heads.”

The Wizr looked affronted. “I don’t know where he is, my lord. He disappeared during the siege.”

“He is dead,” Trynne said in a low, meaningful voice.

The Wizr Albion stared at her as if she’d just uttered something beyond belief. His face twisted into a rictus of horror.

“He tried to flee the bailey, and I followed him through the ley lines. I will tell you where I left his body later.”

Albion blinked, his cheeks growing pale. “You . . . you killed him?”

Trynne nodded.

Gahalatine looked pleased. In fact, he even looked relieved. “By the Fountain,” he murmured. Then his eye grew sterner. “Secure the wards on the pavilion, Albion. No one comes in here unless I command it. On pain of death.”

The Wizr touched his own lips fearfully. “My lord, the Mandaryn cannot allow you to be so unprotected. If this girl dispatched Rucrius, then—”

“I am not interested in your advice,” Gahalatine snapped. “Invoke the wards and be gone! I’ll have none of you eavesdropping while I negotiate with her.”

“My lord,” Albion said, shaking his head, but the fire in Gahalatine’s eyes was such that the Wizr bowed meekly and turned without finishing his sentence. He began muttering words of power, making subtle hand gestures as he did so, and Trynne felt a blanket of magic descend atop the pavilion. The murmuring of the camp became distant and then hushed into quiet, like snow piling atop snow in a blizzard.

Albion ducked out of the tent, and Trynne felt as if a darkness had been lifted.

Gahalatine was still holding her hand. He grazed her knuckle with his thumb and led her toward one of the veils blocking the deeper interior of the tent. He parted the curtain for her, but he needed to duck himself to enter. The floor was covered in a massive tangle of fur rugs and cushions, and there were chests to one side and an empty armor rack to the other. Gahalatine unbuckled his sword belt and hung it on the rack. When he released her hand, she felt suddenly cold and very unsure of herself.

“My lord, am I correct in supposing that you still desire . . . what you wanted before?” she said, trying to keep her voice from quavering. “What you told me when I was in Chandigarl?”

He unfastened his cloak and tossed it to the floor before turning to face her.

“We are not going to start our negotiations yet.” He gave her a lingering look and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “You’re utterly exhausted. Come sit over here. Let me tend to you.” He shut the lid of one of the chests and led her over to it by the arm, treating her with as much deference as a servant would. Though she was a little unsure of him, of the strange situation, she seated herself on the chest. He glanced around the room before retrieving a washbowl and carrying it over.

“Here, hold this in your lap,” he said, setting it there. Then he dipped a cleaning rag fringed with gold into the water and started wiping the woad from her face. She saw the smudges of blue, brown, and even red leach into the fabric. He dunked it again, squeezing it hard with both hands, and continued to wipe her face. He was on his knees in front of her, treating her with tenderness and gentleness. She felt the shudder come a moment before it happened.

“Are you cold?” he asked her with worry.

“The water is a little cold,” she said.

“It was warmer earlier.” Then he rose, taking the bowl over to a stone column. There was a face carved into the polished stone, and she felt a murmur of Fountain magic as Gahalatine held the bowl beneath it. She almost gasped when the carving’s eyes suddenly lit like red coals and steaming water began to stream out of them, as if the face were weeping hot tears, filling the bowl. It reminded her of the magic in the caves at the Glass Beach, the ancient crumbling faces carved into the rock that summoned light and protected the borders.